“No, sweet. You were in an accident five months ago, remember?”
Accident. Coma. Accident. Coma. That much was starting to sink in. “Five months ... I’ve been out of it for five months?”
It was Sophie’s turn to frown. “No, Jodi. The doctors told you this yesterday. You’ve been awake for weeks, walking and doing rehab. You just haven’t talked. We thought you’d forgotten how, we never—” She pressed a shaky hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
Jodi tugged her hand, forcing her to meet his gaze again. “Do what, Soph? What is it?”
“Jodi—”
“That’s enough for now,” the doctor cut in. She tucked her pen into her breast pocket. “Get some rest, Jodi. We’ll talk more tomorrow ...”
* * *
Jodi studied the grainy images Sophie was scrolling through on her phone. He remembered this about her—that she took terrible photographs. Shame he couldn’t recall the big bay windows and sleek oak furniture she claimed were his. “How long have we lived there?”
“We?”
“Sorry. I mean me. Where do you live again?”
“Primrose Hill. Your favourite place.” Sophie sounded sarcastic, and for the first time, Jodi understood why.
“I hate that place. It’s full of wannabe Britpop wankers.”
“I know.” Sophie smiled, but it faded a touch as she seemed to remember something.
Jodi reached hesitantly for her hand.Do we still do that?“What is it?”
“You were on your way to me when you had the accident.”
Accident. Coma. Accident. Coma. Three days of supervised conversations came back to Jodi all at once. He pictured the stolen Astra the doctors said had hit him. No one seemed to know what colour it was, but in Jodi’s mind it was the same horrible burgundy as the ageing Vauxhall Nova he’d bought himself a week after passing his driving test. “Where was I coming from, if you live in Twatrose Hill?”
“Tottenham, hon. You were twenty feet from your own front door ...”
* * *
Jodi’s head hurt so much he couldn’t breathe. The room twisted to a blinding white light, and he slid from the bed, bracing himself to hit the hard floor. But strong hands pulled him up and instead of cold linoleum, he found himself lying on his bed, curled on his side, a pillow under his head and a soft blanket over him.
A warm hand closed around his. “Hang in there. The doctor’s coming.”
I don’t want a doctor, I want you.But as the pain in Jodi’s head amplified with every heartbeat, the comforting cloak of warmth faded, taking with it his ability to yearn for anything but oblivion. Something jostled his other hand. His skin began to burn, and a new voice startled him.
“The morphine’s in.”
“Jesus, don’t give him that.” The first voice lost its melodic softness. “It makes him sick.”
Too late. Jodi opened his mouth to agree with whoever seemed to be reading his mind, but instead of words came puke, lots of puke, and most of it went over the side of the bed and covered a pair of scruffy trainers. Then he lost the magic hand. He tried to reach out, but nothing happened. A sob caught in his throat, and the hand returned, this time on his forehead, doing something distracting with his hair—stroking, brushing—until the voice came again, and he forgot to wonder.
“I’ve got you, boyo. Rest your head, I’ve got you.”
Jodi obeyed without question, closing his eyes and letting darkness soothe what was left of the drilling tattoo in his brain, but as he drifted to sleep, one question lingered: what the fuck was a “boyo” ...?
* * *
“What do I need a social worker for? I’m not a kid.”
The mousy-faced woman’s gaze remained dull, as if she’d seen Jodi’s increasing frustration a thousand times over. “Social services don’t just care for children. We safeguard all vulnerable members of society.”
Vulnerable members of society? Jodi’s head spun. The woman had come to his bedside more than an hour ago, and he still had no idea what she actually wanted. He looked for Sophie, then remembered she wasn’t there. The doctors had sent her away so they could torture Jodi in peace, and then this woman—a social worker—had arrived, and for some reason this conversation felt different to any other he’d had in his dubious recent memory.
