33

 

Dear World, I find home is a strange, almost alien place when I get back there.  Everything seems different now.  I feel too far away from Joe, and I do not like it.  I ask my mum when I can go back.  I just want to sit with him, I tell her.  She tells me that the police are on their way to speak to me, and I have to talk to them, because they have already waited long enough.  But I just want to sit with Joe, I tell her again and again.  She insists that I sit in the lounge, and she brings me a blanket and a cup of tea and some marmite toast.  It all seems hollow and pointless while Joe is lying on a bed with machines keeping him alive.

The police do not stay long.  The policeman I recognise from the hospital, but he does not say much.  He leaves the talking to the policewoman, who looks like she is in her early forties, and wears her hair in a neat, tight bun.  It does not take long.  I tell them that Leon Lawrenson, Joe’s older brother, attacked him.  I tell them that I tried to stop him.  I tell them that Travis eventually appeared and Leon ran off.  They seem satisfied and they leave.

I see my mum hovering in the doorway, with her arms crossed over her middle, and a tea towel dangling.  I look at her and she tips her head to one side, narrowing her eyes slightly at me.  “What?” I ask her.

“The only thing you didn’t tell them is why,” she says to me.

“Huh?”

“Why,” she repeats, before pulling away from the doorframe and heading back to the kitchen.  “Why he would do that.”

My mind flicks back to the bags of white powder, pouring thickly into the toilet bowl.  I wonder if Lorraine and Mick have been home yet, and if they have, what have they found there?  I left out the bit about the drugs because I didn’t want to get Joe into any more trouble.

We eat dinner in silence.  Mum, Les and I.  The phone does not stop ringing all evening.  Twice it is Sara to get the latest news, and see if I am okay.  Once it is my dad, who has heard about the attack.  I don’t speak to him, but my mum deals with him in careful, clipped tones, and I hear her advise him not to come rushing around as I am still in shock and not talking.  I thank her inwardly for this.  Lorraine calls twice as well.  The first time I leap up to grab the phone but my mother beats me to it.  Lorraine tells her that there has been no change, which is neither good news nor bad news apparently.  She tells her that they have gone home to deal with the younger boys and left Travis at the hospital in case anything changes.  The second time Lorraine calls it is to say she is back at the hospital, having sent Travis home to get some sleep, and that there is still no change.

I hover around my mother while she talks on the phone, trying to read her expressions, trying to hear Lorraine’s voice on the other end.  My mother keeps her eyes on me, listens intently, and then frowns and lifts her eyebrows at the same time.  She makes a strange face at me.  “Really?” she says to Lorraine.  “How odd!  Did you speak to her?”  I mouth to my mum, ‘who? What?  Who?’  She waves her hand at me and concentrates on what Lorraine is telling her.  I watch her mouth opening and closing like a fish.  “Oh my goodness!” she exclaims eventually, and I can barely stand it.

“What is it?  What?  What?” I beg, pulling at her arm and bouncing around her feet.  She holds me away.

“Oh my goodness, that is terrible,” she says again.  “I can’t believe it, how awful…Lorraine, hang on one tic, Lou is getting in a right state, hang on.” She holds the phone against her chest and looks at me.  “It’s not Joe, nothing has changed, it’s something else, I’ll tell you in a minute,” she blurts out to me, and then puts the phone back to her ear.  “Really?  Good God…..Unbelievable.  You wouldn’t think it would you?  I can’t believe it Lorraine.  Is she okay, the mother?….Oh right.  I see….Good God, what a shock.  What a day!…Okay, you’ve got to go….Oh yes, I will, I will, if she wants to.  I’ll have to talk to her….Okay then.  Okay. Bye now.”

Finally my mum hangs up the phone, exhales a huge breath and shakes her head at the floor, as if trying to clear her head.  “What?” I practically scream at her in the hallway.  “What else is it?”

My mother turns to look at me, and lifts one hand to scratch nervously at her neck.  I can see that she is trying to work out the best way to tell me something and I am all over again filled with horrible fear.  “Lou,” she says, and reaches out to place her hands on my shoulders.  “Lorraine is back at the hospital visiting Joe, and she called to say she ran into a lady there, a lady she recognised?”  I stare at her, eyes wide, waiting, just waiting.  “Anyway,” she goes on, “she approached the lady, asking if she knew her from somewhere, and it turned out to be Marianne’s mother, Mrs. Sholing?”

“What?  What was she doing there?”

“It appears Marianne is also in the hospital, darling,” mum says and tightens her hands on my shoulders, biting her lip, her eyes searching mine.  I shake my head at her, not getting it.

“Why?”

“Um, I don’t know the full story, but it seems she may have tried to end her life at some point today.”

I pull back.  I pull back from her hands.  I stare at her as if she is insane.  I think, no, don’t be stupid, fuck that.  “What?” I ask her.  “What do you mean?”

“She tried to kill herself, Lou.  Apparently.” My mother is blinking at me, staring at me as if she can’t understand or believe it either.  “Mrs. Sholing is in a terrible state apparently.  Lorraine had to calm her down.  She wanted you to visit Marianne, but I said I would have to see….you’ve been through so much today already, I just don’t know.”

“I don’t know either,” I agree with her.  “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to take you back?”

I think quickly.  I think of Marianne, and all I feel is wonder and confusion, but also anger.  Anger.  I can’t somehow believe it to be true.  Then I remember her strange phone calls to me earlier.  God it seems like a lifetime ago.

“I think better leave it till tomorrow,” my mum says then, making the decision for me, for which I am strangely grateful.  I sigh, and let her lead me back to the sofa, and my blanket.  “Enough is enough for today,” she says, as I sit back down and she covers me up.  She sits next to me.  “What a day,” she says to herself.  “I just can’t believe any of it.  Are you okay love?”

“I don’t know.  I suppose so.”

“Why do you think Marianne would do that?”

“Attention probably,” I reply, and the bitterness in my voice surprises both my mother and me.

“Well I suppose it could be a cry for help.”

“She’s okay though?  She’s not going to…”

“Oh no, no, no.  It was her wrists apparently.  They had to stitch them up.  She was brought in by a boy.  Did you know she had a boyfriend?”

“A boy?”

“Yes, that’s what Lorraine told me.  Mrs. Sholing was told a boy found Marianne and brought her to the hospital, but then left.  She doesn’t know who it was.”  My mum pulls the blanket over her legs too, and snuggles closer to me.  “Maybe Josh or Ryan?” she murmurs.  I don’t answer, because a strange little realisation is occurring in my head.  I don’t want to say a thing until I have spoke to Marianne.

“If you take me tomorrow to see her,” I say to mum, “then can I sit with Joe as well?”

“Of course you can love.  Definitely.  But I want you to have a good nights sleep, and a decent breakfast.  You’ve got to look after yourself you know.”

I nod and look back at the TV.  I am all out of words, and thoughts.  I stare at the TV, taking nothing in, while my mind runs around on itself, hitting blank walls.  I feel my mother watching me all evening.  I see her wipe her eyes from time to time.

We leave the house at ten forty the next morning.  Mum informs me that intensive care allows visitors at eleven.  We are not sure where Marianne is, but my mum thinks we’ll find her mother there somewhere.  I feel conflicting emotions on the way over. I am both dreading seeing Joe, and desperate to at the same time.  I cannot even fathom what I am going to say to Marianne, but the best way to deal with it so far is to just not think about it.  Deal with it when it comes, I tell myself.  Deal with it when it comes.

We go to intensive care first, and relieve Lorraine from her shift.  She has been there all night, and barely slept by the look of her.  My mum holds her for a while in the corridor outside Joe’s room.  I hover by the closed door, peering in, then looking back at Lorraine and Mum, not knowing whether to go in or not.  I see Lorraine leaning into my mum, weak on her own legs, crying, and shaking her head.  My mum nods at me over her shoulder.  “Go on in love,” she tells me, so I do.

Joe is there.  Joe is still there.  I look at him and feel a surge of impatience with him. “You lazy sod,” I tell him, pulling up the nearest chair and finding his hand again.  “Look at you laying there!  Not gonna’ get any riveting conversation out of you today, am I?” I shuffle the chair closer and lean towards him.  I wonder if he can really hear me.  He looks exactly the same as yesterday, except for the bruises on his face have increased in their vivid colour.  “You won’t believe what else happened yesterday,” I whisper to him.  “Get this.  Marianne tried to top herself.  Really.  She did.  She’s in here somewhere too and wants to see me.  I feel like telling her to fuck off.  Remember those calls yesterday, when she was all snappy and pissy? Fuck knows what’s wrong with her.”  I sigh, and brush my hair away from my face.  Joe does not move.  I guess he can’t move.  I look at his face, at his swollen, closed eyes, and wonder where he is.  If he is just stuck in an endless dream somewhere that he can’t get back from.

