Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

She drew her head back, preparing to refuse. ‘Half an hour,’ he said. Almost added ‘please’, but that would sound too desperate.

She hesitated, then gave a little shrug.

‘I’ll just pay this in.’ He held his bank book up.

Two mothers with babies in strollers were just leaving a table outside the deli, so they sat there. It was in full sun, and Louise put her sunglasses on. It made it harder for him to see her expression. ‘About before-’ Andrew wanted to apologize for the night he’d gone to Garrington’s house, but she cut him off.

‘It’s all right. No harm done.’

‘Thanks to you.’

‘How have you been?’ she asked.

He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled heavily. ‘Hard to say. Not great.’ His stomach muscles cramped.

‘It’s not something you get over, is it?’ she said. ‘It will always be with you.’

He swallowed, nodded. He was relieved to be interrupted by the waiter taking their order.

‘And Luke,’ he said, when they had chosen their drinks, ‘the place he’s in, it’s okay?’

‘Fine, yeah. The staff are great.’

‘And the chances of him coming round?’

He saw her lips tighten, the muscle in her jaw tense. She raised a hand to her mouth.

‘Sorry,’ he said; he’d put his foot in it.

‘The other day,’ she made a little huffing sound, ‘someone at work I don’t know well, she said how awful it must be for him, trapped like that.’

Andrew groaned in sympathy.

‘How can I know? How can anyone know?’ Louise said. ‘He might be dancing or he might be screaming.’ She pulled a tissue from her bag, dabbed beneath her glasses.

‘Louise…’

‘The longer it goes on, the more uncertain I feel.’

‘About what?’

‘Whether I’m right.’ Her voice shook. He waited, attentive, while she lit a cigarette, took a drag. He felt the sun warm on his back and his head, but a chill inside. She smoked some more. ‘I can’t talk about it,’ she said brusquely, lowering her head.

‘Yes you can.’

She looked at him.

Their drinks arrived. He stirred his, waiting until they were alone again. ‘It’s only words,’ he told her.

She turned her head away, looked across the street. He watched a bus rumble past and a sports car with the top down, more cars. At the next table a toddler began to shriek.

‘They say there’s nothing going on, no brain activity. No response to pain. The feeding tube, it keeps him alive. If I… stop hoping…’ She could barely string a sentence together.

‘But it’s your decision.’

‘How can I choose that?’ she asked him. She shuddered, her shoulders moving.

Tentatively he reached out, touched the back of her hand. He tried to put himself in her situation, imagine it was Jason. Failed. No knowing what he’d do. And Val. Would they even agree? He squeezed her hand, then withdrew his. He saw her arm was tanned, her face too. She was lovely, dark hair, an attractive face: heart-shaped, almond eyes, a dusting of freckles. He wondered what it might be like to hold her, to kiss her.

‘What if he is suffering?’ she asked him.

‘Has anyone suggested that?’

‘No.’

‘They’d be able to tell,’ he said, fragments of his training coming back. ‘Raised cortisol levels, that sort of thing.’

‘They would?’ She stubbed out her cigarette.

‘Yes,’ he reassured her.

She nodded. ‘I didn’t mean to lay it all on you.’ She picked up her drink. Her nails were short, painted a deep crimson.

‘It’s fine. And your daughter?’

‘Ruby. She’s great. She’s going to a performing arts school, over in Liverpool. She loves it.’ She smiled; he felt the warmth of it. Saw the dimples either side of her mouth. ‘She’s doing so well.’

‘Bit of a hike.’

‘She stays during the week.’

‘You’re on your own,’ he said.

Her face seemed to sharpen. Perhaps she had a partner now, or a boyfriend. What did he know?

‘I go to Luke’s most evenings. Watch telly there with him. Ruby’s back at the weekends.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I let her lie in.’

‘The trial,’ he said. ‘We were told the middle of October.’

She nodded. ‘Ruby wants to go.’

‘We’re witnesses, Val and I.’

‘Oh God,’ she said.

He cleared his throat. The toddler wrenched away from his mother and careened into Andrew’s thigh. ‘Hello,’ said Andrew. The child was plump, red-faced, a blob of snot bubbling in one nostril. Andrew recalled the weight of Jason at that age: piggybacking him once his legs got tired, Jason’s hands wrapped around his neck, burbling in Andrew’s ear, his breath sweet and moist. Andrew’s back growing warm and damp where Jason clung to him.

‘Grandad.’ The toddler stopped wailing, stared at Andrew. God, Andrew thought, he’d never be that now. No children in his life. It wasn’t like he could borrow his nephew and niece or suddenly change the family dynamics to play a greater role in their lives.

‘Sorry.’ The mother prised the child away. ‘That’s not your grandad,’ she said to the toddler.

‘Someone asked me if I had any kids the other day, a patient,’ Andrew said, sorrow coursing deep and slow within him. ‘I didn’t know how to answer.’ Jason in his crocodile wellies and Batman suit in the garden, a compass in his hand. Turning slowly, then faster, spinning like the needle, spinning round the world.

Louise sucked in a breath.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ he said. They were harder – the glorious light and fine blue skies a savage counterpoint to the brooding, choking burden of grief.

‘We’re on to the weather now?’ Louise said wryly.

He laughed.

She checked her watch once more.

‘We could do this again,’ he said. His guts tightened.

She picked up her cigarettes.

‘Just coffee, talk,’ he said.

‘Why?’ She tilted her head. He saw himself reflected in her glasses. His hair was receding.

‘No one else understands,’ he said.

He watched her consider this. A couple sailed past, riding a tandem. Then a car, its windows down, the heavy bass of music pulsing through the air.

‘Just coffee,’ he said, trying to persuade her.

‘I preferred the pub,’ she said.

He grinned, nodded, ridiculously grateful.

‘I’ll ring you,’ she said. She hitched her bag on to her shoulder as she stood. She was soon lost from sight. Andrew sat there, reliving the conversation and feeling lighter, younger, more alive than he had for weeks.

Emma

It was the best time of her whole life. Even the annoying bits – the delay to the outbound flight, the shower conking out and the mosquito bites – didn’t really bother her. Or Little Kim and Laura arguing about where to go for cocktails or whether to meet up with the Geordie lads who had been flirting at the pool.

The week unspooled in the golden glow of chatter and preparation. Most of their time was spent getting ready: ready for the beach, ready for lunch, ready for a trip into town to hit the shops, ready for dinner and the nightclubs. Emma let the chatter, the gossip and plots, the jokes and anecdotes flow around her. She happily played the role of judge as one Kim or the other or Laura modelled options for what to wear or how to have their hair. She had brought a novel to read but barely opened it; even at the beach or lounging around the pool it was easier to close her eyes and listen to the others. Blonde Kim could talk for England; she even talked in her sleep, Little Kim said.

Emma’s playsuit was in mock denim. She felt a bit self-conscious, didn’t like the way her bum looked, but she got a couple of sarongs and used those like skirts tied over it to walk about in. The Kims assumed she wore it instead of a bikini because she was a bit overweight, so that was okay.