The vaguely familiar voice cracks through my daze and I look up, startled. It is early, barely even light outside. I haven’t slept since I saw Lewis the night before. I’m in the corner shop, standing at the counter. The old lady with the scarred face and the limp who comes into the caff is looking at me strangely.
I—I don’t…I stutter as she places the carton of cigarettes in front of me. I haven’t…I used to, I mean. A long time ago. But I quit. Years ago.
The lady raises her eyebrows, pulls her lips into a half grimace, half smile.
Bad habit to get back into, love. Expensive one and all.
Yeah…I nod, confused. Yeah.
I’m an ex-smoker meself, y’know. That’s how I got these scars, see. She gestures to the puckered skin on her cheek. Fell asleep with a dart in me hand, woke up to the blinkin sofa on fire. She laughs good-naturedly. I quit after that. But I still fancy one, now and again. Once a smoker, always a smoker, eh? she says with a wink.
I stare at her. I didn’t know that.
What?
About your face. The scars. I’ve served you breakfast every day for years and I never knew what had happened.
The old lady looks taken aback. Well, no. We’ve never really chatted. It’s always so busy in there, isn’t it?
You’ve never spoken to me before.
She laughs again, more awkwardly this time. You’ve never spoken to me before, love. Never seemed keen to, in fact. I was just making conversation, that’s all. I didn’t mean to pry, if that’s what you mean. None of my business if you smoke or not.
She takes a step back and I rub at my temples. Sorry, no, I didn’t mean that…
Never mind, love, never mind. How’re Fionnoula and Ali doing anyways? Poor old Ali looked done in when I saw him last. I told him he should take it easy—
What?
Ali, the woman says irritably. Ali from the caff? I were just saying. He’s not been looking too well—
I don’t hear the rest of the sentence. I’ve already left the shop.
Ali is turning the sign on the door to Open when I get back to the caff. His face flushes with something like relief at the sight of me and he grips my shoulders in his hands, squeezes tight. I can barely look at him, shame washing over me. The old lady was right. Ali looks exhausted.
Fionnoula blanches when she sees me, but she doesn’t pry, just passes me the order pad, carries on as though I’ve never been away. I can feel her watching me for the rest of the day, but there is no interrogation, no recrimination, even though that is what I deserve.
At the end of my shift I head out to get some air, leave Fi and Ali to lock up. The sky has been low and pregnant with storms all day but I need to stretch, to move, to keep my brain busy. I can’t work out what Lewis meant, what he was trying to say. And I can’t figure out what matters, the past or here and now.
On my third lap of the common the rain begins, fat drops that hit the ground and then bounce back up, as though wanting another chance at life. I turn, make my way back to the caff. Fionnoula’s van is missing from its spot in the side street when I get there, but the lights are still on inside. Ali must have stayed late to prep for tomorrow; they can’t count on me to do that anymore.
The caff feels off-kilter as soon as I walk in, something in the air not tasting quite right. I move toward the kitchen and it is then that I hear the noise, a sound like a wounded animal. My heart thumps as I call out Ali’s name, hear it again and quicken my step, banging my hip on the counter, the kitchen door swinging behind me. A figure is heaped on the floor, bent almost double on his side. Ali. Ali, lying there on the ground, his face pale, contorted.
Jesus Christ.
I drop to my knees, take his hand in mine. It feels cold, clammy, the pulse in his wrist weak. Ali, I say. Ali, can you hear me, but no words come, just a groan. My hands shake as I punch the numbers into the phone. Ambulance, I hear myself plead. Please. Quickly. Send an ambulance.
It arrives within minutes, although it feels much longer, Ali’s grip in my palm growing weaker with every second that passes. Paramedics rush in, sirens and stretchers and words, language flying around, terms I don’t understand. Everything is happening so fast, a machine on his chest, an electric current into his heart, the sight of it, the noise making me cover my mouth with my hands to strangle a sob. Ali, Ali. Sweet, kind Ali.
A female paramedic with a rope of long blond hair asks me what my relationship is to the patient and I tell her he is my boss. She nods, says I’ve done the right thing in calling them, lifts him onto a stretcher and closes the back doors. Can’t I come with him? I ask, but nobody hears me.
The ambulance drives away screaming, as I stand trembling, watching the lights disappear into the night. It only occurs to me after they leave that I should have said, should have explained. He’s not my boss, he isn’t just my boss. He means so much to me.
Fionnoula doesn’t pick up her phone and so I scrawl her a note, leave it in the middle of the counter, run outside to flag down a cab. We pull up to the hospital and I shove a handful of notes into the driver’s hand, don’t bother to check if I’ve given him too much or not enough.
Inside it is chaos, or maybe it isn’t, maybe it feels like that in my head because I don’t know where Ali is, don’t know where to go or who to ask. Eventually I find my way to the information desk, try to explain to the woman sitting there. She looks at me sympathetically, nods, listens. But I can’t give you any information, she says. I’m so sorry. Not unless you’re family.
I walk away, pace up and down for a while then try again. You don’t understand, please. He’s important to me, I need to see him, need to know he’s okay. The woman exchanges a look with her colleague, who shakes his head but doesn’t meet my eye. I want to cry with frustration, want to reach across and push them out of the way, type his name into the computer myself, but then I hear a voice.
Jen!
Fionnoula is rushing down the corridor, her cheeks flushed, panic in her eyes. A nurse follows close behind, a concerned look on her face as Fionnoula grabs me in her arms, holds me tight to her chest.
Oh, Jen love. Thank god you’re here, thank god. They’re taking me to see him now, come, come—
The woman at the counter gets to her feet. I’m sorry, she is saying, I’m sorry but it’s family only. She’s not—
Fionnoula turns to her sharply. What the devil are you talking about. Of course she’s family! Of course she is.