James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

‘So stupid,’ I say.

‘So why did Becca bring you back? I thought you were out with Mal and Laura?’

There’s a significant edge to your tone, and I feel you holding my glance a little too straight. You’re scanning, scanning.

‘Oh, yeah,’ I say with a wash of unfocused guilt. ‘No, Becca was there too. Mal and Laura and Becca.’

The events of last night are captured only as still images, swelling sounds. It remains aching in my limbs and squealing in my ears and my soul. Tired but alert. Remnants of trippiness in the head.

‘Are you all right?’ you ask. The fatal question.

‘Yep, yeah. I’m fine,’ I say.

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ I smile. Sort of.

Maybe if I vented everything, maybe it would all work out OK. I can actually feel the tip of my tongue tensing against the top of my mouth to say — to say what?

You’ve tipped your head to listen, eyebrows expectant.

Launch.

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I wanted to tell you …’

And straight away your face grows concerned. You look away, fearful.

Bad start, bad start. Start more gently.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing major, don’t worry. But it’s just — it’s something I want to feel that I can talk freely with you about.’

‘Drugs?’ you say, looking up at me swiftly and directly. ‘I’m not blind. Your pupils were like dinner plates.’

‘I’m sorry.’

You look at me a moment and reflect. ‘You don’t have to apologize to me, I’m not your mum,’ you say. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘Well, I don’t know — it’s not something you can easily talk about, you know? And then — I don’t know, I got scared because …’ again I hesitate.

‘Because what?’

‘Well, there’s your dad and all the stuff you went through with him. And then there’s the fact that you’re a nurse and everything.’ I quickly add this on at the end, because your face falls at the mention of your dad.

‘The fact that you can’t take your insulin properly,’ you say. ‘That’s what the nurse is unhappy about.’

‘Yeah, well.’

I’m relieved to see some of the anxiety has passed from your face. I think maybe you thought my big revelation was going to be about Becca after all.

‘Listen,’ you say, ‘I’m not a fun-killer, and I absolutely refuse to be the one who’s telling you what to do. Don’t paint me like that, Ivo, because we won’t survive that.’

‘I know.’

‘But you’ve got to look after yourself. You’re not like Mal and all the others — you’re just not. You’re not in your body, and you’re not in your mind either.’

As I sit there, the scale of all the lies expands around me. Lies to myself, I suppose. But now you’re here, and you care, they’ve become lies to you. Missing insulin jabs since I was twenty — maybe one a day, every day. And the drugs too — not just pills. Do I need to declare it all? What can I get away with? I feel like I want to tell you everything but — would that be poisoning it for no reason?

‘What’s the matter?’ you say.

‘It wasn’t only last night. There’s been a few nights. Quite a lot of nights.’

‘I don’t doubt.’ You shrug. ‘Do I want to know?’

‘On and off since — well, before you and I were together. On and off.’

‘And while we’ve been together?’

‘The odd weekend — you know when I was stuck at home and you were off on night shift or on placement.’

‘So, what, more pills?’

I breathe out unsteadily.

‘Pills. Some acid.’ I wince. I hear the clicks of the corners of my mouth. ‘A little bit of powder.’

‘Powder? Well, what, cocaine? Or—’

‘Cocaine, yes.’

‘Shit, Ivo. Cocaine ? I never thought it was anything like that.’

I sit meekly, while you frown and drill your eyes into the middle of the bed between us, trying to work it all out.

‘So, cocaine then,’ you say.

Oh, don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

‘That’s it? You’ve not done — anything else.’

It’s not a question. I can’t answer. It’s not a question.

‘Heroin?’ you say, and your shock tops out. ‘Jesus Ivo, I just don’t know who you are. Heroin? ’

You fling the covers off and start tearing clothes from your closet, wrenching on your jeans.

‘Mia,’ I say. ‘Mia, listen—’

‘I don’t want to hear it. You promised me you’d look after yourself, Ivo. You promised .’

‘Nothing’s changed. Nothing.’

You try to pull on a sock while standing, but stumble and have to sit down. The mattress bounds beneath me as you do.

‘I know you don’t want to hear me, Mia, but I’m the same man.’

You pull on your shoes, tugging at the tongue and aggressively driving in your heel.

‘I just — I get bored , all right?’ I say. ‘Bored and lonely. You’re the one who’s working all the hours.’

‘So, what — you’re saying it’s my fault?’

‘No, no, I’m not saying that—’

‘You want me to give up nursing and come and hold your hand, is that it?’

I close my eyes, stop now. Absorb all the tension in the room. No point, no point. I will not snap back.

‘But it’s so stupid ,’ you say. ‘You’re diabetic! What do you think you’re going to say when the doctors start asking you about your history?’

Silence.

‘What if you end up needing a kidney transplant one day? Because that’s what happens. They’ll put you at the bottom of every list. They probably won’t even bother putting you on the list. Jesus, who are you?’

‘I wanted you to know,’ I say. ‘I’ve done it like three times. Ever. And I’m not going to do it any more. It’s stopped.’

Well, there it is. There you have it: me.

All of me.

‘Are you going to say something?’ I say.

‘I don’t have anything to say,’ you say.

And you leave.

I pick up the gun and point it at the customer’s fertilizer, watch the red laser dance across the barcode. It beeps.

‘That’s £54.86 in total please,’ I say, the automatic words feeling good in my mouth. Trusty script. ‘If you’d like to put your card in the machine. And type in your PIN.’

The old guy squints down at the keypad, and thumbs in his number. It’s 1593. We wait, and I look across at Laura, Mal and Becca as they stand awkwardly nearby. I cannot believe I’ve had to get them to come in. I cannot believe I forgot to bring my insulin with me to work.

The printer blurts and chops out the receipts, and I pair them up with the card and hand them back to the old guy, who takes them and trundles his heavy trolley away.

‘You can’t work twenty-four hours a day,’ says Laura, stepping forward once more.

‘I’m not,’ I say, in a quiet voice. ‘I just want to keep busy. Keep occupied. Get paid.’ I can barely bring myself to speak at a normal volume these days. I slot the laser gun back into its holster.

‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘We’ve talked on the phone a couple of times.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She says she’s got her exams to get through and she doesn’t want to jeopardize them. She doesn’t want to see me.’

‘So do you reckon that’s it then?’

‘Sounds like it, doesn’t it?’ says Mal.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, miserably. ‘I’d say like ninety-nine point nine per cent certain.’

Another customer wanders up, and Laura, Mal and Becca step back once more, wave her through.