by Mark Edwards
‘You know the Greek myth?’ she asked. ‘That Zeus split humans in two and that we all wander the earth looking for our lost half? Well, we’re the lucky ones, Andrew. We found our missing half, the half that makes us whole.’
In addition to embracing Greek myths, like many couples we mythologised the beginning of our relationship. If I hadn’t dropped that coin. If you hadn’t had to wait so long at the Tube station. And then Charlie had lost her phone, been unable to contact me. What if I’d met someone else during that short period? Oh, we had overcome so many obstacles to be together, laughed in Fate’s cruel face!
I mulled all this over as I explored the shops of Oxford and Regent Street. By the time I had finished shopping, the rooftops were white with snow and the pavements were slippery with slush. It seemed like lots of people were leaving work early, keen to get home before public transport shut down, keeping their fingers crossed for a snowed-in day tomorrow.
I joined the crowds pushing into the Tube station. I was already beginning to regret buying so much as I was laden with bags full of shirts and jumpers and shoes. My pathetic trainers were soaked through, my socks damp and cold. The snow was still coming down hard.
To enter Oxford Circus station, there are several stairways that lead down from the intersection of Oxford and Regent Street. We were lined up six across to get into the station. I wondered if it would be more sensible to get a bus back to Tulse Hill. But I was caught up in the crowd now, bodies pressing behind me. It was like leaving a football match or stadium gig, everyone trying to get into the station at the same time. I hoped commuting wasn’t going to be like this or I might regret my decision.
I finally reached the front of the crowd at the top of the steps that led down into the belly of London. From in front of me I could hear shouting; someone had slipped on the concrete steps.
A voice shouted, ‘Hold up!’ from below. I stopped, allowing the stairs to clear in front of me. I was stuck in the middle of the crowd, halfway between the wall on one side and the central handrail on the other, unable to use my hands because of all the bags I was holding. I hesitated – and as I did I felt the crowd surge behind me, could hear shouting, the pedestrian equivalent of cars sounding their horns in a traffic jam, the thin veneer of civilisation being torn down by impatience and anger.
What happened next has replayed itself in my dreams many times since. I started to descend the steps, putting one soggy foot in front of the other, head down, treading deliberately and carefully.
And then I was falling, arms flailing, a whoosh of air in my belly as I went down head first, unable to stop my fall because of my full hands, and in a blur of darkness and light, I tumbled, fast, trying to grab hold of the rail, my foot jarring on a step, knee twisting, the bright flash of agony shooting up through my leg, and then I was lying on the ground at the bottom.
I remember flickers of what happened next. How most of the people in the crowd poured past and over me, so that I seriously feared I would be trampled to death. How a young black man pulled me to one side and his girlfriend fetched a couple of Underground workers, who acted like I was causing them a massive inconvenience. Then someone was asking me if I could walk. I couldn’t; my knee felt like it was on fire and the slightest pressure sent spears of pain through me. I was carried out of the station by a pair of paramedics and taken to the nearest hospital where I joined a queue of people in A&E who’d slipped in the snow, the nurses looking harassed as the walking wounded were brought in one after another.
In the chaos, I had lost my shopping bags, which concerned me even more at that point than the pain in my knee. I texted Charlie, playing down what had happened, telling her I’d see her at the flat later if she could make it round. Then, finally, I was wheeled in to see the nurse and made to wait some more for an X-ray.
‘You’ve sprained a knee ligament,’ the nurse said, eventually. ‘Nothing too serious, but you’re not going to be able to walk on it for three to four weeks. Are you on your own? Do you have someone who can come and help you get home?’
This was just like when my retina had detached. Except this time, I did have someone who could come and be with me. I called Charlie and told her what had happened.
‘Oh, Andrew! I’ll be right there.’
Two hours later I left the hospital, my swollen right leg swaddled in a tight bandage, on a pair of crutches. I had ten days’ supply of codeine, forty pills, and instructions to rest. ‘For goodness sake, don’t go out on your crutches in this snow and ice,’ the nurse said, looking at me as if she was sure that was exactly what I was intending to do.
