“You should take the car home,” he offers with his eyes closed. “Stuck here, it will only rack up parking charges. I’ll get a cab back when they discharge me.”
“Don’t be daft,” I hear myself say. “Text me. I’ll come and pick you up. It will probably be tomorrow sometime, assuming all goes well. I’m not due to be at work, so I’ll be free.”
It’s not like my social life in Sutton Common is jam packed.
He’s too weak to argue. As he’s wheeled away, I pat his muscly arm, which feels a bit inadequate. Then, surplus to requirement, I head down to the carpark.
“Gerald’s in hospital with appendicitis,” I inform Luke later, on the phone. “I diagnosed it and drove him to St Helier’s.”
I sound way too proud, as if I’ve simultaneously discovered the double helixandtopped the Formula 1 driver standings. Appendicitis is one of the most common surgical conditions afflicting young adults—even Gerald correctly interpreted his own symptoms. And I’m an intelligent thirty-year-old man; of course I’m capable of driving someone to hospital.
I pretend I’m phoning Luke to dilute the responsibility of being the only person aware of Gerald’s illness. Really, though, I feel so much better after sharing the contents of my head with someone, and I hate, hate,hatebeing home alone. Not in a the-floor-just-creaked-it-must-be-an-axe-murderer sort of way, although I have been known to walk around with a spatula down my trousers as a defensive weapon, just in case. More in a narrating-to-Siri-my-dinner-preparation way, to plug the empty spaces. And the flat absolutely does feel super empty without Gerald in it, even though he sneaks around the place like a malevolent, volatile ghost.
“Wow! He let you drive the Focus? I had to take my shoes off last time he gave me a lift so as not to dirty the footwell carpet.”
That sounds like Gerald. “Yeah, well. Who knows how long we’d have had to wait for an ambulance? The longer we left it, the sicker he’d have got; he already had significant guarding in his right iliac fossa, and his temperature was sky high. He’s in theatre right now.”
“It was very nice of you,” Luke observes. “To do all that. You didn’t need to, especially after falling out with each other.”
“I know.”
Briefly, I bask in the warm, smug glow of moral superiority. For sure, Gerald owes me one, though I’ll never cash it in. After all, I’m a fucking doctor. I’ve now been at the game long enough to understand that title comes with a side serving of responsibility, both inside and outside of work. If I hadn’t helped, I’d be sharing my bed tonight alongside my guilty conscience, busily inventing excuse speeches to a bunch of imaginary disapprovers. So mostly, I’ve done it for me, not Gerald.
“Send him my regards, when he’s out,” Luke says. “Are you going back to the hospital later this evening to check on him?”
“Um…” That pulls me up short. I wasn’t planning on it. “No, not unless he asks me to. Which I very much doubt he will.”
Three hours later, running out of ways to entertain myself, I’m marinating in self-pity. Seeing as Gerald isn’t here to frown at me, I’ve turned the volume of the telly up way higher than normal and still, the silence in the flat is loud. Social media algorithms are hellbent on showing me smiley Instagram stories of my friends and acquaintances clinking glasses in the hip, cute little bars littering practically every street in central London, but so, so absent in Sutton Common. And—this should be illegal—even though I let it ring for ages, my parents don’t pick up. I’m Googling the Alicante police hotline to report a double murderwhen, finally, my mum texts to say they’re at the cinema with their phones on silent. Stefan has his phone on silent like it’s a religion (Marcus must have stopped sulking), and Luke has already put up with me once tonight. Two calls on the bounce and he’ll start ghosting me too.
In despair, I flick through Grindr again. A bloke’s on the prowl a quarter mile away who’s not bad-looking, until I realise that he’s spent way too long experimenting with AI to generate the half decent image, as evidenced by his six fingers. To be fair, in some sexual spheres six fingers could be considered an asset, but I prefer my men one hundred percent natural. Which leaves me caught between wanking over porn (again), shite telly, and way too many intrusive thoughts.
Or… Gerald.
“Why are you here already?”
Gerald’s eyes flutter open as I set up camp at the side of his bed. From the line of his mouth and the way the expressive slugbrows knit together, he isn’t too thrilled.
No fucking idea, I almost retort. “Lamentably, it seems I’m a better person than advertised,” I say in a brisk tone.
Gerald sighs, long and heavy. “The real reason?”
“I was bored,” I admit. “I had no one to talk to. And the guy in the flat above is making a weird grinding noise, like they’re crunching up bones. It’s freaking me out. Anyhow, I brought you lots of those healthy breakfast biscuits the cupboards are crammed with, in case you feel hungry later, and some fruit. Opioid painkillers and lounging around in bed make people constipated, so these will help. And it’s packed with Vitamin C, too. And…”I desperately needed some company. “And I thought you might like some company.”
“It’s a rowing machine upstairs.”
“Oh.”
I look around. Two old boys sleeping and a third gawping at us with his edentulous mouth hanging open like someone seeing fire for the first time. “This ward’s very quiet, isn’t it?”
“Until you arrived, yes.”
I choose to ignore him. Not every barking dog needs silencing, and I’ve spent way too many hours on my own this evening with no one to talk to. I need to purge. “Much quieter than our urology ward. Especially for a Saturday night. Mind you, I spotted two more patients being wheeled in this direction when I arrived. I’m not sure when visiting hours finish, but no-one stopped me entering, and a man in the bay next to this has got loads, although maybe that’s because he looks sick as a dog, but I think if I keep my head down, then we’ll get away with it.”
Gerald’s reclined on the pillows and lying very still, possibly feigning an acute attack of drowsiness. “Did it all go well?” I enquire.
“Yeah.” He nods. “They said I can probably come home tomorrow. After three more doses of IV antibiotics.”
“That’s good. Try not to lose your cannula overnight then. Sometimes people forget it’s there, particularly after a dose of painkillers and shuffling around a bit too much. Or they catch it on the bedclothes when it’s in the back of the hand.”
