James Hannah: The A to Z of You and Me

She takes the plate away and puts it on a trolley in the corridor.

‘I mean, I don’t mind washing all the dregs out if they just leave the mugs there, but I haven’t got time to go round doing a collection every twenty minutes. Have you filled in your lunch card yet?’

‘No. Will he do me some chicken soup? My mum always used to do me chicken soup when I was poorly.’

She smiles. It’s a sweet smile.

She understands, and leaves to make enquiries.

Stay lifted. Self-sufficient. I can do this thing.

What thing?

Look out the window. Look at the wall. Look at the bedsheets. Look at my arms.

God, look at them against the bedsheets. Like great big useless horses’ forelegs. What are they? A connecting piece between chest and hand. Between neck and hand. Between heart and hand. Well, what? They’re arms, aren’t they?

Look at them. The superhighway of the body. They’re history. A hopeless historical map, plotting clots and craters of short-lived attempts to spark me into being. They have evolved into someone else’s arms. An old man’s arms, not the arms of a forty-year-old. Purple and yellow, brown and bruised. Every vein is collapsed. Every entry point blocked off. Lumped-up fistula scars now useless, no way in any more. My insides are sealed off from the outside for ever.

They’re numb cold, my arms. Cold arms are the price to pay. I can’t keep them under the covers. They feel like they’re dead already.

Arms

I flick the syringe lightly with shaking fingertips, and the bubble unsticks itself from the plunger and creeps sullenly through the liquid towards the needle.

‘Come on, man, the little ones don’t matter.’

‘That’s not a little bubble though, is it?’

It settles up around by the needle, and I flick again. Flick harder.

‘Careful man, you’re losing the liquid out the top.’

‘I’m not injecting bubbles.’

‘It’s only a little one.’

‘Listen, man — fuck off. It’s up to me, yeah?’

Mal sits back, surprised. I never talk to him like this. I’m surprised myself.

I don’t like this.

Feels wrong. This is not me.

All I can think of is you. What if this goes wrong? What if — what if it changes me for ever? What if you find out? I’ll lose you.

No, no. All this is bullshit. This is exactly like I was before I took my first trip. I was scared there would be no way back. But there is a way back. And anyway, this is the first and last time.

Try anything once. Once only.

Sheila’s head eclipses the television screen a moment as she walks past. She’s doing her Closing Ceremony.

‘I’m just on my way, Ivo,’ she says. ‘Got to go home and see what that useless lump of a husband’s been up to overnight.’

‘You should … you should get him in here. Ask him to come here.’

‘What? Come in here and I can look after everyone at the same time? That’s not a bad idea, that. Save me coming and going every day, wouldn’t it? Now, how are you doing? You’re looking perkier than when I came in earlier. I want to see more of the same later, please. Do you need anything sorting out before I head off?’

I don’t want her to go. Don’t go, Sheila.

‘No.’

‘You’re comfortable, are you?’

I nod.

‘How are your arms and shoulders?’ She rests her olive-skinned hand on my arm, uninvited. I don’t mind. Everything everyone does to me now is uninvited, and it’s rarely so tender. ‘Are they a bit cold? Do you want me to get a blanket?’

I nod. ‘They are cold. They ache.’

‘It’s always a problem,’ she says, opening the bedside cabinet and beginning to rummage. ‘Because with most people it’s all these drips and taps and pipes, they have to keep their arms exposed for them. It’s always the same. Where are these spare blankets? Honestly, people must just come in and—’ She stands up and looks about.

I know what’s coming.

‘Oh, here,’ she says, reaching down into my bag. She’s got the crochet blanket.

No, no. Don’t ask.

‘Put this around your shoulders, that’ll keep you nice and warm, won’t it?’

No, don’t.

She casts the blanket about my shoulders, and your scent wafts up, perfectly preserved, and floods my senses.

I don’t want her to see, I don’t want her to see, but she’s looking up at my face, and she can see now there’s something wrong. My throat’s so tight. Hot, tight, tight, dry. That’s normally what passes for crying with me. It’s a dry throat. It’s not being able to breathe.

But this time, for once, gratifying tears begin to prickle.

‘Oh, lovey …’ she says, quietly.

She doesn’t make a fuss. She must be used to unexplained fluids leaking from patients.

How weird, tears. I trickle water for you.

Sheila sits on the side of the bed, takes up my hand and strokes the back of it.

‘Is there anything I can do, lovey?’ she says in the softest, gentlest voice.

My throat aches, hot. ‘Sorry, sorry. Stupid.’

‘Not at all.’

‘This blanket,’ I say. ‘Lot of memories.’

‘Really?’

‘My girlfriend made it for me.’

‘Oh. I wasn’t sure if you had a girlfriend or anything.’

‘Ex.’

‘Oh, I see.’

She doesn’t see, of course.

‘Mm.’ I sniff. ‘She crocheted it specially for me.’

‘No — she did all this? It’s lovely.’

‘I’ve been thinking about her a lot, lately. Been talking to her. In my mind.’

‘Special one, was she? It’s a shame, isn’t it? Sometimes.’

‘Anyway, you’d better go,’ I say.

‘No, no. There’s no hurry.’

‘No, I’m fine. And husbands don’t just look after themselves, do they?’

‘No, you’re right there. Well, if you’re sure you’re OK? I’m happy to stay.’

‘No, no. Thanks.’

She rises from her perch on the side of the bed and places my hand down on the sheets.

‘I’ll be back tonight, all right? Press the button if you want Jackie. Don’t be shy, now.’

She gives me a regretful little smile and leaves me. I’m wrapped up to my neck in crochet, up to my neck in you.

I would give everything I have ever had and everything I will ever have just to put my arms around you, have you put your arms around me.

Our bodies simply fit, yours and mine.

That’s what I’m going to think of now. That will see me off to sleep. Those arms of yours, wrapped tight, tight around me.

Back

I’M LYING FACE down, with my head sideways on your pillow. My senses are wide, wide open. I have never, ever experienced anything like this while sober. My hearing is absolutely clear, and the scents I am breathing in are blossoming and blooming in my brain. The clean, fresh smell of your hair from the pillow, the smell of the resin of the wood of your bedstead.

This is the first time I’ve had my shirt off with you, and the feel of the sheets on my skin is just so vital.

And now I am tracking your lips in my mind as they prickle down from the base of my neck, down past my shoulders, down, down my spine. And your fingertips too trace back and forth, outwards and back in, in the line of my ribs, delicate, delicate, your hair now hanging down, brushing softly from side to side on my skin, leaving a tingling trace in its wake.

You find your way down to the lowest of my ribs, and I suddenly flinch and tense, almost fling you from me.

‘No,’ I say. ‘That bit’s too ticklish.’