Chapter 3
THREE
Ludo
His name is Aidan. All the nurses call him Mr Drummond, but I saw Aidan on his chart when I retrieved his morphine pump from the floor.
That was yesterday. His face, twisted in such terrible pain, has haunted me ever since. From time to time, I hear his ragged groans. They’re loudest when I’m asleep, and match the wretchedness in my soul so absolutely, I wake surprised to find my own leg is whole.
“Ludo?”
I tear my gaze from the curtains drawn around Aidan Drummond’s bed and scowl at the two doctors who have woken me up—the surgeon who operated on my arm and the psychiatrist from the clinic attached to the hospital. “Hmm?”
“You have a slight infection,” the surgeon says. “Nothing too major, but as you’re without a spleen, I’d like to keep you in until it clears. Dr Farsi is going to update your lithium prescription so we don’t get that wrong again, and I’m going to order some IV antibiotics for you.”
“IV?”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll be stuck in bed?”
“We’ll get you a pole,” Dr Farsi interjects. “So you can use the bathroom and move around. I know you don’t like to be confined.”
Of course she does. Dr Farsi has been my psychiatrist for eighteen months, ever since the last incident that put me in hospital. There’s little about the worst of me she doesn’t know.
The surgeon pokes around at my plastered arm. “Sorry if it’s a bit sore. I’m nearly done.”
“It’s fine,” I say absently. “I like the pain.”
I don’t look at Dr Farsi again.
After extending my confinement to the ward, the doctors leave, walking close together.
They’re either shagging or they’re talking about you.
Paranoia licks my brain, but for once, the ghouls dancing through my conscious thoughts aren’t my primary concern. Another doctor exits the bay opposite. He seems familiar, though I can’t say why, and I don’t care. Doctors are doctors. After a while, they’re all the same.
I return my attention to Aidan’s bed. The departing doctor has left the curtain open and my breath catches. He’s awake. It’s the first time I’ve seen him not sleeping. Or so sick he can’t open his eyes.
Sometimes my thoughts are so loud I wonder if I’ve shouted them. This is one of those moments. Aidan shifts slightly, staring across the aisle in the kind of daze I miss when the sleeping pills wear off, leaving nothing but a metallic taste on my tongue.
I swallow to dislodge the sensation of something stuck in my throat. They’ve poisoned you. But as hard as I try to give a fuck, I just . . . don’t. If they’ve poisoned me, I’ll die, and death equals freedom.
Right?
Wrong. You’re okay, remember? You’re safe. And you promised Rita you’d see her next week. No dying before then.
I swallow again and curl my hands into fists, chasing my thoughts one by one in an attempt to rationalise them. Some days it’s easier than others, but being cooped up in hospital has triggered bad habits, and the temptation to run with my favourite catastrophic scenarios is strong.
“The fuck are you staring at?”
It takes me a moment to realise the question has come from the opposite bed and even longer to figure out it’s directed at me. “What?”
“You’re staring,” Aidan repeats. “You want to piss off with that?”
I sit up, unmoved by the harshness lacing his morphine-heavy words. Irritation is an emotion I can deal with. Confrontation doesn’t scare me if it’s honest. “I’m thinking. Not staring. Are you okay?”
“What do you care?”
“Gives me something to do.”
Aidan frowns. “Can you walk?”
“Um . . . yeah. Why?”
“Come closer. I can’t hear you properly.”
I glance at the nurses’ station and slide carefully off my bed. My socked feet make no sound as I pad closer to Aidan’s bed and slip behind the curtain. “Can you hear me now?”
“It was you.”
“What was?”
“I was sick on you.”
“Oh.” Damn. I assumed he wouldn’t remember that; he seemed so far gone. “Actually, you weren’t sick on me. I got the bowl to you in time.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why was it you?”
I shrug. “There was no one about and you’d lost your morphine pump. I figured you needed it . . . that’s why you were moving around.”
“I can’t really remember.”
“Fair enough.” I start to back off, but Aidan holds his hand up to stop me.
“Come back,” he says.
“Why?”
“Just do it, mate. Please?”
I shuffle back to his side, close enough for him to reach out and brush his fingers over the back of my hand.
“You’re cold,” he says. “And you’re Ludo. I remember that.”
His speech slows with each word, and his head lolls on the pillow, eyes drooping, distant and glazed.
I chuckle softly, surprising myself. “You don’t seem like you’ll remember anything at all next time you wake up.”
“Nah, mate. I’ll remember you.”
Aidan
I’m still in hell. Caught between being in so much pain I’d rather eat my leg than endure it, or being so stoned I have no clue where I am.
