‘Eh, no, I’ll be fine.’
‘You will not, you’re bleeding from a head wound and you’ll need a scan as well as those stitches.’
‘Trust me, I’m fine.’
I stood up, felt a bit woozy. Immediately slid back down the side of the ambulance.
‘Mr Dury, you’re in no condition to-’
‘Where did you get my name from?’
The paramedic handed me my wallet, said, ‘I’d be more careful around here, you know.’
‘Careful’s my middle name. Look, thanks for the patch-up, but I’m fine, really.’
He knelt down, prised open my eyelids and switched on a little torch, ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Two… just like Churchill.’
A frown, unimpressed. ‘The cut needs stitched, there’s no way round that. You leave it, you’ll have a nasty scar.’
‘Nasty I can live with. Just patch me up and let me get out your way. I’m sure you’ve more deserving cases to get to.’
He shook his head, reached in his bag again. ‘This is only a butterfly clip. It’ll close the wound, but like I say, it’ll scar.’
‘Go for it.’
The procedure didn’t take too long. Finished up with a bandage around my head.
Paramedic asked, ‘Can you stand?’
‘Yeah, no trouble.’
‘Then we’ll take you home.’
My legs felt rubber, but I got moving, said, ‘Just a minute — want to say thanks to the shopkeeper.’
A hand on my arm. ‘Mr Dury, send him a card. You’re going home, or to hospital.’
The road back to Hod’s boat seemed bumpy, but the codeine tabs took the edge off. Was feeling pretty raw after my second doing-over in the last twenty-four hours. Wondered if I would last the next. I knew Mac and Hod would have some sage advice for me too; just couldn’t wait to hear it.
Despite evidence to the contrary, I thought I’d had a lucky escape. Another five minutes under the cosh and I’d be taking my meals through a straw for the foreseeable. Then again, given my current diet, maybe I could manage that.
‘Is this the place?’ yelled the driver.
‘Yeah, right out front’s fine.’
The wheels came to a halt and then the back door slid open.
‘Careful now. You don’t want to be doing too much,’ said the paramedic.
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Well, let’s get you inside.’
‘Look, would you stop fussing? I can take it from here.’
Had the ‘some people’ stare sent my way. It wasn’t that I was ungrateful for the help, I just hate fussing. I thanked the paramedic again, went inside.
The boat seemed empty until Usual shot out from under the bunk. I’d grown used to him jumping up and down every time I walked through the door but he was going ballistic with excitement. I could have done with more pain relief but had to settle for a bottle of 100 Pipers.
I lay in the bunk slipping in and out of sleep. The usual dreams — or should that be nightmares — came. Moosey’s corpse appeared, then Debs on our wedding day.
I rose. My head hurt worse than any hangover but as I started to think about what Jonny had said outside the nick regarding Debs, my heart hurt even more.
Chapter 41
Was I dreaming? I didn’t think so; this had happened, surely. Were I asleep, it would be a nightmare…
Debs takes down the pictures of the little yellow hippos. She packs away the cuddly Barney toy, the Elmo from Sesame Street and the two-foot-long Doggie Daddy.
I don’t like to watch.
I don’t know what to say.
She seems so composed. There’s an ‘at work’ look about her. I feel it’s wrong. There should be some emotion, surely. But what do I know? I’m a man. This is women’s business.
There’re two boxes on the floor, one pink, one blue. ‘We’ll get one of each,’ she told me only a week ago in another of our jaunts to John Lewis. ‘You never know!’
Now she uses them to pack all this stuff away. She takes down the little blue dresses, the hand-knitted cardigans we seemed to get so many of. The news was such a joy to everyone.
‘Debs is carrying,’ Hod said. He bear-hugged me. ‘God, that’s smashing.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know… we’re made up.’
Of course we were made up. It took us ten years to get to this level. Ten years to get over the thing we would sooner never think about. We just never realised the two events — one so sad and one so happy — could be intertwined. How could they be?
I watch Debs fold more little clothes. The little booties look like Christmas tree decorations. One box is full. She puts the little empty picture frames on top of it, turns to me, says, ‘Can you take that down to the garage?’
I nod, lift up the box.
I want to speak now. I hear a voice prodding me: Say something to her, say something to her. This behaviour isn’t natural; she’s in shock.
But I say nothing.
I take the box away. In the doorway, I turn. She’s almost filled the second box; a little yellow bath, no bigger than our kitchen basin, is being filled up too.
I walk away.
In the garage I can’t bear to look at what I’ve carried down there. I shove it up against a stack of old tyres. It looks so out of place with the mower and power tools sitting nearby. I’ll take it to the charity shop, I tell myself. I want to go straight away, get the next box, fill the car. But I don’t. I stay in the garage. I stay in the garage and smoke a succession of cigarettes. Lighting each new one with the tip of the last. Only when the pack runs out do I go back inside.
The place is quiet. Eerily so.
The television is on low, Antiques Roadshow ’s familiar tune playing. I walk into the room, hoping to see Debs. But she’s not there.
I go through to the kitchen. It’s empty. The bedroom too.
I know the only place left is the spare room, but I don’t want to go back in there. She’ll have packed up the place. Stripped the walls and cupboards. It will be a different room now. It’s not that I want to remember it how it was, how we set it up. No, I want to forget that. I want to forget it all. Pretend it was never there in the first place.
But I can’t.
I hear Debs crying and I know I have to go to her.
I try to edge the door open but there’s something wrong. The door’s blocked.
‘Debs, what’s up, sweetheart?’ I push the door again, but it’s still blocked. ‘Debs, babes, I can’t get in…’ I push harder. In panic, I wonder what she’s done to herself.
The door gives way and I see her lying on the floor.
I rush to her side. She’s tipped out all the stuff from the boxes. All the stuff she so carefully packed.
‘Debs, what is it? What’s wrong?’ It’s a stupid thing to say, I know it. But what else can I say? There’s no instruction manual for this kind of thing.
