Jonathan Lee - High Dive

‘The cause,’ Freya said.

‘You catch on quickly. They could use you in the SWP.’

‘That’s not what he’s from,’ Susie said, too eager. ‘He’s the LPYS. He edits Socialist Youth .’

He smiled. ‘All true,’ he said. ‘And what do you do, Freya?’

There was a pause — she didn’t know how to answer this — and all at once the girls and the boy looked at each other and laughed. It was a strange moment, more like a half-scene in a dumb nightmare than a real exchange. It left her feeling sick.

‘Sorry,’ the blond boy said. ‘Didn’t mean to embarrass you. But are you sure you couldn’t help us out a little?’

Why did she want to cry again? Susie was staring at the entrance to Amadeo’s.

‘I —’

‘Yes?’ The blond boy was touching her wrist. Gentle. The girls whispered to each other.

‘I’m not going to throw any stink bombs around the hotel.’

‘Of course.’

She had their attention now. It was the same as before. They were going to laugh again. ‘But there’s a back entrance, where the kitchen staff smoke. I–I could maybe let someone in, I guess, if it’s just for a joke.’

‘You legend,’ he said. ‘That would be excellent, really excellent.’ Her offer had stiffened their expressions.

‘One person. On the Friday. But only if I know exactly what —’

‘Chanting outside. A stink bomb inside. No damage done — you have my word, Freya. You’re doing your bit for free expression.’

Susie stepped forward and flung her arms around Freya — ‘I knew it, Frey-Hey. I knew’ — and in this moment Freya thought of the time she’d asked Susie’s little sister to name her ten favourite people. Six of them had been animals, two of them were her mum, and first place went to a plastic doll called Amanda Jane whose eyes were alarmingly large.

HOW THE HELL to get out of here? His contract only gave him six days sick pay a year. After that the cheques would stop coming. The unions had been bruised by Thatcher’s assaults. In hospitality a few broken ribs. He hoped she knew what she was doing. Hoped he’d have a chance politely to ask her. To say, ‘Hey, Maggie, how about helping our industry?’ But it was true, too, that a couple of years ago it was impossible to sack bone-idle staff. They used to wave their union cards and grin, speak without respect. He wanted his employees to think of him as a nice guy, but the moment they took advantage it stung him. Now he felt gravely betrayed by his own body. The head of bloodflow. The department of hearts. I fed you, didn’t I? I watered you? I did my bit to relieve your urges? There was that time I rubbed moisturiser stuff on your skin. Still you decided to go on strike.

Mr Marshall was leaning into the room, his head crowned by irrepressible grey curls, his face expressing the exact combination of compassion and apathy that made doctors so good at their jobs. His features were lengthy. His shoes had a frightening shine. A heart that would probably never fail him. A body that had probably been run for many years on death-repelling breakfast juices, improbable quantities of exotic fruit, the fine sea spray of expensive sailing boats gliding cleanly between private islands.

‘Is the sun in your eyes?’ Mr Marshall said. ‘I’ll get a nurse to get that sun out of your eyes.’ He stepped back into the corridor. ‘Monica!’ he said. ‘Sun out of his eyes!’ But Monica, whoever she was, didn’t come.

‘Actually,’ Moose said, ‘I like to see the trees.’

‘Trees,’ Mr Marshall repeated, frowning. He seemed to be wondering how a man of his abilities had failed to factor them in. ‘You still living up on the old what’s-the-name?’

‘Brighton Heights.’

Marshall frowned again.

‘That’s just what we call it. Because … well, there’s the hill, if you remember. And it’s an ironic thing, because it’s not that high really, it’s not like you’re up there with the gods looking down, though you do feel a bit separate to your surroundings. Also, when we were out in New York, Freya and I ended up visiting these sort of relatives who live in Brighton Heights in Staten Island, which has these grand old houses, and a lake that’s really a reservoir. It’s a long story.’

‘It sounds it,’ Mr Marshall said. ‘You’ve got to do what the young guy says, Moose.’

‘Dr Haswell?’

‘Haswell. Right …’ Haswell whose eyes had a hard athletic intent, cold as the mints Moose used to eat before a diving meet: sugar-packed and powerful, the tingle-fresh sense you’d burnt your tongue. ‘This is our show,’ Marshall was saying. ‘Chance to return a favour. No use getting down. Couple of days. Hope to keep you in this nice little room. I’ll never forget that party for my fourth.’

‘Fourth?’

‘Marriage,’ Mr Marshall said.

‘Oh. That was your fourth, was it? Our pleasure to host you, anyway. Maybe bear us in mind for future … celebrations.’

‘Thanks also for the voucher. Look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves. A heart requires care. No fags yes. No spirits yes. Cut down on those crisps and sweets you keep squirrelled about your person.’

‘Energy,’ Moose said. ‘I work long hours, like you.’ He objected to the word squirrelled.

‘Look after it, or one day it’ll be total blackout. Ticking time bomb is what people say. Tick tick. Tick.’ Mr Marshall sneezed. ‘It’s all nonsense, more or less, but however it helps to think of it.’ With an unpleasant lusty look he inspected the contents of his handkerchief. ‘Like I said, the only thing a heart really resembles, if you’ve actually held one, is a blood-soaked fist. Break too many knuckles and you can’t go on fighting, yes? And you want to keep fighting, don’t you? Fighting against the body’s immemorial attempts to make us all look and feel like shit.’ Briefly he barked with laughter. ‘Is that wife of yours still carrying on with an American chap?’

‘Ex.’

Marshall’s hand shot up to his ear. ‘She is then, is she?’

‘Carrying on with him in London now, I think. Or with someone else.’

‘God,’ Marshall said, running fingers through his hair. ‘Jesus.’ For about five seconds he looked fiercely upset. ‘You’re in pain?’ he said.

‘No. It’s actually fine.’

‘You’re sure? I can get them to up your intake.’

‘My heart.’

‘Yes?’

‘Ever since Viv went, I’ve tried to keep it away from attractive, feisty women. I’ve done it many favours. I’ve tried to preserve it.’ He allowed himself a gentle smile.

‘Well,’ Marshall said, ‘I wouldn’t say you’ve done it many favours. But best advice I ever heard? Marry someone mediocre. Medically what’s on your mind? I’m here to help.’ A quick glance at his watch.

‘I suppose … Well, I guess the only thing is that I’m still slightly nervous that this might happen again, or what this means for me, and so on … I haven’t had a chance to really discuss my — well, my condition fully with anyone, because obviously you guys are so busy and everything … So that’s part of the nerves, I suppose, though I’m definitely not complaining.’

The admission of nerves. The request for more attention. Moose could see straight away that he had made a double mistake. The truth was there in the shine of Mr Marshall’s eyes, little hoops of light that were interpretable as distaste. Wanting on a great scale — that’s what made people shameful. Nervous patients were the medical equivalent of needy hotel guests, probably? The light sleeper, the hot-water junkie, the badly asthmatic anti-allergen guy, the vegan woman who dislikes meat almost as much as people made of it.