The door opens from behind and Lorraine shuffles back in.  “They say it’s good to talk to him,” she tells me.  “Your mum is going to take me home to sort the boys out, then I’ll be back.  Can you stay with him till then?”

“Course I can.”

“Thank you.” She turns to go and then stops herself.  “Lou, your mum said you told the police it was Leon.”

I turn my head and look at her.  I nod.  “It was.”

“Honey, I know.  I know.  Can you tell me something else?”

“What?”

“The drugs Joe was caught with.  They were Leon’s weren’t they?”

I nod again.  Lorraine steadies herself.  I think, I have never seen her look so weak before.  All the fight is gone.  All the anger.  She just looks exhausted and defeated.  She does not say anything else.  I don’t think she has the strength.  She just leaves and I hear her feet clacking slowly back down the corridor.

I stay with Joe all day.  Nurses come and go, checking things, writing on charts.  Some of them speak to me; ask me if I want anything, if I am okay.  Some of them do their duties without even looking at me, as if I am a ghost they cannot see.  I get a sore bum sat on the chair for hours, so I end up getting to my feet and going for a walk.  One of the nurses tells me where I can get a drink and a snack, so I wander off, making sure the nurses know I will be back.

I find Mrs. Sholing at the vending machine.  She has her head resting on it, and is staring grimly into the void of chocolate and snacks, with her money in one hand. She is wearing a long black work skirt, and a long chocolate coloured cardigan.  Her hair, so dark like Marianne’s is twisted up neatly and pinned into place. I approach tentatively from behind, not knowing what to do or say.  I hold the pound coin my mum gave me tightly in one hand.  It burns a hot little circle in the centre of my sweaty palm.  As I get closer, she must hear me, or become aware of someone behind her, because she straightens up, clears her throat and starts to feed her money into the machine.  She only looks behind at me after she has punched in the code for the item she wants.  “Oh!” she says when she sees me.

“Hi Mrs. Sholing.”

“Lou,” she says, and walks towards me, just as her item clunks to the bottom of the machine.  I point towards it.

“Don’t forget your food.”

“Oh,” she says again, sounding sort of vacant.  She turns hurriedly, opens the flap and pulls it out.  It is a mars bar.  “It’s for Marianne,” she admits.  “I wasn’t sure what her favourite was.  Do you know?”

“I think she likes them all,” I shrug, and take up my place at the machine.  I get myself a can of lemonade and a packet of crisps.  “Is she okay?” I ask, just to fill the silence that has consumed the corridor.  “Mum told me last night.”

“Oh.”  Mrs. Sholing holds the mars bar in one hand, and fiddles with the edge of the wrapper with her other hand.  She looks at me, and then looks away again, her brow furrowed in confusion.  I think, she reminds me of Lorraine.  She looks utterly beaten and overwhelmed.  “I don’t understand it,” she says suddenly, throwing up both of her hands.  “I’m so confused Lou.  Do you understand it?  I hate to ask you, but do you have any idea why she would do something like this?”

I start to walk with her, back down the corridor.  “Mrs. Sholing,” I say slowly, as we shuffle along together.  “There is something.  Something you might not know.”

She is looking at me desperately.  I am thinking of course, of lots of things.  Of weed, and coke, and drink, and razors, and boys.

“What is it?”

“She cuts herself,” I say.  “I don’t know if you know, but she cuts herself.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Sholing exhales slowly.  “Well, yes.  We did know.  I mean, it was a long time ago, before we moved here.  We sent her for help and she stopped. It was because she was getting bullied so badly by these girls at her school.  Which is why we moved her.”

“She still does it though,” I say in a small voice.  I hate to be the one to tell her, I really do, but I find it hard to believe she thinks Marianne has stopped?  The woman looks at me, her expression is one of someone who is totally lost and has no clue where they are going or why.

“Does she?”

“Yes.  A lot.  All over.  I should have said before, I’m sorry.” I bow my head, biting my lip and watching the pale green floor under my feet.

“No,” Mrs. Sholing replies quickly.  “Don’t say that.  It’s not your fault.  It’s mine.  Of course it is.  It’s mine!  A mother should know these things.  A mother should know!  I didn’t know.”  She starts shaking her head.  “I didn’t know she was still doing it.  I didn’t know.”

“People can be really good at keeping secrets,” I try to tell her.  “You shouldn’t feel so bad.  People can be really secretive.  Kids especially.” I grimace to myself, remembering all of the things my mother still has no clue about.  Such as Joe and me going over the bridge to Somerley.  Selling drugs to people.  It makes my stomach turn over on itself and my cheeks burn with shame.

“It’s our job to know these things though,” Mrs. Sholing says.  “I didn’t even know she was down, or depressed, or worried about anything!”

“Neither did I, really.”

“Really?”

“Well she called me twice yesterday.  She wanted to meet up but I was busy with Joe, you know, moving his stuff to our house, because he’d been chucked out.” I look at her and see her big green eyes, identical to Marianne’s staring at me in bewilderment.  “You know, this was before, before he got.  Before he got in here.”

“His mother,” Mrs. Sholing says, eyes still on me.  “His mother is in bits.  She told me all about it.  How is he?”

“Still asleep, or whatever they call it.”

“My God.”

“I’m staying with him all day.  I was helping him yesterday, before, and she called me, and I couldn’t see her, because of Joe.  I think she was angry with me.”  I shoot a sideways glance at Marianne’s mother, wondering if she will blame me now she knows this.

“Who knows what was going through her head?” she says to me softly.

“Do you want me to see her?” I ask.

“Oh yes.  Oh yes please.  Well, I mean, if you could.  If you want to. I know Joe is, more, more pressing right now, but, if you could…” she trails off helplessly, wringing her hands and practically squeezing the life out of the mars bar.

“Where is she?”

“Children’s ward.”

“Now?”

“Oh yes please.  If you don’t mind.  She would love to see you.”

I am not so sure about that, but I keep my thoughts to myself, and turn left instead of right.  I feel guilty doing this, like I am being torn in two.  I know I have to see Marianne. I have to.  I have to speak to her.  But I want to be with Joe.  I want to be there with him, otherwise he is all alone.  What if he wakes up and finds no one is there?

I can’t allow myself to dwell on this, so I walk on.  I follow Marianne’s mother to the Children’s ward, bracing myself for what I might find there.  Initially, I am confused and surprised.  I had been expecting a terrible place, rows of beds filled with deathly pale children, on their last legs.  But it is not like that at all.  It is bright and warm and exuberant, with murals of cartoon characters all over the walls, and music playing, and a toy corner where lots of smaller children are gathered in front to a man who is putting on a puppet show.

Mrs. Sholing traipses past the children, staring right ahead, almost as if she cannot bear to look at them.  She leads me down to the far end, where I can already see Marianne, sat cross-legged on a bed, fiddling with her mobile phone.  Her hair is loose and hanging down over her face.  She is wearing purple jeans and a black top, with a scruffy green cardigan hanging over her tiny shoulders.  I see her, and I am surprised by the anger and resentment that flood me.  I go ahead of Mrs. Sholing, who hangs back nervously.  I get the feeling she is afraid of her own daughter, afraid of what she will say, or do.  I don’t blame her for that.

I approach the bed bravely.  I think of Joe.  He can’t sit cross-legged in his bed yet.  He’s not even fucking there.  When she looks up and sees me, she does not even look surprised, or pleased, or worried, or anything.  She gives me the same look she always does.  Her eyes, as always, almost totally unreadable.  “Hi,” she says flippantly, throwing her phone onto the bed.  She shakes her hair away from her face, and her little pointed chin juts out at me defiantly.

“Hi,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.  She motions for me to sit next to her, so I do, taking care not to actually touch her.  I think I am afraid that her insanity will rub off on me.  She gets up abruptly and yanks the curtains around her bed.

“No fucking privacy in this place,” she complains, hopping back onto the bed.  I stare at her, amazed.  “Can’t believe they put me in the kiddies ward.”

“When can you go home?” I ask her.

“Dunno,” she shrugs.  “Some time later.  When they’ve done all their checks I suppose.  It’s so boring in here!”

“Well what did you expect?”

“I didn’t expect anything did I?” she stares at me and asks.  “I expected to be dead.”  I stare back at her.  She holds my gaze, but then breaks away and giggles.

“I don’t believe you,” I tell her coldly.  “I don’t believe you meant to die.”

“Don’t you?  Oh well.  Think what you like.”

“So why did you do it?”

“Lots of reasons,” she cocks her head at me.  “Some of which you know.  Some of which you don’t know.”

“Is that why you wanted to see me yesterday?  Because you were feeling so bad you wanted to kill yourself?”

“Well sort of,” she shrugs again, and she leans back on the bed with her hands behind her, and her legs kicking out at the curtain.  “I suppose if I am truthful, I wanted to give you a chance to be a good friend.”

I stare at her, open mouthed.  I am utterly stunned.  I feel like I have been slapped in the face.  “You what?”

