Laura is rinsing rice from the inside of a saucepan when she hears a tap at the window. She turns, expecting it to be a delivery. Quinn is through in the bar discussing menus with Bill. They’re sampling some new desserts after that, which means Laura will be having a random selection of them for lunch. Neither Quinn nor Bill has much of a sweet tooth.
There’s no one there.
She drops the saucepan into the sink, dries her hand on a cloth. Goes out the back door into the yard, expecting to see a delivery van and someone in the back of it pulling out boxes. But there are no vans, and no boxes.
There’s only Mark, leaning against the wall next to the kitchen window. He’s smiling at her. His arms are crossed. But the way he moves, fidgets as he tries to get comfortable, sets alarm bells ringing in Laura’s head.
‘Hi,’ he says. He raises an arm in a sort of half wave, half salute, and the movement makes him stumble backwards. He’s flat against the wall now. His face is confused. He steps away and takes a step towards Laura. Instinctively, she steps back, rests a hand on the frame of the kitchen door. Then places one foot partly inside the building. Away from him.
She can see it in his eyes.
Even from the few feet that separate them, she can see that his pupils are the size of chocolate buttons. It’s only just gone two o’clock. She’d checked the time when Quinn had dumped the pots down at her washing-up station. She’d been surprised it was so early. They’d not done many lunches. But Mondays can be like that.
Mark is out of it.
He stumbles towards her, arms outstretched. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey – where you going? I need to talk to you . . .’
The words come out as intended, but his speech is drawn out. Slow. He is trying hard to enunciate every word. He’s trying hard to act like he’s not completely off his head on something. Laura feels sick. How could she have been so stupid, doing it with this fucking clown? He’s a loser. Hayley is welcome to him – once she moves on from Gaz, of course. She places her other foot inside. She bends down to unhook the door from the metal catch that keeps it open to give them air in the stifling kitchen.
‘Laura . . . wait,’ he says. ‘Don’t go. Please. I need to talk to you. Come back out, just for a minute.’ He takes another step, sways. He turns to the side until he spots another support. Sees a wheelie bin. Leans against it. A couple of boxes slide off the top of the bin and disappear down the back. Someone will need to climb in there later, stamp them flat. Something else that Bill will be asking her to do. He reckons he’s too old to climb into the bin. Too fat, more like.
‘Go away, Mark. Sleep it off or something.’
‘No, Laura . . . wait. Look . . .’ He takes his hand away, raises them both towards her in a gesture of acceptance. ‘I’m a dick. I know that. I got carried away. I was spending too much time at the shows—’
‘With Hayley . . .’
‘Yeah. No. No!’ he shakes his head violently. Falls back against the bin. ‘No. She was just there. I was with Gaz . . . he’s got this stuff . . .’ His voice trails off, and he looks confused. Turns to face the bin, turns back.
Laura’s almost had enough, but she needs to clarify something first, before she shuts the door in his face.
‘Hang on . . . so you weren’t with Hayley? You didn’t tell her anything? About . . . about us?’
Mark shakes his head again. ‘Of course not. Me not turning up . . . that was nothing to do with us. I told you. I was being a dick. I got a call from Gaz and I went to see him. I saw you at the bridge and I was embarrassed . . .’ He falls back against the bin again, and Laura notices how pale he looks. His eyes seem to have shrunk into his skull. He’s shaking too. His body seems to be jerking spasmodically.
‘Mark . . .’ She steps outside, walks towards him.
He slides down the side of the bin, lands in a heap. ‘Laura. I think there’s something wrong with me. I don’t feel right. My head . . . lights. Turn off the lights. Laura . . .’
Laura kneels down beside him. ‘Mark. Keep talking to me.’ She turns towards the window at the back of the public bar. It’s open just a fraction at the top. ‘Quinn!’ she shouts. ‘Bill . . . quick!’ But she can’t compete with the sound of the extractor fan that is whirring noisily nearby.
Mark slumps over to the side. The smell of vomit hits her before she realises that he is being sick. She lays a hand on his back. He is retching violently, his body shaking. The stuff that is coming out of him is bilious green.
‘That’s good . . . that’s good,’ she says. She knows that being sick is what is likely to save him. His body is rejecting it. Whatever it is. ‘Can you tell me what you’ve taken, Mark? I’m going to go and get help, but they’ll need to know.’
He’s in no state to protest. She pats him down, checks his pockets. Finds a small clear carrier bag. At first she thinks it’s empty, but when she unfurls it she can see there is a small beige capsule inside.
Mark swipes an arm at her. Tries to grab the bag. ‘It’s nothing. Just some herb thing. Don’t hand it in . . . please.’
