Chapter 13
FRANKIE
My head is fucked.
My legs propel me through the streets until my lungs burn. Until darkness threatens to swallow my vision. It had been years since I did any training like this. And as the bile rises in my throat, an overspill on the horizon, I wonder if I shouldn’t have hit it this hard.
Training for boxing used to be something that came so unbelievably easy to me. I was young and fit with a penchant for adrenaline. Now, it feels like punishment. There's no endorphin rush. At least none like the one my body really seeks…
The war in my head begins as I reach the motorway overpass. My hands go to the railings, frost bitten metal threatens to keep me there. The constant flow of the traffic below helps to drown out the side of me that needs to get royally fucked up.
My teeth clench together until my jaw aches and I just can’t stand it anymore. “Forgive me.” I say into the air, my hot breath colliding with the freezing wind.
I pull out the transparent bag full of powder from my jacket pocket and stare at it as the battle continues.
A battle between who I am and who I want to be.
A better man.
A better brother.
A better son.
But how can I be? How can I not let myself fall into the warm arms of coke when I’ve just been told that the world I know isn’t fucking real? Surely it would be best if I did just slip into oblivion… forget everything…
You can’t forget. The voice is so weak compared to the other.
My eyes drift to the sky, and I wonder if I might see a dragon flapping its wings next. My hand balls into an involuntary fist, crushing the plastic bag along with the dusty powder inside.
The urge to scream makes my body shake.
Before I can, my phone vibrates in my pocket, shaking me from my daze. I shove the bag back into my pocket.
I don’t recognise the number.
Hope spikes.
Lou.
“Hello?” I ask pulling the phone up to my ear.
“Mr. Garrick? My name is Dr. Amelia Clark, I’m the chief Medical Examiner here at Heartlands Hospital.”
Mortician? Is Lou… No, it couldn’t be. My sister is a lot of things. A fighter over all of them. There’s no way in hell?—
The hope sinks.
“I’m calling you to let you know, as next of kin, that your mother is ready to be released to the funeral home now that her cause of death has been determined.” I can’t think or feel anything.
It’s Mum.
And I’d forgotten.
“Would you be able to come down today for the formal identification process please? And then we can have you sign the release papers to the funeral home.”
The responsibility is a crushing weight on my chest.
I try and breathe, but it comes out harsh and ragged. Constricting. Like I’m swallowing water, not air. It burns.
“Mr. Garrick? Are you still there?”
I blink. The motion brings me back to life. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here. No problem. I’ll be there soon.”
I hang up, not waiting for a response.
The bag is back in my hand.
I snort the rest.
***
While I’ve been admitted to this hospital more times than I can count, it’s still jarring as the scent of the wards I pass through changes from stale coffee and wilted flowers into something metallic and sharp beyond the doors leading to the morgue.
I’ve never been to this part before.
It’s still and empty. The usual urgency from the staff is depleted. Though, I suppose, the dead have all the time in the world. There’s no windows down here either; the only source of light is the harsh bright white lights that flicker intermittently as I approach the reception desk.
The woman behind glances up. She has a harsh, pointed face and pale skin hidden behind silver rimmed, round glasses. I open my mouth to speak but she interrupts. “Mr. Garrick?”
“Yes, um, I’m here for the, um… the, um…” I scratch my head as I try to think of the words the doc had used on the phone.
“For the identification process, correct?” She taps away on her keyboard, not looking up.
“There is a waiting room just over there if you would like to take a seat. Unfortunately, no food or drink is allowed in this department, but Dr. Clark will be with you shortly.” She gestures to a door on her right, still not bothering to look at me.
No empathy.
Then again, with a job like that she probably sees more of the dead than the living on a day to day basis.
The waiting room is worse. It’s freezing in here and silent, except for the low continuous hum of the air-con above my head.
Beige walls are covered with posters about grief, numbers to call to speak with someone, urgent messages to go to your GP if loss is something you’re not dealing with properly.
I take a seat in the nearest blue chair, the hairs on my arms standing up on end from the cold. The door opens abruptly, the sudden noise makes me jump up right back to my feet.
A short bloke wearing a dark blue suit covered by a white doctor's coat enters. My eyebrows draw together at the the gold rolex on his wrist.
“Mr. Garrick, is it?” He says, not looking at me but at his clipboard.
“Yep.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my black joggers.
“Follow me, please.”
I do.
The sound of metal tools clanging and a low grind of a drill draws a bead of sweat on my temple as we walk to the other end of the corridor, passing by doors concealed in fogged glass.
