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“He’s conscious,” she tells somebody I can’t focus on, “and responsive to pain but can’t answer simple questions.”
My teachers used to say that in school as well.
“Jamie, tell them we’ll definitely need that ambulance.”
It’s getting fuzzier, and with the throbbing in my head itfeels best to just embrace the fuzzy. Feels best, probably isn’t best.
As things start to go black and swimmy, I see Jonathan hang up his phone, and I wonder if hereallycalled a lawyer instead of the hospital.
I’m in an ambulance. A good-looking paramedic feller is asking me questions I still can’t answer.
I’m in a curtained-off bed in A&E and I’m feeling a bit more with it, but not much. I’ve had stitches, I think. There’s blood on my shirt. At least I’m answering questions okay now. The doctor asks me my name and I tell him. He asks me what happened and I’m less certain.
“That’s normal,” he says, all reassuring and that. “Some memory loss is to be expected after a severe concussion.”
The words “severe concussion” and “memory loss” seem to have triggered Jonathan’s Superman hearing, and he pushes his way into my little cubicle full of smiles and sympathy. “Sam,” he’s saying, “I hope everything is okay. And don’t worry, the company will—”
“Who are you?” I begin. I’m about to follow up with “and what have you done with Jonathan Forest?” but I don’t get that far because he gets this look on his face like he’s just had an unexpected tax bill and turns gravely to the doctor.
“Is the memory loss really that bad?” he asks.
It’s not. I didn’t mean it like that. “I—”
But they’re not listening. “Head injuries are tricky,” the doctor is saying. “He’s experiencing quite a lot of confusion.”
Too bloody right I am. I remember falling, and Idefinitelyremember Jonathan Forest firing me and my whole branch and while I’m hoping that was exaggeration, I’m not quite wanting to take the risk.
“But he’ll be okay?” asks Jonathan, and either he’s faking concern for me really well, or he’s concealing his concern for his public liability insurance really badly.
“Probably.” The doctor’s evasive, and I know how he feels. What I really need now is time. “As I say, it’s tricky.”
“How are you, Sam?” asks Jonathan, in that slightly too loud, slightly too clear voice that people use with kids and old people when they’re not good with either.
“Fuzzy,” I tell him. Which is true. “It’s all very…” I trail off. In the back of my mind, I can hear Claire telling me I’ve got todo something,and while I still don’t really know what that something is, I’m hoping if I keep things vague enough, I might have space to work it out.
“You’ll need to keep an eye on him,” the doctor is saying. “For at least a fortnight, ideally. He’ll probably be okay but if he starts experiencing nausea or dizziness, or he’s still showing symptoms in a couple of weeks, you’ll need to bring him back in.”
“Me?” It’s almost funny to hear Jonathan trying to pretend he gives a shit while also trying to wriggle out of actually helping. “Surely there’s somebody more suitable?”
For once I agree with him—a live alligator would be more suitable than Jonathan Forest—except also, there sort of isn’t. It’s just me. And sitting there in that cold A&E wing in Croydon, looking up at a man who I know for a fact cares more about his bottom line than my cracked skull, I can’t face the thought of explaining that. Because it’s notforhim, it’s none of his business. So instead I just say, “There might be, I just…I don’t really remember.”
Acting like an actual human being is clearly taking a toll on Jonathan. The white streak has flopped loose across his forehead.“Ordinarily,” he says between his teeth, “I’d be happy to. But it’s the start of the Christmas season so I’m going to be very busy.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” Acting like I believe Jonathan is an actual human being is taking a toll on me. I can’t believe this smarmy fuckhead fired me, knocked me into a shower, called his lawyer before the ambulance, and is now explaining why he thinks his business is more important than making sure I don’t have a fucking brain haemorrhage.
“Can’t you just keep him in overnight?” Jonathan asks the doctor.
“Haven’t got the beds.” The doctor’s giving us seriousI need to go right nowbody language. “And we’ve already tried his emergency contact. The number’s not recognised.”
Yeah, because I’ve not got round to changing it. But I don’t want to have to explain about that either.
“I don’t believe this,” says Jonathan to nobody in particular. “So, you’re telling me I’ve got no choice?”
The doctor doesn’t squirm exactly, but he doesn’t look comfortable. “Well, if you refused, we’d have to find a way to make sure he was taken care of but”—with perfect dramatic timing, he twitches the curtain aside to reveal an overburdened A&E corridor full of people with things broken, bleeding, or wedged places they shouldn’t be wedged—“I’d rather you didn’t.”
For a moment, just for a moment, I swear Jonathan Forest is considering bailing on me. But either he’s not that much of a fuckhead or he’s that scared of a lawsuit. “Fine.” He sighs. “Come on.”
That’s the only signal the doctor needs to dash off in search of some other poor bastard. Meanwhile I’m stuck with Jonathan Forest and he’s stuck with me and I’m not sure which of us is more fucked off about it.
