Chapter Twenty-Seven
Billy
Luke held me hostage all day. He fed me soup and paracetamol and made me sleep. I tried to stay awake so I could sneak out when he finally gave in and dozed off too, but his military years gave him the edge, and I was out cold long before him.
It was early evening by the time he agreed to drive me back to the hospital. “He won’t be awake,” he said. “Mia told you already he was knocked out all afternoon.”
“I don’t care if he’s awake.”
“I know. I’m just worried about you. They said you needed to rest too.”
“I did rest.”
Luke said other words, but I tuned him out and counted the junctions before the turnoff to the hospital, so I’d be ready to jump the moment he pulled up outside.
He didn’t try and stop me. “Chestnut Ward,” he shouted after me. “At the back.”
I waved and jogged away. Inside, I followed the signs to the back of the hospital and the ward Gus had been moved to. I hadn’t seen him since they’d carried him away on a stretcher, and my heart was in my throat. Mia had promised me he was going to be fine, that he was fine beyond the aftereffects of what he’d been through, but I didn’t believe it. The short exposure I’d had to the leaky boiler had put me on my knees. I couldn’t imagine how Gus felt.
Or actually, I could. I’d done nothing but imagine it every second I’d been awake, and all I had for my trouble was a scratchy chest, and a weird headache I couldn’t quite shift.
I found the ward and signed in at the nurse station. The ward sister directed me to Gus’s bed. “He was asleep last time I checked on him, but you might get lucky.”
I’d got lucky the day I’d set a bomb under my life and wound up in Gus’s spare room. I thanked the nurse and hurried to the bed at the end of the ward.
I slipped past the curtain, bracing myself for the sight of Gus strung out on the bed, unconscious, asleep, whatever.
But he wasn’t asleep. He was sat on the edge of his bed, contemplating the floor, with tear stains marring his lovely face.
He didn’t look up as I approached him. Before I’d left the house, Mia had pressed a foil-wrapped omelette and a bottle of orange squash into my hands. I set them quietly on the bedside unit, dropped the bag of clothes I also brought on the floor, and unpeeled Gus’s hand from the mattress. It had a cannula taped into the back. Dried blood stained the tape, and I sucked in a breath noisy enough to rouse Gus from his daze.
His head jerked up. He blinked. “Billy?”
“It’s me.” I squeezed his fingers. “Are you okay? Cos not gonna lie, mate. You look like shit.”
Gus started to smile, but his bloodshot eyes were still wet.
I let go of his hand, pulled my sleeve over my fist, and caught his fresh tears as they fell. He let me, and it felt almost surreal. I never thought I’d ever see him cry, and he wasn’t exactly sobbing into his pillow, but his distress cut me to the bone.
His face was a wreck—cracked lips, red eyes, and the ugly bruise on his temple. I ran my fingers lightly over the bruise. He didn’t flinch, but his gaze seemed to sharpen, and he blinked again.
He caught my wandering hands and searched my face. “It’s really you, right? Not some messed-up dream?”
“It’s me. I’m here. I promise.”
His eyes filled again, and this time, I didn’t wait for the tears to fall. I wrapped him in my arms and held him as tight as I dared while he buried his face against my shoulder.
It was tempting to tell him everything was going to be okay. But I didn’t know that, about this or anything else. So I rubbed his back and kept my mouth shut. Maybe one day I’d tell him I loved him. Maybe even today, but not yet.
Gus grew still. His hitched breaths evened out, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. I didn’t mind. He was as heavy as he’d been when I’d dragged him from the death cottage, but at the same time, holding him like this made me feel as light as air.
He wasn’t asleep, though. Eventually he raised his head to look at me, and licked his dry lips. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. Everything?”
“Like what? You’ve never done anything bad to me. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
