It was fine. It was great. It had worked out. As always, he had wanted to stay back and watch, see it all unfold, get the buzz, enjoy the happy ending, but this time he couldn’t. He knew better than to take the risk. He had some sense, didn’t he? He was buzzing though.
And then it happened, on the way back, climbing over the high gate at the back of four houses down, onto the waste ground behind. He’d done gate climbs, and much harder, much higher, a hundred times and this wasn’t difficult and then his foot had caught and he hadn’t time to save himself, just gone hurtling over and landed badly, one leg under him, arm splayed out. The pain had been terrible and he’d yelled aloud, couldn’t stop himself. Then he’d blacked out.
First off, he didn’t know where he was or why or who was talking to him. They kept asking his name and he could smell the smoke, and the pain in his leg and ankle was worse. There was a lot of noise from nearby, voices, engines. Yellow and orange spurts and flares behind his eyes and in the sky.
Something was put over him.
‘He’s not going anywhere.’
He remembered then, but it was no good because he couldn’t move and because of the pain. He had to get away and he couldn’t get away, and after a long time and a lot of smoke, the voices again, and the faces looking down on him, asking his name.
‘Can you hear me, Barry? You’re in an ambulance, on the way to hospital.’
They had put something over his face so he couldn’t reply but they kept on asking and then, ‘Squeeze my hand if you can hear me, Barry.’
Squeeze.
‘Is your name Barry Grove? Squeeze my hand.’
Squeeze.
There was something wrong, he knew, something that should have happened. Or shouldn’t. Or was going to. Just that he didn’t know what. It was there in his mind, hovering about, but it wouldn’t come clear. Something was wrong. Something.
Her father went to bed straight after supper, leaving Cat to clear up while Sam and Kieron watched Chelsea versus Spurs, and, as neither of them supported either team, they could enjoy the match without tensions arising.
She was still getting over her surprise at Richard’s announcement, and as he had gone upstairs, Kieron had given her a thumbs up, with a grin. Her father had always been a man to make his own decisions, and to be brisk with those who tried to change his mind. But she would not dream of trying to do so. He would enjoy a totally different life in the new flats, might or might not make any friends, but in any case would be safe and not too far away if he needed any of them.
‘Everything’s working out then,’ Sam said, coming in to fetch a beer for Kieron and a cake for himself. ‘Except Grandpa doesn’t think I should be a porter.’
‘Has he said that?’
‘Yes. I think he feels it reflects on him.’
Cat snorted.
‘Thing is, nobody much remembers him now.’
‘Sam – do NOT tell him that.’
‘As if. Whoa, sorry, Kieron. It’s OK, I’ve got them.’
‘Update. The fire was in Mountfield Avenue. It was pretty certainly arson and they think they’ve got him.’
‘You don’t have to go, do you?’
‘No. They’ll brief me first thing. Come on, Sam – I have a hunch Spurs are going to walk this.’
‘Nah … luck, that last one, pure luck. Yours are all over the place.’
They had set up a rivalry where none had existed, which, for them, was probably the whole point of watching a match. Cat smiled to herself.
They had dosed him up but he was aware of being pushed along corridors, through swing doors, and then X-rayed, aware of the young doctor telling him his break was very bad and did he give his consent, would he sign the form, why had he said ‘None’ when asked for his address, and ‘Nobody’ for name of next of kin?
He said his name again. Nothing else. There was nothing else. Someone put a paper close to his arm and he signed it. He remembered the man wearing a green sheet and a mask rubbing something on his arm and then he remembered nothing.