“You know,” she goes on casually, kicking her legs.  “I wanted to see if you’d come.  I wanted to see if you’d choose me for once.  Instead of Joe.”

“Joe needed me,” I say this through gritted teeth.

“He always needs you.  And you always need him.  It’s so predictable and boring, and yet you wonder why you have no other friends!” She rolls her eyes at me sulkily, and looks away for a moment.  “Wonder why you do don’t just fuck each other and get it over with,” she mutters.

“You bitch,” I mutter back.  She whips her head back to stare at me.

“Why am I?”

“Joe was thrown out of home, that was why I was helping him yesterday,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice down.  “He was busted carrying you know what for you know who, did you know that?”

She narrows her eyes.  Shakes her head at me.  “When?”

“Friday.  He got arrested.  Thrown out of home.  Leon and Travis even came to me to make sure I kept my mouth shut.”

“So why is he in here?”

“You don’t know?”

“My mum won’t fucking tell me anything,” Marianne wails, sounding like a spoilt little child.  “She thinks anything will send me over the edge!  How did he get in here?  What’s wrong with him?”

I stare down at the bedspread under us.  I pick at it with my finger and thumb.  I take deep breaths, in and out; calming myself down, telling myself it is not her fault she does not know.  “Leon attacked him,” I hear myself say, my eyes on the bedspread. It’s awful really, because every time I think of it, it rushes through my head like an unwanted movie.  All of it.  The dull sound of a curled fist beating flesh that cannot escape.  The gurgling choking noise Joe made in his throat.  I fight the tears that threaten to swell in my eyes.

“Badly?” Marianne whispers this.  I look at her.

“He’s in a coma.”

I watch her green eyes grow larger.  “You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m not joking Marianne.  He’s in intensive care.  I’ve got to go back in a minute, because I’m the only one there.”

“Well what’s wrong with him?  When will he wake up?”

“They think when the swelling goes down.  He had bleeding in his brain and his internal organs.  They had to operate.  He nearly died Marianne.”  I find my eyes meeting hers, and the tears come too fast for me to stop them.  “He still might die,” I tell her.  I feel her hand land on mine, and I pull away quickly, dragging the hand across my wet eyes.

“Why are you mad with me?” she asks.

“Because you did this to yourself!” I hiss at her.  I reach for her arm then, and snatch back the cuff of her over-sized cardigan.  Her wrist is bound in thick white bandages.  I raise my lip and drop her arm again.  “You’re always doing things to yourself.  Joe didn’t.  He didn’t ask to have a family full of fucking maniacs, and he didn’t ask to be thrown out of home for something his brothers did, and he didn’t put himself in hospital, unlike you!”

Marianne is silent for a moment, and I can see her considering what I have said, what I have accused her of, as she folds her arms across her middle and crosses one leg over the other.  She looks petulant, watching my face, waiting for me to add anything else.  I sniff and wipe my nose on the side of my hand.  “And you did this for attention,” I say, not looking at her.  “You called me twice.  You couldn’t accept I was busy with Joe, so you did this!  Are you happy now?  Are you happy you got my attention?”

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself you stupid bitch,” she says to me in a low, cold voice which is so startlingly different to her normal voice, that I move back slightly, unwilling to be too close to her.  “You think I’d slit my wrists over you?”

“Why then?  Why?”

“Just like you to expect it to be so black and white,” she says scathingly.  “Do you not think there might be millions of reasons why someone tries to end it?”

“But did you really want to end it, Marianne?  Did you really?”

“At the time, yes.  I was angry.  I was pissed off at you and Joe.  Always together, always shutting me out, unless it’s convenient for you.  I was pissed off with my parents.” She leans forward, over her folded arms, and her hair drops over one shoulder, gleaming black.  “Off they go again on another fucking little trip. Business, they say. Business.  Yeah, right.  Do they ever think to invite me along?  Do they ever think I might get bored and lonely on my own?  It’s like they can’t fucking wait to get away from me.”

“You should tell them then,” I say.  “You should tell them how you feel.  They don’t know how you feel.”

“Then how do I know exactly how they feel?” she shoots back viciously.  I frown at her, not understanding.  “How is it I can empathise with them, but they can’t with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“The baby.  My twin. Melissa.  I know how they feel because I feel it too.  I’ve felt it my entire fucking life.  It drags me down.  I wake up in the morning, and it is there Lou.  She is there.  Because she isn’t there!” She is getting worked up now.  She stops and tries to compose herself by rubbing a hand across her mouth.  Then she pulls at her top lip with her finger and thumb and glares at the curtain that shields us from her mother.  “I live with it every day,” she goes on, one leg twitching angrily on top of the other.  “I wake up and she’s there, the misery of it, the why’s and the what if’s.  I have to put on a brave face, try to cheer them up.  I’ve been doing it since I was a little kid.  Trying to make it okay for them.  Trying to be enough for them, to make up for losing her.  But it’s never enough, because they are still sad.  They are still grieving for her, every day Lou.  Can’t you see it when you look at them?” She turns to look at me questioningly.  “Their faces.  They’re so good at pretending to be fine, but it’s not real, it’s never real.  It’s fake.  It’s pretend.  It’s not there.  Do you know what that means Lou?  That means my entire fucking life is fake and pretend, and not there. Maybe I decided I just didn’t want to do it any more.”

I exhale the breath I have been holding in.  I scratch my cheek, and then rest my forehead in my hand.  I don’t know what to say to her, I don’t know what to say for the best, so I just say what I am thinking. “You should tell them all of this,” I sigh.  “They don’t know Marianne.  You may be right about all of that, and it’s not fair and it’s not nice, but they’re not doing it to you on purpose.”

She does not answer me.  She brings her feet up onto the bed, and wraps her arms around her knees.  I watch as she presses her face against her legs, closing her eyes tightly.  “Marianne,” I say to her.  “Our parents aren’t mind readers.  They don’t know what’s going on in our lives if we don’t tell them.”

“So when did you get so wise?” she says into her knees.

“Me?” I snort.  “I feel like a hundred fucking years old today.  I am a little old lady, you know.  Sixteen is like, gone.”

“I’m sorry,” I hear her say.  She mumbles it into her knees, and her hair falls all around her face, blocking her out.  “I’m such a bitch.”

“It’s what I like about you,” I joke.  “It’s what makes you so intriguing remember?”

“I don’t think I deserve any friends, really.”

“Maybe none of us do.  The way we’ve been acting lately.”

She pulls away from her knees finally and pushes her hair back behind her ears, and there are real tears in her eyes.  “I’m sorry about Joe,” she whispers and I nod at her.  I know she is.

“He’ll be all right.  I know he will.”

“I just never, I never thought Leon could do something like that.”

I look down at my lap.  “Neither did I.  Maybe he was high.”

“Why did he do it?  Why did he attack him?”

“The drugs,” I say softly.  “Joe was flushing the drugs.” Marianne opens her mouth slowly, disbelievingly.  I nod at her.  “When we went to get Joe’s stuff from the house, he found loads more of it.  They’d told him it was all over, all done.  He could just about cope with being arrested if it was all over.  But they lied, Marianne.  It was never a one off.  It was never a once in a lifetime thing.  It was a career choice.”

Marianne shakes her head at me.  “I can’t believe he flushed them!”

“He lost the plot a bit.  He was so angry.  He just wanted it gone.  And then Leon appeared and he just…” I stop, biting at my lip.  “Fucking hell,” I tell her.  “It was awful Marianne.  I never want to see anything like that again in my entire life.  I tried to stop him.  I kept trying.  I just wasn’t strong enough.  He kept shoving me away.”

Her eyes move up to the bruises on my face.  “Is that what they are?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“And then what happened?”

“Travis appeared,” I remembered.  “He shoved Leon off me.  Leon ran out.  Then we tried to help Joe.  I can’t really remember it all after that.”

“You were probably in shock.”

“The police know Leon did it,” I tell her then.  Her face is sombre as she nods at me in reply.  “I had to tell them.  He might die, Marianne.  What if he dies?”  I can’t help it then, I start to cry.  Really cry.  Marianne puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me into hers.  I cover my face with both hands.

“He’ll be all right,” she tells me, rubbing my arm.  “He will be.  Lou?  There is something else I have to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“It was Leon that found me.”

“What?” I pull back, staring at her.

“He found me,” she nods, biting at her lip again.  “He found me at home.  He stopped the bleeding.  He wrapped his t-shirt around my wrists and took me here.  He carried me out to his car and drove me here.”

I am just staring at her, blinking, shaking my head, trying to believe it, trying to understand.  “You mean, he saved you?”

“Yeah.  He saved my life Lou.”

I don’t know what to say, or think.  I suddenly remember Joe, and how he is all alone, and I am meant to be sitting with him.  I slip slowly from the bed.  “Marianne I have to go back to Joe,” I tell her, wiping my eyes.  She nods in understanding.

“It’s all right.  I’ll be all right.”

