“What?” Jodi blinked, then glared at Rupert for a moment that seemed to go on forever. “Nope. Sorry. I don’t know who the fuck you are. Now where the hell is Sophie?”
“Sophie?”
“Yeah, Sophie. Where’s my girlfriend?”
Jodi lay as still as possible, trying desperately to keep his vision under control, but his eyeballs felt like lasers, darting around the room, taking in the cacophony of medical paraphernalia—the machines, the tubes, the IVs jammed in his arms.
It’s a nightmare. It has to be. Yeah, that was it. He was drifting in a dystopian fantasy. The woman in white at his bedside was some kind of zombie motherfucker and any minute now, he’d remember that he had a lightsabre or something awesome, rise out of the bed he seemed tied to, and cut her head off.
He looked for Sophie. She always appeared in his dreams, even the bad ones, chasing shadows away with her sherberty perfume and lilting laugh, but she wasn’t in sight, and his gut told him she was nowhere nearby. “Where’s Sophie?”
The woman patted Jodi’s hand with a palm that felt unnaturally cool. “She’s not here today, Jodi. What about Rupert? Don’t you want to see him?”
“Who?”
“Rupert, your partner—your boyfriend. You live together.”
Jodi stared and waited for the woman to crack a smile and explain the punch line of her twat-ish joke, but her face remained impassive. Bitch. Glowering, Jodi tried to sit up, but the one arm he could move wouldn’t take his weight. He fell back onto the bed and tried again, struggling against a wave of dizzying pain until he managed to raise his head enough to read the laminate hanging around the woman’s neck. Dr. Rose. “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
What do you think? Jodi glanced down as sharp pain radiated from his palms to his shoulders. Blood oozed from his palms where he’d dug his nails in too hard. He eyed the wounds, welcoming the pain, hoping it would cut through the thick fog in his head and gift him some clarity. Wake up, dickhead. You’ll laugh about this in the morning. But nothing changed. The woman’s stare remained, and no one fucking laughed.
Jodi’s patience evaporated. “Stop taking the piss. It’s not funny. I don’t know anyone called Rupert, and even if I did, I’m not bloody gay.”
“No one’s saying you’re anything, Jodi, but Rupert is your partner. He’s been here every day since the accident.”
“Accident? What accident? Where’s Sophie? Is she okay?” Silence. Panic slammed into Jodi’s chest, forcing the air from his lungs as a machine somewhere nearby began a beeping tattoo in time with his speeding pulse. “Where’s Sophie?”
The woman leaned forward. “Sophie’s safe and well, Jodi. It was you who had an accident. I can tell you all about it, but I need you to calm down or we’ll have to come back to this later.”
“I . . . can’t breathe.”
“Would you like me to get Rupert for you?”
“No! I don’t know any fucking Rupert—” Pain roared through Jodi’s head. He fell back on the bed as the beeping went off the scale, and a deep, paralysing agony took hold, blinding him. He cried out and curled in on himself, but the sudden movement only brought more pain. “Oh God. Help me. Please.”
Something tugged at one of the tubes in Jodi’s arm. A cold sensation flooded his veins. For long moments nothing changed, then he felt it: a creeping buzz that lapped at the edge of the torture that tied him in a foetal ball on the bed.
The pain faded a little, taking with it some of the crazed panic seizing his chest, just enough for him to snatch a breath as his face seemed to melt into the scratchy sheet beneath him. “Please. I don’t know who Rupert is. He’s not my boyfriend. No one is. I want Sophie. Please. Please get Sophie for me. Please, I just need Sophie . . .”
“. . . I don’t understand.” Jodi held his head in his hands as he stared at Sophie, trying to ignore Dr. Rose taking notes in the corner. “When did we split up?”
Sophie looked at Dr. Rose, who nodded surreptitiously, or probably thought she had. Jodi frowned. There’d been a lot of that since Sophie had finally arrived. Sometime earlier, he’d told himself he would feel better if only she’d just fucking get there. That she’d explain why the last thing he clearly recalled was heading across London to meet her for dinner. That she’d know why his arm wouldn’t move and his head hurt like a bitch, that she’d know why he could hardly remember his name from one moment to the next. But so far she’d done nothing but gaze at him with a sadness he couldn’t quite decipher, and pretty much tell him that he was dumped.