Charlie called a minicab which took us home. My street was carpeted with snow and the taxi could barely get up the road, the driver complaining and cursing as he inched his way towards my flat, headlights illuminating the swirling snowflakes. Charlie insisted that he take me to my front door. Then came the worst part: getting up the steps, all four flights. I did it backwards, on my bum, pushing myself up, trying not to bump my leg, shards of white-hot pain exploding every time I did. By the time we reached the top I was almost in tears, sweating and shaking.
Charlie, her face etched with concern, helped me onto the sofa, pushing the coffee table away so I could sit with my leg propped up on a cushion.
‘My poor wounded soldier,’ she said.
‘I need a drink,’ I said.
‘Is that wise, with the codeine?’
‘I don’t care. Please.’
She opened a bottle of red and I gulped down a glassful quickly. I had taken two painkillers at the hospital and they were finally kicking in.
It was so good to have her beside me. What would I have done without her?
‘You really must be more careful,’ she said, smiling gently. ‘I’ve only just got you. I can’t bear to think of losing you.’
‘I’m sure,’ I said, ‘that someone – some bastard in the crowd behind me – pushed me.’
She looked shocked. ‘Did you see them?’
‘No. But I felt hands on my back. I’m sure I did.’ My blood chilled as I thought of it, like the snow was inside the room; inside my veins.
I looked down at the bandage on my leg. Outside the window, the snow was falling even more heavily. Four flights of stairs, and outside, the pavements were slick with ice. With a sinking heart, I realised I was trapped.
Fifteen
The snow didn’t stop falling for days. From Land’s End to John o’ Groats, from London to Glasgow and everywhere between, Britain shivered beneath a white shroud. I pulled a chair over to the window and watched it eddying past my window, Christmassy scenes that, under other circumstances, I would have enjoyed. The heating was cranked up, I had plenty of food and drink in the house, lots to entertain me. But I didn’t feel cosy or safe: I felt stuck, anxious, a lame polar bear at the zoo.
One of the first people I called the morning after it happened, after an uncomfortable night flat on my back, the pain in my knee keeping me awake, was Victor.
‘I’m not going to be able to start Monday.’ I told him what had happened, leaving out the part about believing I’d been pushed. I didn’t want him to think I was paranoid.
‘Ah, bollocks,’ he said. ‘Talk about the shitty end of the stick.’
We agreed that I would carry on doing freelance work from home and, to my great relief, he said I could start my new job as soon as I was able to make it in.
‘As soon as the ice and snow are gone, and I can get around on these crutches, I’ll be there.’
‘Take your time, Andrew,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll come round and see you, bring you some grapes.’
‘That would be great.’
‘They got you on painkillers?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Industrial-strength codeine.’ The tablets were huge, like ones you’d give to a horse. I was supposed to take one every four hours during waking hours, but had been ch
eating a little and was often unable to wait the full interval, taking them every two to three hours. I wasn’t worried: I’d be able to get more from the hospital when I ran out.
‘Love that stuff,’ Victor said. ‘And what about your missus? She looking after you?’
‘Yeah, she’s coming round straight after work. Listen, Victor, I’m really sorry about all of this.’
‘Don’t worry, mate. There’s no great rush. Look at it this way: it’s a bit more time without me being your boss, after which I won’t be nice to you any more.’
He spluttered with laughter and I put the phone down, feeling a little better until a stab of pain pulsed inside my cast.
I took a codeine tablet.
‘How are you feeling?’ Charlie asked when she turned up in the early evening, her hair dotted with melting snow, carrying a small suitcase and a couple of carrier bags.
‘Frustrated,’ I said.
She gave me an exaggerated comedy wink. ‘I can sort that out.’
‘I didn’t mean that kind of frustrated. I meant I hate being stuck here, unable to go outside.’
