Chapter 31 #2
My eyes wander over the watching crowd. By some coincidence, I just happen to spot Tori’s brother, William, who is standing a little to one side with Kit, whose hair is trailing into his face.
The two of them have grown closer than ever over the last few weeks.
Young love, Tori said once, with a knowing smile.
Will strokes Kit’s hair out of his face—he’s talking insistently to him.
They’re way too far away for me to hear what he’s saying, but he seems kind of upset.
When Kit turns his head away, I see the dark-purple bruise around his left eye.
I’m about to turn to Tori and point it out to her when the whistle goes for the start of the match.
When I look back again, there’s no sign of William or Kit anywhere.
I forget about them as the cheering and shouts of encouragement grow louder around me.
There are fifteen players on each team, and Henry isn’t one of them.
I’m almost glad: It looks brutal. I knew that—I’ve watched them train a couple of times—but it’s different with the whole school there, freaking out and screaming at the players.
Louis is commentating, but despite the loudspeaker, I can hardly hear him.
All I can make out are numbers and words that mean nothing to me.
I follow the tussles. I cheer when Tori and Sinclair cheer and keep quiet if they boo or groan with frustration.
At the end of the first half, Dunbridge are slightly behind. I’ve figured that much out. Every player is coated with mud. It looks utterly exhausting, and when I see Henry warming up again just before the end of the break, I’m scared that he’s going to be subbed in.
“Go get ’em, Bennington!” Sinclair yells as they line up again.
Henry looks toward us, and I cross my arms over my chest. They start, and I can’t breathe.
It’s kind of different with Henry running around down there with them.
I think he’s good, but my heart skips a beat every time he’s got the ball and the players on the opposing team are throwing themselves on top of him.
He nearly scores a couple of times but never quite manages to dodge their defense.
He seems kind of distracted. I don’t know what he’s thinking about when he looks over to the stand.
Maybe Theo, who used to play here; maybe Maeve, who used to stand there, as she and Henry cheered on their big brother.
Whatever it is, he shouldn’t be on the pitch today. I’m sure of that when Dunbridge get the ball.
“Bennington!” roars Valentine, hurling it in his direction. Tori’s hopping anxiously up and down beside me. “Catch!”
The crowd roars. Henry flinches. He catches the ball, but he doesn’t move.
I jump up with everyone else.
Why isn’t he running? Why the hell isn’t he running?
Sinclair and Tori are screaming; the Alkmounton defense are running toward Henry.
I hear yells and whistles, roaring, then a murmur that runs through the crowd.
The guy launching himself at Henry must be about twice his size.
He knocks him off his feet, and they hit the ground only seconds before another Alkmounton player throws himself at them.
I can’t breathe. Henry no longer has the ball. But he’s not getting up.
He’s not getting up.
Why isn’t he getting up?
The blood rushes in my ears as the other two pick themselves up. Tori claps her hands to her mouth. Sinclair mumbles, “Fuck.” Henry’s still not getting up. More to the point, he’s not moving.
I don’t know what I’m doing as I step to the side while the referee blows his whistle. I run down the stand, can’t think clearly anymore. The first of the boys are bending over Henry. Mr. Cormack and Dr. Henderson, the school doctor, are hurrying onto the pitch.
“Sorry, excuse me . . .” I mutter as I push my way through. Past my fellow pupils, boys and girls who were cheering a moment ago and are now staring at the pitch in shock.
My heart is hammering as I fight my way through as fast as possible.
Shit, Henry . . . Why did he hesitate? Why didn’t he just run when he caught the ball?
I know why. Because his sister’s dead, and we had a fight, and everything’s just shit. Because I saw his face go rigid as he looked into the crowd. Because he’s exhausted, for God’s sake, and shouldn’t have been on the pitch. Not in that state.
I reach the pitch. The grass is slippery, my chest is tight, and the teams make way as I come closer to him.
“Henry?” asks Dr. Henderson, who’s kneeling on the grass beside him, alongside Mr. Cormack. Henry doesn’t respond, and I feel sick.
“Shit,” somebody mumbles. The roar of the crowd has given way to shocked silence. Louis’s voice comes through the loudspeaker, saying something about an accident and a short delay for injury, as if we couldn’t all see that for ourselves.
“Henry? Can you hear me?” I hold my breath as Dr. Henderson reaches out to him. “Look at me.”
The groan of pain from Henry’s lips cuts me to the bone. He clutches his left shoulder.
