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An impressive array of swear words accompanied our short transfer from the wheelchair to the car, most of them aimed at my pitiful attempts to assist him. The knock to his head hadn’t affected his speech and language function, that much was clear.
“Sorry,” I apologised for about the fifth time, as I jolted his cast. “I’m not very good at this.”
“Stop knocking my fucking broken arm! For fucks sake, Alex, are you sure you passed those med school exams?”
Was this the same guy who had meekly promised Alistair he’d take his meds, drink plenty of fluids, and let me check his head injury obs every two hours? “Yes, positive, but med school didn’t include a lecture on helping concussed patients into the front seat of low-slung convertibles, did it? Nor a lecture on lying to consultant colleagues. Alistair’s a good guy, you should have taken his advice.”
The jeans Matt had worn when the ambulance crew scooped him off the pavement lay on the back seat in a plastic bag, blood-soaked and filthy. I’d found him a set of theatre scrubs. Despite the mild weather, he shivered, and closed his eyes with a pained groan as soon as I settled him into the car. The bravado of the last few minutes seemed to have knocked the stuffing out of him. I flicked on the heated seat.
“Don’t worry yourself,” he mumbled. “I’ll soon be out of your hair. You can drop me off in town.”
“Says the man who can barely stand.”
“I’ll survive.”
I remained unconvinced. How had I managed to find myself in this situation? This time yesterday, I’d been an unhappy single man at a loose end, contemplating my navel and whether to replace the slabbed patio at the far end of my back garden with wooden decking. Now, as I steered the car in the direction of home, I found myself running through a mental job list that encompassed changing the bedding in the guest suite and buying multivitamins for my newly acquired patient. No way would I deposit him by the side of the road. He looked as if a puff of wind would blow him away. I experienced a rush of guilt for snapping at him.
“No, Matt. I am a doctor, and I’m not dropping you anywhere. You’re coming home with me.”
He didn’t speak for a while. He could have been sleeping. The Matt I once knew would have jabbered ten to the dozen and switched the radio from Radio Four to something sparkier. Whereas this silent ghost next to me, with his battered face and his worn hoodie, was a total stranger. I had so many questions I hardly knew where to begin, and Matt was in no fit state to answer any of them. I concentrated on the road instead.
“You don’t know me, Alex,” he said, as if reading my mind. His weak croak was scarcely audible. “And I don’t know you either, not anymore. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t need to do this.”
A bubble of emotion I couldn’t define welled within me. Sometimes, I thought teenage Matt Leeson had been the only person whohadever truly known me. My mind drifted back to all those years ago, as I’d confessed that, despite loving him, I still liked girls. He’d never told me I was wrong or strange. He’d just accepted, and then ensured my eyes hadn’t wandered by pleasuring me in ways my ex-wife had offered begrudgingly, and never with such gusto. Matt Leeson; that funny, clever, teenage boy with a floppy fringe and naughty dark eyes; he knew me. For that alone, I owed this injured stranger plenty.
“You’re coming home with me. At least until you’re safe.”
SAY HELLO, WAVE GOODBYE
(SOFT CELL)
Dad: Hi Ryan, hope everything is ok. How did the match go? Did you score any tries? Anyway, I don’t know if you are staying at Mum’s or here for the next couple of days. Either way is fine, but just to make you aware, I have a friend here for a few nights. I didn’t want you to come home and think he’s burgling the place, lol. I’ve put him up in the blue bedroom. He’s called Matt, and it’s a long story, but I knew him from years ago and bumped into him recently. He’s been in an accident and, as he lives on his own, I invited him to stay until he feels better. Hope you don’t mind. Love, Dad.
Ryan: K
Typical. I craftWar and Peace, and Ryan rewards me with one letter.
Matt hardly mustered the energy to haul himself out of the car by the time we reached home. Concussion was a shitting bastard. His words, not mine. He greeted the path from the driveway up to the front door with significant displeasure. My words, not his.
“Fucking hell, Alex. It’s like a pissing obstacle course. I’m not fucking getting up there.”
I hoped if Ryan did come over that Matt curbed his language. Now was possibly not the moment to discuss it. Every time I’d steered around a bend, braked, or sped up, he’d held onto his head, forcefully questioning my parentage. My thoughtful heated seat idea lasted all of five minutes before he informed me the spreading warmth under his bottom made him feel like he’d pissed himself, and I needed to turn that fucking thing off. Oh, and my driving was bleeding atrocious, and the car’s suspension non-fucking-existent. Audi had ripped me off and I should demand my fucking money back.
I abandoned trying to jolly him along.
“Can’t you park any closer? Or are you always this fucking sadistic?”
I told myself the painkillers and concussion were doing the talking, and that the sweet, funny Matt Leeson I used to know still lurked under the torrent of abuse.
“The front tyre is already in the flowerbed. If I drove any closer to the house, we’d be parked in the pantry.”
He let out a theatrical groan. “Oh my God. I’d completely forgotten you use words like pantry. Let me guess. Is that where you store your organic quinoa and Moroccan pearl couscous? Alongside your extra-virgin olive oil, ground from plump green olives hand-picked by thirty Greek extra-virgins, born and raised on the southern slopes of Mount Olympus?”
As a matter of fact, I did have a couple of bags of quinoa hiding at the back of the pantry. Not something to share just yet with my bad-tempered companion. And it was probably for the best if I saved my pine nut and lemon couscous recipe for another day.
“It’s three tiled steps, Matt. Not thebloodyHunger Games. Come on, you can do it.”
Manoeuvring him to the guest suite (which, for as long as Matt would be in earshot, I downgraded to spare room) involved copious amounts of swearing (both of us) and a quick grab for the washing-up bowl, because fucking, pissing, shitting concussion made him fucking puke. As he collapsed onto the bed, unable to decide whether to clutch at his broken ribs, his pounding head, or his wretched stomach, not for the first time did I want to remind him that if he’d stayed in hospital, as had been the advice, he wouldn’t have had to undergo this dreadful expedition in the first place. Prudently, I held my tongue and left him alone for a moment, to dispose of the vomit and fetch him some clothes. When I came back, he’d fallen fast asleep.
