Ross Armstrong - The Girls Beneath

I probably should be curious about what it is, but that’s not really very me.

‘Dee. Dah dah dah dee dah, dah dah, dah dee…’

I stop the flow. I can barely see the driver in front of me through his tinted windscreen. But I squint to get a look at him in there and see his outline change. He taps the wheel, jittery, maybe coked up, which would account for the nerves. But I’m not going to create any extra trouble for myself. He glares at me, stiller now, as I hold my ground, letting him know I know there’s something up.

Then I wave him through. He shoots away hastily, as I snigger, enjoying my power to intimidate. Then I move to the side of the road, making sure I’m still visible to passing traffic.

Blue car. Red car. White car. Mini. Bus… Bus…

Oh!

I feel tired. Not just tired, faint. I shake my head. Somewhere I hear the bus stop but I don’t see anything. It’s darker now, all around me. I feel sick. I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I try to go to ground, layer by layer, as a tower block might be detonated or dismantled.

I feel like I’m going to vomit but I don’t want to in front of all these people. It’s a shame-based reflex. I try to hold it in. I try to hold it together. There are shouts behind me.

The sound of footsteps. Running. I just need to reach the floor and everything will be okay. But my ears are going crazy horse. A high-pitched squeamish noise. A fresh white blah blah blah. Like TV failure.

Nearly at the ground now. It all flashes. I swallow ocean breaths. I wonder whether I’m causing scenes. My hands reach for the tarmac black. That high pitched squeal blazes on.

The world looks like it’s under a slow strobe.

Then my back is against the kerb. Clouds forming, crowd forming. I know something is wrong for sure.

I pull out my phone and try and call the… or should I use my… what’s the number for the 999…

I stare at the phone. Not fainting yet. Holding on.

Its numbers are strange. Just lines. Like Greek, or Latin. Symbols I don’t understand. I comprehend nothing.

My head is wet with something. But I don’t know what. I see Levine running up to me. I’m not sure whose blood this is.

I shout to him to check everything is all right.

‘Take the hard road up.’

I don’t know why that comes out. It’s not what I intended.

I try again. As I crawl towards him, off the pavement and onto the road.

‘Perhaps the hard road’s impossible!’ I shout as I crawl and my hand drags past more wet.

‘Take the hard road up. Anything is possible!’ I shout.

It doesn’t feel like my voice. He’s nearly with me. I see the bus has emptied and its passengers are looking at it. And me.

It’s slow motion. It’s hard tarmac broken glass music video inner city incident news commercial heartache.

That high-pitched squeal sings on and on.

A song from a passing car radio strikes up.

‘We lived in this crooked old house

some cops came over to check it out

left on the step was a little baby boy

In a soft red quilt, with a rattle and a toy.’

My hands shake beneath me like an engine does before it stalls. A guy with a busted tooth shouts something.

Before my head falls, I notice the bus has two broken windows. One on each side.

They’re all on their phones. It’s a picture that blurs.

My ears still work though. Listening to the radio song.

‘You’re my little one

Say I didn’t love in vain

Please quit crying honey

Cos it sounds like a hurricane’

I wonder how those windows got broken.

That’s my last thought for now. Before I go.

It’s just one of those things.

Some days you meet the person you were always meant to be with.

Some days you get shot in the head.

4

‘‘Can’t get that, dah dee dah, dah dah, my head…’

‘Good. You’re awake. Looking good,’ says the voice.

Male. Warm. My thoughts run slowly like traffic jammed cars. His face comes into view.

I’m cold. I guess I should do something. Say something maybe. Missed it. The chance has come and gone.

We sit in silence for a while. Everything has changed.

‘Cold,’ I say, trying to get things moving, in my head.

‘Oh yes. It is a little chilly.’ He turns and nods to someone. He smiles. I lift my head to see who he’s looking at, but by the time I do they’re gone.

Where am I? A hospital. I guess.

‘How’s it all feeling?’ says the man.

‘Unsure,’ I say.

‘You’re unsure how you feel? Or you feel unsure?’

‘The second one.’

‘That’s understandable. Any pain?’

‘A little in the head.’

‘Also understandable, that’s just swelling in the cranium.’

‘What’s the… chrysanthemum?’

‘It’s a flower that blooms in Autumn, but that’s not important right now. Your mental lexicon is still recovering, which I’d expect. Say after me, cranium.’

‘Cramiun.’

‘Good. Your skull. Your head. We had to get in there a little.’

‘In there?’

‘Yes, we had to remove the bone flap. But we replaced it. Everything went reasonably well.’

‘Re… Re… Re… Re… Reasonably?’

‘Well… your sort of accident isn’t the sort of thing one always recovers from. But things are looking up.’

I’m putting it all together again. The bus. The shattered glass. The man running towards me. A man I know?

… Doreen? … Liam … Loreen?

‘I assume you haven’t been told what’s happened to you then?’

I assume I haven’t as well.

I drifted in and out. Of the light and the grey. I don’t know what was a dream and what was… whatever this is. I’ve seen many faces hover over me. I remember being moved, I think. One second I would be one place. The next, the ceiling would tell me something else.

I realise I have no concept of how long I’ve been here. It could be weeks. Months. Longer.

‘How long?’ I say.

‘How long what?’

I struggle with the structure of the question. I feel my eyes rolling around in my head. With each tiny movement, there’s a crack of pain somewhere deep inside my thinking organ.

My eyes begin to water as I strain to process the question, to hold onto my thoughts. I make some sounds from deep within me. I breathe deep, trying to speak, but I can’t. Instead. I cry.

My nose runs. Hot tears roll down my cheeks. Big old-fashioned sobs, despite myself. I don’t feel like crying. And yet, I am crying. Every breath shudders with effort between my lungs and my mouth. I feel like a puppet controlled by an inebriate puppeteer.

My hands scramble around for a tissue. There is one next to me but it takes me an age to drag it out from its cell.

He waits, watching. Patient.

‘Tom? You asked me… how long?’

‘How long… from then… till now?’

‘Today is Sunday, you sustained the injury on Friday.’

It seems impossible. If he’d said I’d been here a year, or two, I’d have believed him. My muscles feel brown and dappled. I grapple with the controls like a madman, a blind pilot. I must be older. Two days? They have to be lying. But to what end?

It’s then that I notice there is someone else in the room, to my left. My neck turns so my head can look at him. He looks back. His face is difficult to read. He looks apprehensive. I look away and he does the same. Then I look back at him and he looks me in the eye. He says nothing. Just analyses me. He must be some underling. He’s younger than the other man. Although I couldn’t say how old the man in front of me is. My brain isn’t giving me all the answers I need yet. His voice interrupts us as I go to look at the silent man for a third time.