James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

Like through a drinking straw.

Sleep won’t come.

Lying across the pain.

Pain like a branch through my back.

Sharp twisted tree branch.

Tinkle trolley.

‘Hallo, lovey, it’s only me. It’s only Sheila.’

Tinkle tinkle.

There it goes. Hm.

Tinkle tinkle.

The people don’t speak to me now. Not Jef, not Jackie. Only Sheila.

Good good.

Speak stirs the chemicals, busy head.

Keeps me awake.

No more.

Good.

They’re good people.

Good people.

Angels.

Night now.

Shhh.

Shhh shhhh shhhut up.

‘Morning, lovey.’

Tinkle, tinkle.

Here comes trolley.

Drink, I can’t drink.

Good, go.

I like it when nothing happens.

What was I, what was I supposed to be—?

I?

‘Hallo, lovey. It’s only me. It’s Sheila.’

Sheila.

‘I’m just going to take your blanket, OK? Let me unhook it from your fingers here, so we can sort your bedding out, OK?’

Mm?

‘I’m just going to put it by your bedside, all right? It won’t be far away.’

No. I–

No — no, that’s not right.

I don’t feel right.

Cold.

Cold now.

X

WH—?

Familiar sound of the double doors slipping shut off down the corridor.

Doesn’t feel quite–

Who’d be walking down there now?

It just feels — wrong. Seems — against the routine. What’s—?

Ridiculous. Stop, stop.

Stop thinking.

I have it in my mind that Mal is approaching, wafting through the double doors, unchecked, unbalanced.

Ease off now.

That’s mad thinking.

Mini squeak of shoe rubber on glossy floor. Trapped and amplified by the shiny walls.

He is out there. That’s enough for me: these two things. Door slip, wrong time of day; squeaky shoe.

Who else could it be?

No.

Fix eyes shut.

Think of other things.

X. X-ray.

Xylophone. Ribs as a cartoon xylophone.

Xs for eyes.

X-chromosome.

‘All right, fella.’

Wh—?

Brain on.

Flicks on like a security light. There’s — was there movement over by the doorway?

Anything?

Is anybody over there?

My ears listen out, but I’m too asleep to open my eyes. I’m realizing I’m more asleep than I thought. Can’t — move.

There’s nothing there.

Same old night terrors.

Brain off.

‘Y’all right, are you?’

On.

Over by the doorway, at the foot of my bed, definitely.

The room remembers the sound.

Paintwork resonates.

‘Nice place you’ve got here. All mod cons.’

Grey matter now fully lit up and active.

Mal’s voice. Definitely Mal. Gravelier, but same tones. Same tune.

He’s there. He’s there in the doorway.

Alert now. Alive to the room.

I can’t — there’s nothing I can do.

Sickening twitch accelerating in my chest.

Push the button. I want to push the button. Find my hand. Find the button to push.

My hand reaches, grasps: nothing. Blanket wasteland.

‘I wanted to come and see you.’

Low voice. Anxious. Slight edge to it.

Silence. Shit, shit.

Air conditioning ceaseless, ceaseless breath.

Unseal my eyes. Painful light. There he sits. Simply sits. He’s just there.

Can’t see if it’s him, but it’s him, isn’t it? Everything tells me it’s him.

Shit. Shit, Sheila. You said he’d never get in.

Maroon jacket. Yellow lettering top pocket. NRG. Wh—?

Has he wh—? Is it Mal? I’m confused.

‘It’s Mal,’ he says. ‘It’s Malachy.’

‘M—?’ I mean Mal. I mean Mal, but my lips stick together.

‘That’s right. Don’t talk if you can’t talk.’

‘N — no.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t—’

‘Don’t what, fella? What— what are you saying? I can’t understand you.’

He leans over. Looms over.

‘S — s–’

He’s frowning down.

There’s a smell off him. Outside smell. Football pitches. No, like — football terraces. Makes no sense. Cold smell.

He leans in, dangerously in.

‘You what, fella?’

I push, push out at him, push him away.

He steps back, sizes me up.

He thinks I’m delirious.

I’m not delirious.

‘Stop,’ I say. I think I say it.

He’s stepped back.

‘All right — I’m not going to hurt you. Easy, man. Easy.’

He’s still frowning. Trying to work me out.

‘I’ve just come here to see you. I’ve just come to say hi.’

He lifts his hand and scratches through his hair — a familiar motion. A Mal move. Shows me he’s stressed. Anxious face.

He looks hesitant. Nervy.

He looks genuine.

Benign.

‘I just wanted to say hi,’ he says again.

The longer I look at him, the more I resurface. Relax. Relax a little. Reality.

He looks scared. Seems almost timid.

‘Do you mind if I sit?’ he asks. ‘Stay awhile?’

I close my eyes, it’s not my decision whether he stays or goes. In time I hear him choose. Tiny knock-scrape. Plastic exhalation. He’s sat himself in the visitors’ chair.

‘Fuck me, man, I’m not going to do you any harm. You didn’t think that, did you?’

I shake my head. Yes.

I open my eyes again, rest them on him.

He looks quickly away, out the window.

Perhaps he can’t take the vision of me, lying here, this mask strapped to my face.

That’s fine. I’ll look at him looking away.

‘I don’t know what to say in places like this,’ he says, still gazing out at the magnolia tree. The heart, the fluttering heart. Can he see it too? ‘I hate hospitals. I could talk about the weather.’

Pause a moment.

‘Inclement.’

He snorts to himself.

I’m going to say something. I need to try to say something.

But it won’t come.

‘Here,’ he says, standing and coming forward.

I can’t stop him–

He carefully pours a little water into the teacup on my table, and places it to my lips.

‘C’mon.’

He places his hand behind my head to lift it, but I can’t–

And he has tears in his eyes, I can see, close-up, he has tears.

‘Wait a minute,’ he says, setting my head gently back down. ‘I’ll just — here.’ He unwraps a clean sponge from my bedside table and dips it into the teacup.

‘Here we go, that’s better, isn’t it?’

Lips moistened. Better, yeah, better.

Try again now. Say: ‘Where you been?’

Clear my throat. Clear a little with the water.

‘I’ve been staying with Becca for a bit. Giving myself a bit of a head space, bit of brain space. She wanted to come and see you, Becca, but, y’know. Bit scared, I think. She hates hospitals. You know what it’s like. People hear the name St Leonard’s, and they think — they think a certain thing.’