One Day in December(45)

‘What do I do, Laurie?’ She’s breathing too fast, clutching my hand. All of the colour has drained from her face; she can’t keep a limb still.

‘We go to him,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I’m calling a cab now, we’ll be there in a few minutes.’

‘What if he’s …’ She’s shaking so violently that her teeth chatter.

‘Don’t,’ I cut across her, my eyes nailed to hers because I need her to listen to me. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. It’s going to be okay. Let’s just get there first, you and me together, one step at a time.’

She nods, still dithering, trying to get a hold of herself. ‘You and me. One step at a time.’

I hug her, fast and fierce, and Oscar’s bleak eyes meet mine over her shoulder. I look away.





5 August


Laurie


He’s alive. Thank God, thank God, thank God.

We’re huddled on nailed-down metal chairs drinking something lukewarm Oscar got from the vending machine. I can’t tell if it’s tea or coffee. The doctor came to see us a couple of hours back; we can’t see Jack yet. He’s in theatre, she said, in a quiet, reassuring voice that actually frightened the hell out of me. Head injury. Broken ribs. Fractured left shoulder. I can handle broken bones, because I know bones can mend. It’s the head injury that terrifies me; they’re going to get him scanned, or whatever it is they do, then they should know more. I couldn’t digest everything she said because my red-alert panic button was screaming inside my brain. Head injury. People die from head injuries. Don’t die, Jack. Don’t you dare die on us. On me.

We sit on either side of his bed, Sarah and I. We tried to get hold of his mum in the confusing minutes after we located him at St Pancras Hospital, but then Sarah remembered that she’s in Spain with Albie, Jack’s brother. I left the message rather than Sarah, so we didn’t frighten the life out of her.

And so we watch over him together, and we wait, because we’ve been told that’s all we can do for now. He’s out of theatre, out of immediate danger, but they won’t know the extent of his head injury until he’s conscious. He’s shirtless and pale and absolutely still aside from the rise and fall of his chest. A mess of bandages and tubes cover him, hooked up to all kinds of machines and drips. I’ve never been this frightened. He looks too fragile, and I find myself worrying about what happens in here if there’s a power cut. They have back-up, right? Because I don’t think Jack’s keeping himself alive right now, he’s beholden to the national grid. How ridiculous. Across London people are boiling their kettles and nonchalantly charging their phones, using up precious energy when it should all be saved up and sent here to keep Jack alive. Please stay alive, my lovely Jack. Don’t leave us. Don’t leave me.

Intensive Care is a strange place of quiet industry laced with panic; the constant soft footfall of the nurses, the clatter of patient notes against the metal bed-ends, a background symphony of bleeps and alarms.

I watch Sarah re-secure the plastic fingertip peg monitoring his oxygen levels as a nurse writes Jack’s name on a whiteboard over his bedside cabinet, bright blue capitals. I close my eyes and, though I’ve never been remotely religious, I pray.





10 August


Laurie


‘Don’t try to move, I’ll call the nurse.’

I look over my shoulder for help as Jack struggles to pull himself up in bed, even though he’s been told in no uncertain terms by the ward sister to press his buzzer if he needs help.

‘For fuck’s sake, Lu, stop fussing. I can do it.’

He wouldn’t pull this kind of stunt if Sarah was here; she’d kick his sorry ass. He’s only trying his luck today because it’s Friday and I got off work early to come and visit on my own. He regained consciousness a couple of days ago and the doctors were, thank God, able to confirm no lasting brain injury, although they’re still running tests because he’s struggling with his hearing on one side. Since then it’s become apparent that he’s the patient from hell. His streak of independence is generally one of his better qualities, but his refusal to ask for help is borderline dangerous in his condition. He’s catheterized, and he has a cannula in his hand administering pain relief; every time he acts up and tries to do stuff for himself he sets off a furious series of alarms and high-pitched wails that bring nurses running.

I sit down as the staff nurse stalks down the ward and hoicks him into position against his pillows.

‘Your pretty face is starting to get on my nerves, O’Mara,’ she says, in that no-nonsense way experienced medical staff have.

He grins, apologetic. ‘Thank you, Eva. Sorry. Can I offer you a grape?’ He nods towards the fruit basket on the side, a gift from his colleagues.

‘Can you imagine how many grapes I get offered in here?’ She looks at him over her glasses. ‘If you want to do something for me, just press the buzzer next time you need help.’

She doesn’t hang around, leaving us alone again. I’m sitting in one of those fake leather, wipe-clean armchairs next to Jack’s bed in the corner of a ward of six beds, mostly older men. It’s afternoon visiting time, although you wouldn’t know it from the fact that most of them are snoozing in their pyjamas on top of their rumpled white sheets, no relatives to be seen. The window behind me is pushed up as far as it’ll go, and fans whir on some of the bedside cabinets, yet still there’s hardly a breath of air.