“Fuck you, Bennington. That was the perfect pass!”
My blood runs cold as I hear Valentine Ward approach, livid with anger.
“Val,” someone says, but he shakes his head.
“He doesn’t belong on this team. He ought to be back on the bloody bench.”
“That’s enough, Val.” Mr. Cormack’s voice will tolerate no argument.
Their eyes wrestle for a moment, then Valentine stamps away.
I’m not sure if Henry even heard him. Dr. Henderson stays perfectly calm.
It’s undoubtedly not his first rugby accident, but Mr. Cormack looks worryingly serious.
He has a hand on Henry’s arm and is talking quietly to him while Dr. Henderson investigates his shoulder.
“Definitely dislocated,” I hear someone say. Henry’s eyes are shut, but I can see him pressing his lips together in pain. Dr. Henderson says something about the hospital and A and E, needing an X-ray before his shoulder can be reset, avoiding ligament and nerve damage.
I want to go to Henry and tell him I’m sorry for everything. But I can’t. I just stand there as he first sits and later stands up. And he walks away, supported by Dr. Henderson and Mr. Cormack.
“Emma.” I feel a hand on my arm and look into Sinclair’s face. He steers me gently toward the edge of the pitch, where Tori’s standing. “They’ll take care of him.”
“I have to . . .” I begin, and I want to pull away, but Tori’s holding me tight. “They said they have to get him to hospital.”
“I’m sure it’s just a precaution,” she says.
Sinclair nods. “Let’s wait here, all right? If nothing’s broken, he’ll definitely be coming back to school. And then they’ll let you see him.”
“We had a fight,” I blurt. “The day before yesterday, it was so stupid. I didn’t get the chance to say sorry. I . . .”
“Emma,” says Tori. Her voice is gentle. “Come on. I’m sure it looked worse than it was. Later, you’ll be able to talk in peace and everything will be OK again.”
I want to contradict her, because absolutely nothing is OK, but there’s no point. So I follow her and Sinclair past the stand as the referee blows his whistle behind us to restart the match.
We won. Just. By twenty-five to twenty-three. Another victory to open the season for Dunbridge Academy. After the match, dinner in the dining hall is like a festive banquet, but I haven’t the least appetite. Henry’s seat is empty, and I like to think that the mood in general is a little subdued.
I messaged him, but he hasn’t replied. Probably his phone didn’t get to the hospital with him and it’s lying around somewhere in the changing rooms.
Dr. Henderson went with him to Edinburgh, as there’s no hospital in Ebrington. That was over four hours ago. I know Henry will have a long time to wait, but all the same, I feel close to a nervous breakdown when I still have no news of him after dinner.
We’re just clearing our plates away when I get a message. It’s from Olive, who’s never texted me outside the Midnight Memories group chat before.
O: My dad and Henry are back, if it interests you. He’s in the sick bay.
“Was that Henry?”
I look up, right into Tori’s face. “No,” I murmur. “It was Olive. They’re back.”
“Henry too?”
I nod.
“I see.” Tori points at the tray in my hands. “Give me that. You have to go to him.”
“Thanks, Tori.” I leave the dining room and run to the sick bay.
My throat tightens a little with every step, even though I ought to be calmer now that I know they’re not keeping him in hospital overnight.
Or even longer if they’d had to operate on him.
But I’m scared because I don’t know if he’ll even want to see me.
That might be the least of my worries, though I don’t know that until I see Petra, the school nurse, through the door to the sick bay. She’s sitting at her desk and raising her head.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I wanted to see Henry,” I begin. “I’ve been told he’s here.”
She hesitates. Are there visiting hours? I’ve never been to the sick bay before.
Nurse Petra gives me a searching look. “He needs rest, and he’s asleep at the moment. But I can tell him you were here.”
I open my mouth as I realize she’s not going to let me in. “Please, I . . . Just five minutes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“My dad said she can see him.” I turn. Olive’s standing in the doorway. “Shall I ask him if he can pop back in?” She doesn’t bat an eyelid as she looks at Petra, holding up her phone inquiringly.
Is she lying? I can’t tell. If so, Olive has the perfect poker face. There’s certainly no one better at intimidating stares. All the same, I’m pretty certain that’s not why the nurse nods—she just wants to get rid of us.
“Fine.” She looks back at me. “But only five minutes. He’s on strong painkillers and has to rest.”
