The Wrong Story

by James Ellis

  ‘None.’

  It seemed that Tom’s interlude in hospital was to be nothing more than that: a brief adventure and soon over. A three-act joke that wasn’t funny: man falls off roof; man gets patched up; man goes home. Bang, bang, bang.

  Rather than wait in bed he put on his clothes, pulled together his meagre possessions and then sat on the side of the bed, awaiting instructions. Just before lunchtime, Bee came along with a woman police officer who was carrying a bicycle helmet. Her hair was sweaty and stuck to her forehead.

  ‘Tom,’ Bee said. ‘Do you feel up to being asked a few questions? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

  ‘It won’t take a moment, sir,’ the police officer said and introduced herself as Ann Lasley. She sat on the plastic chair by Tom’s bed, balanced her helmet on her knee and took out her notebook. Tom sat on the side of his bed, feeling the familiar soreness spread across his buttocks as he did so. His aches and pains were now old friends. He tried to focus and not look guilty of anything.

  ‘How are you today, Mister Hannah?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you. And looking forward to going home.’ He loosened up.

  ‘I see you’ve got a few injuries.’

  ‘You should see the other guy.’

  ‘Should I?’

  Tom had loosened up too much. ‘That was a joke. You know – I look bad but you should see the other guy. I haven’t been fighting.’ Tom’s lips were still swollen and he had a missing tooth and a bruised eye. Perhaps he had been fighting. ‘That’s the second joke of the day that’s fallen flat on its face,’ he said.

  ‘A bit like you did.’ Police Officer Ann Lasley smiled. ‘Joke. Shall we start? I’m not going to take a formal statement at this moment in time. It’s just a chat. Do you mind if I take notes, though?’

  This moment in time.

  This moment, this thing we call ‘now’ , has alr eady gone, and so has this, and this. There is no time associated with now. It ’ s a point. A dot.

  Tom tried to remember when he had said those words.

  ‘Mister Hannah?’

  Tom looked at her. ‘Sorry. Of course. Take notes.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me about Sunday. You were on the roof of Hardies Lane multi-storey car park.’

  Tom knew that place, it was a short walk from his house. ‘I didn’t realise that’s where I was.’ In his mind’s eye he could picture it, an ugly, squat brick of a building. ‘I wonder why I didn’t ask before?’

  ‘Ask what?’

  ‘Where it was that I fell. I didn’t know. Why Hardies Lane?’

  ‘I’m hoping you can tell me.’

  But of course, what he couldn’t remember he couldn’t tell her and after half an hour of fruitless questioning she stood up.

  ‘I, or one of my colleagues, will take a formal statement in a week or so,’ she said before she went. ‘Hopefully you’ll remember a bit more by then.’

  After she’d gone, he sat on his bed and thought about her cycling back to the police station on her pushbike, pedalling through the London traffic in her high-visibility police jacket, mulling over his implausible story. His mind wandered. Was it a police-issue bicycle? Did she have to take whatever size they gave her or had she been measured for the correct frame size? And was it an enhanced model with certain police features that weren’t available on the standard model. What he really wanted to know was did it have a siren?

  He also really wanted to go home. He was debating whether to just go and not wait for whatever the discharge process was, and call Karen or phone for a taxi to take him home; when a tall, stringy, bony man with a shiny bald head and a barely visible grey toothbrush moustache walked towards his bay.

  He was wrapped tightly in a heavy camel overcoat and he reminded Tom, as he always did, of a praying mantis. He fiddled with his gloves and his long, triangular, insect face turned this way and that until his glaring eyes settled on Tom. He nodded in recognition and walked quickly across to his bay. Tom had known this man for a long time.

  ‘Gerard Borkmann,’ Tom said and stood up. ‘Well, I never expected to see you.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have gone private, Tom?’

  Tom laughed and shook his hand. ‘Not on the commission you take. Have you forgotten something?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How am I. That’s what visitors ask. But I’m fine, thank you, and you do know that visiting hours are later? How did you know I was here?’

