The day drags on. I’m half-asleep, still holding Luke’s hand. I jerk awake when the door opens.
‘No change then?’ It’s Bill. He’s puffing as if he’s walked up all seven flights of stairs to this ward.
I shake my head. I can’t trust my voice.
‘I’m just calling in on my way to my work. Sandra’ll be up soon. She was here all hours last night.’ He looks down at Luke and tuts, not crossly, just sort of hopelessly. ‘Why could he not talk to us?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bill crosses to the bedside cabinet and picks up Brendan’s card. He nods as he puts it back, and then sits down at the opposite side of the bed to me. He pulls at the knees of his trousers as he sits, the way my dad does. He pats Luke’s arm in an embarrassed sort of way, then turns to me and lowers his voice. ‘Don’t you be blaming yourself, love. I know yous’ve fell out, but you’re here now. That’s the main thing.’
Luke has said almost nothing about Bill, except that Sandra’s the boss. I know he’s a school caretaker who likes a fry up and his garden.
‘I should have spent more time with him,’ he says. ‘I tried to – tried to get him interested in the garden and – och, but sure yous have your own interests.’ He scratches the side of his face. ‘I was looking forward to having a boy again,’ he goes on. ‘I thought maybe he’d be into football or – och, well, maybe if he’d been a bit younger. But he always kept me at arm’s length.’
You and me both.
‘Now, he did help out the odd time in the garden, fair play to him. We’d a tree fell and he helped me chop it up to take to the dump.’ He lapses into silence.
I wonder what it’s like, taking on a succession of foster kids. Taking on all their problems.
The bruises on Luke’s cheek are darker purple now. Weird that your skin still does all that – goes through whatever process it is that makes bruises change colour – while you’re unconscious.
I wonder what colour Jasmine’s bruises are today.
I raise my hand and very lightly touch the unmarked side of his face. His skin feels clammy. His eyelashes are dark against his cheeks, and his chin is roughened by stubble. That seems weird too – bruises change colour, hair keeps growing. The stubble makes him look older.
‘You’re a good girl,’ Bill says suddenly. ‘Whatever yous fell out about – I’m sure yous can sort it out. He was dying about you.’
Another unfortunate word choice. Even though the room is hot I shiver.
_____________
Nurses bustle in and out. I go to the vending machines for a Coke. The sky outside the window darkens. My eyelids flutter, if something so heavy can flutter. I lean closer to Luke’s face. With the hand that’s not holding his I push the darkening hair back from his forehead, as gently as I can. I don’t know where his head injury is. There aren’t any marks on the outside. His hair is damp with grease. He would hate to think that he’s lying here unshaven, with unwashed hair.
‘Bill was here,’ I say. I lay my head down on the bed cover for a second. I need Luke to wake up. I imagine feeling his hands in my hair, cradling my head, soothing me, telling me everything’s going to be OK.
But it’s up to me to do that. ‘I know we fell out,’ I whisper. ‘And if you just want to be friends that’s OK. Just wake up.’
A hand touches my hair and I start. But Luke hasn’t stirred. I turn round.
‘Sandra.’
‘I didn’t want to wake you, love,’ she says. ‘You look shattered.’
‘I wasn’t –’
She gives a soft laugh. ‘I’ve been here over an hour. You never stirred.’
I rub my hands over my hot face. My head’s throbbing. I’ve slobbered on the bed cover.
‘Let me give you a lift home, Esther. You look like you’ve had enough.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Bill’s heading back – come on and I’ll give you a lift home.’
I feel guilty but I do want to get out of this airless room.
‘My mum’s coming for me later. She has to work late.’
‘You can get your mum to pick you up at our house. Come on, love. You need to mind yourself.’ Her combination of kindness and bossiness is irresistible. I wonder if she was like that with Luke. I find myself letting her take control, and even though I hate leaving Luke behind, it’s magic to get out into the damp grey dusk.
Luke
Try to surface but everything’s so heavy. Limbs pull me back. Eyelids leaden. Somewhere voices hum and die.
Esther
It’s no good. The temptation is too great. I hesitate on the tiny landing, outside what I’ve worked out must be Luke’s bedroom door, but only for a second, and then I’m in. I close the door behind me and lean against it briefly. It’s a small, tidy space, with pale walls and white furniture. The blue-covered duvet is pulled up neatly, the desk clear. It’s even more freakishly neat than when I saw it on Skype, because I couldn’t tell then that all the books were in alphabetical order.
I pretended I needed to go to the loo but Sandra’s not daft. I haven’t much time.
I cast my eye along the bookcase, all the spines in line. One of the books is a notebook. Feeling terrible I slide it out. It’s an academic diary. Empty. I replace it with a feeling of disappointed relief.
Would you read his diary, if he has one?
No.
Maybe.
But there isn’t a diary. There are school books, his beloved MacBook Air, with a thin film of dust, his iPod and phone sitting neatly on the bedside table. I switch the phone on, and it buzzes into life but it’s password-protected and I won’t waste precious time trying to guess the code. I open the wardrobe and I breathe in the smell of his clothes – washing powder, mint and just Luke. His school blazer and trousers hang neatly on hangers beside the jacket he wore to the party.