‘I know. Did your sense of humour get knocked out when you fell down those steps?’
‘Sorry.’
She kissed me. Her lips were cold. ‘It’s OK. Now, look, I brought you some presents and I’m going to cook you dinner.’
She gave me some books, magazines and The Sopranos box set because she’d been horrified to discover I’d never watched it. Then she set about making dinner.
‘What’s with the suitcase?’ I asked, watching her chop basil and tomatoes, spaghetti waiting in the pan.
She turned to me. ‘I thought I’d better come and stay with you for a bit, look after you.’
‘That’s really sweet,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure I like being looked after. It makes me feel like you’re mothering me or something.’
She put the knife down and came over to me. ‘Don’t be daft. I’m not going to put on a nurse’s uniform and wipe your bum for you. But you’re going to go crazy stuck in here on your own, aren’t you? I come here nearly every night anyway, so I thought it would be easier if I left some stuff here. Then I won’t have to keep going back to my place every day.’
‘All right. Thank you. I’m sorry.’
She went back into the kitchenette.
‘Did you talk to Victor?’ she asked.
I recounted our conversation and she nodded. ‘That’s good. I know your leg hurts and you hate being stuck indoors. But you should try to enjoy it. Just chill out, rest, watch The Sopranos. I wish I could take some time off work but this project is at a critical stage, fucking pain in the arse that it is.’
She turned, pointing the tip of the knife in my direction.
‘Have I told you about that dick, Michael?’ She recounted an argument she’d had with one of the consultants at the hospital, jabbing the knife forward to emphasise the parts she was most annoyed about.
‘Shit, Charlie, you look like you want to stab him.’
She looked down at the knife and smiled. ‘Hmm. If I could get away with it I’d stick this in his heart and shove him in the incinerator.’
She turned back to the worktop.
I took a sip of wine. ‘I hope I never get on your bad side.’
She sliced a cucumber. ‘Don’t worry, handsome. You never could.’
The days bled into one another in a codeine- and boredom-induced haze. I did some work on Karen’s site, emailing the new draft to her. I tinkered with the Wowcom campaign. What else did I do? Looking back is like straining to see through misted glass, or watching a slow-moving, faded movie in which all the scenes have been chopped up and jumbled.
I watched TV. I browsed Facebook and eBay and Buzzfeed until my eyes throbbed. I tried to read, but the words wouldn’t go in and I would read the same paragraphs over and over before giving in. I waited for Charlie to come round. I tried to ignore the itching beneath the cast.
A lot of the time, I slept. The codeine gave me vivid dreams that would have impressed and terrified Salvador Dali, dreams in which I floated on clouds with talking tigers, or was a member of an American street gang, mowing down motherfuckers with an Uzi. I had that Miley Cyrus song, ‘Wrecking Ball,’ stuck in my head and it went round and round and round so many times that I wanted to cut my own head off to escape it.
And all the while, the snow kept falling. In one of my codeine dreams, I imagined the snow burying the streets, reaching my fourth-floor window and causing me to mount a daring escape, gliding across the vanished city on a tea tray to rescue Charlie. Except I was the one who needed rescuing: I was Rapunzel, or that guy in Rear Window. I felt like I was going mad, and only Charlie, who came round every evening and stayed over, kept me from slipping into insanity.
‘It’s your own fault for buying that fourth-floor flat,’ Tilly said, teasing me. ‘Otherwise I’d come round and visit. If you lived on the ground floor, we could get you a wheelchair and could have races.’
‘You’d whip my arse.’
‘True dat. Oh, guess what? Rachel’s got a boyfriend. His name’s Henry and he’s a Hells Angel.’
‘Really?’
‘Actually, they’re not real Angels, are they? The Eastbourne and Pevensey Motorcycle Club.’ She sniggered. ‘You should see him. He’s about seven foot tall, with a beard almost that long, and more tats than David Beckham. Nice chap, though.’
