Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

Justin rolls his eyes. ‘He’s outside, Doris.’

‘Then for goodness’ sake stop just standing there looking at me and help him!’

He opens the door and Al sits slumped on the ground at the base of the steps. Wrapped around his sweaty head, Rambo style, is one of Doris’s tangerine headbands, his T-shirt is soaked with sweat, beads of perspiration run down his face, his legs are spandex-clad and crumpled underneath him, still in the same position as when he’d fallen.

Doris pushes by Justin aggressively, and charges towards Al. She falls to her knees. ‘Baby? Are you OK? Did you fall down the stairs?’

‘No,’ he says weakly, his chins resting on his chest.

‘No, you’re not OK or no, you didn’t fall down the stairs?’ she asks.

‘The first one,’ he says with exhaustion. ‘No, the second. Hold on, what was the first?’

She shouts at him now as though he is deaf. ‘The first was, are you OK? And the second was, did you fall down the stairs?’

‘No,’ he responds, rolling his head back to rest it against the wall.

‘To which one? Will I call an ambulance? Do you need a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘No what, baby? Come on, don’t go to sleep on me, don’t you dare go anywhere.’ She slaps his face. ‘You have to stay conscious.’

Justin leans against the door frame and folds his arms, watching the two. He knows his brother is fine, lack of fitness being his only problem. He goes to the kitchen for some water for Al.

‘My heart …’ Al is panicking when Justin returns. His hands are scraping at his chest and he’s gasping for air, stretching his head upwards and taking in gulps, like a goldfish reaching to the surface of the fish bowl for food.

‘Are you having a heart attack?’ Doris shrieks.

Justin sighs, ‘He’s not having a—’

‘Stop it, Al!’ Justin is interrupted by a screeching Doris. ‘Don’t you dare have a heart attack, do you hear me?’ She picks up a newspaper from the ground, starts hitting Al across the arm with each word. ‘Don’t. You. Dare. Even. Think . Of. Dying. Before. Me. Al. Hitchcock.’

‘Ow,’ he rubs his arm, ‘that hurts.’

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ Justin breaks it up. ‘Give me that paper, Doris.’

‘No!’

‘Where did you get it?’ He tries to grab it out of her hands but she dodges him each time.

‘It was just there, beside Al,’ she shrugs. ‘Paperboy delivered it.’

‘They don’t have paperboys around here,’ he explains.

‘Then I guess it’s Al’s.’

‘There’s a coffee to-go too,’ Al, finally getting his breath back, manages to say.

‘A coffee-to-WHAT?’ Doris screeches so loudly, a window from the neighbour’s flat upstairs is banged closed loudly. This does not deter Doris. ‘You bought a coffee?’ She begins spanking him again with the newspaper. ‘No wonder you’re dying!’

‘Hey,’ he crosses his arms over his body protectively, ‘it’s not mine. It was outside the door with the newspaper when I got here.’

‘It’s mine.’ Justin snatches the paper from Doris’s hands and the coffee to-go that is on the ground beside Al.

‘There’s no note attached.’ She narrows her eyes and looks from one brother to the other and back. ‘Trying to defend your brother is only going to kill him in the long run, you know.’

‘I might do it more often, then,’ he grumbles, shaking the newspaper and hoping for a note to fall out. He checks the coffee cup for a message. Nothing. Yet he’s sure it’s for him and whoever left it there can’t be long gone. He focuses then on the front page. Above the headline, in the corner of the page he notices the instruction, ‘P. 42.’

He can’t open it quick enough and battles with the oversized pages to get to the correct point. Finally he opens it up on the classified pages. He scans the advertisements and birthday greetings and is about to close the paper altogether and join Doris in blaming Al for feeding his caffeine habit, when he spots it.

‘Eternally grateful recipient wishes to thank Justin Hitchcock, donor and hero, for saving life. Thank you.’

He holds his head back and howls with laughter. Doris and Al look at him with surprise.

‘Al,’ Justin lowers himself to his knees before his brother, ‘I need you to help me now.’ His voice is urgent, the pitch going up and down with excitement. ‘Did you see anybody when you were jogging back to the house?’

‘No.’ Al’s head rolls tiredly from one side to the other. ‘I can’t think.’

‘Think.’ Doris slaps his face lightly.

‘That’s not entirely necessary, Doris.’

‘They do it in the movies when they’re looking for information. Go on, tell him, baby.’ She nudges him a little more lightly.

‘I don’t know,’ Al whinges.

‘You make me sick,’ she growls in his ear.

‘Honestly, Doris, that’s really not helping.’

‘Fine,’ she folds her arms, ‘but it works for Horatio.’

‘By the time I got to the house, I couldn’t breathe, let alone see. I don’t remember anyone. Sorry, bro. Man, I was so scared. All of these black dots were in front of my eyes and I just couldn’t see any more, I was getting so dizzy and—’

‘OK,’ Justin leaps to his feet and runs up the stairs to the front yard. He runs to the drive entrance and looks up and down the street. It’s busier now; at seven thirty there is more life as people leave their homes to head for work and the traffic noise level has picked up.

‘THANK YOU!’ Justin shouts at the top of his lungs, his voice breaking through the quiet. A few people turn around to look at him but most keep their heads down as a light drizzle of October London rain begins to fall while another man loses his mind on a Monday morning in the city.

‘I CAN’T WAIT TO READ THIS!’ He waves the newspaper around in the air, shouting up the road and down so that he can be heard from all angles.

What do you say to someone whose life you saved? Say something deep. Say something funny. Say something philosophical .

‘I’M GLAD YOU’RE ALIVE!’ he shouts.

‘Eh, thanks.’ A woman scurries past him with her head down.

‘EM, I WON’T BE HERE TOMORROW!’ Pause. ‘IN CASE YOU’RE PLANNING ON DOING THIS AGAIN.’ He lifts the coffee into the air and waves it around, sending droplets to jump from the small drinking hole and burn his hand. Still hot. Whoever it was, they weren’t here that long ago.

‘EM. GETTING THE FIRST FLIGHT TO DUBLIN TOMORROW MORNING. ARE YOU FROM THERE?’ he shouts to the wind. The breeze sends more crispy autumn leaves parachuting from their branches to the ground, where they land running, make a tapping sound, and scrape along the ground until it’s safe to stop.

‘ANYWAY, THANKS AGAIN.’ He waves the paper in the air and turns to face the house.

Doris and Al are standing at the top of the stairs, their arms folded, their faces a picture of concern. Al has caught his breath and composed himself but is leaning against the iron railings for support.

Justin tucks the newspaper under his arm, straightens himself up and tries to appear as respectable as possible. He puts his hand in his pocket and strolls back towards the house. Feeling a piece of paper in his hand, he retrieves it and reads it quickly before crumpling it in his hand and tossing it into the skip. He has saved a person’s life just as he thought; he must focus on the most important matter at hand. He makes his way to the flat, trying to appear as dignified as possible.

From the bottom of the skip, beneath rolls of old tired smelly carpets, crushed tiles, paint tubs and plaster board, I lie in the discarded bath tub and listen as the voices recede and the door to the flat finally closes.