  ‘You’re being tweeted about, Tom,’ Borkmann said, sitting down next to Tom on the bed and hunching up as if keeping disease at bay. ‘Tweeted. Our social media intern found you.’

  ‘That was good of her.’

  ‘Him.’ Borkmann looked around. ‘Loathsome places,’ he said. ‘Ill people. Unhealthy people. People die here, Tom.’

  ‘You could have just put that in a card and sent it to me. No need to come in specially. Anyway, isn’t it good for you to have your asset in the public eye again?’

  Borkmann leaned closer. ‘Never mind that. Tom, what happened?’

  ‘That’s the question of the week. I don’t know. I tried to fly and it didn’t work.’

  ‘It was an accident?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Well, no, I don’t know for sure. Did you sneak up behind and push me off?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m joking.’

  Borkmann looked at Tom with his black eyes glittering and then nodded. ‘Well, you seem well enough,’ he said. He looked at Tom’s bandaged thumb. ‘Is that your drawing hand?’

  ‘Afraid so, but that’s nothing, look at this.’ Tom bared his broken tooth.

  ‘Your tooth has gone? Where is it?’

  Tom laughed. ‘On a chain around my neck. I don’t know. The tooth fairies are building a castle with it.’

  Borkmann sniffed. ‘You look more like a bandit than ever. I thought they might have operated on that moustache.’ He gestured at Tom’s clothes. ‘What are you doing now? You don’t look like you’re in hospital. Why aren’t you lying down?’

  ‘I’m leaving. I’ve been discharged.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘They want the bed.’

  Borkmann put on his gloves.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift home.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  Borkmann ignored him. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘what I don’t understand is what you were doing on the roof of a car park in the first place. How high was it?’

  ‘They said about 60 feet. It was the Hardies Lane car park.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I mean, what enticed you up there in the first place. I thought you had a height phobia.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It’s all I can do to get you to my office on the fourth floor.’

  ‘I know.’

  Borkmann stood up. He looked dissatisfied. ‘Are you ready, then?’

  ‘I suppose so. I’m not sure what happens next. I just go, presumably.’

  ‘I’ll get the car. I’ll see you down by the entrance in 15 minutes.’

  Tom watched him stalk off as Maggie came into view. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘That was my agent. He’s just reminded me why I drink.’

  She held up an envelope. ‘Well, if you read this you’ll see you have to do less of that. This is your discharge summary. We’ll send a copy to your GP. There’s a letter from Doctor Muller explaining what’s happened to you and what we’ve done, and all the information about your medication is in there, and also the follow-up appointments that Doctor Muller wants you to attend. There are some leaflets about organisations and support services for people who’ve been discharged after suffering traumas.’

  ‘Have I suffered a trauma?’

  ‘I think you have,’ said Maggie.

  ‘I don’t feel that way.’

  ‘That’s probably a good thing.’ She looked at him and smiled. ‘We
ll, we’ve got your contact details. How are you getting home?’

  ‘My agent’s taking me. And don’t think that’s a good thing because it’s not. He has poor spatial awareness. I may be back in A&E soon.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well, tell him to take care. There are only so many times you can fall off a wall and we can put you back together again.’

  ‘You mean a roof.’

  ‘I mean like Humpty Dumpty.’ They looked at each other. ‘It was nice to meet you, Tom Hannah.’ She held out her hand. ‘Good luck. Say hello to Scraps for me.’

  ‘I will.’

  They shook hands and she walked away. Tom watched her go. He wanted to say something; to call her back. He wanted to ask her how she had got that little mark on her face and whether or not she had a red Christmas jumper.

  Humpty Dumpty. He liked that.

  ‘I can always come back,’ he said to no one. ‘I can always come back and bring some flowers or something, to say thank you.’

