‘Nick, is that you?’ Tim’s voice, calling from the kitchen. ‘Where the hell have you been? You said “half an hour” in your message.’
Nick staggered to his feet, grabbing hold of the post at the bottom of the stairs and pressing his forehead against the smooth paint. The warmth of the house was making his head spin.
‘I was getting ready to call your dad – Oh, for …’
Nick knew Tim was standing in the living-room doorway, but he was having too much trouble keeping his feet under him to spare the energy to look up.
‘How the hell did you get this pissed?’
The hall was suddenly flooded with light. Nick shrank away, turning his face to the wall.
‘Are you wet? What did you do? Jump in the river? You know what, I don’t want to know.’
‘Not drunk,’ Nick gasped. ‘Car knocked me off my bike. Fell …’ He had to stop to cough. ‘Fell in the ditch by the Botanic Gardens.’ He flinched as Tim reached for his arm. ‘’M OK. Just,’ cough, ‘cold. Very cold.’
‘God, are you hurt? Did you hit your head? Do you need an ambulance?’
‘No. ’M fine. Just need to warm up.’
‘Nick …’
He managed to tilt his head to squint up into Tim’s eyes. ‘Just cold. Be fine.’
Tim looked anything but convinced. ‘We’ll see,’ he said dubiously.
Suddenly Tim’s arm was about his waist and he was being dragged up the stairs. They staggered into the first-floor bathroom, Tim yanking at the light cord as they passed so that the bobbin on the end bounced about, smacking against the tiles.
‘Just perch there for a sec,’ Tim said, lowering Nick to the edge of the tub. ‘Keep hold of me, OK? Don’t fall back.’
Nick’s fingers were too cold to work the buttons on his jacket.
Tim pushed his hands away with a sigh. ‘I’ve got it. Just hold on to me, Nick. I don’t want you slipping and cracking your head against the wall.’
‘But it’d be the,’ cough, ‘perfect end to the … evening,’ Nick croaked, but he fisted his hands into Tim’s shirt anyway.
‘OK, right arm. This one, Nick. Let go of me a sec that side.’ Tim ripped the coat off his arm, making Nick hiss. ‘Sorry. Ouch. That looks … Maybe we should go down to Addenbrooke’s.’
Nick forced his head up. ‘’S not broken.’
Tim didn’t look convinced.
‘’S not. Please, Tim. I’m just cold. Don’t want to go anywhere.’
Tim’s forehead furrowed, his eyes reading uncertainty as he pursed his lips and took a breath through his teeth. ‘Let’s get you warmed up then we can see. Left arm now.’
Nick listed left as Tim tugged the coat free.
‘Hold on to me, Nick. Right, time to stand up. You think you can pop your fly for me: get those jeans off?’
Nick nodded, flushing when Tim had to pull the stiff fabric down his legs, then cursed when he realised they should have taken off his trainers and socks first. Nick sighed, letting his head drift forwards to rest against Tim’s shoulder as Tim fumbled with his laces.
He felt Tim lean sideways, heard the rattle of the plug chain, the splutter of the taps as the water came on. ‘I think for both our sakes we’ll just leave the boxers for now.’
Nick gulped a sound that had been intended as a laugh.
‘In you get.’
Head reeling as he fought to keep his balance, he stepped over the edge of the tub, letting Tim guide him down the wall to sit hunched into a ball in the corner of the bath.
He jerked back as the water reached his toes. ‘Too hot!’
‘Sorry.’ Tim adjusted the taps, put his hand under the stream of water to check the temperature. ‘Close your eyes a minute. I want to wash some of that muck out of your hair.’
The plughole glugged as Tim opened it to wash the grit down the drain.
‘Good enough,’ he said eventually, replacing the plug and turning the water back to the faucet. ‘Let’s see if we can get that a bit hotter now.’
Nick winced as his fingers and toes began to burn. But the shivers were subsiding and, with a sigh, he uncurled, letting his legs drift straight as he slumped against the side of the bath.
‘No sleeping in the tub, Nick. House rules,’ Tim said, flicking a finger against his cheek. ‘Eyes open. Open, Nick.’
