Beautiful Broken Things(Beautiful Broken Things #1)(85)

‘I really am though.’

Before I could protest again, she looked over at the clock and made a face. ‘I should probably go.’

‘Why don’t you stay until it gets light?’ I suggested. ‘You shouldn’t walk all the way back to your house in the dark by yourself.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said dismissively. ‘You should be resting anyway; I’ve kept you awake long enough.’

‘If you go by yourself I’ll be too worried to go to sleep anyway,’ I countered.

She looked at me then with an expression that was impossible to read. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad, if she was annoyed by my statement or pleased.

‘OK,’ she said finally, ‘but only if you promise that I won’t keep you awake. You’ll sleep, right?’

‘I’m barely staying awake as it is,’ I said, blinking.

She smiled a little. ‘OK. I’ll stay till it’s light.’

As lies went, it was a kind one.





The next time I woke up, it was abrupt. My subconscious jolted me awake so suddenly I was disorientated for several moments, trying to take in my surroundings and simultaneously work out what had woken me. The two realizations stuck me at the same time, and I sat bolt upright in bed, causing a spasm of pure agony to ricochet around my body and a yelp of pain to escape.

The first realization was that Suzanne was gone, even though it was very much still dark. The second was that I had remembered something in my dream, something so frightening it had forced me out of sleep.

The memory was of Suzanne, weeks earlier, rolling an unlit cigarette around in her fingers. I’d rather die than go into care.

On the back of this memory, in my newly hyper-alert awake state, snippets of our midnight conversation came into sharp focus.

I came to say goodbye.

Maybe that would have been better.

She says I’m beyond help.

And then, the final clue I’d been too dense to notice: the necklace currently resting on my bedside table. Her favourite thing. Her prized possession. She had given it to me.

A sweep of panic rushed through me, causing my ears and fingertips to burn. The panic felt solid, like something had taken hold of me and shaken me. For a moment I was paralysed by it.

Dad, I thought. I’d get Dad to come, and he’d go and find her, and everything would be fine. I reached out towards the button by my bed, then paused. What would actually happen if I pressed it? A nurse would come, and then what would I say? My in-disgrace friend who was sort-of responsible for my current state had sneaked into the hospital to give me a necklace and now I thought she was going to kill herself? Wouldn’t that sound stupid? What were the chances of the nurse actually getting my father?

So I’d have to go and find him myself. I looked around the dark room, my eyes settling on the outline of the wheelchair maybe two metres away. I pulled back the covers and looked at my leg. How bad could it be, really? It was still in the basic leg shape, even if the bones weren’t as securely attached any more. The cast seemed like it would at least hold it together.

I hesitated, then swung my legs slowly, slowly around the side of the bed. The broken one stuck out comically straight in front of me, the other already bending to the floor as if in expectation. Bracing myself, I put all my weight on my uninjured arm and lowered myself down.

Even though my arm and my left leg were taking most of my weight, an instant shock of pain swept through me as soon as my feet touched the floor. When had I had my last dose of painkillers? What if I passed out before I made it to the wheelchair? I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering myself, then lifted myself completely off the bed.

It wasn’t far, but making it across that room was the most painful thing I’d ever done in my life. My leg felt like a dead weight of pain dragging along behind me. I was almost at the wheelchair, tears streaming down my face, when my working leg buckled and I collapsed on to the floor. I crushed my hand across my mouth to stop myself crying out, waited a few seconds for the panic of intense pain to leave my body, then pulled myself up into the chair.

I rolled myself out of the room and into the empty hall, my heart cantering, hoping I’d find a lift close by. When I found one around the first corner, I pushed the right button, rested my head against the wall and cried all the way down to A & E.

When the doors opened on the ground floor, two doctors were standing there, presumably waiting for the lift.

‘Oh,’ the male one said, looking stunned. I saw his eyes move to the space behind me, as if expecting someone to materialize there and explain my presence.

‘I’m looking for Dr Oliver,’ I tried to say, but my throat was tight with pain and fear and the result was barely comprehensible.

‘Dr Oliver?’ the other doctor said slowly, her eyes moving from my leg to my arm to my face. ‘Are you on the right floor?’

The doors started to close, and I shot my hand out to keep them open. I stumbled slightly out of the wheelchair, put too much weight on my bad leg and let out an involuntary howl of pain. The eyes of the two doctors went wide, and they both reached out automatically to grab my arms.

‘He’s my dad,’ I started to say, just as the unmistakable broad figure of my father appeared at the other end of the corridor. He wasn’t looking at us, and was talking animatedly with the nurse beside him, gesturing to the chart he was holding. ‘Dad!’ I yelled.