The surgery is scheduled for a few days’ time, and it can’t come soon enough.
Not that I’m expecting to get through it without a rerun of vomit-gate. Or being off my face on morphine.
You fucking pussy.
The food is shite too. I shove the plate of greasy chips away and rub a hand down my face.
Then, as has become my habit over the last few days, I steal a glance at the bed opposite.
Ludo is asleep, hooked up to an IV I can’t remember being there the last time I checked in, which is generally every ten minutes when I’m awake.
Nonplussed, I look away. I can’t figure out if my fascination with my tattooed bombshell of a ward mate is boredom induced, a side effect of too much morphine, or linked to the lingering sensation of his cool palm against my cheek.
Because fuck, there are a hundred gaps in my recent memories, but I can’t get that shit out of my mind.
Over and over I try to picture how the scene played out—me puking with Ludo trying to help me—but every image I conjure up makes me shudder in horror.
He saw me throw up.
For reasons I can’t understand, it feels like the worst thing in the world.
I shift, trying to get comfortable. The incision in my ribcage is sore, but I can live with it.
The pain in my leg, though . . . that shit is unreal.
Coping with it takes up most of my time, and studying Ludo has become my favourite distraction.
Especially when he’s asleep and can’t outstare me with his bottomless gaze.
The only other man I’ve ever watched sleep is my father.
Weathered face, dirty hair. Reeking of whisky, cigarettes, and rage.
By contrast, Despite some heavy ink on his skin, Ludo is angelic, his features boyish and smooth against dark hair tipped with white blond—a grown out bleach job.
He’s restless too, even as he sleeps, muttering and twitching.
I wonder if he’s dreaming . . . or stuck in a nightmare.
Because that’s the other thing about Ludo: wide and framed by thick lashes, his eyes are the most disturbed I’ve ever seen.
I can’t imagine him having pleasant dreams.
“Aidan?”
“What?” I glance up, unable to keep the habitual growl out of my voice.
The ward sister—the one with the good drugs—raises a brow. “Your cousin is here. It’s not visiting hours for a while, but if you’re quiet, I can sneak him in.”
Michael. I suppress a sigh. Days have become a blur, and I have little idea how long I’ve been flat on my back, but Michael’s appearance is inevitable. Of course it is. My life has gone to shit, and he knows how much I love an audience.
“Tell him to do one, will ya? I’m not in the mood to be lectured.”
The sister twitches her eyebrow higher. “I can do that, but don’t you think it would be nice to have some company for a while? It might take your mind off your discomfort.”
“If that’s what you think, then you don’t know my cousin.”
“I know him well enough to tell you he’s been here every day since you were brought in. That must count for something.”
I prefer the nurses who don’t talk to me. It might be a coincidence, but they seem to have gentler hands too. Whatever. The sister is still frowning, lips pursed, hands on her hips.
She ain’t going nowhere, boy.
Wow. I flinch. It’s been a long time since I last heard my father’s voice in my head. These drugs are messed up. “Fuck it. I don’t care.”
“Then I’ll show him in.”
“Great.”
Five minutes later Michael stands at the end of my bed, an older, slimmer version of me in looks only—he’s a much nicer person. “How are you doing?”
I roll my eyes. Regret it. “Fucking marvellous, mate. How are you?”
A ghost of a smile threatens his earnest expression. “You haven’t lost your sense of humour then.”
“Never had one.”
“If you say so.” Michael ventures closer and hovers by the chair the hot doctor sat in. “When is your surgery scheduled?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I spoke with your doctor a few days ago. I’m your next of kin, Aidan, and you’ve been out of it for days.”
Days. Huh. I peer over Michael’s shoulder. Maybe that explains my newfound obsession with the stranger across the aisle.
“Aidan?”
“What?”
Michael sighs. “Look, we need to talk about what’s going to happen when you get out of here. The doctor told me you could be on crutches for months, and that’s banking on you only needing one operation.”
“What difference does any of that make to you?”
“A hell of a lot if you’re going to need a place to stay and people to look after you. We’re happy to have you live with us for a while, but it’s going to take some shifting around.”
I force myself to focus entirely on Michael and the fuckwittery spilling from his mouth. “Have you lost your bloody mind? I’m not moving in with you.”
“Aidan, you have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything. I’ve got a place of my own. Shitty ground floor bedsit, remember? I can live there even if they cut my fucking leg off.”
“Oh yeah? And what if you fall or need something you can’t reach? Who’s going to be there for you?”
“No one, but I’m used to that, eh?”
“That’s not fair.”