We turn left. The air shifts. Grows thicker, drying my mouth, making it hard to swallow.
A waft of the bloke’s aftershave hits me square in the face.
Familiar. Expensive.
Finally, we reach the end destination. My pulse beats against the skin of my neck as I enter the room.
It’s like one of those spaces on TV in the detective shows my mum used to watch. Everything in here is brown and beige, and half of one wall is made of glass.
Slowly. I let myself see through the panes.
Wall to ceiling metal fridges on all three sides. Names etched onto paper just above each handle.
I’m going to be sick.
I can’t do this. If I do, then it all becomes real.
“Mr. Grenville has already been in touch and has expressed your wish to have them moved to a funeral home just outside of Oxford. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line, here—” He shoves the clipboard into my face. “And here.”
My eyes follow the slow drag of his pen from A to B. “Oxford?” I ask, numb. “Why is it so far away?”
The man bristles under my question. His eyes shift from side to side before he draws in a breath. “A decision had to be made, Mr. Garrick. Unfortunately, you were indisposed to provide instruction.” I can hear the disapproval in the back of his voice despite the monotone.
I don’t bother arguing with him. He’s right after all.
I’ve been a mess.
“If you have no further questions, shall we proceed with the identification?” I nod, fixing my eyes on the back wall.
The doctor gestures out of the corner of my eye to the woman standing at the edge of the room. I blink, startled as she starts to move. I hadn’t noticed her.
That must be Dr. Clark. What did this guy say his name was again?
Before I can turn and ask him, the woman walks to the other side of the room where more fridges lay. There’s a snake-like sway to her hips that would have magnetised my eyes once upon a time.
But now I feel nothing.
She doesn’t radiate sunshine the way the girl back at my flat does.
I suddenly wish that I’d have brought her with me.
Dr. Clark pulls up one of the handles and opens the square door.
I blink.
I’m standing in the room with Dr. Clark. How did I get here? I whirl around, turning my back to the two bodies covered in white sheets to where I was standing before, on the other side of the glass. The man from before is gone.
“I’m going to remove the sheet now, Mr. Garrick.” I turn back to Dr. Clark. Her deep brown eyes are intense and watchful as they hold my gaze. Something about her makes my skin prickle. And not in a horny way.
“Right.” I manage to say, my throat horse. When was the last time I had a drink?
Dr. Clark grabs the end of the sheet with both hands, and peels the material back gently.
I inhale and stare down at my mum.
“That’s her.” My words rush together as my body begins to shake.
Don’t fucking cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry.
“I need you to say her name, Mr. Garrick. For legal purposes.” I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Until it does.
“It’s my mum, what other fucking proof do you need!?” It comes out as a shout.
Dr. Clark covers her once more. But the damage is done. Her pale skin and blue lips will forever be ingrained into my mind.
“I’m going to remove the second sheet now, Mr Garrick.” I tear my eyes away from my mum.
“What other sheet?” I ask.
“For your father, Mr. Garrick.”
My heart stills. “I… You didn’t say on the phone that there was… that he was… why is he here? He died a month ago.”
Had it been a month?
How long had it been?
Dr. Clark doesn’t wait. She peels back the sheet.
I run to the bin at the edge of the room and throw up. My hands shake over the edge of it. Causing the plastic to rattle.
“My apologies, Mr. Garrick. Your father was involved in quite a nasty accident. We put him back together the best that we could.”
I can do nothing but shake and stare at my sick in the bin.
“Mr. Garrick. I need you to formally identify this man in order for him to be released.”
The demand throttles me.
That’s all it ever fucking is.
Demand after
demand after
demand.
Over and over and over again.
I blink.
Now I’m standing over my dad’s stiff body, staring at the stitches across his throat.
My vision turns red.
“This is your fault.” I whisper.
“Mr. Garrick, can you please formally identify your fathers body please.”
“You don’t deserve peace.”
“Mr. Garrick, please?—”
“THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” I scream, the vein in my forehead pulsing.
My breathing turns ragged, the urge to flip the stupid fucking table he’s on is so strong I worry that if I don’t do it, I’ll combust. “Every single fucking choice you made has led to this! Was it worth it, Dad? Are you finally fucking proud?! DOES THIS brING YOU PEACE?!”
My knuckles collide with the glass. A whisper sounds in my ear. I can’t understand the words.
But it’s soothing.
I blink.
I’m in front of the receptionist again.
“Sign here and here, Mr. Garrick.”