A waft of fruity perfume tickled his nose, and a painful shunt in his brain brought him back to the present. He winced. Sophie squeezed his hand. “What is it?”
Jodi opened his mouth. Shut it. The words weren’t there. Sophie’s gaze darted again to the silent doctor, and Jodi bristled, confusion and frustration conflicting so loudly in his aching head he felt dizzy. “Why aren’t you my girlfriend anymore?”
“We split up years ago.”
“How many?”
“Five. You’re still my best friend in the world, though.” The first flickers of a smile Jodi recognised brightened Sophie’s features. “And I still love you to death.”
Jodi loved her too, but five years was a bloody long time to lose, with or without her, and the harder he thought about it, the less sense it made. “I don’t understand. Have I been in here since we split up?”
“No, sweet. You were in an accident five months ago, remember?”
Accident. Coma. Accident. Coma. That much was starting to sink in. “Five months . . . I’ve been out of it for five months?”
It was Sophie’s turn to frown. “No, Jodi. The doctors told you this yesterday. You’ve been awake for weeks, walking and doing rehab. You just haven’t talked. We thought you’d forgotten how, we never—” She pressed a shaky hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
Jodi tugged her hand, forcing her to meet his gaze again. “Do what, Soph? What is it?”
“Jodi—”
“That’s enough for now,” the doctor cut in. She tucked her pen into her breast pocket. “Get some rest, Jodi. We’ll talk more tomorrow . . .”
Jodi studied the grainy images Sophie was scrolling through on her phone. He remembered this about her—that she took terrible photographs. Shame he couldn’t recall the big bay windows and sleek oak furniture she claimed were his. “How long have we lived there?”
“We?”
“Sorry. I mean me. Where do you live again?”
“Primrose Hill. Your favourite place.” Sophie sounded sarcastic, and for the first time, Jodi understood why.
“I hate that place. It’s full of wannabe Britpop wankers.”
“I know.” Sophie smiled, but it faded a touch as she seemed to remember something.
Jodi reached hesitantly for her hand. Do we still do that? “What is it?”
“You were on your way to me when you had the accident.”
Accident. Coma. Accident. Coma. Three days of supervised conversations came back to Jodi all at once. He pictured the stolen Astra the doctors said had hit him. No one seemed to know what colour it was, but in Jodi’s mind it was the same horrible burgundy as the ageing Vauxhall Nova he’d bought himself a week after passing his driving test. “Where was I coming from, if you live in Twatrose Hill?”
“Tottenham, hon. You were twenty feet from your own front door . . .”
Jodi’s head hurt so much he couldn’t breathe. The room twisted to a blinding white light, and he slid from the bed, bracing himself to hit the hard floor. But strong hands pulled him up and instead of cold linoleum, he found himself lying on his bed, curled on his side, a pillow under his head and a soft blanket over him.
A warm hand closed around his. “Hang in there. The doctor’s coming.”
I don’t want a doctor, I want you. But as the pain in Jodi’s head amplified with every heartbeat, the comforting cloak of warmth faded, tak
ing with it his ability to yearn for anything but oblivion. Something jostled his other hand. His skin began to burn, and a new voice startled him.
“The morphine’s in.”
“Jesus, don’t give him that.” The first voice lost its melodic softness. “It makes him sick.”
Too late. Jodi opened his mouth to agree with whoever seemed to be reading his mind, but instead of words came puke, lots of puke, and most of it went over the side of the bed and covered a pair of scruffy trainers. Then he lost the magic hand. He tried to reach out, but nothing happened. A sob caught in his throat, and the hand returned, this time on his forehead, doing something distracting with his hair—stroking, brushing—until the voice came again, and he forgot to wonder.
“I’ve got you, boyo. Rest your head, I’ve got you.”
Jodi obeyed without question, closing his eyes and letting darkness soothe what was left of the drilling tattoo in his brain, but as he drifted to sleep one question lingered: what the fuck was a “boyo” . . .?