“I’ve got to go.”  I turn and stumble through the curtains.  I see Mrs. Sholing hovering nearby, and she falls into step beside me and follows me all the way back out of the ward.

“What did she say?” she asks me, wide-eyed and frantic as she hurries along beside me.

“It’s a lot of stuff,” I tell her.  “But some of it is to do with her twin.  You probably need to talk to her about that.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Sholing stops walking and I go on.  “Thank you for seeing her,” she calls after me in a small, timid voice.  “I hope your friend will be okay.”

32

 

Dear World, my mum wants to take me home.  She says they will call us if anything changes, but I refuse.  I just stay nestled into her, like a small child, with my arms around her middle, and my head in her lap.  She drops one hand onto my head and keeps it there.  I hear Travis offer to get her a cup of tea, and she sighs before she agrees to let him.  At some point after this I might drift off for a bit, because I am suddenly jerking awake again, wiping my mouth, and hoping I have not dribbled all over my mum’s lap.  I wake up confused and unsettled, and I am reminded instantly of that strange night at Marianne’s, how I woke up with my head on Joe.

“Joe?” I ask, sitting up, pulling away from my mum, who shushes me and smoothes my hair down with her hand.

“It’s okay,” she tells me quickly, “it’s okay, he’s okay.”

“They say you saved his life,” another voice, a cracked and broken voice tells me.  I look beyond my mum.  The waiting room has changed.  New patients have replaced the old ones, but we are all still here.  Lorraine is now next to my mum, and Travis is on her other side, with his head in his hands.  I squint at Lorraine.  She peers back at me through red ringed eyes.  Her mascara has run with her tears.  There are muddy grey tracks running down both of her cheeks.  I look at her blankly, not understanding.  She leans forward slightly, clutching her shiny red handbag onto her lap.  “You gave him mouth to mouth, don’t you remember?” she asks me. “Travis said you did.  You kept him breathing.”

“I tried to…” I frown back at her.  The memory is not clear.  The clearest memories I have are the ones I do not want to see.  The image of Joe all floppy and bloodied.  Of Leon pummelling his still body.

“You did, you did!” Lorraine says urgently.  “You saved his life, that’s what they are saying!”

“But he’s okay now?” I ask slowly, looking carefully at all of their faces.  I cannot see Mick anywhere.

“He’s stable,” my mum slips her arm around me and pats my shoulder reassuringly.  “They managed to stop all the bleeding.  He’s stable.  But he’s in intensive care love.  He hasn’t woken up yet.”

“They’re going to let us see him any minute now,” Lorraine adds, as fresh tears push yet more mascara down her cheeks.  “Any minute.  They said didn’t they Shell?  They said!”

“Yes love,” my mum’s voice soothes her.  “Any minute now.”

“Can I come too?” I ask them.  Lorraine nods at me instantly.

“You and me darling,” she sobs, breaking down again.  “You and me go in first, all right?”

 

It is only another five minutes that we have to wait, but it feels like yet more impossible time that just does not move.  I sit and stare at the floor.  Lorraine falls silent, but I can hear her crying softly.  Travis does not move or speak, not even when Mick comes in, smelling of cigarette smoke.  He looks at me briefly, taps Travis on the head, and slips into his seat when Travis vacates it.  I can feel all their questions in the air.  Who, why, how, how could he?  How could he?  I have my own questions for them, but I do not dare open my mouth.  I bite down on my tongue, and keep my teeth pressed tightly together.  Inside my mind I see Joe, slumped on the bathroom floor and it fills my heart with a raw and vile kind of pain that makes me want to be sick.  I sit there in silence and I feel all their guilt because the atmosphere is thick with it.

Finally a male doctor, with thick bushy ginger hair comes forward and motions for Lorraine to come with him.  She leaps to her feet, passes my mum, and seizes my arm, practically yanking me out of my chair.  I let her pull me into her side, where she captures me with her firm arm, and marches me along with her, her red heels click clacking on the floor as we follow the doctor.  We go down long corridors, filled with swishing curtains, swearing patients, and bustling nurses.  We follow the doctor into a lift and go up to the next floor.  We are taken to a small room, and as we go in, two nurses finish their checks, smile at us in sympathy, and leave the room.

We shuffle hesitantly inside.  In the movies, or on TV, I remember the loved ones always flinging themselves at the patient, wailing and falling onto the bed.  But I realise it is not like that in real life.  Lorraine is stiff and nervous, and I am terrified.  The doctor has to gently persuade us to move further inside the room, so that he can close the door after us.

My best friend Joe is lying on the bed, but it is hard to make out where he begins, and the tubes and machines end.  I do not know what any of them mean, or what they are doing for him.  His head is heavily bandaged.  His nose and mouth are covered with the tubes and a mask.  All I can see of Joe is his eyes and his forehead.  But even his eyes, which are closed, are so swollen that I wonder how it can really be him.

“Can he hear us?” I hear Lorraine ask in a squeak of a voice.

“We don’t know, but we think so, on some level,” the doctor tells her gently, holding his clipboard against his tummy.  “We certainly believe it’s worth talking to people who are unconscious.”

“Is he in a coma?” I hear my own voice whisper.

“That’s right,” the doctor tells me.  “But we think he will start to wake up, once the swelling goes down.”

Lorraine just stands there.  She looks aghast.  I inch forward.  I am terrified of him, and yet I am drawn towards him.  I slip into the chair that is next to his bed.  I am staring at him, trying to find him.  My eyes brim with useless, soundless tears.  I swallow, and that is when I see his hand laying there.  His palm is flat against the blanket.  It is his hand.  I can see that.  I lean forward, and pick it up.  I feel how cold it is, especially the palm.  I rub his hand between mine, trying to warm it up, trying to reach him.

I feel Lorraine move behind me.  She places her hands, awkwardly at first, on my shoulders.  Then I feel her sigh massively, a juddery sob escaping at the same time.  She massages my shoulders slightly.  “That brings back a memory,” she sniffles from behind me.  “You holding his hand like that.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.  I’ve even got a photo.  Perhaps that’s why the memory is so clear.  You were both about one and a half.  Not quite two.  There’s me and your mum, pushing you both home from the park in your buggies.  You reached out from your buggy with your little hand, to Joe.  And he took it.”

I nod.  I have seen the photo.  It’s at Lorraine’s house, in one of her massive photo albums.  All you can see is our hands linked, pulling the two pushchairs together as our mums push us home.

“I’ll give you a few moments alone,” the doctor, who we have both forgotten about tells us.  We hear the door open and shut again.

“He held my hand on the first day of school,” I say.  “I remember that.  We were both nervous.  He picked up my hand.”

“Always been stuck to each other like glue,” Lorraine says softly.  “Me and your mum Lou, we were always so thankful for you two, did you know that?”

“No.”

“You were both so good.  We used to say it all the time.  Aren’t they good?  Aren’t they so good together?  We had our hands full with the others, but not you two.  As long as you two had each other you were fine.”

“He’s gonna’ be fine,” I say then, and I look over my shoulder and up at her face.  She nods bravely, but fresh tears are flowing from her eyes.

“He better be!” she smiles at me.  “God knows, he better be.  I’ve got to say I’m bloody sorry, haven’t I eh?”  She laughs, cries, and wipes tears and snot away from her face with a tissue she tugs out of her bag.  I look back at Joe, holding his hand tightly between mine.  I stare at his face, willing him to wake up.  But he does not move.  He just lies there.  He is so still.

“Why don’t you hold his other hand?” I ask Lorraine.  I feel her hands leave my shoulders.

“I don’t know,” she says.  “I’m scared.  I don’t want to…”

“You can’t hurt him,” I tell her.  I nod at the chair on the other side of the bed.  She sniffs, wipes her nose again and walks around the bed.  I watch her slide awkwardly into the other chair, looking nervously at the machines that bleep and whirr all around the bed.

“I just can’t believe this,” she says then, resting her head in her hand just for a moment, before she looks up at me across the bed, across Joe.  “My baby boy.”

“He’s going to be fine,” I tell her again, and I mean it.  I fucking mean it.  I squeeze his hand to make sure he knows I mean it as well.  “I’m not fucking going through my life without him,” I say, and Lorraine laughs in surprise.

“What am I gonna’ do?” she shakes her head at Joe.  She lifts his other hand and holds it tenderly between her own.  “He doesn’t deserve a mother like me.”

“You didn’t do this,” I tell her stiffly.  The silence hangs between us then, and we meet eyes only briefly before it is too much, and we both look down at the hand we hold.  The silence speaks his name.  Leon.  The silence speaks the truth.  He has become the elephant in the room. The unspeakable thing.  After that, we cannot talk.  We sit, holding his hands, staring at him, listening to the machines.  We sit in our own minds, reminded of how close we always are to death.

