by Rob Aspinall
Compared to before the op, I felt as healthy as a racehorse. I often found myself holding a hand to my heart and feeling its beat, listening to it.
After you’ve had a transplant, your resting heart rate is naturally higher. Something to do with all the cutting of tubes and pipes. But it didn’t seem to race; it kept a nice, steady rhythm. I knew it could do more.
“Don’t go running any marathons,” Dr J reminded me. “Stick to your rehabilitation and build up gradually. Light exercise only.”
Before I left, I thought I might as well ask him about the dreams.
“You know the side effects of the drugs?”
“Yes, Lorna?”
“Are, like, weird dreams on the list?”
“No, not usually,” he said, tucking my notes away in a folder. “Why? What have you been dreaming about?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just stuff.”
Just being a murdering bitch. Being strangely tall. Using a dead man’s skull as a stepladder.
I must have given off a crazy-lady vibe because in my next (compulsory) shrink session with the hospital counsellor, she started asking me about the dreams. Her name was Lisa and she always wore grey trouser suits and her African-Caribbean hair ultra-short. She also had a habit of nodding along like one of those dogs you see on the parcel shelves of cars. I described the sniping, the head chopping, the shooting and the incident in the sea. To her credit, she didn’t smirk, flinch or raise an eyebrow.
“What do you think they mean?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I thought it was the drugs.”
“Do you think there could be a part of you that you’d like to kill off?”
“Hmm.” I’d never thought of that. “Like belly fat? Look, I know I’m a chunker. It’s the pills. Got to be. I’m living on lettuce and broccoli.”
Lisa chuckled. “First of all, you’re not fat. Far from it.”
She consulted her notes. “As of this morning, you’re five feet seven and one hundred and eight pounds.”
“Really? Huh.”
“Secondly, I don’t believe it’s the immunosuppressants. Dreams of killing an animal or another person can often indicate a desire to kill off an old part of ourselves … a character trait … a habit …”
She was going down the mummy and daddy route again, I could tell.
“Perhaps a memory …”
“The one of Dad shooting himself or Mum losing it and joining New Horizon?” I asked.
If you’ve not heard of it, it’s basically a bunch of stranded alien souls from the Planet Crazy, led by a reptile Jesus who’s gonna come back down in a big groovy flying saucer and save all New Horizon members before the apocalypse that God’s been planning for literally centuries. All they have to do is give their life savings to the cult leader and access the Higher Light Plane. I.e. drink a mixer of cyanide and Coke. The kids too. I’d Googled it.
Whether Mum was alive or not, we didn’t know. We’d never had a reply to the letters Auntie Claire had written, begging her to come back.
Lisa continued to probe. “Is there a part of you that you’d like to kill off?”
I’d said goodbye to Mum and Dad a long time ago. Had to. How else could I move on? No, it wasn’t that.
“Do you think it’s like me saying goodbye to my old condition?” I asked. “I mean, I know I’ve still got a condition. But could I be killing off the association to the old heart? Accepting the new one? Because Dr J – I mean Dr Jennings – says my heart is fitting in well with my body. Better than expected.”
“Only you can answer that,” Lisa said. “My job is to help you explore your own thoughts and feelings.”
I caught her glancing at the clock on the wall. Time was up. Shrinks didn’t hang around. I left there with more questions than I went in with. Which was the point, I guess.
The next day, I was back in school. Morley High. The modern glass and red-brick sixth-form block was round the back of a century-old main building. I couldn’t wait. It meant normality. Beautiful, mundane normality. In the past, there’d been three of us. Me, Becki and Holly.
Holly was half Vietnamese and super-smart, destined for big things, but she acted dizzy so her intellect wouldn’t scare off boys. I loved her to bits. She was really sweet natured and never swore, ever. Now, though, there was a fourth girl in the group: Millie. I guess she’d seen a Lorna-shaped gap and stepped right in.
