What Remains

by Garrett Leigh

  They made it outside. Rupert’s stomach growled as the McDonald’s opposite the hospital caught his eye. Breakfast felt a long time ago, but he knew there was little point asking Jodi if he wanted to stop. Jodi seemed to exist on bread, cornflakes, and an occasional packet of crisps. Gone were the late-night fry-ups and random Wednesday roasts. And it didn’t help that Rupert and Sophie between them could barely fry an egg.

  “You didn’t have to cook for me,” Rupert said. “Jesus, boyo. It’s 2 a.m.”

  Jodi glanced over his shoulder, half an eye still on the mammoth pan of pasta he was adding bacon to. “Can’t have you going to bed on an empty stomach. Besides, gives me stuff to do when I’m pining for your pretty face.”

  A bus ride later, they were at the Shoreditch pharmacy to pick up Jodi’s prescription refills. With that done, Rupert ushered Jodi out and steered him toward the Tube station.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Home. That okay? Or did you want to go somewhere else?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Jodi’s expression remained, as ever, blank and uninterested, but something made Rupert look again—a slight inflection in his dull tone, a nervous flicker in his dark gaze—something. “Are you sure? We can grab some food if you like?”

  Whatever Rupert thought he’d seen evaporated as Jodi scowled. “You’ve asked me that three times today. I’m not fucking hungry.”

  “I asked you at breakfast, lunch, and dinnertime, and I’ll probably ask you again before bed. You gotta eat, boyo.” Rupert kept his tone mild with considerable effort, though he could tell Jodi was baiting him, probably hoping Rupert would snap at him, and then feel guilty enough about it to leave him alone.

  But he was out of luck today. Rupert didn’t fancy a silent journey home, even if it meant boring himself to tears with the sound of his own voice. He took Jodi’s answering glare with a shrug and retrieved their Oyster cards from his back pocket. “How did you get on with the occupational therapist yesterday? You never told me.”

  Jodi didn’t answer, distracted by swiping his Oyster card at the ticket barrier, a simple process made more complex by the damage to his cognitive thinking. Even evaluating the task seemed to take several seconds longer than the queue forming behind them was prepared to tolerate. Not that anyone said anything—it wasn’t London’s style—and thankfully, Jodi was occupied enough to remain oblivious to the pointed frowns grumpy commuters sent his way.

  The escalators came next. Rupert took Jodi’s arm and guided him on, something he’d done even before the accident, having seen too many gruesome incidents in Tube stations and shopping centres to trust anyone he loved to travel on them safely. In the past, the gesture had amused Jodi to no end. Not anymore. Now, he didn’t seem to notice Rupert’s deathlike grip on his good elbow and there was little life in him as they reached the crowded platform.

  Staying true to another preaccident habit, Rupert stood between Jodi and the platform edge, shielding him from the backdraft of a couple of passing trains.

  “So,” he tried again. “How was your appointment yesterday?”

  “Don’t you already know? Thought the hospital had you and Sophie on speed dial.”

  Rupert suppressed a sigh. Despite Jodi’s apparent disinterest, he often seemed irritated when he caught Rupert and Sophie talking about his recovery. “Why don’t you tell me how it was for you?”

  “It was bullshit. They made me play poker and write a shopping list at the same time. Like a trip to Sainsbury’s will fix everything.”

  “You might be right there,” Rupert said. “You never went shopping anyway. We got that shit delivered.”

  “Yeah?” Jodi’s expression brightened for a fleeting moment. “Does that mean I don’t have to go to that stupid bloody occupational therapy bollocks?”

  “’Fraid not. We can’t afford Ocado anymore.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Rupert’s reply was muffled by their train pulling into the station, and Jodi had blanked out by the time the noise faded. Relieved, Rupert gripped Jodi’s arm again and guided him on, positioning him with his back against the wall, Rupert between him and the other commuters. The train rumbled. Jodi jumped, clearly startled. Rupert welcomed it, though he felt bad for doing so. Any animation was better than none. “So, did you do much else in the session?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The OT,” Rupert repeated. “What else did you do?”

  “Oh, er, nothing really.” Jodi’s gaze darted around as the train moved out of the station.