‘Bully,’ whispered Nick, squinting wearily up at him as Tim smoothed the hair out of his face.
‘Warming up?’
‘Yeah,’ Nick sighed. ‘The water feels … soft.’
‘Well, let’s get you out and into bed.’
Nick groaned but sat up, let Tim help him to his feet and balance him as he stepped over the rim of the tub. Tim threw a towel over his shoulders then steered him up the stairs to the attic, a hand against his shoulder blade to give him momentum when he nearly tumbled backwards.
‘So, here’s what we’ll do. I am going downstairs to make you a hot drink and you are going to change your boxers without toppling over and giving yourself a concussion: deal? No falling, remember!’ Tim called as he thumped away downstairs.
Nick waited till the sound of Tim’s footsteps had faded before dropping the towel and his underwear, kicking it into a sodden pile in the corner. He crawled into bed to pull on fresh boxers, wriggled into his pyjamas, then pulled the quilt from underneath his body, cocooning himself in it and almost instantly drifting into sleep.
A clatter on the stairs jolted him awake.
He pushed himself up reluctantly and yawned until his breath caught, forcing him to draw at the air in jerky little bursts and let it out in a series of shallow sighs. He slumped limply against the wall as Tim passed him a steaming mug. When his arm trembled stupidly under the weight, he cradled the cup to his chest, tucking his head forwards to sip at it. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
‘You can thank me by continuing to pink up so you look less like you’ve been in the freezer overnight.’
Nick snorted, winced as it turned into a barking cough. He pressed the mug to his chest, massaging it around his breastbone. ‘Don’t drink the Cam,’ he croaked.
‘It’s not generally recommended. You have heard of Cam Fever, right?’ Tim said, putting the tray down by the door and settling on the edge of Nick’s bed with his own mug. ‘Why didn’t you call me? You do know this counts as an emergency, right?’
‘Lost my phone when I fell in.’
‘Ah,’ said Tim. ‘Payphone?’
Nick shrugged. ‘Where? Didn’t have any change anyway. Suppose I could have hailed a taxi. Maybe.’
‘The person who hit you didn’t stop?’
Nick shook his head, slurping blissfully at the froth on top of the hot chocolate.
‘Wonder if he was drunk. We’d better call the police—’
‘What for? Didn’t see the car, the licence plate or the guy driving.’ Nick shrugged, wincing as every joint protested.
‘Let’s have another look at that arm.’
Turning to lift up the sleeve of his pyjama top, Nick realised the heel of his hand was grazed and oozing. ‘Pass me a tissue?’
Tim peered closer as Nick dabbed at the cuts. ‘Yuck. Let’s get some antiseptic on that. Back in a sec.’ He clattered away again, returning with the first aid kit he’d insisted they buy after finding there wasn’t even a plaster in the house. ‘Put the mug down and have a look at your knees and elbows. Think we might need to do some work there too.’
‘I can do that,’ Nick protested as Tim started dabbing at the graze on his elbow.
‘Humour me, all right?’
Tim’s weight was warm against his hip, his hands gentle as he held Nick’s arm steady to clean the dirt out of his palm. Nick let his head fall back against the wall with a sigh. Suddenly, his eyes were stinging, his throat hot and tight. He couldn’t remember the last time either of his parents had cleaned him up after an accident. Probably no one had since his grandmother had died.
Drawing in a sharp breath, he looked away to the
window.
‘Sorry,’ said Tim.
Nick shook his head. ‘’S OK. Doesn’t hurt.’
Tim cast him a sceptical look. ‘OK, tough guy.’
Nick curled the nails of his free hand into his palm, forcing the tears away.
‘You OK?’ Tim asked gently, though he kept his gaze on Nick’s hand.
‘Yeah,’ he managed hoarsely. ‘Just really … tired. Bit … off. I’m sorry to ruin your evening. It must be …’ Glancing over to the bedside table, he realised the clock was reading two in the morning. ‘How did it get so late? You’ve got work in a few hours—’
‘Not a problem, Nick. You didn’t choose to get hit by a car.’