There is nothing in here to help me. It might as well be a hotel room. There are no pictures on the walls, no clutter. There is one card on the windowsill. I pick it up. It’s from Lauren’s parents.
Thanks so much for everything you’ve done for Lauren. We’re so grateful that she can have a positive role model like you to show her that living with epilepsy doesn’t have to spoil her life.
I open the top drawer and find neatly-ranged grey and black underpants that make me feel uncomfortable. Like some kind of pervert.
I go to close the drawer but it sticks. I reach my hand in and it closes on something that definitely isn’t underwear. Something cool and hard. I pull out a sketchbook, A3, ring-bound, the same as my AS one. The sketchbook that made me so angry when I confronted Luke at the war memorial. I sit on the bed and open it.
The first few pages are pen and ink sketches similar in style to my birthday card. But there aren’t any ice-skating ponies. There are sketches of this room, and the street outside, and lots of the big old houses near the park, very accurate and accomplished; not very revealing.
I turn over. Pencil sketches of Jay, the cat, in a variety of poses, some very detailed, some a mere dash and scribble. One of the war memorial, with tiny scratches for the names, so precise that I have to squint to make sure they aren’t actual words. That’s what he was doing on Monday – was it only a few days ago?
There’s one of Dad! I can’t quite believe it, but it’s Dad alright, sitting at a teacher’s desk marking. It’s not a caricature or anything – it’s lifelike and accurate. Dad looking tired at the end of the day – the slump of his shoulders, the hugeness of the pile of books to be marked, the little frown on his forehead.
The next page – my heart skips. It’s a pencil sketch again, very delicate and soft. It’s me. Only not me. I look – I swallow because I can’t believe it – I look beautiful. Like me only seen by someone who really fancies me. Clothes are just suggested; you can see my shape. I don’t look fat; I look voluptuous. I stroke my hand over my face as Luke has drawn it. My lips are full, my top teeth resting on my bottom lip in the way I’ve always been
self-conscious about. The hands that drew this are the hands that have held back from touching me, the hands that made me think he didn’t fancy me. But this picture says something different.
If this is how he saw me, why could he never show me?
There is only one more page filled in, and when I first see it I almost jump at the contrast. The whole page is covered in swirls of psychedelic colour – mad and angry, with harsh black lines bruising the page. The paint has smudged and messed up the opposite page as well. Just looking at it makes me feel dizzy. I run my hands over the page and feel the texture. The paint is thick and rough in places and in others he has scored so heavily with the black pen that the page is nearly in holes.
If the picture of me is about love, is this hate? Or violence? It doesn’t look like it’s been done by the same careful skilled hand that drew everything else.
Is this the same violence that made him attack Jasmine?
‘Esther! Tea’s ready!’
I shiver, close the sketch book and put it carefully back under the pants. A postcard falls out from between the pages. It’s of a college building, old and pretty. Dublin City College is printed across the bottom. I turn it over. It’s addressed to Luke Bressan, at this address. The handwriting is precise – rather like Luke’s own – and the message is very short:
I thought you might like to see where I work. All going well here. Good luck with the new school and remember to aim for the top.
Helena
All going well here. Lucky Helena. Whoever she is.
Lady Muck. Fancy new job in Dublin. I know exactly who she is.
Luke
Words whisper from different places.
Come on, Luke.
Come back.
You know you want to.
You’ll like it.
See?
You little pervert.
Come on. Wake up.
Esther
The doctor looks at the chart at the bottom of the bed. He nods at me, frowns, and goes out.
My arm aches with holding Luke’s hand. I alternate hands but all that happens is they both start to ache. I say the same things I said yesterday. Stupid things. The clock on the wall says it’s eleven o’clock but it feels later. When the door opens and Sandra comes in, relief floods me.
‘I’ll sit with him for a while,’ she says. ‘Go on, love. Away and get some fresh air.’
There’s a park just over the road. Even though it’s cool and drizzly I find a bench and sit there. I lean back and feel the soft damp air on my face. After the hospital smell it feels like heaven. Quarter past eleven. Break time at school. Are people gossiping? What has Jasmine said? People will believe her. They don’t know Luke.
Do I?
I suppose she knows him better than anyone.
I take out my phone. Helena’s college is easy to find. I go through the list of staff and find a Dr Helena Scott. I click on her photo to enlarge it. She has a perfect chestnut bob and small dark eyes and good cheekbones. There are email addresses for all the staff. I tap out a message:
Hello Dr Scott.
I know you used to be Luke Bressan’s foster carer until recently.
Luke is very ill in hospital. I’m his – I hesitate – friend, and I would really appreciate it if you could contact me urgently.
I think it would help Luke if I could talk to someone who knows him as well as you must. Esther Wilson
It doesn’t say enough, but when – if – she phones the words will come then. I add my phone number. My finger shivers over the SEND icon and then touches.
_____________
A gentle knock at the door of Luke’s room, but nobody comes in. I stand up stiffly and open the door.
‘Ruth!’
‘They won’t let me in,’ she whispers. She flips her head in the direction of the nurses’ station. ‘But I thought you might need someone.’