She shoves the crumpled-up bag containing the capsule into her pocket just as Quinn and Bill appear at the kitchen door.
‘What’s going on?’ Bill says.
Quinn gives her a look and disappears inside. She knows he’s worked it out. One look at Mark on the ground, the stench of vomit. Of course he’s worked it out. Quinn’s a recovering addict. He despises drugs. She knows he’ll have some strong words for her later. She also knows that he’ll be on the phone for an ambulance right now.
Bill stays back, not quite sure what to do. He is the most squeamish man Laura has ever met. He is categorically unable to walk into the gents if someone’s been for a shit in there, never mind if someone’s puked up. More than once she’s found herself with a bit of a bonus in her pay packet after having to go in there with a bleach-filled mop bucket because Bill was more likely to add to the carpet of vomit than clean it up. It explained why he didn’t have kids. He was far too much of a clean freak for that.
‘Can you get me a glass of water, please?’ Laura says to him.
Mark has stopped being sick. Laura is sitting on the ground, Mark’s head on her lap. She’s watching his chest rise and fall, making sure he’s still breathing. Small croaks come out of his mouth now and then, but other than that he doesn’t speak. His eyes are closed.
Bill comes back with the water. ‘Is he OK?’ he says. He scurries across and hands her the glass. Laura doesn’t answer. She tips the glass at an angle and tries to let some touch Mark’s lips.
‘Come on, Mark,’ she says. She is talking loudly, saying his name a lot. It was part of the first-aid training she did at the karate club. Keep them with you. Try to engage. Talk slowly and clearly. Let them know that you’re there.
‘Take a drink for me, Mark.’
He opens his mouth and she trickles in some water. Some spills down the side of his face, and she wipes it away. She feels the change. As if his muscles have gone into spasm. His head jerks back against her leg.
‘Mark . . .’ She can hear the panic in her voice. She tries to move back, but his head has become heavy in her lap. ‘Mark . . .’
Bill crouches down. ‘What do I do?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ Laura is panicking now. Mark’s body is jerking. His eyes have opened slightly, but all she can see is white.
Quinn reappears at the kitchen door. ‘Ambulance is on—’ He begins to speak, then clocks what’s happening. He runs towards them, bends down and pulls Mark up. Laura pulls her legs out of the way, rolls herself back onto her knees.
‘Mark,’ Quinn says. ‘Mark, you’re OK, but you need to work with me here.’ He rolls Mark over, fighting with the jerks of his arms and legs. He manages to get him onto his side, and Laura sees something that looks like white foam dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. In the distance, she can hear a siren.
She’s vaguely aware of Bill, ushering away the crowd that has gathered at the entrance to the yard. ‘Go back inside,’ he says. ‘Give them some space.’
The ambulance pulls up in front of the pub. She sees the uniforms through the gap in the open door. The first one appears, with a black bag in hand.
‘What’s his name?’ the paramedic says.
‘His name’s Mark,’ Laura says. ‘He’s taken some of this.’ She hands the bag to the paramedic. Feels Quinn’s eyes on her. Looks away.
22nd July 2015
Dear Marie,
This is getting ridiculous now. I feel like I’m talking to myself. They tried to get me to start writing a journal at the start. But I couldn’t do anything back then. Not with all the fucking medication they pumped into me. I’ve kept some of the letters that I wrote to you. The ones I never sent. I keep them under my mattress, inside the plastic sheet. I wonder what they’d do if they found them? If they found all the stuff that I really wanted to say. When they come in to change the bedding, I have to shove them all inside my pants. It always reminds me of you and your hair. Did I ask about your hair? It’s still long, isn’t it? Still dark? I can’t imagine you with a different style, but then I suppose maybe you changed it for the latest fashion. I thought I would always recognise you, but maybe I won’t. Maybe I have to think of your face. Your lovely pointy chin. Those big brown eyes.
I wonder how you dress. Has that changed too? Everything has changed, I can feel it. Everything has changed for you, but nothing has changed for me. I am trapped inside the body I once had. I’m not sixteen any more. But what am I? A middle-aged man with no knowledge of the world outside. I don’t watch the news. It would only depress me. Those loons in the TV room watch cartoons all day. No one ever turns it over. No one stops them. They just don’t do it. And that’s the ones that are allowed out of their rooms. There are some people who’ve been here as long as me, and I’ve never seen them outside their rooms. I’ve walked past, seen them through the little window. Stared into the vacant eyes. They don’t scare me, though. There’s only one thing that scares me.
Never seeing you again.
I’m going to have to do something about that.
Lots of love,
Graeme x