‘Let’s get the music off as well,’ I suggested, fiddling with the speaker, failing to find the off button and shoving it into a drawer instead, Enya’s dulcet tones warbling from within. ‘And you’re sure about this, Mr— Derek? If you’re really in pain you should see a doctor. Massage is more complicated than people realise, if it’s not done correctly, it can make injuries much worse.’
If done by someone who had never, ever given a massage in her entire life, for example.
He smiled at me with his big blue eyes then dropped his face into the pillow. ‘Don’t worry, Caroline, I trust you.’
General anatomy and physiology never had been my strong points. Neurosciences were always my goal, and like all good specialists, I forgot at least half of what I’d learned as soon as I didn’t need it any more. CouldI learn it again? Absolutely. Could I have passed an exam right there in the room? Absolutely not. But no one was asking me to cut him open and repair a ruptured tendon or torn meniscus, all I had to do was give the man a rub down. A simple, straightforward, non-injury-
inducing massage. I would simply treat it like a patient consult. I’d done hundreds of those, thousands even. Ask him what’s wrong, listen to his symptoms, try not to make the problem worse. The first two parts of the plan would be easier than the third.
‘Ready when you are,’ Derek said, face down in a pillow.
Worst-case scenario, I could always smother him.
With great reluctance, I stepped forward and rolled up my sleeves.
‘Narwhal,’ I whispered under the haunted music that echoed from the drawer. ‘Narwhal, narwhal, narwhal.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Just centring myself with a mantra,’ I replied with forced enthusiasm. ‘Now, Mr— Derek. Can you tell me what seems to be the problem?’
‘It’s my lower back. A few years ago, I took a kick from one of the bulls, right in my bahookie.’
‘Which would be?’
‘Backside,’ he explained helpfully. ‘Got me right in the arse, it did. Put me out of action for a week and the whole left cheek was black and blue. I’ve a photo on my phone, if you’d like to see it?’
‘No, you’re all right.’
The mental picture was more than enough to keep me from sleep for weeks. ‘So, it’s your … backside that’s bothering you?’
‘More my lower back,’ he replied and I had never been more relieved in my life. ‘But also my arse, aye.’
‘Well, let’s start with the hip and go from there.’
I uncapped the bottle of body oil I found on the bedside table and gave it a sniff. The label said Cranberry Bliss but the scent said year seven changing rooms and I tried not to gag as I poured some out into my hands, immediately splashing it on my mohair jumper. Two items of clothing destroyed in one day, what a great day’s work.
‘We need to work our way down to the lower back,’ I said, rubbing my hands together and closing my eyes in a silent prayer, although I could not say who or what I was praying to. The patron saint of idiots seemed most likely. Palms hovering over Derek’s shoulders, I took a deep breath in and slapped them down on his skin.
‘Help ma Boab, your hands are like ice!’ Derek shrieked but I kept my palms flat on his back, holding him down in place. ‘I wouldn’t call that a healing touch.’
‘It’s all part of the therapy,’ I told him, tapping his skin in a patty-cake motion. ‘Starts cold then gets warmer.’
He shivered, goosebumps breaking out all over his body. ‘And when exactly does it get warmer?’
‘When you shut up and let me do my job.’
‘Aye aye, captain.’
My stern instructions worked for a little while, Derek offering nothing more than the occasional squeak or grunt as I switched from a patting motion to a chop with the sides of my hands. Quickly checking my watch, I scoffed in disbelief. Less than two minutes had passed. The longest two minutes of my life.
‘Is there a problem?’ Derek asked in a strained voice.
‘No, not at all,’ I shook my head then paused, hopeful. ‘Unless you’re uncomfortable and want to stop?’
‘No pain, no gain.’ His chuckle turned into a groan when I dug a knuckle under his shoulder blade. ‘You keep on. This can’t be worse than listening to those three kids bickering downstairs. You’d think they were still wee bairns, not fully grown adults. It’s always the same when they’re under one roof.’
‘I thought that was what you wanted?’ I asked, recalling our conversation in Callum’s flat. ‘To have them all home for Christmas?’
