Banjo
Family dinner night at Alena’s becomes a regular occurrence. Banjo doesn’t even know how. All he knows is that when Alena returns to work at the weekend, she’s bright smiles and coming tonight? After that, Banjo finds himself helping her parents set up the table and making them laugh over corny jokes. He sits close with Alena and rests their knees together. And it’s as though he’s always been there.
Jace is into science and physics: keeps her maths books neat and tidy, the numbers in little squares inside her jotters. Julie smells like cotton and her laughter is music. Carlos acts out his stories with his hands and is mostly one of the funniest people Banjo’s ever met.
They’re a family. Just that: a whole unit, a united thing.
Banjo doesn’t know that much about them. He doesn’t know where Julie works or what Jace’s favourite animal is. But he doesn’t need to. He already loves them.
That’s all it takes. Give Banjo a little and he’ll run the mile. Maybe they like him. Maybe they think he’s Alena’s mate that 188comes over now. But Banjo actually loves them, with his chest and his stomach and everything in between.
*
The café is doing Halloween. Morag decides to line the windows with cotton fluff. Banjo doesn’t know what it suggests. Cobwebs. Or dust. Something spooky. They buy a couple of pumpkins and carve them out to sit at the window. Banjo’s looks crap, to put it politely, but pumpkins are tougher than they seem. He near sprained his wrist trying to give it a smile. It turned into some demented grimace, but Banjo will claim until his dying day that was the whole idea.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Morag asks. It’s just them this chilly Saturday morning, November on the horizon and no customers in sight. Alena starts in an hour.
‘Whuh?’ Banjo looks up from rinsing the coffee filters.
‘What’s the plan?’ Morag repeats. ‘In life? What do you want to do? You finish high school next year, right?’
Banjo blinks, a little thrown. ‘Uh. No’ sure.’ He swallows. ‘Why, dae I need tae leave?’
Morag stops cleaning tables. ‘Sorry?’
Banjo coughs. ‘Will I need tae leave at some point?’
Morag just stares. ‘No, of course not. What made you think that?’
‘Jus’ cause yer askin’ whit I wannae dae.’ Banjo’s cheeks burn.
‘Yeah, because I didn’t think you’d want to do this forever.’ Morag puts her cloth down. ‘But you can if you want to. I might not always be here, but I’ll make sure your job is.’ 189
Banjo nods, throat tight with this new information. Forever is one way to put it. If Banjo had this forever, early morning shifts carving pumpkins and washing dishes with Alena, he’d never want anything else. That’s the sad fact of the matter.
‘So,’ Banjo starts, ‘see if I, like, move away or whut, I can still keep this job?’
He’s been wondering for a while. Whether or not Morag would want to find somebody else if Banjo had to uproot town, school, and life again. It might be a bit inconvenient to sort out hours and everything. Plus it would be the worst thing to ever happen.
‘Banjo, nobody’s firing you.’ Morag stares, hard and resolute. ‘Sorry if I in any way suggested that.’
‘Whut if I move tae Japan?’ Banjo asks the basin. It’s the most outlandish distance he can imagine. He’s saying it really just to test her. He needs a limit.
‘It would cost a fortune in transatlantic flights, but if you can get here every weekend I don’t see a problem.’
Banjo smiles.
‘Plus I think Alena would be pretty upset if you moved that far away,’ Morag adds.
Banjo’s glad his back is turned because he can feel his face erupt into flames. He hums, rough and throaty.
The rest of the morning passes quietly. Alena’s a bit late, which is unusual. Banjo can’t keep his head from lifting every time the door swings.
Then she’s really late. 190
Banjo catches Morag in the back room.
‘Is Alena off again?’ He tries and fails to sound casual.
Morag blinks. ‘She didn’t tell you?’
Banjo stares.
‘She’s in hospital,’ Morag says, as if it’s the most obvious thing ever.
‘Whut?’ Banjo’s holding a wet plate in two limp hands, feet glued to the floor.
‘It’s her Crohn’s. She texted me last night.’