‘I didn’t expect to see you. I wasn’t very nice to you on Monday.’
‘Don’t be daft. I don’t walk away from my friends.’
‘Me neither. That’s why …’
We both look at the bed.
‘I have to say,’ Ruth whispers. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised him from the photo you showed me.’
I have nothing to say to this.
‘Come for a coffee?’ she suggests.
‘I don’t like leaving –’
‘Just down to the canteen. You need a break.’
I turn back to Luke. No change. No life.
‘Fifteen minutes.’
The hospital canteen is big and noisy. Ruth makes me take chocolate and a slice of cake as well as coffee. I slide my phone out of my pocket and chance turning it on. There’s a new email.
Dear Esther, I am very sorry that Luke is ill but I do not see what help I can be. Luke has made it very clear that he wishes to have no contact with me. I do, of course, wish him a speedy recovery. Regards, Helena Scott
I pass the phone to Ruth because I know it can’t actually say that. I’m just too tired to make sense of anything. She lifts her eyes to me in disbelief. ‘That’s horrible. Well, she’ll be no use.’
‘But he lived with her for years. She must know him. She must know something.’
Ruth spoons sugar into the grey-looking hospital coffee. ‘What exactly are you trying to find out?’
I take a deep breath. ‘OK. You know I don’t believe Luke attacked Jasmine.’
‘Esther. The evidence isn’t looking great. Surely the fact that he –’
‘I know how it looks. But – I … I feel as if there is something I should know, something I can find out that will prove he didn’t do it, and …’
Ruth looks unconvinced. ‘And you think this Helena will know what it is? If there is anything?’
‘I don’t know. But there is literally nobody else, and I can’t just do nothing.’
‘You should talk to Jasmine again. If Jasmine knows what’s happened –’
‘She must do. You know what school gossip’s like.’
‘Well – if she was – exaggerating or something, surely she’d have said? Knowing how serious it was?’
‘Ruthie. I can’t.’ Panic wells up. ‘It would just be a waste of time.’
‘OK.’ Ruth stands up and brushes the crumbs off her school skirt. ‘So let’s go.’
‘Back to Luke?’
She shakes her head. ‘Dublin.’
My cake sticks in my throat. ‘We can’t!’
She jingles car keys. ‘I’ve got Mum’s car outside. If you want to, I’ll take you.’
‘I – yes.’
At the door of Luke’s room I hold my breath as always in case there has been some change in the twenty minutes I have been away. The bruises are purplish-blue today, his lips pale and flaky, his jaw slack and unshaven. He is a million miles away from the beautiful boy I sat beside on the first of September.
‘I wouldn’t have recognised him,’ Ruth had said.
I take out my phone and take a photo. The click makes me feel really guilty, like I’m stealing something. I bend over and kiss his forehead, my lips recoiling slightly from the hot dry skin, the stale breath. Then I turn and walk away as quickly as I can.
Luke
Something flutters at my skin. Soft. Not to be trusted. I want to open my eyes and tell it to go away but my eyelids are too heavy.
If you stay still it doesn’t last too long.
Somewhere, not exactly here but very near, is pain.
Better not to move.
Esther
I frown at my phone.
‘Not happy?’ Ruth asks. She peers through the streaming windscreen at the oncoming traffic. ‘I’m never going to get turned here.’ She chews her lip, looking suddenly young and scared.
‘She thinks I should come home. And rest. But I’ll rest when it’s all’ – I stop myself from saying over – ‘sorted.’
‘You lied to her.’
‘I didn’t exactly lie. I said I was with you
. I just didn’t mention Dublin.’ I slip the phone into my bag and sit back.
Ruth gives me a quick sideways glance before returning to her fretful assessment of the traffic. Obeying the sat nav’s directions onto the motorway out of Belfast is so fraught that I keep being scared she’ll say it’s a mad idea and we have to turn back. But at last we’re speeding down the M1.
‘I haven’t driven on the motorway before,’ Ruth says, after a huge articulated lorry cuts in in front of us and makes us both flinch and the little red Polo vibrate.
‘Now you tell me.’
She relaxes against the seat and flexes her shoulders. ‘God will look after us.’
I’m silent.
‘Have you been praying for Luke?’ she asks.
‘Kind of.’
We try to spot the exact point where we cross the border, where the speed signs change from miles to kilometres, and the names in Irish as well as English. I don’t know how to pronounce them but I love how they look: I let them roll over me. Dún Dealgan. Baile an Ghearlánaigh. Droichead Átha.
Ruth tries to distract me with chat. Lots of Do you remember?
Toll – 12km shouts a sign. I look at Ruth in horror. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Looks like you have to put money in. Euros.’
‘I don’t have … I never …’
I imagine us being turned away at the toll; having to drive all the way back to Belfast without even seeing Helena.
‘There might be some euros in the glove compartment.’ Ruth indicates to overtake a creeping silver car. ‘From when Mum and Dad went to Donegal.’
My fingers scrabble in the glove compartment. Another sign for the toll whizzes past. My fingers close on cold metal, and my heart leaps but it’s a pound coin and then, thank God, a two-Euro piece.
‘Is this enough?’
Still Falling Page 17