  He looked around the bay. The beds were all neatly made and awaiting the next casualties to arrive, casualties who would be medicated, healed and discharged – if they were lucky. He had been lucky. Implausibly lucky, as Karen had said. But then life was implausible. He thought about the always-angry restaurant owner and her stained jacket and red-rimmed blue eyes. Life was imperfect.

  Tom, I don ’ t want you to confuse wanting to go home with getting better. If you don ’ t feel right, then you should tell me or one of the other nurses.

  He picked up his belongings and left.

  Part Two

  The Draw

  8

  A beginning, a middle and an end? Is life actually like that? Perhaps for a cartoonist it is, because there’s always a sequence, there’s always the first frame and the final frame and whatever bridges the gap. Maybe that’s why Tom yearned so much to live in the moment, because the bit in the middle was where all the living was done. Act Two is so often a botched job.

  Back when we first saw the big yellow dog and I was trying to work out what was going on, it wasn’t like that for me. My life was a collection of moments that could be in any order. It’s funny but I pictured those moments as being contained in bin-bags piled up around me. I say funny because I was an eco-fox on a mission to combat waste and rid the world of piles of bin-bags. There was no beginning, middle or end in my world. I seemed to stay still while the moments that made up me, that made up my life, accumulated like black bags outside a charity shop on a Sunday night, stacking up and spreading out for as far as I could see; bags filled with scenes and experiences and apple cores. I kept the good stuff close by – the things I liked to buff up and talk about and embellish and embroider and put on display; the life story I like to promote; the official version of me; the happy-smiley stuff – and the rest I left to rot.

  So that’s how I saw my life: a giant landfill site. I didn’t progress at all; life just happened. Not a particularly inspiring philosophy, I have to say. But looking back, I think the question I should have been asking was, where did all that stuff come from in the first place?

  It was some time after being chased by the yellow dog (an experience I was happy to leave in a black bag somewhere and forget), and I was walking along a dark street keeping to the shadows wherever I could, smoking a cigarette and enjoying being alone. I liked the dark. Daytime was good if it was sunny and I could find a quiet spot in which to relax, but I preferred a cool, clear night with stars above and a pavement below. I like streets and houses: quiet and empty and echoing. I could hear sounds that were a long way away on an empty, echoing street. Much better than being in the woods and amongst the trees. I didn’t like that at all. Things rustle in the woods at night. Things rustle where nothing should be rustling at all. Creatures scurry, wings flap, and there are other noises: cries and shrieks and whistles; sounds far away and some right up close that would freeze my blood and chill my bones. Outdoor creatures like me can die in the woods at night and be picked clean before dawn. Give me a pavement any day. Who would want tall, looming trees with twisting growths and gnarled claws when you could have a nice lamppost lighting your way, creating dark shadows in which a furtive fox could hide?

  I was thinking about that as I walked in the dark, avoiding the pools of lamppost light, when it occurred to me that I had never been in a wood. I searched my mind for a genuine experience – a sight, a touch, a scent – and there were none. My world as far as I could remember had always consisted of the shapes and silhouettes of houses and buildings; of alleyways, gardens, dustbins, pavements and streetlights. These were the familiar contours through which I navigated every day. The landscape of concrete and bricks and metal felt right to me. It felt like I belonged there. Where did all that wood stuff come from?

  On that night it seemed there was only me. I lit another cigarette and blew smoke into the air just to see some movement. I walked on and came to a park, quiet and empty, the swings motionless and hanging in the air. I slipped through the railings and made my way across the grass, vaulting the gate at the far side. A little further on, the pavement led down to an underpass, where I paused to assess the sounds inside, the smells and scents, and then when I was sure the exit was clear, I passed through, unloading my own scent against the wall on my way. I loved doing that. I loved painting walls with my legs apart and my hips thrust forwards and my shoulders hunched, looking furtively from side to side with a cigarette dangling from my lip. What a look.

