24. Carl
24. Carl
It’s burning like a bastard this morning. The whole thing feels feverish.
Barry told me to take an antihistamine if it got too uncomfortable, or to get some hydrocortisone cream from the doctor, but I like the pain. It makes it feel like a worthy tribute to them.
To Fridge and Squadron.
To Tom.
To Caroline and her baby.
I stare at the after-care leaflet Barry gave me on my first visit.
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR TATTOO!
It will last forever. But the health and appearance of your tattoo depend on how you look after it in the first few days. Poor care during the healing process may result in infections, flaking or fading. So give it some TLC!
Leave the dressing on initially for a few hours, to absorb any fluid or excess ink. Wash your hands with soap before removing the dressing. When you do take the dressing off, fluid will ooze out. This is blood, plasma (the clear part of blood) and some extra ink. It’s gross but it’s normal, so don’t worry!
They’re not wrong. It is gross. It is also, as they predict it will be, red and sore. Awkwardly, I reach behind me to wash the tattoo with fragrance-free soap as the leaflet advises. As I rinse my hands, the water in the basin slowly turns red with ink, as if I am washing off blood.
I pat it dry and apply a layer of Aquaphor lotion, remembering the words of the leaflet.
No matter how badly you want to slather ointment on to soothe it, don’t put on too much! The tattoo needs to breathe so the skin can regenerate. Too much ointment will clog pores and cause other problems.
Putting on the cream, I feel vain and ridiculous – I’ve never used cream in my life. I imagine the ribbing I would get from the lads if they could see me. But Barry was insistent. He says the cream will improve the tattoo’s final appearance, so I do what I’m told.
This is being done in their memory, so I need to take care of it, respect it. Not do what I really want to do – which is to run outside and drag my back across the bark of a tree like a bad-tempered bear.
I feel the lines inked into my skin as I rub in the lotion, then I put the bottle down and stare at the tattoo in the mirror. It’s raised and cracked, and there are dried, coloured, peeling chunks waiting to drop off that don’t even look human; they look like something a snake or a lizard would cast off. A sign, apparently, that the skin is healing.
It’s still itching, in spite of all the lotion. I was already dreading the thought of having to see Sarah at this afternoon’s wedding dance rehearsal. And now I’m going to have to contend with this.
Mercifully, I’m spared any more torturous thoughts about seeing Sarah – and having to dance in front of an instructor – by the sound of Maggie letting herself in downstairs. I hear her voice and then Roz’s, and I happily listen to them gently bickering while I finish my packing.
By the time I get downstairs the dogs are hoovering down their breakfast, their metal tags clattering against the sides of the bowls, and there’s a cup of tea ready for me on the kitchen table.
‘Fancy some scrambled eggs, sweetheart?’ Roz says.
She nods at the fresh loaf and eggs she must have picked up on the path from the farmer’s wife. They sit temptingly on the kitchen table.
I shake my head.
Maggie stoops down to pick up Mr Jones and spots my overnight bag. ‘Ready for your secret mission?’
The dogs start barking at the sound of the taxi driver beeping at the top of the lane.
‘Got to go,’ I say, swallowing down a mouthful of hot tea from the mug that Roz insists I drink.
She takes the mug off me and presses something else into my palm. ‘For you,’ she says. ‘The forecast says it’s going to freeze tonight.’
It’s a hand-knitted red woolly hat, and I love it. Not the style – I hate to think how ridiculous I look in it – but I love that she made it for me. That someone thinks I’m worth worrying about.
I pull it down over my ears and reach over to kiss her on the cheek.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
Maggie laughs. ‘Well, if you are a spy, they won’t need satellite images to see you coming if you’re wearing that.’
I take it off the minute I get into the cab. But then I find myself repeatedly reaching into my pocket to check it’s still there. I rub the soft wool between my fingers and feel better.
I can do this , I tell myself.
I can do this for Jenni and Cherub.
But I notice that my hands, as they hold on to the wool of the hat, are shaking.