‘That’s so sweet. Do they go out riding together?’
‘Yeah, she gives him backies.’ She laughed dirtily.
‘And what about your love life?’ I asked, somewhat tentatively.
‘You see the weather outside? Cold, bleak, no sign of a thaw? Well, it’s like that.’
‘Maybe Henry has a friend?’ I could just see Tilly in the arms of a hairy biker.
‘Oh, puh-lease.’
Talking to Tilly cheered me up. I was trying hard not to feel sorry for myself. I couldn’t help, though, thinking it was desperately unfair that I’d suffered two medical dramas within a year. My ‘eye thing,’ as Tilly called it, hadn’t kept me confined to the flat – though walking round with a gas bubble in my eye was not much fun – but it had been more worrying. I knew my leg would heal. I just had to be patient. Like Charlie urged, I tried to enjoy the downtime, and after a few days of going slightly crazy, I got a grip and spent more time being constructive, taking on a new mini-project for Victor.
I remembered that I hadn’t received any feedback from Karen about the second version of her site, so emailed her asking if she was happy with it. She didn’t reply straight away and I decided to give it a couple of days before chasing her. I felt anxious about it, and told Charlie so in an email. She asked if I wanted her to go round and ‘sort her out.’
You don’t have any boys to send round, she wrote, so I’ll do it.
I replied with a LOL.
Sasha called and texted and arranged to come round. She was finally going to get to meet Charlie, who was still adamant that Sasha wouldn’t like her but agreed it was crazy they hadn’t met yet.
‘Why are all your friends girls?’ Charlie asked after I’d set up the ‘date’ with Sasha.
‘I’ve got male friends.’ I tried not to sound indignant. ‘But most of my friends are scattered around the country or still in Eastbourne.’
‘I suppose you don’t meet that many new people, being freelance.’
‘Exactly. And what about you? You never talk about your friends at all, apart from people at work.’
She walked over to the fridge, poured herself more wine. ‘I’ve got plenty of friends . . . But I haven’t lived in London very long, have I? They’re all back home in Leeds.’
‘Do you miss them?’
She shrugged. ‘Yeah, a bit.’
‘We should go up there, when I’m walking again. You can sh
ow me where you grew up, introduce me to your mates.’
‘Maybe.’
I remembered something. ‘That night we first went out, you stayed with someone in central London. Who was that?’
‘Huh?’
‘I just assumed you have a friend who lives in central London.’
‘Oh. Actually, I lied to you that night.’
I looked at her.
‘I wanted to go home with you, but knew that you’d think I was a total slut or that it was just a one-night stand. And I didn’t want the awkwardness of getting a cab to drop us off separately. So I lied.’
‘Oh.’
‘I waited five minutes then got a taxi home. Sorry.’ She leaned into me and kissed my cheek. ‘I didn’t want you to know how irresistible I found you. Do you forgive me?’
‘Yeah, of course. It’s no big deal. Though I wouldn’t have thought you were a slut, you know. I was smitten within ten minutes of meeting you.’
‘Ditto.’
The codeine was starting to wear off and I felt a twinge in my knee. I needed another pill.
‘Maybe you and Sasha will become friends,’ I said, hobbling over to the kitchen to retrieve the painkillers. I had enough for a few more days, even though I’d been taking more than I should.
‘I’ll try, Andrew,’ she said.
‘I’m sure you’re wrong about her not liking you. She’ll think you’re awesome.’
She pretended not to hear, staring at something on her phone.
I swallowed the codeine tablet.
Six days had passed since my fall and Charlie went off to work, leaving me in bed with my laptop. I had given her my keys so she could let herself in and out, and I spent most of the day sitting around looking forward to hearing the scratch of the key in the lock.
It hadn’t snowed for over twenty-four hours but, according to Charlie, the ground outside was treacherous, in need of gritting.
‘I’ve seen around ten people slip over in the last week,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky, being safely cocooned in your little flat.’