  It was late when I reached the entrance to our alley. It was an odd thing but whichever route I took, whatever road I crossed, in whichever direction I walked, the alleyway was always at the end of my journey, always there waiting for me. My home, ready to receive me.

  Before rejoining the others, I went over to a house on the other side of the road, opened the gate and walked up to the window – I wanted to see my reflection. I looked a ghostly figure in the glass. I lit another cigarette. It felt a long time since I’d been chased by the yellow dog. There was some blood on my face, drying but still sticky, a cut on one ear and another on my lip. I spat on the ground and looked at it – there was blood in my saliva too.

  You should see the other guy.

  I sighed and blew smoke at the window, inhaling some of it again as it bounced back to me, and loosened up a bit, letting my arms swing backwards and forwards at my sides. I walked around the small garden, pacing one way and then the other, before returning to my reflection.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I muttered. ‘Is this a new adventure?’

  My reflection said nothing but I didn’t think it was a new adventure. It used to be that every week we had an episode of excitement; a short period of happy purpose. But recently things had been different. Events were ongoing, unresolved, painful, unfunny. Like the yellow dog attacking us. There had been no reason for that, no build-up, no outcome. In fact, it had been horrible. A sordid and painful episode. And the dog had been different too: it didn’t talk, it didn’t stand up. It had been like an animal.

  I touched my ear and stared at my spit and thought about those adventures, those collections of moments that had once rolled around as regular as clockwork, like a horse on a carousel. Plenty and Billy and the Pelican, all of us, we would be minding our own business, sitting in the sun or looking for food, or playing cards, and then there would be… something. The air would change and things would clarify. It was the beginning. I knew it and everyone else knew it. My mood would change. I would feel alive and clever and bright and the yearning to tear the bags and boxes and dustbins to pieces with my teeth would go away.

  An adventure usually involved tricking the always-angry restaurant owner in some way, but she would be as excited as we were. She might say something or do something or plan something and life would become vivid; the dirt and grime and clutter would be gone and everything would be clean and simple and perfect. And I would always win. I always won and the always-angry restaurant owner always lost. And we would eat and laugh and be happy and sometimes dri
nk champagne in bubble-baths while she fumed and sulked and stamped her feet.

  That was how it was meant to be; how it had always been. And then things would calm down and we would go back to minding our own business. The always-angry restaurant owner would join us in the alleyway and we’d pass the time again, playing cards and talking until… until our next adventure. I looked at my reflection. Until our next adventure? What was I talking about? It seems a ridiculous thing to say now.

  I stopped enjoying the night and started feeling unwell. I looked down at my threadbare body and saw that I didn’t look too good either and, looking around, nor did my surroundings. The whole area was going downhill. I studied the sky – were there less stars than before? Was the sky deteriorating too? And the silhouettes of the houses: so many black shapes – squares, oblongs, triangles – but no lights. Where were all the people? Were they asleep? I looked up at the house that stood before me. Had I ever seen any of the people who lived here?

  ‘Anybody in there?’ I said, cupping my mouth with my hands and leaning against the window. ‘Anybody in there?’

  I wondered if I was going mad.

  Out of habit I urinated on the lawn and then cleaned my hands with antibacterial gel. Clean, lean and green is my motto. I peered at my reflection for one last time and plucked a hair out of my nostril. How long had that been waving in the wind? The hair was about an inch long. Once I had been svelte and suave, now I walked around with cables growing out of my nose and mould on my fur and blood in my ear. There was a definite change. I could feel it as if a storm were coming. I was falling apart.

  I walked across to the entrance to our alleyway: a narrow passage that connected two parallel roads. Either side buildings rose high into the air, leaving just a strip of sky several floors above. No vehicles ever came down there, and so the dustbins and piles of boxes and crates and cartons remained where they were, like props waiting to be arranged. There were no windows that looked out onto the alleyway from above, just two towering brick walls with pipes and grilles and grates decorating their greasy surfaces.