  Rupert frowned. Jodi hadn’t had any seizures at home yet, but he’d fast learned in the hospital that a jittery gaze was one of the warning signs. He checked Jodi for flushed cheeks and a slackening jaw. Jodi did look warm, but if anything his awareness, rather than slipping under the wave of an oncoming seizure, seemed more heightened than Rupert had seen since the accident. He took in Jodi’s clenched fists and restless arms, the quickening rise and fall of his chest and the anxiety growing in his roaming gaze.

  Against his better judgement, he touched Jodi’s face, barely grazing the dark beard that had replaced the trendy stubble he’d sported before. “Still with me?”

  It was a loaded question that Jodi would probably never understand, but as his terrified eyes met Rupert’s, the weight of all they’d lost suddenly didn’t matter. Most days, it was hard to remember that Jodi’s glare didn’t necessarily reflect what was going on inside his head—or his heart, please, God, his heart—but the fear in his gaze now was unmistakable. Rupert knew a brewing panic attack when he saw one.

  The train picked up speed. Jodi inhaled sharply and flattened himself against the wall. Rupert moved his hand to Jodi’s chest. Jodi’s racing heart battered his palm as Jodi squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Jodi, look at me.”

  Jodi shook his head.

  Rupert took a chance and grabbed his hand. “Come on, boyo. It’s okay. I can help you.”

  Jodi opened his eyes. For the first time in months, his gaze was as electric as Rupert remembered it when he lay awake at night, blocking out the present and drowning in the past—Jodi laughing hysterically at his own daft jokes, or bubbling with glee at a prank he’d played, or climbing all over Rupert and demanding to be fucked, loved, and owned from the inside out—but the fire in Jodi’s dark eyes now wasn’t love or laughter, or desire. It was pure terror, and Rupert had no idea why.

  “Squeeze my hands,” he said quietly. “Focus on me and let go of the breath you’re holding.”

  Jodi made a strangled noise, a classic sign of someone fighting the urge to suck in a lungful of air they didn’t need. A gasp they’d already taken and forgotten about as waves of crippling panic took hold.

  Rupert found Jodi’s hands again. “Let it go. Come on. Let it go and I’ll show you how to breathe.”

  Whether Jodi truly believed him, Rupert would never know, but after what felt like a lifetime, he blew out a shaky breath.

  “That’s it,” Rupert said. “Now breathe in, nice and slow, not too much.”

  It took a few attempts for Jodi to remaster the art of inhaling and exhaling at a pace that brought a little colour back to his cheeks. His shoulders relaxed, and his wide eyes drooped as exhaustion set in. Slowly but surely, his fingers tightened around Rupert’s.

  Rupert’s heart leapt. He swallowed thickly and dampened it down. “There you go. Just keep breathing. Don’t think about anything else.”

  Jodi opened his mouth. Shut it again. Took another breath. “Thank you. I—”

  The train jolted, sending Jodi flying into Rupert’s chest. Rupert stumbled backward as the lights went off, cloaking them in darkness.

  “Jesus!” Rupert fought for balance, petrified he would fall and take Jodi with him. Common sense reminded him the lights went out on the Tube all the time, but as Jodi wrenched free from Rupert’s grasp, backed against the wall and slid to the floor, covering his head, every ounce of his terror seeped into Rupert’s ba
ttered soul.

  Jodi woke up on the couch with a crick in his neck. As had become his normal, it took a few moments to place himself. The ever-present pain came first, radiating through his skull and creeping into every slowly healing injury, then the obligatory groan, the low, animalistic grunt he was never quite sure actually came from him.

  He sat up in stages, taking in the dimly lit living room—the low-hung lamp in the corner, the TV flickering on mute. It was late, that much he could tell, but that was about it. What the hell was he doing in the living room and not segregated in the dark haunting bedroom he’d come to think of as a prison cell?

  No clarity came to him as he pushed himself upright at last. Shocker . . . not, but the sight of Rupert fast asleep on the floor beside him surprised him, until he remembered he was lying in what Rupert called his bed.