“Thank you.” I look at Olive. She turns away before I get the chance to speak.
“Just head through the back there,” says Nurse Petra, indicating a door. I step into a dimly lit room with several beds, curtained off from each other. Henry’s in the first on the left, but nobody else seems to be here.
When I approach his bed, I see that his eyes are shut. His left arm is bandaged and resting on a pile of pillows.
I don’t know what I was expecting. For him to wake up as I sat down beside him?
But he doesn’t. His face is scarily pale.
The worried frown I’ve seen between his eyebrows so often lately has vanished.
His forehead is smooth, his mouth relaxed, but he still looks utterly exhausted.
I should let him sleep, but I have to apologize.
I have to tell him how sorry I am about everything.
His head twitches in my direction as I take his right hand. His fingers are cold, his eyes disoriented, roaming around the room, and then he sees me.
He’s clearly drugged up to his eyeballs. He can’t even open his eyes properly. My stomach lurches, and then he gently squeezes my hand.
“Hello,” I whisper as Henry shuts his eyes again.
His lips form an almost soundless “Hi,” but he’s gripping my hand.
The lump in my throat grows, I have so many things to tell him, but suddenly, everything seems way too trivial.
“Everything OK?”
I laugh joylessly when it’s actually him who asks that question. Henry opens his eyes again when I don’t reply. There’s only a bedside lamp on, but the light seems too bright for him. He squints as he studies me.
“How are you?” I ask quietly.
“Been better,” he mumbles.
“What did the doctors say?”
“No idea. Dr. Henderson talked to them. They knocked me out to put my shoulder back in. Don’t remember the rest.”
“Got it. But there’s nothing broken?”
“No, thank God. Just the dislocated shoulder and concussion.” He blinks hard. “I think I need sleep . . .”
“Yes.” I should leave him in peace. He clearly can’t take much in.
But I can’t go back to my room and lie down without having got a few things off my chest. “I’m sorry, Henry,” I say quietly.
“For everything. For . . . for what I did. I hate us fighting. Please can we stop? We have to. I’m so sorry, and I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. ”
“Stop,” he whispers. “I’m sorry too.”
“I was so scared. I thought . . .”
“It’s all good, Em,” he murmurs.
I start to cry. “So we’re not fighting anymore?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“I wish I could take it all back,” I blurt. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s all forgotten.” He blinks. “And not just because I’m all doped up.”
I can’t help laughing. “True. You’ve had a head injury.”
He shuts his eyes, but his lips form a smile. He doesn’t let go of my hand. “Anyway, we won.” He blinks. “We did, didn’t we?”
“You did.”
“No thanks to me, but fine.”
I don’t reply. It’s silent for a few seconds, but then Henry looks at me again. “Why did you stop?” I ask, quietly.
He exhales slowly. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It was about Maeve. Wasn’t it?”
Henry doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. When he finally rolls his eyes and looks up to the ceiling, they’re filled with tears.
I could kid myself that it’s been a tiring day and the drugs are making Henry oversensitive and emotional. But the truth is, every day’s been tiring for a long time now. And that’s OK. Somehow I’m glad that he’s crying and not swallowing it, bottling it up.
I stroke my thumb over the back of his hand as he closes his eyes, and the silent tears roll down his cheeks.
“I couldn’t.” His eyes are red when he opens them. “I was standing there, and all I could think of was how we used to sit in those stands together. When Theo was playing. It was so surreal. And then . . . no idea, I felt the thud as the guy tackled me, and two seconds later, everything went black.”
My stomach clenches. “I’m glad nothing worse happened,” I say quietly.
Henry nods silently. I can practically feel how tired he is. When he blinks again, it’s like his eyelids weigh a ton.
“Are you in pain?” I whisper. “Do you need anything?”
He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
“I could stay until they throw me out,” I say.
“Is it wing time?”
“There’s two hours yet.”
Henry smiles. “Oh, right.”
“Try to sleep,” I whisper.
He does shut his eyes. “No little spoon today?”
I have to laugh. “I think your shoulder would have something to say about that.”
Henry doesn’t reply. I sit beside him for a while, quietly watching as his chest rises and slowly falls again.
“Emma?” he whispers, at some point when I’d have sworn he was fast asleep.
“Yes?”
“That night on the roof.” He looks back at me. “I shouldn’t have told you to piss off.”
“Henry, it’s—”
He cuts me off. “I should have said, Thank you for being here . . . That, and I love you.”