I’ll admit it. I was more than a smidge jel. She had a cruel sense of humour that seemed to crack Becki up, whether it was making fun of sad geeky boys or fashion-disaster girls. Nobody was safe, especially not me. Millie (aka Posh Slapper) was soon tearing me a new one with little offhand comments about my new line in polo necks and how they made me look like a man. She also made a comment about my scar and how I was in severe need of a tan. But to be honest, what did I care? I was alive, dammit. And big, pink sticky note to self, most transplanted hearts didn’t last you a lifetime. There was a fifty–fifty chance I’d bite the dust in the next five to ten years. I was damned if I was going to let the crap that came out of Millie Beauchamp’s kipper-lipped spunk-hole make my time on Earth any less fun than it could be.
But Millie wasn’t the only one getting on my tits. Dave Lee, our local walking ASBO, plonked himself next to me on one of the common-room sofas. Just as I was trying to get my head round the introduction to a mind-bending hieroglyphic riddle called Basic Physics Level 1. (Physics and French? What was I thinking?)
I looked up and Dave’s right-hand wanker, Ollie Croft, was leering at me on the opposite sofa.
“All right Scar Tits?” Dave Lee said in his overly nasal Mancunian accent.
“Oh great. It’s University Challenged,” I said, keeping my head down in the book.
“No need to get arsey,” Ollie said, a hand scratching down the front of his joggers. “Only being friendly, innit?”
“Could have given you bigger jugs while they were doing the op, couldn’t they?” Dave said, sizing up the curve of my boobs under my black polo neck. Ollie reached over and gave Dave a fist bump, then some weird palm-rub thing.
Dave poked me hard on the arm. “So, what are you reading?”
“Nothing. Just a textbook.”
“What’s that, a sex book?” Ollie asked, cracking up with laughter.
“You want me to explain it to you, babe?” Dave said. “Or you want the practical?”
More fist bumps.
Dave had been in my year group after re-sitting twice, but he’d left school after flunking his final exams. Yet he was still hanging around, dealing drugs outside the school gates, seeing his lapdog Ollie and trying to cop off with sixth-form girls. Surely with a scar like mine, I wasn’t on his to-do list.
“Look, can I help you with something?” I asked, snapping the book shut.
“All right Fault in Our Stars,” Ollie said. “Calm down.”
“Wrong disease, numb-nuts,” I said, stuffing the book in my bag and getting to my feet. “But points for trying.”
“Where you going?” Dave Lee asked, blocking my path. “Only want to talk to you.”
“About what?” I said. “What could we possibly have to talk about?”
He gripped my wrist and spoke quietly in my ear, his hot, wet breath totally disgusting.
“Why not give me and Ollie a go on you? It’s not like anyone else will.”
“Get off me,” I said, trying to pull away and suddenly feeling short on oxygen.
Ollie pretended to struggle for breath. “She’s having a heart attack,” he laughed. “Someone call an ambulance!”
The more I wrestled, the tighter Dave’s grip became. I was getting worried. What if he didn’t let go? What if I fainted? Just in time, Becki showed up. She yanked Dave back by the collar of his jacket and broke his hand off my wrist.
“Leave her alone, freak.”
“Okay, okay,” Dave said.
He wasn’t about to argue with the fittest girl in the cosmos. Meanwhile, Ollie had flushed
red and gone quiet as a mouse.
“You’re not even supposed to be here,” Becki said. “Do one before I get the head.”
“Busy anyway, babe,” Dave said, backing away out of the room. “Deals to be done,” he continued, toking on an imaginary joint. “When you’re ready for a proper good rattling, give me a bell. You, Becks. Not Frankenstein.”
“In your dreams,” Becki shouted after him.
“Every night, babe,” Dave shouted back as he swaggered out of the door.
My shoulders were hunched up tense as Becki rubbed a gentle, comforting hand on my back.
“You okay, Lorn?” she asked. “You want me to report him?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thanks for the intercept.”
She waved away my gratitude. “Listen, what are you doing tonight? Fancy roller disco? Are you allowed?”
Wow, a real night out? Actual fun?
Of course I wasn’t allowed. Auntie Claire and Team Party Poop would go nuclear.
“Sure,” I lied. “Who needs permission? Let’s do it.”
