‘Nothing.’ He held his hands up. ‘You can get them in tomorrow night.’ He winked and then returned dutifully to his desk.
And so the strange nightly ritual began: alternating hot chocolate purchases and snippets of conversation with Arnold had become a standing agenda item in Alice’s working day.
The night of the fire was no different. Although, for some reason, it seemed the sugar rush hadn’t done much to energize her. Alice had been working on the report since 10 p.m. but something wasn’t quite sitting right with the tone of it.She distinctly remembered closing her eyes in the hope that a quick power nap would be all that was needed to restart her brain. She drained the dregs of her hot chocolate and laid her head on the desk.
The authorities had later informed her that while she was sleeping, between two and three that morning, an air conditioning unit on the floor above had caught fire and ripped the top of the building to pieces.
‘You were lucky, Miss,’ the police officer said, after his fruitless attempts to gather as much information as he could from her for his report. Even though she was getting stronger physically, her recollections were still based on other people’s versions of events. A patchwork quilt of stories she’d been forced to adopt as her own.
If this life was lucky, she dreaded to think of the alternatives.
‘You have a very diligent receptionist. That man would have all but dragged you out himself if the fire rescue teams hadn’t arrived when they did. The poor guy was distraught.’
Arnold.
‘He saved your life, Miss Gunnersley.’ The second officer looked imploringly at her; his desperation for just a hint of emotion or response was blatant. She gave him nothing but a nod.
‘All right, well, we will send you the full report when we’ve written it up. If you do have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call.’
Apparently Arnold really had been a friend. In fact, he’d overnight turned out to be one of the most significant people in Alice’s life. He had saved her.
Now she wondered if it would have been better to have let the fire take all of her instead.
6
Alfie
‘Mr P, you know what time it is!’ Alfie heaved himself up and reached for his crutches.
The old man frowned. ‘Jesus, it’s worse than being on a Butlin’s holiday with the number of activities you all have planned. I’m not one of your bloody school kids, you know.’
In his old life, before the accident, Alfie had been a Sports Therapy and Physical Activity Educator at a high school in south London. Essentially he was your run-of-the-mill PE teacher, but apparently that was a shameful word to use – politics had firmly infiltrated the education system and titles soon became a reflection of self-worth and ego. Alfie didn’t care. He didn’t need prestige or glory; he simply loved every second of his job. In fact, one of the hardest things about being on the ward was how much he missed being surrounded by his pupils. Sure, he cursed them continuously every moment he spent with them, but he wouldn’t change them for the world.
‘One day your misery will be the death of you. Now, hurry up before they run out of chocolate brownies.’
Despite Mr Peterson’s complaining, Alfie noticed he’d already got his slippers on ready for their walk.
‘Hurry up! That’s rich coming from you. Don’t forget you’re the one without a leg, son. I move at lightning speed compared to you.’
‘Are you two ever nice to each other?’ Sharon’s voice cut across the squabbling.
‘Pipe down, Sharon,’ Mr Peterson quipped. ‘Or I won’t buy you that hot chocolate you’ve been moaning at me to get you for the past hour.’
The bickering never stopped. Alfie sometimes wondered if, without it, everyone would be forced to remember they were stuck in a hospital ward fighting their own pain without the comfort of their families around them.
‘You’re worse than my Ruby and she’s just turned six! You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ Jackie called out from across the ward, her words still slightly mumbled from the stroke. Jackie was the only resident on the ward who had children, and Alfie loved how even just the mention of her daughter would seem to momentarily ease some of her suffering. ‘But while you’re there, Alfie … I’d kill for a cinnamon bun.’
‘Jesus, it’s not a delivery service,’ Mr P muttered.
‘You know if you don’t ply them with sugar they’re even worse!’ Alfie smiled at his friend, who had hooked his arm through his. He was a stubborn, strong-willed man, but at ninety-two years old Mr Peterson’s physique was understandably frail.
Their regular walk to Costa was an excuse to get away from the ward and escape some of the cabin fever that tended to set in. Alfie knew he needed to keep practising his walking and Mr Peterson was a sucker for a hot chocolate, so it suited both parties perfectly.
‘I had an interesting chat with Mother A this morning.’ Alfie tried to sound casual, knowing any hint of gossip would hook his friend in immediately.
‘Oh, yeah?’ The old man’s eyes lit up.
‘Turns out I’m getting a new neighbour. A silent one.’