Banjo can’t seem to say or do anything.
‘It’s fine,’ Morag tries. ‘She’s had a flare-up, but they’re treating her. I wouldn’t worry about it. I know it sounds serious, but she’ll be fine.’
She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. What kind of fuckery is that? She’s in hospital. The NHS don’t fuck about. She’s very clearly not fine.
‘Where?’ Banjo asks.
‘EK Community. Not far from here.’ Morag points. ‘Can’t miss it. Big building.’
Of course. Where they met.
Banjo thinks about throwing in the towel – throwing this bloody plate back into the sink, untying his apron, and sprinting away. But then he rethinks.
Would she want him there?
‘Right,’ Banjo says. His voice is flat.
He goes back to scrubbing like the regular Cinderella he is, but his head is somewhere else. He goes to pull his phone out 191to text Alena, hey, you okay? But she’s not told him. He’s not supposed to know.
She hasn’t mentioned the fact she’s in hospital, or that Saturday-night dinner is cancelled. Maybe she expects Morag to keep Banjo updated. Figures Banjo will hear it somewhere else.
The longer time wears on, the more the thought niggles at him: tightens his skin and crawls across his hands. His breathing comes out ragged before he just chucks the dish into the sink, half undoes the knot of his apron, declares it a lost cause, and runs out the back room.
‘Sorry, Morag.’ He gets his stuff underneath the counter, throwing on a jacket over his dirty work clothes. ‘Got tae go.’
‘Wh – Banjo, you’ve still got an hour left!’ Morag splutters.
Banjo doesn’t care. ‘Fire me, then.’
Morag’s still gaping like a fish. ‘You know I could!’ she shouts after him. ‘I can, Banjo!’
*
When Banjo tries to unlock his bike, the chain is frozen stiff. Impatience squirms underneath his skin, making his fingers jerky and fucking useless. None of the dials will turn, they’re all stuck, so Banjo stands there for a good year fiddling about with it.
‘Awk, will ye jus’ fuck me, then!’ He shoves his bike so hard it clatters against the metal railing.
Banjo exhales in a sharp puff, scrubs a hand over his head, and starts running.
It’s not as if there’s any great hurry. But Morag’s in the café all by herself. The sooner Banjo sees Alena is all right, the 192sooner he can get back. He grits his teeth against his muscles pulled tight after washing dishes and wearing his feet down to the bone.
It really is just across the road. Banjo’s not been running long, so it only takes minutes before he sprints through the automatic doors.
Yeah. This is where he made a mistake. He’s got absolutely no clue where Alena is. Clever plan. Storm a hospital expecting answers. Jesus, he’s panting like he’s in some critical state. Some of the nurses give him the side-eye. Banjo wipes his forehead and goes over to the main desk.
‘Eh,’ is how he starts.
The receptionist glances up.
‘Do ye know, like, if,’ Banjo fumbles, ‘if someone had Crohn’s – is it Crohn’s disease, yeah?’
The woman blinks. ‘Is what Crohn’s, sorry?’
‘Is that how it’s said?’ he asks.
It just seems to confuse her more.
‘Are you visiting someone?’
‘Where’s Crohn’s disease at?’ He waves his hands to all the signs pointing in twenty different directions.
‘Gastroenterology is Ward Eleven—’ She looks as if she wants to say something else, but Banjo just nods, pumps some hand sanitiser, and bolts.
‘You’ll need to sign in!’ she calls after him.
Ward Eleven is up two flights of stairs. Banjo’s halfway through the first before he thinks about packing it in. 193
By the time he does get up, it’s another walk down a corridor. He ducks into corners when nurses and doctors pass, terrified he’ll get chucked out.
What if she’s with her family?
What is she’s sleeping?
What if she just doesn’t want to see you?
He’s made it this far, though.
The rooms have little windows. Banjo tries not to stare too creepily at the other patients. He doesn’t know how he’d feel about some redhead apparition by his window.
Then he glances into a room with a girl reading a book and does a double take.
