James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

Are you all right?

Are—

‘I’m not—’

What is it?

Have you taken your insulin?

‘I don’t know—’

All right, stay there. I’m going to — I’d better call an ambulance.

Nah, nah. I’ll take him in the car. You don’t call an ambulance out for something like that.

Yes, you do.

Fine, well you call an ambulance, and in an hour and a half when they get here, tell them I’ve taken him to A&E.

Oh bloody hell, all right, let’s get him in your car.

I’m in the back of Mal’s car, and you’re in the passenger seat, and Mal’s driving. I’m trying to speak but the first words won’t come.

Your voice. Come on, think of something, Keep thinking, now. You and me up in the valley. You remember? Up on the top, with the grass washing all around us, the sky above, and the sky below. Are you with me?

I can’t think. I don’t want to think. Leave me alone.

I don’t know what sounds are coming out of my mouth.

I can hear you. I can still hear you. You’re not talking to me. You’re talking to Mal. Your voice in the whirl.

There, there: there’s the Hospital sign. Do you know where Accident and Emergency is?

Mumbles from Mal.

Your voice changes.

Are you all right? Mal?

I hear no response.

There’s a big sustained heave, and my head and shoulders feel funny. Funny heavy.

I’m awake, I’m aware, I’m aware of the orange lights sweeping past. I’m lying on the back seat, and I can see Mal’s towering silhouette, lurching and twitching around in his seat, and you’re on at him to stop.

Stop!

And then there’s a thump, and your voice and Mal’s are silent suddenly, like a sudden sweeping intake of oxygen, and the weight on my head and shoulders is immediately immense, and then gone, and in one snap I’m dumped down into the footwell and shoved, forced, hammered into the metal and the carpet and the cogs of the seat mechanism, I’m being crushed, and an immense and horrendous sound smashes all around us, of everything smashed and shattered.

Your hand. I’m holding your hand with my hand.

The ventilator breathes out, you breathe in; clicks; in, you breathe out.

I’m here for you. Can you feel me holding your hand?

I want you to feel me holding it. My palm to your palm. Fingertips on the back, by your wrist, our thumbs turned around each other. Can you feel the life coming into you through my palm? Good energy, good energy coming into your palm from my palm.

I want you to know what’s happening to you. You were in a car crash. You were hurt. You’re in the General Hospital. They’re keeping you asleep on purpose, because they want to see if your body can heal itself. Do you understand?

In; clicks; out.

But listen, it’s really important you listen to me.

They’re talking about turning off the machine. You need to get strong enough do this on your own.

So if you can just get a little bit better, just try to get on top of this — now’s the time. Now’s a really good time.

Your mum’s here, and your — your dad’s here too.

We all just want–

Baby, you can’t go, you can’t go.

Who’s going to buy me silly stocking fillers at Christmas?

I need you to look at my garden designs. For the course. I need you to approve them.

How could you leave me to do that?

Are you receiving me?

Can you feel my thumb stroking your knuckles? Can you feel my hand?

‘There we go,’ says Sheila as the burly young student nurse fastens the final buttons on my pyjama jacket, ‘a bit of cleanliness makes the world go round.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

‘No worries,’ says the nurse. ‘Thank you.’ He turns to Sheila. ‘What should I …?’

‘Take the water though to the washroom down the corridor on the right, and you can pour it away there.’

The nurse flicks me a look and a shy smile before leaving.

‘There we go,’ says Sheila. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘It’s fine. Hard work being a student.’

‘Lovely, now, I’d better go and check on the lunch orders and make sure—’

‘Sheila—’

‘Yes, lovey?’

‘Do you have the number for Kelv? The man I spoke to on the phone.’

‘Phone number? Yes, of course.’

‘Will you phone him? Tell him I want to speak to him.’

Her face lets slip no glimmer of opinion.

I’m grateful.

I— What’s that?

For a moment I could honestly feel the shape of your hand in mine. The softness of your skin. Are you back now, for me? Now that I am the one in the hospital bed? Are you holding my hand, like I once held yours?

I’m here.

I’m going to imagine you here.

I’m here.

My hand cradled in yours.

Your hand.

Your hand.

Your thumb tenderly strokes my knuckles.

I need you to tell me this is the right thing to do.

You know it’s the right thing.

The quietest of knocks, just enough to make the wood of my door resonate.

My dull brain sharpens once more to see what’s what.

‘Hello, mate, how are you doing?’

‘Hi, Kelvin.’

‘How are you doing today?’

‘Not great.’

‘No, no.’

There seems to be no hint of the bad feeling of our last phone call. Good. I’m glad of that. Life’s too short.

‘Sheila told me you wanted to see me.’

I beckon him in, gesture him over to the chair.

The door, which he left open is now fixed shut from outside, and I see the stipple of Sheila’s tunic as she drifts away beyond the slot window.

‘Well,’ says Kelvin, ‘it’s a nice old day out there. Nice and sunny. Not too windy. Perfect, really. I’d take you out again today if I could, but I think you wouldn’t thank me for that, would you?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe next time, then eh? If you concentrate on getting a little bit stronger, you and I can go out there and have a bit of an old roll around the gardens.’

His nervous jabbering slows to a halt. Of course, he wants to see why I’ve summoned him here.

And I’m not sure. I’m going to have to–

‘I wanted to make sure we’re OK.’

‘Of course we’re OK, mate, don’t be daft.’

‘You’re a good friend.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ he says, again, and looks away.

‘I want a favour.’

‘Oh, typical,’ he says. Forced amusement.

‘I can trust you.’

‘You can.’

‘I want you to make sure they’re all right. Laura. Mal’s mum and dad.’

‘Of course.’

‘When I’m gone. I want them to be OK.’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

This isn’t going in the direction I want it to. Be more direct.

‘My funeral.’

Kelvin sighs and sets himself to say something.

‘Listen,’ I say. ‘I didn’t want one. I hate fuss. But it’s — it’s for others. Other people.’

‘People will want to pay their respects.’

‘Yeah, well, I want it to be me. I want them to — to know me.’

‘Ah, mate,’ he says, ‘I’m really pleased to hear you say it. It’s definitely the right thing.’

‘So: music.’ I let go a wobbly sigh, look up at the ceiling. ‘“Closer” by Low.’