by Will Dean
‘And two arrests,’ says Tammy.
‘And he’d done nothing. Last night we sat there like some weird family, the three of them arranged around me, shielding me from everything out there, and Holmqvist’s big dog shielding them.’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Tammy says. ‘Listen, I want you stay at my place as long as you need to. Let me look after you for a while.’
‘Just for as long as there are press crawling outside my apartment,’ I say. ‘It won’t be for too long, they’ll soon move off to the next big story.’
‘Whatever suits you,’ she says.
‘Thord reckons Frida tampered with my hearing aid batteries.’
Tammy shakes her head in disbelief.
‘He also told me that Frida delivered a month’s worth of frozen meals to the elderly yesterday. And she wore waterproof make-up in the woods. She was ready. Frida knew she was either getting arrested or . . .’
‘You want to eat first or after?’ Tammy says. Her voice is like a balm, it cools my memories and warms my skin. ‘That sushi place down by the station opens at twelve so by the time we’ve found a parking place and paid, they’ll be opening up for us.’
‘Let’s do all that after,’ I say.
We find the building and park and buy a ticket and the creeping vine covering the high brick walls has turned red since my last visit. It’s turned. We walk in through the revolving doors and the stale heat hits me. We pull on blue plastic shoe covers and walk along the squeaky rubber floors and past artificial pot plants, but she’s moved rooms. Tammy waits near some chairs and magazines and a water dispenser. I find her name on a board and then I find her new room. The halls smell of bleach and stale air and incremental dying.
‘So, you came.’
I walk in and she’s almost gone. She’s sinking through the bed now, her body barely noticeable under the sheets, the sheets with the hospice name printed on them to save the laundry company from mix-ups. Nightstand. Pills. A small glass of water with saliva or something floating on the surface. Maybe it’s just dust. A photo of her and Dad on their wedding day, and next to it a photo of me on my graduation day. A travel clock and a small tube of rose-scented hand cream.
I pull up a heavy pine chair to the bed. It squeaks as I drag it. My wrists burn and I think of the troll still locked in my basement. I notice the board clipped to the end of the bed with a pen dangling from it by a piece of red yarn.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been for a while,’ I say. ‘I should have come.’
‘You had your reasons,’ she says, her voice a heavy whisper.
‘It’s over now,’ I say. ‘I’ll be with you more from now on.’ I try not to think about the messages from the other papers, the chance to leave all this. I look up to the white ceiling, at the ventilation grill, and then I turn back to Mum. ‘I want to be with you more.’
I move closer to her, to her shrunken face, and she smiles at me. She never really smiles, but now her eyes soften and her lips part a little and I almost collapse with it all. I bite the inside of my mouth and smile back.
‘Water?’
She nods. I throw the old water into the sink in the corner of the room and turn on the tap and fill the glass and glance out of the window. This is a better room, it has a lake view. And then it hits me and I know why they’ve moved her here. I feel unsteady. I sit back down and hold the glass of water out to her and she sips from the glass like an insect might drink from a saucer. Her lips have faded into her skin. A droplet escapes from her mouth and rolls down her chin. The room’s so quiet. I watch the droplet roll and hang for a moment and then fall. And I fall with it. My head rests on my mother’s hard little chest. It’s barely moving, just shallow wispy breaths. Sideways-on, I see a nurse walk to the threshold of the room and she sees me and then she walks away.
Mum’s stroking my hair with her crêpe-paper fingers. I close my eyes and feel numb. As I sit up, I see her crying except the well has run dry. Hers are invisible tears. I clear my throat and pick up the hand cream and squirt a little onto the pad of my index finger. I work it into her hands, the life almost gone from them now; they’re translucent and cool to the touch.
‘Your pappa would have been,’ she forces a breath. ‘Proud of you,’ she says, and her voice is as thin and as pale as her skin. ‘Proud. You know that, don’t you?’
I nod and the tears come. I wipe them away with my wrists and rub my hands on my jeans and reach out and stroke that area around her cheekbone where the skin’s still smooth and young.
‘Your pappa,’ she waits for a breath to come. ‘Your pappa loved you, Tuva.’
I nod and feel a shiver down my neck and see her eyes flash back to youth for a split second. They turn back from watery grey to vivid green and then back again. She’s my mamma again for a glimpse with her blonde hair and home-baked cinnamon shortbread and knitting. I place my cheek next to her cheek to warm it. I force my breathing to match hers and our faces rise and fall together for a while.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my agent, Kate Burke: thank you for your energy and wisdom and skill. Thanks for giving me the chance.
To the team at Diane Banks Associates: thank you for your encouragement and warmth.
To my editor, Jenny Parrott: thank you for being whip-smart and sensitive and generous. Thanks for making this real.
To the team at Oneworld and Point Blank: thank you for being so dedicated and passionate. I could not ask for a more excellent publisher.
To all the bloggers and booksellers and reviewers and tweeters: thank you for your enthusiasm and time. Readers benefit so much from your recommendations and spirit. I am one of them. Thank you.
To the York Festival of Writing: thank you for teaching me things. Thank you for putting hundreds of writers in a room each year. Thanks to Julie Cohen and Shelley Harris for being stars.
To Claire McGowan: thank you for being a very early reader. Thank you for your encouragement and for your wise, succinct comments. You helped me.
To Hayley Webster: thank you for positive feedback years ago on a day I needed it most.
To Paddy Kelly: thank you for reading an early version of the book and for being so positive and kind.
To @DeafGirly: thank you so much for your expert feedback. In some ways your opinion matters to me more than anyone else’s. I am very grateful.
To the Swedish nature: thank you for being wild. Thank you for being an inspiration.
To my family: thank you for letting me play alone for hours as a child. Thank you for letting me read. Thank you for not enrolling me in countless clubs. Thank you for allowing me to be bored. It was a special gift.
To my friends: apologies if I’ve missed barbecues and parties due to rewriting. Thank you for being wonderful (and patient).
To my sister: thank you for saying ‘do you mind if I just wait for the movie.’
To my wife and son: Thank you. Love you. Always.
A Point Blank Book
First published in Great Britain and the Commonwealth by Point Blank, an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2018
This ebook published 2018
Copyright © Will Dean 2018
The moral right of Will Dean to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78607-253-5
ISBN 978-1-78607-249-8 (ebook)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Oneworld Publications
10 Bloomsbury Street
London WC1B 3SR
England
Stay up to date with
the latest books, special offers, and exclusive content from Oneworld with our monthly newsletter
Sign up on our website oneworld-publications.com
