A & E is deserted. The twitchiness I felt in the back of the police car turns into full-blown panic.
Where is Joel?
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’
My hands and arms ache and tingle from the CPR. But the feeling of powerlessness is worse. I need to do more.
I bang on the screen window at reception but no one appears. I bang again, beyond caring whether I smash the glass. At least that’d attract attention. The policewoman gently pulls my arm away.
‘We don’t need you slashing yourself, on top of everything, do we? It’s quiet because this is the calm before the storm. Your friend was lucky to get here before the new year punch-ups start.’
Lucky.
She goes to look for someone in authority. There are a few pissheads in the waiting area, handing round cans of beer and laughing too loudly.
A & E has never scared me before. The opposite, actually: I’ve been here three times, thanks to various scrapes, and each time I’ve liked the buzz more.
I even mentioned my experiences as a patient at one of my med-school interviews. The first time was after I fell out of a tree in Tim’s garden – I’d ignored him when he told me not to climb too high. The agony after my shoulder hit the earth was all-consuming.
But when I came into the hospital and they took me beyond those swishy double doors, a young woman – the most junior of junior doctors – took one look at me, laid her hands on me and warned me it would be excruciating for three seconds but then everything would be OK again.
I told the interview panel: She was right. It was like magic, the way she knew what to do. I want to be able to do that for people, too.
‘Kerry?’
I look up and Tim is walking towards Ant and me. The drunks stare at us, ready to kick off if we jump the queue. When Tim holds me, I remember how close we came to kissing, and I pull away.
‘They said we’re allowed to use the family room over here; it’s more private.’
And more claustrophobic: two rows of five chairs each, facing each other. I sit next to Ant, who has finally stopped jabbering about everything and nothing.
Tim sits down opposite us. ‘So, Joel has been taken to resus. He was stable in the ambulance. What Kerry and I did helped keep him alive, but now it’s up to the doctors.’
‘Has he woken up yet?’ Ant asks.
Tim and I exchange a look.
‘He probably won’t wake up for a while,’ Tim explains.
If at all.
‘I could talk to him, like they do in the films.’ Ant steps towards the door. ‘Anyone got a Walkman? He hates Westlife, so if I play “Flying Without Wings” or something, he’ll definitely wake up.’
Tim stands in his way. ‘He won’t, because he’s sedated so the doctors can do tests, work out what caused the problem with his heart.’
I want to say something to make Ant feel better but my mind is blank.
‘Your hands are shaking,’ Ant says.
I look down. He’s right. I grip my knees through the sequinned material of my dress, but still my hands tremble. Ant reaches across to hold them with his so mine can’t shake anymore.
‘Joel Greenaway? Where ARE you?’
The voice comes from the corridor. We head back out into the main waiting area, where Fat Matt is shrugging off a policeman.
‘Matt, we’re over here.’ Ant goes over to embrace his friend and the sound of their back-slapping reverberates. I see tears in Ant’s eyes, which he hastily wipes away, disguising the movement by running a hand through his hair. ‘Is Joel’s dad with you?’
Fat Matt shakes his head. I realize he’s not even fat anymore, just sturdy and muscular. I guess the nickname will stick forever, a lifelong reminder of a brief chubby phase in year 10. ‘The doctors took him straight in to see Joel.’
‘That’s good news, ain’t it?’ Ant says. ‘So how come you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘Not a ghost. A woman,’ Matt says. ‘Mr Greenaway was with a woman who was definitely not Mrs Greenaway. The copper had to bang on the door loads of times and eventually when Joel’s dad opened it, I could see her behind him. Not much older than us. In a dressing gown!’
Ant tuts loudly. ‘Enough, OK? You don’t mention this to anyone, especially Joel. Hear me?’
Matt looks pissed off not to have had the chance to tell the full story. I tune out while Tim plays the grown-up again, explaining what’s what, and I am suddenly so tired I could lie down on the lino now and sleep for twenty-four hours.
But I won’t leave until I know if Joel has made it.
As A & E fills up, the volume increases too: shrieks of laughter, singing, sobbing. Two more of Joel’s mates have found their way to the hospital and we’re crammed into the smaller waiting room. One of the lads asks what I’m doing there, but Ant silences him with a warning look.
At two-ish, I try to call home from the payphone but there’s no answer. They’ll all still be at the Pier Players’ New Year Bash. My big sister, Marilyn, tried to persuade me to go – Come on, there’s costumes and everything – and the fact she thought dressing up might be a clincher just proves how little she knows me.
What if I had gone with them? I catch my breath and my palms tingle again. No one else would have known what to do . . . Except Tim, of course.
But he froze. It was me, or no one.
A nurse finally tells us there’s no point waiting, that Joel has a long night ahead and only family will be allowed in to see him. The others slope off, but Ant and Tim and I huddle under the porch outside, the cold like a slap in the face.
‘I don’t want to go home,’ I say. ‘Not when he’s here.’
Ant lights a cigarette. ‘You could come to my parents’ caff. They’ll still be up. They were catering for a big party tonight.’
‘My mum will be wanting me home,’ Tim says.
‘She’s got this disease called lupus,’ I add, before Ant starts calling him a mummy’s boy. ‘She needs a wheelchair sometimes and Tim looks after her because his dad’s not around.’
Ant shrugs and takes another drag on his cigarette. If he already knew, he doesn’t let on.
The doors to the hospital slide open and a man stumbles outside. It takes me a moment to realize why he’s so familiar. When Joel got signed to the Dolphins as an apprentice in year 10, they printed a picture of him with his parents in the Argus. All the girls in our class agreed Joel’s dad was cute for an old guy, that he’d passed on his looks to his son.
The man is Joel’s dad, except now he looks at least a hundred years old.
His hand reaches into his jeans pocket, but when he removes a packet of cigarettes, he just stares at them, as if he’s forgotten what they’re for.
The automatic doors begin to close again but then stop because Mr Greenaway is still in the way. It happens twice more before Ant walks towards him. He takes a cigarette from the packet, lights it, and hands it back.
‘Come with me, Graham,’ Ant says, and it’s weird to hear him use a first name for someone’s father. But Mr Greenaway does as he’s told and we stand there in a huddle, like the kids at the bike sheds at lunch break.
The cigarette burns down to its tip and Ant takes it, stubbing it out under his trainer. I see grass in the grooves of his sole from the earlier kickabout.
‘What if he doesn’t make it?’ Mr Greenaway says. ‘What if Lynette doesn’t get home in time?’
Ant frowns. ‘You’re not allowed to say that, Graham. None of us can give up on him. Not now. Not ever. These guys didn’t.’ He points at Tim and me.
Mr Greenaway looks up; I don’t think he’d noticed us before. A brief, automatic smile appears on his face and I see Joel in his features.
‘You’re friends of Joel’s?’ he asks, his voice hoarse.
‘These guys saved his life!’ Ant announces, and I wait for Tim to clarify what really happened.
‘We’re first-aid trained,’ Tim says to Joel’s dad. ‘We happened to be in the right place at the right time. And now he’s in the right hands.’ When I try to catch his eye, he stares into space. Does he even realize he’s lied by omission?
‘Joel’s a fighter, OK? Everything’s going to be fine,’ Ant says.
I want to speak up, because I don’t think it’s fair to give Mr Greenaway false hope. Joel might not be Joel anymore.
But instead I stay silent. Sometimes it’s kinder to let people work out the truth for themselves.