Bad Friends

‘Yes.’

‘Feeling better?’

Better than what?

‘I’m not – I don’t know really.’

‘Vitals all fine, sir.’ The nurse peeled the band off my arm and popped something bleeping in my ear.

‘Good, good.’ He inspected my lip. ‘Nice job with the sutures. Bruising?’

‘All external, apparently.’ The nurse took the bleeping thing out.

‘It’s just –’ I cut in.

‘What?’ The doctor seemed impatient, ready to move on to the next bed. The one with the curtains right round it. Tight around it.

‘I can’t remember what happened. Why I’m here.’

The consultant shot the nurse a look. The nurse looked down at her sensible shoes.

‘Does anyone know that I’m here?’ I thought of Alex. I sat up in bed again. ‘I must let my boyfriend know.’

‘I’ll get the list.’ The nurse seemed grateful for an excuse to move down the ward. There was a sudden commotion from the bed next door, the bed that I couldn’t see. Someone was crying, racked with terrible sobs. The noise made my blood freeze.

‘I think I might like to get up,’ I began, but the consultant was already swishing through those curtains. I knew I couldn’t stay here, not next to that wall of sound, that ascending wail. I tried to collect my thoughts. I’d go and find a phone, ring Alex to come and fetch me. Gingerly I swung my legs down to the cold floor. A pain like a cold sharp blade shot up through my left foot but I tried to ignore it. I must escape those sobs.

I managed to limp as far as the first double-doors before I thought the pain might actually make me sick. The nice nurse caught up with me as I leaned on the wall in agony, sat me on a furry old chair by the door and held my hand, just for a minute. A middle-aged couple rushed through the doors, the frizzy-haired woman pressing a tissue to her mouth to stop the tears, followed by a younger man, beanie hat pulled down against the weather, all glittery with silver raindrops. He dropped his phone as he passed; it clattered to the ground near my feet.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, sweeping it up again. He saw the nurse. ‘We’re looking for my girlfriend? She was on the coach.’

‘Go to the desk.’ The nurse pointed back the way they’d come. ‘They’ve got the list.’

He rushed back through the doors without any more ado, the couple following behind. An old woman in the bed opposite started to groan. Oh God.

‘I need to ring my boyfriend,’ I whispered when I’d recovered enough to talk. ‘He’ll be so worried. I never stay out all night.’ Did I?

‘Go back to bed. I’ll bring you the phone.’ But then the nurse looked up the ward, at the other nurses flying back and forth between those pastel curtains and then at the crash-cart that came slamming through the doors, and she changed her mind. She wheeled the phone to me where I sat. And I tried very hard not to look at that bed, and concentrated on making the phone call.

It took me three attempts to remember my home number. First I got the voicemail for some curry-house in Dalston; then some very disgruntled old man whom I’d obviously just woken up.

‘Sorry.’ I thumped the receiver down again in frustration; glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was ridiculously early.

‘Eight-nine-eight,’ I muttered to myself. ‘Nine-eight-nine.’ For God’s sake! How could I not remember? I made a third attempt. Somehow, somewhere in the depths of last night’s accident, I’d wiped out my home number. I’d wiped out my home.

Of course, he didn’t answer. Alex hardly ever answered the phone, even at the best of times. Now it was so early he’d be asleep. Or – I steadied that thought to a shuddering halt. He was asleep. He slept so very deeply once he’d actually dropped off. I’d ring back in half an hour. He’d be getting up then; getting up for work, not knowing anything was wrong. Maybe a little concerned, of course, but –

I replaced the phone carefully on the stand and smoothed my hospital gown down over my knees. I really did feel rather peculiar. And I was freezing now.

When I finally went back to my bed, the next-door one was empty, the wail silenced. The small nurse stripping it wouldn’t catch my eye; her jaw was set grimly. I started to shiver, my teeth chattering in my head. The nice nurse came back with her list. She looked at me; she seemed a little worried.

‘I’ll bring you some sweet tea. The sugar’ll do you good. The police are here now. They’ll explain things to you.’

As she adjusted my pillow, I caught the typed heading on the paper. ‘SURVIVORS’, its bold black letters stated unequivocally. My bowels clenched in a strange involuntary movement. How could I be on a list? I made lists, that’s what I did, compiled lists of people, and attached those lists to a clipboard, clasped the clipboard protectively to my chest so that no one but me could consult it, and then checked people off that list. I ticked the names off as they arrived, fretted when they didn’t, shepherded them around the warren of corridors at the studios, and primed them on what to say down in the dressing-rooms. I couldn’t be on a list; I didn’t want to be on a list. I wanted to get the hell off the list and out of here. I wanted Alex to come and get me the hell out of here.

On my fourth try, Alex answered.

‘Thank God.’ I started to cry with relief. Once I started, I found I couldn’t stop.

‘What?’

‘Thank God you’re there.’

He was groggy, uncommunicative. He was always terrible in the morning. ‘Why are you crying?’

‘Sorry.’ I breathed deeply to quieten my sobs. ‘I’m okay, don’t worry.’ I stifled another sob. ‘Can you come and get me?’

‘What time is it?’

He was probably hung over.

‘I don’t know. It’s early. I’m in the hospital.’

Probably hung over? There was no probably about it. There never was these days.

‘Come and get me, Alex, please.’

‘Are you fucking joking?’

My brain couldn’t compute this. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘Why should I come and get you?’

‘Because I’ve – there’s been an accident.’

‘Oh really?’

I stopped crying. The shock stopped me crying. For some reason he thought I was lying.

‘Alex,’ I whispered.

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you being like this? I – I need you. I’m in the hospital.’

There was a pause. I could feel him struggling with something. ‘Yeah, well.’ His voice had thickened. I heard him take a deep breath in. ‘Bad luck, Maggie.’

There was a click. My boyfriend had apparently hung up.