I remember my Nan’s funeral.  I remember how unreal it seemed that a person who was talking, moving, breathing, feeling and thinking just days before, was now inside a box.  Going into the ground.  While the leaves still shook on the trees that surrounded us, and the birds still screamed and glided over our heads.  I remember that line they always read out; ‘in the midst of life, we are in death.’  I didn’t understand it then.  How can that be?  How can we be in death, while we are still alive?  It made no sense to me.

But it makes an awful kind of sense to me now.  As I look at the boy on the bed, who is neither dead nor alive, I understand what it means now.  He is with us, yet not with us.  He is hovering somewhere in-between, like my Nan was, in her final days.  I remember going to see her in the hospital.  I remember how tiny and ghostlike she seemed, shrunken under the blankets.  I remember looking at her and knowing that she was close to death.  I remember knowing that she could not and would not get back out of that bed.  I knew it was only a matter of time.

I remember touching her hand, wondering what it would feel like, and discovering that it felt like cold paper.  I was looking at her, I was watching her leave, and I was thinking about her soap collection.  When she lived in her old house, before they made her move to the nursing home, my Nana had this collection of soaps.  She kept them all on her dressing table.  They took up nearly all of the space there.  They were all different shapes and sizes and colours and scents.  My favourite was shaped like a swan, a white swan.  She never used them, she never got them wet, she just collected them, and her bedroom was heavenly with their smell.  I never found out what happened to her soaps when she moved to the nursing home.  She didn’t even get a proper bar of soap there though.  Just that antibacterial liquid soap that you pump out onto your hand.

I hang onto Joe’s hand now.  I press my lips down upon it.  I smell his skin.  I hold my cheek to his palm, letting him feel my warmth, my life.  I beg him to come back.  I beg him to wake up.

But nothing happens

Nothing happens.  All that happens is, I have to go home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

31

 

Dear World, we are trapped in one of those moments that seems to stretch out forever.  Leon, one foot on the landing, one foot on the last stair.  Joe, frozen next to the toilet, so still, so silent, he looks like a dummy, like a waxwork image of himself.  I watch the colour drain from his face.  I watch his eyes widen into impossibly huge pools of horror.  When I turn my head it feels like it is in slow motion.  Leon is frozen too.  His jaw juts out.  His mouth disappears.  It only takes him a second, a moment, to see Joe, to see me, and to see what is happening.  And then he moves.  He moves fast.  He comes at us, he comes at us like a bear, like a bulldozer, like something impossibly fast and big and angry, and I find myself shrinking back against the wall.  I feel him whoosh past me and I hear him snarling; “what the fuck are you doing?”

Joe does not get time to speak.  Leon stares once, turning his head quickly, seeing the toilet, and seeing what is already lost.  And then he roars again, but the words are not decipherable.  He is on top of Joe. He is like a building falling down.  I see Joe hurled across the room. I hear the dull thud as he hits the wall.  I see his face screwed up in shock and pain as he doubles up on himself.  I think he looks like a rag doll.

Leon snatches the broken, empty bags up from the floor.  I am flattening myself against the landing wall.  I watch him staring at them in utter horror.  “What the fuck?” he is screaming.  “What the fuck?  What the fuck have you done?”  It all seems to hit him then.  The enormity of what he has lost, of what Joe has taken from him, of what it all means.  I watch his face cave in on itself.  It is like his forehead crashing into his eyes, and his eyes explode, and pure evil rage erupts from them, and his mouth spreads across his face, showing all of his teeth, as he spins around to see Joe.  “You fucking idiot!” he is screaming.  “You stupid fucking idiot what the fuck have you done!” These words, and others, collide into each other as he screams, spittle flying from his twisted mouth, they become one jumbled stream of obscenity and fury.

He steps over the toilet and reaches down to grab Joe by the front of his shirt and then he just starts punching him.  It is horrible.  I can see his fist, he pulls it back, then shoves it in, pulls it back, thrusts it in.  I can hear the sound and the sound is almost wet.  Before I know it I have moved, somehow I have got behind Leon, and I try to pull him away by his shirt, and when I can’t move him an inch, I grab at his hand, the one he is punching with.  I find it and hold it, but it gets away from me and goes in again, and the next few disgusting minutes become all about me trying to chase that fist.  I grab for it, I miss it, I grab for it, I can’t hold onto it.  I do all I can to get that fist away from Joe.

At one point I nearly succeed, I hang onto the fist so tightly, that when he pulls it back to strike again, I am still on the end of it and I go with it.  I end up toppling onto Joe, who is covering his face, trying to twist away, trying to protect himself.  Then I feel Leon wrenching me away by my arm, and suddenly I am flying, I am being propelled, and I cannot stop myself, I cannot slow myself down.  I land outside the bathroom, shaking and sobbing and screaming.  I turn around and I see Leon is sitting on Joe.  Joe has no chance of escape.  Leon is holding onto him with one hand, and punishing him with the other.  I see that awful fist flying in again and again.  “Stop it!” I hear myself screaming this out, so loud it hurts my lungs.  I scramble to my feet, desperate to beat that fist.  I fling myself back at Leon.  I am clinging to his back, scratching at him, pulling his hair, tearing at his shirt.

He ignores me for as long as he can.  I am screaming and sobbing.  I can see Joe’s face is covered in blood.  There is blood sprayed up the wall behind him.  There is blood on Leon’s fist, but still he does not stop.  “You’re killing him!  You’re killing him!” I am screeching into his ear.  I rake my nails into his head, plunging them in.  I can see that Joe has gone all floppy.  That Leon is holding him up to punch him.

Leon cries out in rage and frustration, and stops punching Joe.  He grabs hold of my hands and pulls them violently out of his head.  I feel something smack me in the side of the face, and I am flying again.  When I hit the bathroom floor I am momentarily stunned into shock.  I am just blinking.  Blinking at the pale green lino.  Blinking at the stained carpet on the landing.  The little row of cars that Tommy has lined up right next to the wall.  I try to lift my head and feel rockets taking off in my brain.  I can hear myself grunting and groaning, as I try to get myself up.  I plant my hands firmly on the floor and try to push myself up onto my knees.  I hold onto my face.  It is pulsing with sharp pain.

There is no more screaming now.  No one is screaming.  The only sound I can hear is the noise Leon makes as he beats Joe.  It is like an ‘oompff’.  I sit back on my feet; I hold my face and turn around.

Leon is standing now.  Standing over Joe and kicking the shit out of him.

“No!” I am screaming again now.  My throat stretches and yawns as the wails rip from me.  “No, you’re killing him!  You’re fucking killing him!  Leon stop! Stop!  Stop!”

I find myself back on my feet.  I hold my head with both hands while I steady myself, and the room dips and rocks under my feet.  A hand pressed to each side of my face I stumble forward bellowing; “Leon please stop! Stop! Stop!”

Jesus Christ, Joe is just lying there.  He does not even flinch, or move, or cry when Leon kicks him.  Leon’s foot is flying in and out like his fist did.  I think, he’s killed him, he’s fucking killed him! I scream out, something feral and wordless and I land on his back, tearing at his hair, and digging into his face.  I get him away from Joe, because he turns around and steps away, and in seconds I am slammed back into the floor.  I feel my spine crack against the lino.  I feel my bones jolted and jarred.

He is down and on top of me, and I see his face. His face is full of torment and rage and revenge and regret and violence, and I shrink away, I turn away, I try to roll away from him.  He pins me down and his face is just above mine.  “Fuckin little bitch,” he pants down onto me, his big chest heaving up and dropping down upon mine.  That is all he says, but I know what he means.  I know what he thinks I am.  His spit drops down onto my cheek.  His chest is crushing mine.

I feel his hand down on the waistband of my shorts, and then I hear another voice, crying out.  It is Travis.  “What the fuck?  What the fuck?”  I feel Leon moving away from me, but he does not get very far before he is sent flying backwards.  I hear him crash into the toilet and then he is up again, and I scramble out of his way.  I press myself up against the door, and watch Leon shoving his way past Travis, who is staring at the huddled shape of Joe.

“He flushed it all!” Leon cries, as he gets past Travis.  “He fucking flushed it all!”  He tears down the landing.  We hear his feet pounding the stairs.  Travis looks at me, eyes and mouth wide open.

“Joe,” I say to him, crawling forward.  “Joe!”

Travis snaps into action.  He kneels down and pushes Joe’s shoulder.  Joe plops onto his back, one arm flung across his chest.  Travis slides one hand under his head, and his eyes move rapidly over Joe’s still body. “Joe?  Joe?”

“Call an ambulance!” I scream, pushing him out my way.  He scrabbles across the floor, uses the door to pull himself up, and dashes away with his phone in one hand.  I am left alone with Joe.  I put my hands on his chest.  I try to feel him breathing.

“Joe?  Joe?  Joe wake up!  Wake up!”  I shake him gently.  He looks dead.  His face is awash with blood.  His mouth is open and I can see his teeth and they are stained red, strung with stretchy trails of pink saliva.  His nose is clogged with blood.  And his head.  His head.