She’s got a cannula in the crook of her elbow. Her hair is pulled up, and she’s wearing a baggy jumper and pyjama bottoms. She looks comfortable.
But she also looks tired, dark circles underneath her eyes.
Banjo’s feet stop.
He stands outside her door and breathes hard.
He’ll have to do something before the nurses drag him away for stalkerish activity. Banjo knocks on the door.
Before nerves get the chance to clamp around his balls, he opens it.
Alena glances up. Her mouth drops. ‘Banjo?’
Banjo’s been running for a solid ten minutes. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead, face – both smacked by the wind and cooked in a makeshift sauna all day – a lost cause altogether. His jacket’s open, displaying his dirty apron and work shirt. 194
He grips the door handle. ‘Hi.’
‘What.’ Alena is dumbstruck. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Jus’ ran,’ Banjo puffs.
Alena stares. ‘You mean. You ran through this whole hospital looking for me?’
Banjo licks his dry lips. ‘Yeah.’ He exhales.
Alena is silent before she laughs. ‘Why?’
Banjo twiddles his feet. ‘Morag told me ye were here.’ He clears his throat and glances off to the side.
‘I just didn’t want you to worry.’ Alena’s voice is light.
Banjo blinks. ‘Worry? Course I’d fucken worry! Ye didnae turn up tae work and it’s dinner night!’
When Banjo doesn’t want to be angry, he can never quite seem to keep his fists to himself. So the one time – the one time – he actually wants to be angry, he sounds like a wee boy about to burst into tears.
Alena’s eyes widen. She scrambles for her phone. ‘Shit.’ Everything about her expression changes. ‘I forgot it was Saturday, Banjo, I’m sorry—’
‘But ye told Morag?’ Banjo retorts. Jesus, why does he sound like a jealous boyfriend?
Alena doesn’t look at him, picking at her frayed pyjama bottoms. ‘I’m meant to get out tomorrow,’ she eventually admits. ‘I thought I’d see you and it would be fine. I always feel like an attention-seeker when I tell people I’m in hospital.’ She smiles tightly.
‘Ena, it’s no’ seekin’ anythin’,’ Banjo replies, even though his throat feels thick. ‘Course I’d come.’ 195
Alena laughs a little and shakes her head.
‘Even if it’s every day, soon as Morag said—’
Banjo cuts off then. Hot blood rushes to his face. The sentence speaks for itself.
Alena smiles softly. ‘If it makes any difference, I only told Morag because I’m obligated to. She’s the only non-family member that knows.’
‘Whut’s this make me?’ Banjo spreads his arms. ‘Space alien?’
Alena laughs. It’s a real laugh this time.
Banjo smiles. He crosses his arms over his chest and straightens up. ‘Tell me when yer in here, aight.’ He raises his brows.
Alena watches him for a moment. Her eyes are warm, like she’s looking at him across the café, the dinner table, the kitchen sink. It makes Banjo’s chest constrict.
‘My parents are coming, so you don’t have to stay,’ Alena says all of a sudden.
Banjo blinks. ‘Aw. Right.’
Alena squeezes her eyes shut. ‘Wait, sorry, that sounded like I wanted you to go—’
‘Ye.’ Banjo pauses, foot turned on its side. ‘No?’
‘No! I just meant, don’t feel like you have to stay, if you were just coming to check—’
‘Ena,’ Banjo cuts her off. ‘I’ll stay.’
Alena looks at him. ‘Yeah.’ She nods. ‘Okay, good.’
Banjo nods back, and then takes the armchair by her bed. He looks at her IV drip: a little fluid bag hanging on the hook with a wire trailing into the crook of her elbow. 196
‘Whut’s this?’ he asks. He almost wants to flick it but figures that would look stupid.
Alena smiles. ‘Drugs.’
Banjo grins at her voice. ‘What kind?’
‘These are steroids.’ She tugs on it. ‘They stop the inflammation.’ She pats her stomach. ‘In me bowels.’
‘Right,’ Banjo says. ‘Why they inflamed?’
Alena lifts her shoulder. ‘Nobody knows.’