Nick blinked at him, realising only now that Tim’s clothes were patched with wet and smears of mud. ‘You must be cold—’
‘I am absolutely fine, Nick. Now, do you think you could go to sleep?’
Nick yawned in response.
Tim laughed. He tucked the covers up to Nick’s shoulders. ‘I’ll keep my door open and you will call me – you will, Nick – if you feel funny in the night. I mean it. I will not be a happy person if I wake up to find you passed out in a corner somewhere.’
‘No passing out in corners,’ Nick mumbled between yawns.
‘Promise?’
‘Mm.’
‘I’ll translate that as a yes. Sleep well.’
Nick made an effort to say thank you as Tim patted his shoulder, but he was already falling asleep and the words drifted away into the dark.
‘Sit,’ Tim ordered, as Nick appeared in the kitchen doorway the next morning, hair sticking up in spikes, eyes barely open. ‘You get caffeine after we’ve checked out that arm.’
Nick mumbled something incomprehensible, wincing as he twisted his arm to look at the scarlet and purple bruise above his elbow. He prodded it, rotated the arm experimentally, felt gingerly along the bone. ‘Not broken.’
‘Got X-ray fingers, have you?’
‘It’s not broken,’ Nick repeated. ‘It’s just a bone bruise. It’ll de-swell in a few days.’
‘“De-swell”?’
Nick grunted. ‘You know what I mean. Now give me tea.’
‘Your humble servant lives but to serve.’ Tim dipped a curtsey in his direction. ‘What’s the scar from?’
Nick snatched his fingers from tracing the white scrollwork of scarring along his lower arm. ‘Mixture of things. Jerk at school stamping on me in football boots. Then the fish tank got broken, the night my mum …’
‘When she had the breakdown?’
‘Yeah.’ He pulled his sleeve down again. ‘I was trying to save the fish but …’ He shrugged, then sneezed. ‘Please tell me I am not about to get a cold.’
‘Ah, but didn’t they let you into Cambridge early precisely because you pick things up fast?’
Nick groaned, bending forward to rest his forehead against the table. ‘I thought you had work?’
‘I traded with Ange for tomorrow. I had to tell her why though, so expect to be hugged to within an inch of your life shortly after closing time at Clowns. Actually, she told me to hug you in the meantime, but maybe we could just pretend that happened?’
‘Our little secret,’ Nick promised.
Chapter 23
(Easter Term × Week 0 [≈ second week of April])
The nursing home was less than a mile from a tiny village station twenty minutes outside Cambridge, but it felt like the middle of nowhere: a splay of buildings in a little housing estate of bungalows and tiny two-storey semi-detached properties abutting on endless flat fields.
Tim skirted around a dispirited stand of yucca plants and a rotting palm tree to the front doors. They were locked, but a buzz at the doorbell produced a click and, when he pulled, the door opened.
A rotund little man was waiting for him in the hall, rocking happily backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘Could you just sign in here?’ he asked, gesturing to a visitors’ book on a table by the front office.
‘I’m here for Professor Gosswin. Nick’s probably with her already—’
‘Yes, yes. Every Thursday, and most Tuesdays. We do try to chase him away before it gets dark but … Well, it’s hard to insist when he’s being so devoted. I wish all our patients had people who visited half as regularly. I did try to tell him the other day, you know, that he didn’t have to stay so long: should get out in the fresh air and have some fun, but you know what he said? He said how nice it was that everyone here’s always so happy to see him. Isn’t that a nice thing for a boy his age to say? I’m so glad he’ll have someone to travel home with tonight, especially with that nasty cold he’s got. Now then, if you’ll just come along here.’
The little man trotted off down the hall, past a set of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a tiny duck pond where an extremely indignant goose hissed viciously at them through the glass. The volume steadily increased as they walked, TVs blaring at appalling decibels from some rooms, shouts coming from others. An old woman, pacing back and forth in front of her door, spat a string of curses so vile and creative at them that Tim’s eyes widened. The stench of disinfectant made the air prickle in his throat, though it couldn’t eradicate the sweet foul odours beneath. The corridor ended in an open-plan room filled with coffee tables and low armchairs. A set of French windows overlooked a badly mown lawn.