  Jodi frowned, and an odd sensation crept over him. Guilt? Shame? He couldn’t name it. All he knew was Rupert sleeping on the hard wood floor felt wrong. In fact, everything felt wrong. His bones ached, and his mouth was dry, and the roiling in his belly made him want to puke. Where was Sophie? He needed her. She’d explain it to him.

  A click in his brain reminded him that wasn’t right either. She’s not your girlfriend, idiot. Remember? For once he did remember. Sophie was at her own house and the only soul available to fill in the gaps was Rupert, but waking him and begging for reassurance was too much for Jodi to handle. The bloke already did far more than Jodi could ask for from a flatmate.

  On cue, Rupert rolled over and opened his eyes. For a moment, he stared, then he sat up in a smooth, effortless movement that almost made Jodi weep with envy.

  “What’s up?” Rupert said. “You okay?”

  “Um . . .”

  Rupert waited, like he always did when Jodi lost his words.

  Jodi found them. “Why am I out here?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Obviously not.”

  He hadn’t meant to snap quite so harshly, if at all, but after a flash of hurt that was gone so quickly Jodi was sure he’d imagined it, Rupert seemed unfazed. He pushed aside the balled up sweatshirt he’d been using as a pillow, and leaned forward, like he was checking Jodi for cracks.

  Ha. Cracks. If only. Most days—nights—whatever—Jodi felt like a giant fissure had been mined in his soul.

  “You had a bit of a turn on the Tube,” Rupert said. “And you might have had a slight seizure when we got back. I’m not sure.”

  A seizure? Fucking brilliant. He’d been told about those, but had no memory of the ones he’d had in hospital. “What happened?”

  “Er . . .” It was Rupert’s turn to stutter. “You didn’t seem to like the Tube. Have you been on it since you came home? I haven’t taken you on it. Has Sophie?”

  Jodi thought hard. “No. She keeps taking me on the bus with all the old fogeys.”

  Rupert smiled briefly. “Well, you didn’t like it. You had a panic attack, and then the lights went out and I couldn’t get you back. Pretty much carried you home, and you refused to go to bed. Then you collapsed in here. I put you on the sofa when you’d stopped shaking.”

  Embarrassment made Jodi’s blood feel warm. Too warm. He kicked away the blanket Rupert must have draped over him. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s what I’m here for. I’ll always look after you, Jodi.”

  “Why?” The question escaped Jodi before he could stop it. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Not really.”

  Jodi let it go. He’d given up trying to figure people out. They all said he was the one with the problem, but didn’t they understand none of this shit made any fucking sense? What kind of flatmate stuck around when the geezer they lived with lost his bloody marbles and practically needed his arse wiped? Sophie . . . Yeah, he got that. He’d accepted that the love he thought he remembered had morphed into one of those friendships that meant the world, but Rupert? Nope. The bloke remained a mystery.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Sick,” Jodi said absently. “Thanks for leaving the lights on, though. Probably woulda shat myself if I’d woken up in the dark again.”

  Comprehension flashed in Rupert’s gaze. He studied Jodi a moment. “Perhaps that was it: the dark on the Underground, the noise, the heat. Sorry, mate. I should’ve thought about it more before I hustled you on it.”

  Why the hell is he apologising? It wasn’t his fault that Jodi had become a bloody fruit loop.

  “It’s fine,” Jodi said. “I’m sorry I fucked up your day and stole your bed.”

  “Boyo, that’s the least of my worries.”

  “Okay, Jodi. Let’s go back to the last thing you remember before the accident.”

  Jodi huffed out a sigh. This numb-nut psychiatrist was getting on his tits. “I already told you I don’t remember the accident, or the day it happened, or the day before that. Last thing I remember I was going for dinner with my girlfriend—who’s not my fucking girlfriend anymore.”

  “Does that upset you?”

  “What? That I don’t remember what I had for dinner that day? Or that I got dumped?”

  The psychiatrist—Ken—tapped a pencil on his thigh. “What makes you think you got dumped? Do you remember Sophie ending your relationship?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s stick to the facts, as you truly know them, for now. You’ve told me you remember going to meet Sophie for dinner. She told the police you were coming to meet her on the day of the accident. Do you think it’s possible that’s the occasion you remember?”

