‘Well,’ Nimesh says, ‘what the fuck are you telling me for?’
The day is losing its heat, which couldn’t suit Nimesh better. When he says goodbye, when he sets off and starts running, he becomes a heartbeat, a cool breeze, a pair of trainers on a road. He takes his usual shortcut and finds himself on a dirt track and then, shortly, in a wide-open field. The sky is turning pink above him. He’s playing music, the kind of thing he used to listen to back when he was young and still trying to convince girls in smoking areas that he was the guy from the Horrors. Perhaps Priya will be in a band one day. Finn is already a better footballer than he ever was. What did Nimesh want, as a child? His early years in Leicester bleed into one. His dad took him to Sri Lanka as a kid, and he remembers only vague flashes. The steaming mounds ofkottu, the deafeningcawof the house crows, the stray dogs on the street and his fervent desire to patch them all up and bring them home. His ailing grandfather told him that elephants in captivity live longer for having dentists, because they don’t grind their molars down and starve to death like the happier ones in the wild. It’s funny what sticks with you. It’s funny, the paths a life can take you down.
Nimesh is sweating. He stops for a breather, resting his hands on his knees and closing his eyes. Seb is probably already at the bar with Clara, mumbling his way through some pre-prepared speech that she’ll no doubt recite to Maisie in the morning. He laughs to himself, but the sound is more like a grunt. He rubs his chest with the knuckle of his thumb. He’s tired, feels an overwhelming need to rest, doesn’t feel surprised to realise that he’s taking a seat on the grass.
He can’t catch his breath. He should have, by now. But there’s something here, and it’s something that lingers. A constriction, a weight, pressing into his ribcage. Then, heavier. An elephant sitting on his chest. Nimesh has always been quick to diagnose, medical professional being one of many mantles he has worn, but it takes him a fraction too long to diagnose this. He looks around, but there is no one else in the field, no one even on the periphery. He taps his smart watch, tries to make a call, but his arm drops, a failure of muscle rather than will. He’ll have a lie down. Gather his strength. He is on his back now, the evening air swimming above him,
iridescent, and it’s as if he’s forgotten something,
as if he’s trying to get to the bottom of something,
as if something is not adding up.
It hurts in his neck, and his jaw,
and he thinks he knows why and he’d tell someone why
if he could only get their attention.
But he can’t shout, and his eyes are heavy
and he just about manages to turn over on to one side
to see a plane overhead to smell his own sweat
to taste something metallic t o feel the grass
ag ainst his face and a d og barking
in the distance now as if
s a y i n g get up
wake up wake up
w a k e u p
the breeze is licking him
and the grass is cradling him
and Nimesh doesn’t think about
who will find him even if he already knows
that he will have to be found
because he
won’t can’t
get up
and it feels a shame
but
he has been