Banjo swallows, embarrassed. ‘Right.’ His cheeks sting. ‘Wus that, like, a stupit question—’
‘No, no.’ Alena reassures him. ‘That’s not what I meant. Crohn’s is an autoimmune disease: your immune system attacks your bowel because it thinks something is wrong. But nobody knows why it happens. There are lots of drugs that help, though.’ She beams as if it’s all sorted. Banjo realises now that she does that almost as a reflex. As though it lightens the mood.
‘No.’ Banjo looks at her carefully. ‘I mean, no’ if yer in hospital.’
‘Well,’ she starts. ‘I get immunosuppressants every eight weeks. I’d just finished an infusion when I met you. But they stop working after a while. Then you need steroids.’ She rattles her drip stand.
‘Why’d ye need the immune – stuff, if ye’ve got steroids?’ Banjo’s face scrunches up.
‘Steroids aren’t good for you. Temporary solution. Immunosuppressants, mm.’ She tilts her head side to side. ‘They’re better. They work for a while. I’ve been on a couple: 197Humira, Remicade. Sorry.’ Alena laughs when she sees Banjo’s face. ‘This is nonsense to you.’
‘Why’d they only work fur a bit?’ he asks.
‘Because you make antibodies for them,’ she states. ‘You become immune … to immunosuppressants.’
Banjo just sits back and tries to digest it all. ‘Well, shit.’
Alena huffs a little laugh.
‘I mean. Shit, Ena.’ Banjo leans forward. ‘There must be somethin’ else.’ He doesn’t believe this is it. This is all she’s got.
There’s a softness to her eyes. ‘They’ve been talking about surgery for a while. To take out the damaged parts of the bowel. But it’s not a cure. Just something to do when all else fails.’
Banjo looks at her. He feels this sadness well up inside him.
‘See, this is what I didn’t want to happen.’ Alena goes tight and humourless. ‘I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. Honestly, Banjo. I’m fine.’
‘I dinnae feel sorry for ye,’ Banjo replies. ‘Am fucken sad. It’s no’ fair.’
Alena looks down at her knees, but when she looks up, she smiles gently. ‘Thanks.’
Banjo tips his head in a gentlemanly manner. ‘Welcome.’
Alena laughs again. That’s three times now. Banjo’s not counting or anything.
‘Hiya! We – oh.’ Julie blinks in the scene, standing at the doorway. Behind her Carlos has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. 198
Banjo shoots to his feet, absurdly nervous despite the fact he’s on first-name basis with them.
‘Banjo’s just—’ Alena fumbles.
‘Popped in fur a bit.’ Banjo smiles. ‘Am headed now.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Julie tries.
‘Naw.’ Banjo waves her off. ‘I’ve got work.’ He looks at Alena with a smile.
Alena grins and holds her arms open. Banjo tries not to let his surprise show. They’ve never hugged.
The longer Banjo does nothing, the longer Alena waits.
After some hesitation, Banjo shuffles close and leans down.
He’s wrapped in the circle of Alena’s arms. She smells soft, clean, flowery, but her touch is gentle and warm. This sudden, crashing relief floods him, as though there’s been this constant buzzing in his ear, so constant Banjo never noticed it as it grated his nerves and raked nails down his skin. But now it’s gone. It feels as if every piece of him just fits right. He breathes and actually thinks he does it properly for the first time in his life.
When Alena’s arms fall away, Banjo realises he needs to stop. It’s over. He pats her back when he straightens, trying to play if off, hoping she didn’t feel the slight way Banjo’s arms tightened.
But Alena smiles at him. Banjo can’t help smiling as he steps away.
Once he’s at the door, though, Julie wraps him in a hug as well.
Banjo stiffens, frozen. 199
It’s just as warm and gentle. Banjo really doesn’t know what to do. People don’t hug him. He wants to enjoy Julie’s hug. Banjo thinks he wants to enjoy it so much he actually doesn’t.
Julie releases him, then Carlos pats his shoulder.
Banjo leaves in a trance. That might be the most he’s ever been touched.