“Yes. I have an appointment this morning, but you can go now.”
Libby wasn’t sure she’d ever got dressed and left the house so fast. Rebecca was down in the kitchen with Hector, and Libby ignored her sister’s questions as she sprinted out thefront door. The 134 bus took her directly to the hospital, and she spent the whole journey chewing her fingernails and willing the bus to hurry in the early-morning traffic. When it finally reached the hospital, she dashed into the large glass-fronted atrium and was given directions to Dylan’s ward by a man on reception.
It took Libby a while to find the ward, and when she reached it, a nurse pointed her in the direction of Dylan’s bay. There were eight beds, four on each side, and Libby walked cautiously along to Dylan’s at the end, steeling herself for what she was about to see.
At first she thought there’d been a mistake. The man lying there had no distinctive hairstyle or ear piercings, only a white bandage that was wrapped tightly around his skull. He had a huge bruise around his right eye so dark it looked like some horrible Halloween makeup, and the side of his face was red and puffy. As Libby stepped closer, she saw a tube running out of his nose and a drip connected to his right hand. It was only the tattoos snaking up his arm that let her know it really was Dylan.
For a moment, Libby had a strong urge to throw her arms around his poor broken body, but instead she sank down into the plastic chair next to the bed.
“Oh, Dylan,” she muttered.
“Looks pretty rough, doesn’t he?” a croaky voice said, and Libby spun round to see an elderly man in the adjacent bed. He was sitting up against his pillow, eating from a large bunch of grapes. “He’s been like that since they moved him up here yesterday morning. I think they must have him sedated or something.”
“Do you know what happened to him?” Libby asked.
“From what I can gather, he was in a fight. Sounds like it was pretty nasty and he had to have some kind of operation, hence all the bandages.”
Libby turned back to look at Dylan. His left arm was resting on top of the sheet, and she reached out and took his hand between her own. “Is he going to be okay?”
“Dunno. They won’t tell me anything. I only knows this much because I eavesdropped.”
Libby stroked the back of Dylan’s hand. His skin was warm and surprisingly smooth, and she remembered the feel of it on her face. How had that been less than four days ago?
“If you ask one of the nurses, they might tell you more,” the man said. “Are you family?”
“No, I’m just a friend.”
“You should ask his girlfriend, then; she’ll be able to tell you more.”
Libby swung round. The man was studying the bunch of grapes on his lap.
“Has she been here?”
“Yeah, yesterday.” He found a suitable grape and popped it in his mouth with satisfaction. “That’s when I heard her telling the nurses what happened. It sounds like she was there at the fight, poor love.”
Libby released Dylan’s hand and sank back in her seat.
“I tried to chat with her too, but she wasn’t interested. She was a funny-looking thing, black makeup and hair all over the place. I never understand why some young people do that to themselves.”
So Dylan’s dad had been right. Libby felt a strange lurching feeling, like vertigo, and she closed her eyes.
“She’s the one who gave him those flowers,” the man wassaying, but Libby turned away. She didn’t want to hear any more.
“He’s not botherin’ you, is he, darlin’?” came a thick Scottish accent, and when Libby opened her eyes, a middle-aged nurse was approaching Dylan’s bed, her Crocs squeaking on the linoleum floor. “I hope you’re not disturbing this young lady, Sam?”
“Of course not, sister. We’ve been having a lovely chat.”
“Even so, let’s give her some privacy. I need to change your dressing anyway.” The nurse winked at Libby and began to pull a curtain around Dylan’s bed.
“Can he hear me?” Libby asked her.
“Probably not, but yous can chat to him anyway; there’s no harm.”
The nurse moved away and Libby could hear her busying herself with the old man in the next bed. She looked at Dylan lying in front of her, the bandaged head and the tube running out of his nose. Without his Mohawk and piercings, he looked so different, younger and more vulnerable.
“Dylan, what happened?” she said in a whisper. “You told me you always run away from fights.”
He was so still she couldn’t even see his chest moving. The only signal that he was alive was the steady beep of the monitor next to the bed.
