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Even when he realised, when he tested it two days after his birthday and
told his mum to piss off when she asked him to bring in the washing off
the line, he just got a long, sad look off his dad. I thought we'd raised you
alright, he said, but obviously not. That was worse than anything. He'd
rather not sit comfortably for a week than ever put that disappointment in
his dad's eyes again  and one tiny pathetic helpless little point of comfort
five months later was knowing that he never did.
He realises Phil's talking again and rubs his fingers hard into his
eyes until he's seeing floating spots. "What?"
"I said I can't change the past. I ain't got a TARDIS."
That makes Lindsay laugh unexpectedly, though the memory
jabs like a bayonet. "He's so like you sometimes. He told me that exact
same thing once. Same words."
"Yeah, well, he's my kid, ain't he?"
"Aren't you going in?"
"Yeah. Just wanted to..." He stands, makes a vague sort of
twirling gesture in the air like he's trying to wind on the silence to find
where the words start again, another thing Valentine does all the time.
"Say thank you," he finishes lamely. "And I don't hate him or you or any
kind of bender, only the ones who tell me to die in fires and call me a fat
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baldy motherfucking cunt who should've got castrated before I ever bred."
"He's very inventive with his insults, isn't he?"
"He'd get a punch if he spent five minutes with Mother Teresa,
he's that fucking irritating sometimes."
"I live with him. I know."
"Yeah." Christ, why won't he go? He's still standing there next
to the chairs, and Lindsay feels weird and vulnerable being towered over
like this so he stands as well and shakes Phil's offered hand automatically,
without really thinking about what a strange, formal gesture it is until it's
too late and it's happening. "Thanks for looking after him."
"That's my job."
"That's my job but I fucked it up."
"Just go in and talk to him. He's crap at holding grudges, he just
wants everyone in the world to think he's wonderful."
The idea of following Phil into the room and having to spend
any more time with him being so awkward and sincere is repellent, so
Lindsay goes to fetch another cup of coffee and wash his stinging hands
again.
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17.
"Hey," Pip says softly, when he opens his eyes and sees Lindsay
lurking in the doorway. "Missed you earlier, everyone was here."
"I know. I was outside."
"Why didn't you come in?"
"Don't know. Thought you might want family time."
He still doesn't know, or he's not accepting it yet. "You're my
family too."
"Yeah," Lindsay says after a pause. Pip's too tired and doped to
feel much, but he's more than awake enough to see how uncomfortable
Lindsay is. It's written all over his face like words in a book.
"Come in. Come and sit down."
"Are there visiting hours or anything?"
"Dunno. Maybe for the NHS. You're paying for all this, you can
do what you like."
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"Suppose."
There's no point rushing him when he's in a mood like this, you
just have to wait til he's ready to get over it. Pip closes his eyes and settles
back against his pillows, still trying to find a way to breathe that doesn't
make his stitched side twinge, but then he hears quick footsteps and looks
up again to see Lindsay's face full of terrified concern.
"Are you alright, should I call someone?"
"I'm just closing my eyes, I'm fine."
"Oh." Another pause, then the quiet scrape of chair legs on the
floor as Lindsay sits down. His hand is warm when he slides it over Pip's
and winds their fingers together, slightly damp like he's just washed and
hasn't bothered drying properly. "Did you speak to the police?"
"Yeah, a bit. I'm meant to do a proper statement tomorrow but
they basically even said don't worry too much, he's a proper scumbag, they
was after him for stabbing up this old lady for her handbag anyway. They
were dead nice, I know PC Barnes anyway, me and Olly shopped his
brother to her..." He trails off, realising he's talking too much just to delay
the silence. "Lindsay, are you alright?"
Lindsay laughs a bit at that, not like he thinks it's funny but just
a quiet, disbelieving little noise. "You're the one with all the stitches."
"Yeah. It looks quite cool really, I was watching them sew me
up. Like this big triangle flap of skin. I'm gonna get a wicked scar like an
arrowhead, I might get 'this way up' tattooed under it when it's better."
"Oh good, you are alright."
"Yeah. Took a lot of bullets to bring down Bonnie and Clyde,
hey?"
"Mm."
He turns his hand over in Lindsay's, sliding their fingers
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together properly and feeling the damp heat of his palm. There's got to be a
key to turn somewhere, something to bring Lindsay back and wake him up
and make him alright. "I'm allowed home tomorrow," he tries, murmuring
as low as he can even though there's nobody else in the room. "Told you I
wouldn't stick my kidneys or nothing." Already it feels far away, like a
dream or an ancient memory of something that happened when you were
drunk. He can't remember the sharp pain of it, but he can remember the
slight resistance when he drove the flick knife into his skin and out the
back, the wet sound it made when he took a deep breath for courage and
yanked the blade up and out, tearing that huge red triangle into his side. It
wasn't deep enough to cause any proper trouble; he was clear-headed
enough to make sure the cut was shallow, like skinning instead of stabbing,
but that moment of shocked pain between driving the knife in and tearing
it upwards, when he had to fight down sick and talk himself into following
it through, felt longer than his whole lifetime.
"I can't stand being in hospitals," Lindsay says. His voice
sounds small and strange, completely alien. He never sounds this afraid
and unsure.
"Would you rather fix me yourself with a damp flannel and
some sticky plasters?"
"Shut up."
"Hospitals help."
"I know. I just hate them. Everything. The bad coffee machines
and how the corridors are always painted some ugly colour and nurses'
squeaky shoes and even if you're alright there's still a hundred other people
dying under this roof right now."
Pip doesn't know what to say to that. He's exhausted, his brain
doesn't feel like functioning any more. "Yeah but people die every day,
you can't mourn them all else you'll lose your mind. I'm alright and you're
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alright and we ain't been arrested and what else matters?"
"I miss my dad."
That twists his stomach a bit, underlining the throbbing
sensation along the stitched inverted V. "Babe, you know you're allowed to
talk to me about him at home, right? Not just when I'm in a hospital bed?"
"I know. It's easier to forget at home. It doesn't matter, it's
stupid. Do you need anything?"
"Lindsay," Pip says sharply, and Lindsay stops where he is for a
second, half out of his seat, then collapses back down with a heavy,
trembling sigh.
"What?"
"I need you to talk to me sometimes."
"I talk to you."
"If something's bothering you. Ever. Even if it's something little
and stupid, I don't care, just if you're sad sometimes and there's anything I
can do so you don't feel so shit-"
Lindsay interrupts. "It's nothing. I was just talking to your dad
earlier. I'm tired. Don't listen."
"I want to."
It's like trying to get blood out of a stone or wine out of a water
bottle. When Lindsay closes up like this, trying to prise him open only
makes it worse. You've just got to be still and quiet, lull him into feeling
like there's nobody else around and it's okay to talk to yourself, although
he's not mad or stupid so he knows it's really not. Eventually he starts,
slow and low, and Pip presses clumsy little kisses on the back of his hot
hand to urge him on. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]