“They’re on the way!” Travis bundles back into the bathroom, skidding down onto his knees.  I take Joe’s hand and hold it tightly between mine. “Is he breathing!”

“I don’t know!”

“Shit,” Travis lays his head down upon Joe’s chest, and his face tightens in concentration.  I look at him in desperation, but his brow just furrows into lines of frustration.  “I don’t know!” he cries at me.  “I don’t know!”

“His pulse,” I remember, and place his wrist between my finger and thumb.  I hold my breath and pray for there to be something, anything in there, but I can’t, I can’t find anything.  I wait and wait and listen and count, and there is nothing, nothing, no beat, no throb, no sign.  “He’s not breathing!” I hear my voice screaming at Travis.  Travis stares at me.  He does not know what to do. “He’s not breathing!”

I don’t really know what happens next.  I feel like I am outside of my body and looking in.  At some point I seem to be pressing my lips down upon Joe’s, begging him to wake up. And then, out of nowhere, the room is suddenly full of people, of strangers.  I am gently pulled away, and neon coats surround Joe, so that I cannot see him anymore.  I am pulled out of the room.  I am crying.  I want my mum.

I find myself leaning against the landing wall, my knees too weak to hold me up.  One of the paramedics is speaking to me softly, and touching my face and asking if it hurts.  It does not hurt.  It feels numb. I can hear Travis talking behind me, to somebody else.  I can’t see Joe.  They are lifting him up and carrying him out.  I try to speak to him as he is bundled past me, but they are all in the way, and they are moving with a terrifying sense of urgency, and they are shouting and calling to each other, using the kind of terms I remember hearing in ‘Casualty’ and ‘ER’.  “I want to go with him,” I say to the woman who is with me.

“They’ve got to go quick,” she tells me, and I just stare at her, not understanding.  I understand when I hear the ambulance screaming out of the street.  I imagine the neighbours, at their windows, wondering who is ill, what has happened.

I am led out of the house.  I think Travis is coming too.  But then he seems to change his mind, and he goes back, back up the stairs.  When I step out of the house, the day is impossibly bright; it is almost white, the sun burns down on us all.  There is a police car parked out there.  They say they will drive Travis and me to the hospital.  I am numb, in shock, unable to speak.  All I can hear is my own voice, screaming at Leon to stop.  It fills my head completely.  All I can see is the blood.  The blood that Leon has punched out of his brother’s body.  The blood that has erupted from Joe’s face, from his head, and I shake my head, and I say to him, please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die…….

 

The waiting room is full of bleeding people.  Moaning people.  Swearing, complaining people.  Drunk people.  Little kids whining and wailing.  Old people swaying in and out of life.  I sit in a hard plastic chair next to Travis, who is as white as a sheet.  We do not look at each other, or speak to each other.  The police have asked me twice who attacked Joe, and I have not said.  The doctors have told the police I am probably in shock and they need to give me time.  “We don’t have time,” I hear the older policeman answer quietly, as he gives up and walks away.  “The git could be anywhere by now…”

I am snapped back into imagining Leon.  His fists smeared in Joe’s blood.  Where would he go?  Who would he run to like that?  I am sat on a plastic chair, the kind of chairs that are linked together by metal, so that people cannot pick them up and throw them at each other.  This is a horrible place, I think, staring down at the floor, trying not to meet anyone’s eye.  This is a horrible place full of horrible people, and Joe should not be here.  Please don’t die, please please please, don’t you die.

“I want my mum,” I say to no one.  Travis shifts next to me.  He coughs, clearing his throat.

“Didn’t anyone call her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to call her?”

“Yes.”

He gets up slowly, unsurely, sliding his trainers out across the slippery floor, and gripping the handrails of the chair to push himself up.  As he walks past me, I look up, and I see the artwork of Joe’s blood all over his t-shirt.  I look down at mine, and see that I have been daubed as well.  I drop my hands into my lap, and I twist my hands into my stained clothes.  Tears fall from my eyes as I stare down into the redness.  My tears mix with his blood and I rub it into my fingers.  His lifeblood, I think, and I feel the unbelievable swell of fear and grief trying to take me down.  I am holding onto myself.  Just. Just don’t die, don’t you dare die, just please don’t you dare die.

 

Dear World, time does strange things when you are waiting like that.  I try not to look at the clock on the wall.  I try not to look up, every time a name is called, and a broken person gets up and shuffles off to be fixed.  I try not to stare when another emergency is rushed in on a stretcher.  The sound of the paramedic’s shoes slapping against the tiles echoes around the waiting room.  Travis takes up his lonely post next to me.  I can feel his questions, but he does not speak.  I can feel his misery, and most of all I can feel his guilt. Believe me, I can fucking smell his guilt.  I watch him twisting and wringing his hands together.  Most of the time he just stares down at the floor, his head hanging low.

When my mum arrives, I am not aware of her until she is on top of me.  Travis gets up quickly to give up his seat, and she plops into it, simultaneously enveloping me in her arms.  I curl into them like a tiny child and I just sob and shake, and she strokes my hair, and kisses my head, and my face, and she says over and over again; “he’ll be all right, he’ll be all right, I promise you.”

“He wasn’t breathing,” I whisper this into her hair.  I feel her heart stop, and then start again.

“I’ll try to find out what’s happening,” she tells me, and pats me firmly on the back, letting me know I can do this.  “Has anyone spoken to you?”

“Nothing,” says Travis.  Mum looks up at him, standing there awkwardly, suddenly looking much younger than normal.  She gives him a brave smile, but her eyes say something else.  She pulls away from me, clutches my shoulder and squeezes it tight.

“I’ll be right back,” she says.  “I’ll see what I can find out.  Don’t move.”

Don’t die.

When she has gone, Travis sits back down, but he just perches on the edge this time, ready to spring back up on her return.  He rests his elbows on his knees, and

clasps his hands together in front of him.  His hair is darker than Joe’s and tumbles down over his forehead.  I watch him.  I say nothing.  Eventually he coughs again and he says; “I got rid of it all.”

“What?”  My voice is a whisper.  A croak.  My throat raw from screaming.

“The stuff,” he whispers back, not looking at me.  “All of it.  I finished off what Joe started.  It’s gone.”

I stare at him.  At the back of his head.  At his neck.  I can see the top of the tattoo he has curling up from under his t-shirt.  He had it done when he turned eighteen.  Barbed wire and roses.  He looks back at me then.  I see his eyes for the first time.  He rubs at his chin with one hand.  “Good,” I tell him.

“Did Leon hurt you?” he asks me then, his eyes dipping once, and then rising to meet mine.  I see him bite his lip with his teeth and then let go.  “Before I got there?”

“I tried to stop him,” I say, staring back at him.  “I couldn’t.  I couldn’t stop him.”

We both look up as my mother returns.  She slips in beside me as Travis rears up again.  There is a lost, desolate look to her, that I just cannot bear.  “Mum?”

She takes my hand and holds it between hers.  “They’re working on him,” she tells me, her voice quivering.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, that he has a lot of bleeding coming from his brain, and they are working on him, to stop the bleeding.  He also has some internal bleeding they are trying to control.”

I glance at Travis long enough to see him dropping his face into his hands.  I look back at my mum.  “That doesn’t sound good.”

“They deal with this every day love,” she tells me, as if that somehow makes it less bad.  “They know what they are doing.  He is in good hands.”

“That’s what they say on TV.”

“What?”

“On TV.”

“Love,” she says, squeezing my hand.  “I’ve called his mum and Mick.  They’re on their way.  The policeman wants to talk to you again.  Are you up to it?”

“It was Leon,” I say then, and I look at Travis as he reappears from his hands.  He looks white.  I expect to see him shake his head at me or something, but he does not.  He just looks resigned, and his shoulders drop.  I look back at mum and she is staring at me very intently.

“Darling,” she says to me.  “You have to tell that to the policeman.  You have to tell him exactly what happened.”

“Leon beat him up,” I say to her.  “I thought he was going to kill him.”  I collapse into her then.  It all gets too much.  Bleeding from his brain?  His brain?  Bleeding internally?  From where?  What does that mean?  Something inside him must be broken for blood to come out, is that what it means?  Like what?  I bury my head in her shoulder.  Like his heart?  Can his heart bleed?  His lungs?  Was that why he stopped breathing?  I cry so hard I cannot breathe.  I feel her arms around me, so tightly, and her kisses and her voice, and I know what she is thinking, I know what she is feeling, like she has told me a thousand times before, ‘if I could take the hurt away for you, I would.’ I used to think that was stupid. I used to think it meant nothing. Like saying ‘do one for me’ when someone says they are going to do a wee.  But now I get it.  She would take all the hurt from me, and absorb it into her, soak it up and take it, and make it hers, because that is how much she loves me.  And if I could, I would take all the hurt from Joe, all the leaking blood, all the damaged parts, everything they are trying to fix, I would take it from him, I would take it if I could.

