That stuff! That’s what it’ll be, he decides. Thosebloody unasked-for powders that the doctor keeps foisting on him! Of course they’re the culprit – and not the pilchards he consumed six hours ago that went out of date before these flats were even built. Then, as he gets to his feet unsteadily and pulls up his pyjamas, Kenny remembers that he’s never actually eaten/drunk/whatever the hell you’re meant to do with the powders. So it can’t be that. As he washes his hands, then splashes cold water onto his pale and sweating face, he tries to figure out what to do.
It’ll be fine. He just needs to stay calm and it’ll subside eventually. Slowly, Kenny makes his way to his bedroom where he lies down on top of his ancient bedspread. He knows he should go through and clean the living room carpet, but he can’t face it right now. How will he do it anyway? Whenever he allows it – i.e. the carpet is crunchy underfoot – Carly runs around with his hoover. But he can’t hoover upthat.
A fresh wave of nausea sweeps through him. Should he call her now to tell her he’s sick? She’s always telling him to, if he needs anything. But Kenny’s default setting is to shun help/interference of any kind. Recently, she offered to do his laundry on a regular basis. Was this her way of saying there was something wrong with the trousers he’d been wearing for a full fortnight and which, admittedly, were splattered with salad cream and chicken soup?
No, he won’t phone, he decides. If he does she’ll come running and it’ll be all, ‘Oh, Dad! Can you really manage here on your own?’ Then she’ll be urging him to look at sheltered accommodation – a ground-floor flat, she’s mentioned that before, with an alarm bell and a warden(significantly, the only other place with wardens is prison). Or, worse, she’ll be on at him to move in with her and Frank.Thathasn’t been mentioned – yet. Just as well, as Kenny would rather saw off a hand than do that.
It occurs to him that maybe he should callsomeone, as now it’s not only the nausea but his breathing too. There’s Ian and Sandra, who he and Maggie used to meet for drinks, but they never call him now, and he can’t focus as he’s finding it hard to breathe.
This is scaring him. He wants to breathe normally – he knows it’s essential for life – but something seems to have gone wrong with his throat and chest. Terrified, and feeling horribly alone, Kenny lets out a faint moan as his entire abdomen seems to cramp. He manages to climb off the bed. From his trouser pocket he retrieves the fifteen-year-old mobile phone that he bought for £10 and which does him perfectly well – what’s the point of these stupid smartphones? People photographing their dinner and filming themselves doing silly dances?
He grips it, wondering who he could call. Carly’s away, he remembers now, and the doctor’s surgery won’t be open yet. He can’t think of a single friend he could call for help, apart from Myra next door, and she’s not a friend, she’s a neighbour, and even in this sorry state he doesn’t want her muscling into his life.
Kenny is shivering. He’s frugal with his heating but it’s not that. This coldness seems to be chilling the core of him – his heart and bones. With another groan, he dumps his phone on the bedside table, registering briefly on his 1980s digital clock that it’s 6.47 a.m. The sun is a ball of gold rising over the marina. The water is sparkling, as ifsprinkled with the tinsel strands Maggie always insisted on scattering all over their Christmas tree.
A nuisance, they were, getting everywhere. But Kenny isn’t thinking of Maggie or anyone else right now. And he’sfineon his own. He really is. He just needs some peace and quiet and for everything to be dark and very, very still, until he’s better.
So Kenny crawls into bed, beneath his thin faded bedspread, and prays for sleep.
Chapter Twenty-three
Carly
I left the curtain open last night so I could see the stars. And now, as the sun rises, the room is filled with golden light. I sit up and look out, pulling the fleecy blanket around my shoulders as I gather my thoughts.
Oliver. Dinah. And Suki, doing her utmost to jolly everyone along. As the events of last night slide into place, I slip out of bed and pull on a sweater over my pyjama top. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, going to all this effort and being met with ungratefulness and downright rudeness. Still best that I leave, I figure. The thought of a repeat performance tonight – with Dinah especially – is more than I can stomach. I’m not worried about shooting off without saying goodbye to her, or to Oliver. I can’t imagine either of them being exactly chirpy over their muesli, or minding that I’m leaving. But I won’t head off without thanking Suki.
At just gone seven I pull on my trainers, figuring that it’ll only take me a few minutes to pack and be ready toleave. There’s no sign that anyone else is up yet, and I don’t want to disturb them by moving around too much. So, carrying only my phone, thinking I might take some photos outside, I creep through the cabin and quietly open the front door and step out onto the deck.
The sight before me makes me gasp.
We have incredible sunsets at Sandybanks but I have never seen a sunrise like this. Dawn is streaking the sky with vivid orange and pink. Never mind that I’m not even properly dressed; there’s still no one around. I step down off the deck and tread lightly along the path that skirts the forest. It feels so good to be out, and alone. It’s more peaceful, even, than those early mornings in the library. Because here there are no traffic sounds, no rumble of the twice-hourly train. Just the cry of a bird and the breath of a light wind through the trees.
I pause briefly and send a quick message to Prish. She was all for me coming up here, saying the ‘change of scene’ would do me good.Trapped with bizarre group in the middle of nowhere,I type, with a gone-bonkers emoji.Send help!Then I stride onwards, feeling better already as I mentally rev myself up for my ‘sudden sciatica attack’ performance, back at the cabin.
Finally, about to turn back, I perch on a sawn-off tree trunk and check my phone. I’m not expecting a reply from Prish yet. Rather, I’m hoping that a message from Frank has miraculously appeared. But there’s nothing. I want to be with him now, to pour it all out – how I miss how we were together. So I start to type out a message.Hope all good. Hate to admit but you were right. Strange grouphere so I’m thinking of—I look up with a jolt, tapping ‘send’ accidentally. ‘Oh!’
‘Sorry,’ Oliver starts. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you …’
‘It’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘I just didn’t hear you there.’ So much for the peace of the morning.
He steps back as if keen not to encroach on my space any further. In a dark green jacket and jeans and a black beanie hat, he’s more sensibly dressed than I am for the crisp early morning. His boots look as if they’re designed for serious walking, and a small rucksack is slung over a shoulder. ‘I really didn’t mean to creep up on you like that,’ he adds.
‘Honestly, it’s okay.’ I jump up, glancing at my PJ bottoms. ‘Look at me, not even dressed!’
A smile crosses his mouth. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘I’m not actually.’ I shrug, feeling awkward now. ‘I came out to see the dawn. Woke up early, you know.’
He nods. ‘Me too. Thought I’d have a stroll before – well, before it all gets going in there.’
‘Right,’ I say, realising I should probably start to conjure up my terrible back pain right now, if it’s to be believable. But somehow I can’t bring myself to put on an act. Oliver slips his rucksack off his shoulder and unzips it, pulling out a metal flask.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy a coffee?’
‘Erm, I was just going to head back to the cabin. But actually, that sounds good—’
‘I only have one cup,’ he adds apologetically. ‘But I can pour you one, if you like?’
