Chapter 11
ALARIC
So, Saturday’s turning out nothing like I’d planned.
I had a flat viewing booked for three, over in Stockwell owned by a thirty-two-year-old female tax accountant, new to London, seeking some company.
Irritatingly, it sounds perfect: three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a stone’s throw from the Victoria line taking me directly to work, and only one hundred quid a month more than Gerald charges, plus bills.
Flats ticking all those boxes are literally rocking-horse shit.
Instead, however, I’ve cancelled, and am driving Gerald’s immaculate three-year-old Ford Focus at a sedate pace towards the nearest hospital’s emergency department, manoeuvring especially carefully around corners and over speed humps.
In the seat next to me, my reclining landlord has a washing-up bowl cradled in his lap and a cold flannel over his eyes.
He's so pale I could project a movie on his forehead. Now’s not the moment to confess I haven’t sat behind the wheel of a car for at least five years.
“Should we let your dad know?” I suggest boldly, as we idle at a set of traffic lights. Last time I brought up the subject of his parents, I thought he was going to punch me.
Gerald shakes his head. “No. He’ll only worry.”
“Maybe?” I hem and haw. In his place my mum and dad would already be on their way to Alicante airport with the base ingredients for home-made chicken soup stashed in their suitcases. “But isn’t that kind of a dad’s job?”
“I don’t want him to. And Dad doesn’t like hospitals.”
Something about his tone tells me not to push it.
“Okay, but can I at least have his mobile number in case something goes wrong? Or can I persuade you to put him down on your hospital paperwork as next of kin? Not that anything will go wrong.” Gerald doesn’t need to know, but I’ve witnessed a young adult die of appendicitis in my relatively short career.
I don’t for a minute think he’ll be the second—for sure, he’s sick, but not that sick.
“All right.”
“Is there anyone else you want me to call?”
“No.” He rests his head back. “Except for Mrs Gregson in the flat next door.” I can’t see his eyes because of the cold flannel, but a quick tug flashes at the corner of his waxy lips. “You need to let her know I won’t be walking Elsa, her imaginary dog, for a few days.”
My brain doubles back, replaying the line before it hits. That was wit. Lowkey, camouflaged humour. From Gerald. Perhaps there is a human hidden inside his irascible shell after all.
“Cool,” I say, concentrating on the road again. I’ve only stalled the car once. “I can do that.”
Is Gerald impressed when an ultrasound scan supports my appendicitis diagnosis? Not especially. He’s too busy heaving into the bowl I hold for him.
“Sheesh, I’m normally paid for this.”
That comment doesn’t go down very well. Rubbing Gerald’s back as he retches—what are tenants for—is like running my hand over a broad damp stone.
Under very different circumstances, the smooth planes are a landscape I could very easily lose myself in.
He must work out. Maybe he does gym sessions straight after work.
During visits from various members of staff, I stay by Gerald’s side, watching him wince through pain and paperwork.
I don’t know for sure if he wants me here, but he stopped suggesting I leave around the time the surgical registrar listed the potential risks and complications on the consent form.
The bigger question is—do I want to be here?
Not exactly. Two nights ago, in a room more like a culinary phone booth than a kitchen, we skirted around each other preparing separate meals in stony silence. I ate mine alone, in my bedroom, and Gerald commandeered the sitting room.
By contrast, in the last half hour, not only have we twice been mistaken for a gay couple, but I’ve also learned, courtesy of the anaesthetist’s searching questions, that Gerald had a wisdom tooth extracted under local anaesthetic aged sixteen and, thanks to a tight foreskin, was circumcised, aged six.
And that he’s far braver than most young men when having a cannula inserted and blood taken.
As fascinating as being on the other side of the fence is, for a change, it feels way, way too intimate. Even for a nosy sod like me.
When a porter finally arrives to push Gerald to the operating theatre, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“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 helix and topped 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, hate being 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 murder when, 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.”