“I don’t want him to die,” I moan into my mother’s shoulder, and it feels like it is just us, and the hospital around us does not exist, and neither does Travis, because it is just us, entwined and holding on tight.  Holding onto life.  “I don’t want him to die,” I tell her over and over, “please, please, don’t let him die, please don’t let him die….I love him, I love him..”

30

 

Dear World, we stay in all day.  Joe sleeps for hours.  When he finally emerges, he looks even worse, if that is possible.  My mum sees him shuffle into the kitchen, and she can’t help herself, the first thing she does is wrap her arms around him.  I get up and make him tea and toast, which he barely touches.  The whole time he can’t stop shivering, even though it is a gorgeous summer day.  I try to talk to him.  I try to get him talking, but he just sits in silence all day, with his head in his hand.  My mum asks him when he has to go to court and he says he doesn’t know.  He sits there all day, with shiny eyes, but does not cry again.  Eventually my mum gets up with a sigh and announces that she is going to speak to Lorraine.  Joe barely looks at her.

When she is gone my phone rings so I answer it.  “Hiya!” Marianne yells down the phone at me, hurting my ear.  I roll my eyes at Joe, still sat in the kitchen. I am not in the right mood to talk to her or deal with her.  She must be calling on her landline, I think.  If her mobile had come up, I would not have answered it.

“Hi Marianne, you okay?”

“Yes, more than okay, I am great!  My parents have buggered off again, so got the place to myself!  I was thinking about another party!”

I can’t believe what I am hearing, so I sort of slump against the wall and groan inwardly.  “Oh I don’t know,” I tell her.  “I’m not sure about that.”

“Well I mean a smaller one obviously,” she goes on breathlessly. “I wouldn’t have the time to contact everyone for a big one.  I was thinking you and Joe, Josh and Ryan, Leon and Travis, maybe a few more?  Anyone they want to bring!”

“It’s probably not the best time, that’s all,” I try to tell her.  I can tell by the look on Joe’s face that he does not want me to tell her about his arrest.

“Why not?  What else you doing?  What you up to then?”  She sounds sort of hyper, I think, like she is bouncing around the room while she speaks to me.

“Um,” I say, while I try to think fast, try to think of excuses.  “It’s just I got family stuff on, you know.  Stuff to do.  I think I’m busy all weekend really.”

There is silence from her end.  I wait for her to fill it but she does not.  I breathe out slowly and imagine her standing still, her eyes filling with rage towards me.  “Marianne?  You there?”

“Yes.  Yes. I am here.  Okay then fine.  I could come over to you?  Have a girly sleepover?”

Oh Christ, I think desperately.  Why does she have to call now?  Why does she have to be like this right now?  “I’m really sorry Marianne,” I say this firmly.  “I really can’t this weekend.  I’ll call you on Monday, okay?”

“Okay.  Fine then.”

“Don’t be like that…”

“Like what?  No, it’s fine.  Fine.  Bye.”  That’s it.  She hangs up.  I roll my eyes again look at Joe.

“Well that pissed her off,” I shrug at him in exasperation.  He nods very slightly.  “Shall I make us some lunch then?”  He looks down.  I lean against the doorframe and try to think of inspiring and encouraging things to say.  But there are none.  He has been arrested for suspected drug dealing.  I have no idea what is going to happen to him, but in the long run it does not look good, does it?

So I fiddle around making us cups of coffee, and looking through the cupboards to see what we can eat for lunch.  Not eating does not even enter my mind, though I am not sure why.  It does not seem quite so important, that’s all.  Joe does.  I am grilling some bacon for bacon sandwiches, when my mum hurries back in through the front door and slams her handbag down on the hall table.  Joe and I both look up at her with wide, expectant eyes.  “Well,” she says, placing her hands on her hips and taking us both in.  “I have good news and bad news.”

“Good first,” I say quickly.  “I think we need it.”

“Okay,” she nods. “Well the police were unable to track down the other guy on the bridge, so they have no real evidence to charge Joe with intent to supply.  Your mum spoke to them this morning,” she looks at Joe and says.  “They are charging you with possession.  You’ll still go to court, but at your age, with no previous convictions, you are more than likely to receive a fine, and maybe some community service.”

I look at Joe in amazement.  He looks confused.  He pulls at his sore bottom lip with his thumb and finger and frowns at my mum.  He has not brushed his hair and it is all over the place.  “That’s brilliant isn’t it Joe?” I prompt him eagerly. “That’s much less serious!”  He nods, considering it.

“I guess so.”

“What was the bad news?” I ask my mum.  She sighs and folds her arms, and then I see her sniff and peer around me to take in the bacon under the grill.  A confused look crosses her face and then she smiles ever so slightly.

“Oh,” she says, “the bad news comes from Mick.  He does not want you back.  Well, not yet.  Your mum is working on him.”

“Well that’s not bad news!” I laugh.  “That’s good news!  You wouldn’t go back there anyway, would you Joe?”

“Lou,” my mum says softly.  “It will be in Joe’s best interests to make things right again with his family.  But anyway, for now, he can stay here.  I am sure Mick will calm down and change his mind soon enough.”

I lean forward and punch Joe softly in the shoulder.  “Not so bad then?” I ask him.  He manages a small smile and nods at me.

“Are you making bacon sandwiches?” my mum enquires, trying to peer past me again.

“Yep.  Joe’s favourite.”

“Any spare for me?”

“I think we can stretch to it,” I say with a grin.

Five minutes later the three of us are gathered around the kitchen table, sinking our teeth into warm bacon sandwiches, smeared with tomato sauce.  I think, this is crazy, but nothing in my life has ever tasted as good as this does.  My mum tries not to look at me too much, and she certainly holds her tongue about me eating lunch, but I can feel it in the air around her, I can feel how happy she is, how relieved she is.  I tell myself in a new calm voice I had no idea existed within me, that I can go for a nice run later.  I’ve missed my runs.  I can go for a nice run, and as long as I do that regularly, I’ll never get as fat as I was, will I?  As long as I am sensible.  I wonder if I tell myself this enough, will I start to really believe it?

 

Joe and I return to my room after lunch.  He seems a bit brighter, but is still not exactly talkative.  He flicks through my CD collection, and tosses each one aside with increasing disgust.  “You are stuck in the sixties!” he tells me irately.  “You weren’t even born then, but you’re stuck in the sixties!”

“I like it.  I like all that stuff.”

“We could go back to mine and get my music.”

“Oh.  I don’t know.  Maybe not.”

Joe runs his fingers back through his hair.  “It’s okay,” he says, but his voice sounds unsure to me.  “Mum and Mick will be at work.”

“What about Leon and Travis?”

He shrugs at me.  “What about them?”

“Have you decided what to do?”

“Nothing.  I just want my music Lou.  I want to get my music and my money.  You know for the drums.  I can’t leave it there.”

I had forgotten about his money.  I had totally forgotten.  I make a growling noise and cover my mouth with my hands for a moment, while I look at his pleading eyes and try to work out what to do.  I don’t want to go over there, no fucking way.  But I can see his point.  “Okay,” I say eventually.  “I’ll come with you.  And we’ll tell mum what we’re doing.  I’m so impressed with her at the moment, I think she deserves my honesty.”

Joe frowns and smiles at me at the same time.  “How sweet.”

“Fuck off.”

“It is though.  I’m glad.  And you ate lunch!  You ate bacon.”

“I’ll say it again.  Fuck off.”

Joe snorts and I see a small amount of light return to his eyes.  “Wasn’t really much fun collapsing all over the place then?” he goads me.  I narrow my eyes and stand in front of him.

“I’m going to smack you in your sore lip in a minute if you don’t shut up.”

He slaps my shoulder.  “Chill out Carling.  I’m just joking.”  I push him towards the bedroom door.

“Come on, if we’re doing this let’s get it over with.  I am all kinds of scared right now.”

“Me too.”

We find mum in the back garden.  She is on her knees, weeding her flowerbeds.  Gremlin is lying next to her, panting in the sun.  “Mum, is it okay if we go to Joe’s house to get more of his stuff?” I ask her, holding up a hand to shield my eyes from the glaring sun.  Mum sits back on her feet and looks at us worriedly.

“Oh I don’t know guys.”

“He needs his stuff,” I point out.  “His clothes and stuff.  Toothbrush. His breath stinks you know.”

Joe elbows me.  “Oi!”

“Sorry.  But it does.  We’ll be super quick mum.  In and out.  Mick and Lorraine will be at work, won’t they?”

“I think so,” she sighs.  “But if their cars are there, I want you to turn around and come straight back, do you hear?  I’ll go over there later for Joe’s stuff.”

“Okay, we will,” I promise.  “See you in a bit.”

We pile back into the house, and as we head down the hallway my phone rings again in my pocket.  “Fuck’s sake,” I curse under my breath and snatch it up.  “Hello?”

“Lou, it’s me again.”