The little man’s beeper went off, making him jump. ‘Must run, but it’s just that far door on the left,’ he called as he hurried away.
Tim threaded his way through the tables to where a door stood ajar.
‘… took me the whole morning yesterday to do one question from last year’s exam paper. And I’m pretty sure I got it wrong. I don’t even know where to start with the problems for supervision. I’m trying, I swear I am. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me. Yesterday, every time I sat down to work I had to get right back up again because I couldn’t, I don’t know, I just couldn’t stomach it. I can’t seem to think straight, like my head is full of this … ringing. Like I’m trying to think through treacle. And of course the exams are all my dad talks about.’
Through the half-open door Tim saw Professor Gosswin raise a shaking hand. ‘Thu … nnnn thu … thu,’ she croaked, her voice wavering and slurred.
Nick leaned forward to take her hand as it fluttered in the air. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m even worse at chess than you remember. Can’t even beat myself. How about this?’ Holding Professor Gosswin’s hand, he nudged a bishop across the board. ‘What do you think?’
Gosswin subsided, gumming at her lip.
‘Pretty pathetic, right? Think that sums me up right now. I had a fight with Bill the other week. It was so stupid. He was just trying to be nice but … And Tim. He made this effort after we went down to visit Mum’s grave, offered to talk about his parents, and I just … I appreciate that they’re trying to be kind, I do, but it’s only because they feel sorry for me and I hate that. I don’t want people to be kind because they’re sorry for me. I want them to—’
Professor Gosswin made a garbled noise, reaching out to the board, then across it, taking Nick’s hand.
Nick sighed, curling his fingers around hers. ‘I wish …’ He stopped. ‘I reread your book, you know. All the time. Sometimes I just wish …’ Another sigh. ‘I can’t decide if I hope you’re OK in there or that you don’t understand any of this. You’d hate it. I know you would.’
There was a definite quiver in the slow breath Nick drew as he leaned over the board to move a pawn forwards.
‘I know I’m being stupid: that I shouldn’t expect anyone to want me to be their problem when my dad doesn’t any more than Mum did. I think she must have got pregnant with me by accident.’ The next breath hitched painfully. ‘I think my grandmother was the only one who really wanted me. I mean, at least Roger noticed me enough to hate me. Sometimes I wish Dad cared enough to hate having me around. He just can’t be bothered. He doesn’t hate me and he doesn’t love me and he just doesn’t
really care. I went down to visit Mum once, you know, after the breakdown, while she was in hospital. She wouldn’t even see me. Made them turn me away. Dad didn’t even know I was gone.’ A sigh like a sob. ‘Sometimes I wish he’d died instead of my grandmother. Sometimes I really wish he’d died instead.’
The tears were silent, a trail of light curving down the side of Nick’s face. But despite the occasional hitch of breath, a long shaky exhalation, his voice continued, quiet and fierce and desperately, furiously contained.
‘I’m going to do so badly in the exams. It was all fine, all under control, but suddenly I just can’t … can’t anything. Can’t think. Can’t focus. You’re going to be so disappointed with my results.’ A sigh then, even quieter, ‘You’re going to be so disappointed in me. I don’t even know what Dad will say. It’s always been the thing I could change. I can’t change my dad. And I can’t seem to change not having proper friends, even here, but I’ve always been able to prove I was clever. Not just think it but show myself that I am good at something. Good for something.’ A sniff, then something that could have been an attempt to laugh.
Tim backed slowly, silently away till he was out of sight of the door, then hurried back to the entrance hall. Bending over the visitors’ book, he quickly scribbled his name out, then rapped smartly on the office door. The little man looked up with a smile.
‘Sorry to disturb you, but do you think you could not say anything to Nick about my being here today?’
The man blinked at him, nonplussed. He raised his hands in silent question.
‘I, er … Nick was talking to Professor Gosswin. He seemed … upset. I don’t think he’d like to know he was … overheard.’
‘Ah,’ said the little man, face softening. ‘Yes, I do see.’
‘You won’t say anything?’
‘Oh, no,’ said the little man.
House of Windows Page 20