“What do I need a social worker for? I’m not a kid.”
The mousy-faced woman’s gaze remained dull, as if she’d seen Jodi’s increasing frustration a thousand times over. “Social services don’t just care for children. We safeguard all vulnerable members of society.”
Vulnerable members of society? Jodi’s head spun. The woman had come to his bedside more than an hour ago, and he still had no idea what she actually wanted. He looked for Sophie, then remembered she wasn’t there. The doctors had sent her away so they could torture Jodi in peace, and then this woman—a social worker—had arrived, and for some reason this conversation felt different to any other he’d had in his dubious recent memory.
The social worker said something. Her voice buzzed like a low-flying wasp at the base of Jodi’s skull. Only one word stood out: Rupert, like it seemed to every time. Shame Jodi didn’t know who Rupert actually was.
“Jodi.” The social worker frowned.
Jodi rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, Sophie and Rupert have told us they are going to help you take care of yourself when you leave the hospital. Is that an arrangement you feel comfortable with?”
Rupert. Rupert. Rupert. Jodi kept searching the patchy minefield his brain had become and eventually found the tall, blond dude who’d visited a couple of times. Sophie kept telling him they lived together, but Jodi could hardly remember home, let alone having a flatmate. Jodi trawled his brain again. A couch came to mind, scattered with black cushions and a tatty grey throw. The blanket seemed out of place, though Jodi couldn’t see why. All he knew was the couch seemed to call to him, and abruptly his world narrowed to the way the seat cushions moulded perfectly to his back and the tatty blanket draped around his shoulders. The blanket’s around my shoulders, so why the hell are my legs warm?
“Jodi?”
“What?”
“Do you want to go home?”
Do I? Jodi turned the question over in his mind, matching it with the tingly heat that was fast fading from his legs as he returned to the present. He needed that heat. He didn’t know why, but something—everything—suddenly screamed at him that he wouldn’t survive without it.
Jodi met the social worker’s gaze as another wave of desperate frustration swept over him, clawing at his chest and veins. What did it matter that he couldn’t remember his couch or his flatmate’s name? What did any of it matter while he was rotting away in a place that made no fucking sense? “Please. I want to go home. I don’t give a shit who counts my fucking pills. I just want to go home.”
Jodi watched as Sophie bustled around the flat, unpacking clothes and filling the fridge with the groceries a Sainsbury’s lorry had just delivered. For the hundredth time, he studied her movements and facial expressions, trying to marry them with the Sophie he thought he remembered. Same blue eyes, wild blonde curls, but her body was different—softer, rounder. And her face didn’t quite fit.
Cold, creeping anxiety chewed on Jodi’s heart. A week— No, ten days ago, he’d told himself everything would be better if he could just find Sophie, that the huge chunk of time and knowledge he was missing would come back, but it hadn’t. She’d appeared at his bedside, flustered and crying, and—
And what? Jodi’s mind went blank, all thought and emotion suddenly gone, like a lightbulb had blown. He blinked, trying to focus. Where the fuck was he again? The plain walls, high ceilings, and ornate, Victorian coving. The coffee table. The couch. Ah, yes. The flat . . . home, right? His gaze fell on a cluster of photographs, images of strangers. Sophie had told him this was his flat, that he owned it, with a mortgage and everything, but he wasn’t sure he believed her. If the flat was his home, he’d recognise the people in the photographs, wouldn’t he? But the blond bloke and the tiny little girl . . . Jodi stared and stared, but nope. He didn’t have a clue, and he couldn’t bring himself to care much, either. Panic-laced bewilderment and a never-ending headache had become his new best friends. There wasn’t room for much else. “What day is it?”
Sophie glanced over her shoulder. “Thursday, sweetie. Why?”
“No reason.” Jodi curled his legs under himself and rested his aching head on his good arm, the one without throbbing scars and metal bolts in the joints. “Where do you sleep?”
“At my house, Jojo. I don’t live here. Rupert does.”