  Jodi sighed. He’d been over this with Ken, and Sophie, more times than he cared to count. The only person who didn’t seem to want to talk about it was Rupert, which suited Jodi just fine. He hadn’t felt like leaving the flat much since his epic meltdown on the Tube, and Rupert’s quiet company was far easier to take than everyone else’s constant questions.

  “Jodi?”

  “What?”

  Ken sat back in his wheeled chair and folded his hands on his desk. “All right. That’s enough for today. I can see you’re tired. I’m going to give you a little work to take home with you, though, if that’s okay?”

  Jodi shrugged. He had a whole list of exercises—mental and physical—he halfheartedly practiced at home. One more wouldn’t make much difference.

  Ken pushed a sheet of paper across the table. Jodi humoured him and cast a disinterested glance over it. It appeared to be a record keeper—a journal, maybe.

  “What’s that for?”

  Ken tapped his pen on the paper. “I’d like you to keep track of anything that makes you stop and think twice—things you might recognise, or think you’ve perhaps seen before but can’t remember where.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like anything,” Ken said. “People, places, sights, and smells. Even just a feeling . . . a sensation, an instinct.”

  The only instinct Jodi had was a strong urge to roll his eyes, but insolence had no effect on old man Ken, save encouraging him to stare harder, studying Jodi with a watery gaze that set his teeth on edge. “How many things do I have to write down?”

  “As many as you like. Your OT has helped you with your handwriting, hasn’t she?”

  Jodi nodded. It was true, though Sophie had gleefully informed him his handwriting hadn’t been much cop to begin with. “With your chicken scratch, Jojo, you should’ve been a doctor.” Right. So he could sit across the table from miserable gits like him? Fuck that.

  He left Ken to his humming and pencil tapping and found Sophie outside, smoking a long menthol cigarette.

  “Shit.” She stubbed it out, looking guilty. “I thought you’d be ages yet. Sorry.”

  Jodi eyed the cigarette butt. “You don’t smoke.”

  “I started after we split up. I liked the smell.”

  “Oh.” Jodi was a little nonplussed. Not for the first time, the distinct impression that he’d hurt Sophie in some way crept over him. “Can I have one?�
��

  “No.”

  Okay. Jodi glanced up and down the busy street. His gaze fell on the Tube station. He shuddered and wondered if that was the kind of sensation Ken wanted him to note down. “Can we go home, then?”

  “Of course.” Sophie shoved her bag on her shoulder and took Jodi’s arm, steering him to the bus stop. “How are you feeling? Do you want to do anything before we go back to the flat?”

  Jodi shook his head. They’d only been out a few hours, but every part of him felt like lead, and he was cold too. He wanted his bed—no, the couch—and a three-hour nap. “I want to go home.”

  Sophie pulled him closer, and her body heat seeped into his bones. Jodi absorbed it and tried to recall a time when feeling her pressed up against him had excited him. Tried to recapture the many intimate moments they’d shared. But . . . nope. The memories were there, but Jodi felt nothing but platonic affection, tinged with a touch of sadness, and maybe regret? Hmm. Perhaps that was one for the diary, though Jodi couldn’t imagine finding anyone attractive in this brave new world where his dick did nothing but burn like a bitch when he had a wazz.

  Back at the flat, Jodi flopped onto the sofa, coat and shoes still on. Sophie tugged at his boots. “Help me a little?”

  Jodi grumbled and sat up, fumbling with the laces. “Give it a rest. I wanna sleep.”

  “And you can, just as soon as you take your grubby boots off. Don’t want dirt all over your couch, do you?”

  Jodi didn’t much care. The flat was a mess, and he liked it that way. Made it easier to find all the shit Sophie and Rupert insisted he needed. “Where’s Rupert again?”

  “Work,” Sophie said. “Why? Do you want him for something?”

  “No. Just wondering. He’s been gone since yesterday.”

  Sophie shot him an odd glance. “Do you miss him when he’s not around?”

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Just wondering.” Sophie shrugged with the barest hint of an impish grin. “You seem to prefer his company to mine.”

  Do I? “Maybe because he leaves me the hell alone and lets me sleep.”