I mouth ‘Marianne’ at Joe and he rolls his eyes in sympathy and shoves his hands into his pockets while he waits.  “Hi Marianne.”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to come over?”

“Um, I can’t, remember?  I said I was busy all weekend.”

“Busy with Joe?”

“No.  Well yes actually, but look, it’s a long story, loads has happened, and I can’t tell you over the phone so…”

“I see.”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s just actually he’s sort of staying with us at the moment,” I make apologetic faces at Joe as I see his expression darkening.  “I can’t go into it on the phone.  He’s got family problems.”

“So you lied earlier?”

“No, I said family stuff didn’t I?”

“You said your family.”

“Oh Marianne, what does it matter?” I snap at her.  “Look Joe needs me at the moment, and I’ll explain it all when I see you, so…”

“Doesn’t matter,” she snaps back at me, and hangs up the phone.

“Oh Jesus Christ, what is her problem?” I cry at Joe, who just shrugs carelessly in return.  “She’s all pissed off with me!”

“She’s a nutter, I told you.  Forget about it.”

“Why did she call back?  For God’s sake, I told her I was busy.”

“Nutter,” Joe says again.  “Come on let’s go.  I’m getting all jumpy.”

“Okay, okay.”

 

The August sun pounds down on us when we step outside.  It seems to bounce off the pavements, making them too bright to look straight at.  Every car we pass seems to fire spiky rays of startling sunlight into our brains.  We look down and walk on.  Joe falls silent again, and I suppose I cannot blame him.  His whole life has been turned upside down, one way or another.  Even if he escapes jail and is allowed home, I know things will never be the same for him again.  He looks increasingly sombre as we head towards his house.  We go the long way around without even discussing it.  Neither of us relishes the thought of passing the shop while Lorraine is at work.

We get to his road and look around.  There are no cars in front of the house.  It looks like no one is home.  “Wonder where the brats are?” I ask quietly.

“Neighbours have had them lately,” Joe shrugs.

“Have you got a key to get in?”

“No.  Mick took it off me.”

“So how do we get in then brainiac?”

“Around the back,” he says, and walks off.  I follow him around to the back alley and we walk down it, stepping over bags of rubbish and broken bikes and old TV sets.  The back gate is open.  He strides up to the back door and just walks in.

“Unlocked?” I ask, shaking my head.

“Broken,” he corrects me, and shows me the floppy door handle.  “It won’t lock.”

“Handy for us.”

“Yep.”

We stand in the kitchen for a few awkward moments, looking around us.  I feel like it is a strange and hostile place, all of a sudden, instead of one I have known since a baby.  I am guessing Joe feels sort of the same.  He certainly does not seem comfortable or at ease in the slightest.  He rubs one arm up and down, shivers, and then heads for the lounge.  “Come on then,” he says.  “We’ve got to be quick about it.”

We pound up the stairs and into his room.  It’s a complete wreck.  It looks like Mick has thrown a massive tantrum in here.  Joe swallows as he looks around at it all.  His posters have all been torn down and screwed up.  His clothes are out of the wardrobe and scattered across the floor.  It is creepy and shocking, and I want to get the hell out of there as fast as possible.  I find his school rucksack on the floor and start to fill it quickly with clothes.  Joe snaps himself out of his daze, grabs a holdall from the top of the wardrobe and kneels down on the floor, scooping up armfuls of his belongings and throwing them in.  “Your money?” I say to him at one point, and he looks up and yanks open the top drawer of his bedside table.  He grabs all the socks and boxers and hurls them into the holdall, and then holds up one bulging sock and smiles at me.

“It’s okay.  Look.”

“Good.  Come on, hurry up.”

We crawl around the floor, grabbing everything we can salvage.  His CD collection is half the size it used to be, as he hadn’t managed to replace any of the ones Mick smashed that day, but he packs them all in and zips up the holdall.  He is breathless and his forehead gleams with sweat.  I am still packing up, having found his schoolbooks under his bed, but he stand up suddenly and stares down at the floor, breathing quickly.  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Just want to check something,” he replies and walks out of the room.

“Joe!” I call after him impatiently, but I do not follow.  I carry on packing his rucksack until I cannot squeeze any more in.  I do the zip half the way up, and push my hair back out of my face.  I feel my heart drumming quickly in a kind of panic, but I don’t understand why.  Just then Joe marches back into the room, his hair hanging over his eyes, and his hands full.  I look at him in confusion.  And then I yelp.  “Joe!  What the fuck!”  He is holding two bags of cocaine.  Just like the bags we found that day in his brothers wardrobe. Christ how I wish we had never taken them.  Christ, how I wish I had never opened that wardrobe door…. He raises his head to stare at me, his mouth hanging open in awe.

“They’ve got more!” he practically screams at me.  “They’ve got a fucking load more!”

I climb to my feet.  I grab both of the bags we have filled.  I want to cry.  “Joe,” I say in desperation.  “Just put it back, put it back now!”

“They’ve got more!” he says again, his eyes wide in wonder and disbelief.  “It was all gone, and now they’ve got more!”

“Joe,” I beg him, “it doesn’t matter, leave them to it, let’s just go!  Just put it back and we can go!”

He shakes his head at me.  I watch anger clouding his eyes.  He keeps shaking his head and staring at the bags.  “I can’t believe they got more.”

“Joe! Just put it back, I am begging you!  It doesn’t matter!”

“It does fucking matter!” he roars at me then, and his face is so dark, and his mouth twists in rage and grief.  “They lied to me the whole time!”

“What do you mean?”

“That they nicked it, that they found it in a car they robbed.  That the amount they had was it.  Just one load.  It was gone.” He shakes his head, utterly confused, yet filling steadily with rage.  “It was gone Lou!  So what the hell is this?  Where the fuck did this come from?  There’s loads in there!  They’ve got more!”

I walk forward and grip his arm with my hand.  “Joe,” I say to him.  “Just put it back.  Put it back right now.  We have to get out of here.  Just leave them to it.”

“No,” he says, pulling away from me and scraping back his hair.  “No fucking way.  They lied to me!”

“They’re always lying!”

“They lied to me about all of it!”

“Joe please, just put it back and lets go.  I’m going!”  I try to shock him by grabbing the bags and bundling past him.  I head for the stairs.  “Come on!” I call back at him.  He storms past the stairs and into the bathroom.  I am confused.  “Joe what are you doing?”

“Flushing it!” he yells back, kicking the bathroom door open.

“What?  Are you insane?”  I drop the bags again and run after him.  He is kneeling down in front of the toilet.  He is tearing a hole in one of the bags.  I am terrified and overwhelmed and desperate to be out of there.  “You can’t do that!” I hiss over his shoulder.  “Are you crazy?”

“I’m putting an end to it,” he says.  He starts to pour out the first bag.  I stare in horror as Leon’s drugs pour in a neat white stream into the toilet bowl.

“Oh my god Joe, they will kill you,” I say breathlessly.  I try to stop him.  I try to pull his arm back but he pulls away.

“I’m ending it,” he says again.  “I’m getting rid of it all.”

“Joe they’ll kill you.  They will fucking kill you!  You can’t do this!”

“You should be helping me!” he cries back at me, tossing back his hair long enough to glare angrily at me.  “You’ve had enough of them too!  Look what they’ve done to us!  They’ve lied to us and lied to us.  They’ve had us running all over the estate with this fucking shit and I’ve had enough.  So I’m ending it.  I’m getting rid of all of it.”

There is nothing I can do but stand and watch.  He flushes the toilet and the first bag is gone.  I have no idea how much money he has just flushed down the loo, but it is sort of horrifying and mesmerising at the same time.  My stomach feels sick to the core.  I can barely breathe.  “Hurry up,” I beg him, nearly in tears.  “Don’t do all of them Joe.  Let’s just go!”  He ignores me and tears open the next bag.  When that one is all gone, he gets up and stomps back into his brother’s room.  I stare down at the bubbling toilet.  I chew my nails.  He comes back and kneels down again and starts digging a hole into another bag.

“Drug dealers,” he is snarling to himself.  “They lied.  They never found it.  It was never a one off.  They’re drug dealers, and that’s it.  They lied, they lied, they lied to me.  They’ve ruined my fucking life. I can’t even live here anymore, because of them!”

I don’t know what to say, so I keep quiet.  I only know I have never been so terrified in my entire life.  But all that changes when I hear the front door opening.  My eyes grow wider and wider.  Joe does not hear.  He keeps flushing the drugs.  I listen again.  Was I imagining it?  Oh my shitting God.  The front door.  The front door.  The front door!

“Joe,” I put my hand on his shoulder.  My hand is shaking so much it looks like a blur.  Joe jerks to his feet when he hears the footsteps on the stairs.  He has half a bag of cocaine in one hand, and as he stands next to the toilet and stares in terror at the landing, the rest of the bag empties slowly into the toilet bowl, and that is how Leon finds us, when he arrives at the top of the stairs.