Rupert. Jodi turned the name over in his head and matched it with the blond bloke in the photo who liked to hover and stare with tortured eyes that gave Jodi the creeps—his second carer and apparent flatmate. “Where is he?”
“At work. He’ll be home tonight. Are you okay? You’re so pale. Do you want to lie down? The doctors said you should rest a lot.”
Jodi didn’t want to rest. From what little he’d gleaned from the whispered conversations around him, he’d been resting—sleeping—comatose—whatever—for far too long already, but the bastard chiselling in his brain thought otherwise. His eyes grew heavy, even as Sophie helped him lie down properly and covered him up.
She held a tiny white pill to his lips. “Swallow this.”
“What is it?”
“Codeine for your headache. There’s stronger stuff if it gets really bad, so just let me know, okay?”
“Okay.” Jodi swallowed the pill, wondering how deep the chisel needed to go before it justified better drugs, but he was asleep before he could give it much thought.
He awoke sometime later to low voices floating out of the kitchen. For a while, he lay still, letting odd snatches of the muted conversation meld with the remnants of codeine-fuelled dreams, but despite the lethargy lacing his veins, agitation drove him off the couch and into the kitchen, searching for a tonic to calm his nerves.
Sophie and the blond bloke stared at him as he shuffled between them and opened the cabinet he was suddenly sure contained what he was searching for. Bags of pasta and rice greeted him. Damn it. He slammed the cupboard door.
“What are you looking for?” Sophie asked.
“My fags,” Jodi said distractedly. “Where are they?”
Sophie frowned. “You don’t smoke.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t. You quit three years ago.”
Silence. Jodi considered her words and tried to make sense of them. Couldn’t. Fuck it. He retreated to the couch and put his head in his hands. His headache had faded to a dull roar, but dizziness still plagued him, like he’d moved too fast and his brain couldn’t catch up. Like he’d never catch up. He thought back to the strained conversations he’d had with Sophie in hospital, the ones where, under the watchful gaze of an inscrutable doctor, she’d nervously explained that his mind seemed to be missing around five years of his life. The breakup, the flat, the mortgage. If he thought hard enough, he could comprehend all that, but giving up the fags? Why the fuck would he do that?
He was no closer to an answer when a warm hand on his shoulder startled him. Sophie set a plate of lumpy brown
gloop on the coffee table. “Dinner.”
“No, thanks.”
“I wasn’t asking. You need to eat, hon. Come on, you’re wasting away.”
Jodi eyed the plate. Its contents looked like shit and smelled like arse. “No.”
Sophie sighed. “You didn’t eat lunch either. What am I going to do with you? If you won’t let us take care of you, the doctors might make you go back to hospital.”
“Liar.” Brain-damaged he might be, but he knew the doctors at the hospital considered him well enough to be at home. “What day is it?”
“Thursday, hon. Why?”
“When do I have to go back?”
“To the hospital? Erm, Monday, I think. Rupert’s taking you to the physiotherapist.”
“Rupert.” The odd clicking in Jodi’s brain returned. “Why can’t you take me?”
“I have to work. In fact, I’ve got to get going soon. Rupert’s going to look after you tonight.”
“I don’t need looking after,” Jodi muttered, though he was beginning to accept that was far from true. Despite sleeping most of the day, he felt more tired than ever. He curled up on the couch and picked up the TV remote, studying the buttons. None jumped out at him. Fucking idiot. Frustrated, he closed his eyes.
He had no idea how much time had passed when Sophie roused him again a little while later.
“I’m going home,” she said. “Do you want me to help you to bed before I go?”
“Wha—?” Jodi sat up. “What? What time is it?”
“Eleven.”
Eleven. The room seemed to get darker. A familiar panic clawed at Jodi’s gut. “Don’t go.”
“I have to, hon. I’m sorry. Rupert’s here. Do you want me to get him?”
“I’m here, Soph.”
The new voice made Jodi jump. He turned awkwardly to find Rupert leaning in the doorway with a hesitant smile, hovering in a way that set Jodi’s teeth on edge. Fuck’s sake. He’s gonna maul me like every other twat here. “You’re not going to touch me, are you?”
What Remains Page 8
