Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

‘Why do you think he does?’ I manage to ask.

‘Simple: one-upmanship. I’m a success, Robert’s a failure. ’Twas ever thus, as they say in corny BBC adaptations. Our mum gave him a hard time after our dad fucked off. Dad never really took to Robert, and Mum treated him like the bogeyman once Dad had gone. Whereas I could do no wrong; I was Golden Boy. Robert’s always wanted, secretly, to beat me. To prove he’s better. That’s how he does it: he seeks out the women who were, shall we say, reluctant to do the deed with me, and charms them or manipulates them until they’re gagging to do it with him.’

I stare at him, stunned and horrified by his arrogance. ‘You can’t honestly believe that,’ I say.

He smiles, and begins to cut downward from the waistband of my trousers. ‘If you’re not lying, if Juliet really did try to kill Robert, I’m afraid you don’t stand a chance. If he didn’t prefer her before, he will now. My little bro’s a masochist. He’s always had a pash for women who treat him like crud. Dear Mama’s legacy, I fear. The more she punished him, the more devoted he was. He cut her off eventually—manly pride and all. And he’s been looking for a replacement ever since, though I don’t think he realises it. I only know all this from reading my wife’s bubble-head magazines.’

I feel the scissors inside my underwear, smooth and cool against my skin. My mind goes blank and instinct takes over. With all my strength, I propel my body to the left, unbalancing the chair. It’s a matter of four or five seconds, no more. How can so few seconds contain so many distinct incidents? Your brother looks up as the chair and I fall towards him, as his wrist is bent back. He pulls his arm free and it jerks towards his body, almost as a reflex. As the chair crashes down on him, I see him staring at the open scissors in his hand. I feel the sickening thud as the chair hits his arm, pushing his hand towards his face.

He screams. Blood is spurting, splashing my face, but I can’t see where it comes from. The chair crashes down on Graham Angilley. Instead of being upright, I’m now on a slant, the slope of his prone, shaking body. I hear him wailing, groaning, but I cannot see his face, even when I turn my head as far as I can. I try to shout for help, but I’m panting too hard to make myself heard.

I couldn’t see blood before, but now I can. The red creeps across the blue checked linoleum. I take a deep breath and scream for help, drawing out the sound for as long as I can. At first it’s words, then it turns into pure howling, the high-pitched release of pain.

I hear a loud crash, feet pounding down the hall. I carry on screaming. I see Simon Waterhouse and a bald man behind him, and I carry on screaming. Because no one will ever help me properly, or enough. Not these men who’ve burst in, not Yvon, not Charlie, not anyone. I will never escape. That’s why I have to keep making this noise.

31

Monday, April 10

I WILL NOT go away. I will never leave you alone. I’m standing outside the door to the intensive care unit, and I sense your presence, like something heavy in the air. I could almost believe, if I didn’t know better, that the hushed, solemn atmosphere in the hospital today is on account of us. Staff, visitors and outpatients walk past me with their heads bowed.

I was here yesterday, but I couldn’t come and see you then. Simon Waterhouse insisted on staying with me the whole time. While the doctors checked me over, he waited outside the examination room. I think you’d approve of his patience and thoroughness; they’re two qualities you also have. He drove me home, once he’d satisfied himself that the experts thought I was fit to leave. There was nothing physically wrong with me, I kept telling him, apart from the pain in my legs and arms from being tied up.

Yesterday I was nowhere near the intensive care unit. Which is lucky. It makes today easier.

I type the code into the keypad, the one I have just watched a doctor use: CY1789. The trick that worked for your brother has worked for me as well. The door buzzes, and when I push it, it opens easily. I am on your ward. Straight away, I realise that physically getting into the unit is only part of the challenge. I now need to look as if I belong here, as if I take for granted my presence on this corridor. Graham must have done this too, must have been aware that to look as if he was sneaking around would have been fatal.

Holding my head high, I walk quickly and confidently past the nurses’ station towards your room, glad I had the presence of mind this morning to put on my only smart suit. I left my handbag at home; instead, I’m carrying a brown leather zipped case that I hope makes me look official. I smile at everybody I pass—a warm, busy smile that says, ‘I’m sure you all know who I am. I belong here; I’ve been before and will come again.’ And I will, Robert, whether you want me to or not. I won’t be able to keep away.

The wooden door to your room has a square window. When I came here with Charlie, the curtain was open, but it’s closed now. I reach for the door handle and walk into the room without looking around to see who’s watching me. Without hesitation.

Two young nurses are in your room. One is washing your face and neck with a sponge. Shit. Shock wipes the smile off my face. ‘Sorry,’ says the other nurse, who is putting some fluid in a bag attached to one of the machines. She has mistaken my fear for anger. I am older than her and expensively dressed; she assumes I’m senior hospital personnel.

Her colleague, the one with the sponge in her hand, is less deferential. She says, ‘Who are you?’

This is easier now that you’re in front of me. You’re a man in a bed, immobile. Your eyes are closed, your skin pale. I stare at your face and realise how separate we are. We could so easily be nothing to do with one another. Everything about you—your thoughts, feelings, the network of internal organs that keeps your body going—it’s all packed inside your skin.

For a moment it strikes me as odd that another person, sealed and self-contained as you are in your casing of flesh, has got under my skin to such an extent. If a surgeon cut you open, he would find all the different parts of you. If he cut me open, he’d find the same thing. You have almost replaced me, Robert, inside my own self. How did I allow that to happen?

‘This is Robert Haworth, is that right?’ I say, aiming to sound like someone who has every right not to be patient but is being patient nonetheless.

‘Yes. Are you from CID?’

‘Not quite,’ I say. I hold up my leather case, to suggest it contains important documents. ‘I’m the family liaison officer. I’m working with the police. Sergeant Zailer said it’d be okay to come and see Robert now.’ Thank God for Simon Waterhouse. He mentioned the possibility of engaging a family liaison officer to look after me, on the way back from the hospital yesterday. It’s a bit late for that, I felt like saying.

The nurses nod. ‘We’re finished anyway,’ one says.

‘Great.’ I flash her a busy, efficient smile. Neither of them questions why a family liaison officer would need to spend time with an unconscious man. The title I gave myself was enough for them. It sounded right, suggested procedures in place and guidelines diligently drawn up, clear aims and objectives. No need for the nurses to be on their guard.

Once they’re gone, I walk over to you and stroke your forehead, which is still damp from the sponge. Touching you now is an odd experience. Your skin is just skin, like mine, like anybody else’s. What makes you so special? I know your heart is still beating, but I’m more interested in what your brain is doing. That’s the bit of you that makes you different from other people.