8
Back To Life
Okay, so I was prepared for a little chop busting, but talk about drama.
“You’re not going out like that,” Auntie Claire said.
“Like what?”
“In that skirt and that skimpy top.”
Don’t do this to me, I thought. The shiny white number in question was my social-circle comeback top. High enough to cover the scar. Tight enough to augment my boob line.
“It’s bad enough you going out in the first place. Where’s your jacket?” she asked, rooting through the coats hung up in the hallway.
It was mid-September and an Indian summer, worldwide. Not predicted to end any time soon. I don’t know what she was worried about.
“I’ve got a heart condition not hypothermia.”
“You’ve also got a weak immune system.”
She grabbed my leather jacket and a chiffon scarf. “At least put these on.”
I folded my arms and rolled my eyes.
“You can just take them off when you get there,” she said. “Where are you going anyway?”
I paused for a second. She’d never let me go if she knew.
“The cinema.”
“Who with?”
“Becki.”
“How are you getting there and back?”
“Becki’s driving. She passed her test last week.”
“How exactly?”
“She’s seventeen. She’s a year older than the rest of us.”
“You never told me that.”
“I told you ages ago. She had to repeat second year … God, you never listen.”
“I never listen? You’re a fine one to talk, young lady.”
Auntie Claire scoured every inch of my face for a lie.
“I’ll wear the jacket, but not the scarf,” I said, trying to put some points on the board.
Becki beeped outside. I got a begrudging I suppose.
Hoo-yah!
“But I want you back here by half eleven,” she said. “Doctor’s orders. Not mine.”
As soon as we were out of waving distance, I wrestled my way out of the jacket and tossed it in the back. Becki crunched through the gears and ran a couple of red lights, messing with her hair in the rear view.
“Loving the top,” she said. “Is it new?”
“Watch the van,” I warned her, squeezing the door handle.
“What van?” she said, looking over her shoulder.
“The one behind the bus,” I said, pointing in front of us.
“What bus?” Becki said.
Being a passenger in Becki’s yellow Mini should have been the standard test for a healthy heart. The bad flap would never have coped. The new one scraped through and we made it to the roller disco alive. Barely.
There were a few of us from my year. Holly and Millie met us there. Mill-bag with phoney mwah-mwah air kisses.
Becki checked her mobile and gave me a nudge. “Hey, Ben Fielding’s coming tonight.”
Yessssss!
“Oh shit! Soz, Lor. He’s bringing his new girlfriend.”
Nooooo!
As we laced up our boots and got ready to roll, Ben sat down next to us with a pretty brunette I’d never seen before.
“Hi Becki. Hi Lorna,” he said. “How’s it going with your …” He circled a finger around his chest.
“Oh, fine. Thanks for asking.”
Normally I’d be blushing right now. For some reason, I was popsicle-cool. Maybe it was the presence of his girlfriend. Double confirmation I was out of the game. I don’t know. In that moment, I just didn’t fancy him as much as usual. I didn’t care a great deal for his perfectly cropped blonde hair or his superhero jaw. I wasn’t much interested in his rather splendid derriere or dimply smile.
Huh, after all those years of pining.
Becki grabbed my arm and pulled me up onto the disco floor. I took it easy at first as the rest of the girls skated slightly ahead. I wanted to get into my stride gradually. I was eager to get back to normal but I wasn’t daft. I knew the replacement heart came with a speed limit. Yet the more I got into it, the more I forgot about the doctor’s voices in my head. I think my heart was getting into it too. The bass line of the music. The swirling lights. The rolling flow of the skates. Before I knew it, I was part of a circle with the girls, doing tricks and moves, pissing ourselves laughing at how cheesy we could go.
We broke off to skirt the floor. I was skating behind Becki when I noticed just how much I was noticing her bum cheeks.
How could you not notice them? Two perfectly pert bumps in super-tight pink hot pants rubbing up against each other on top of those tanned Victoria’s Secret legs … Or the long swaying dark-brown hair falling down her semi-naked back. I wanted to slap myself. What was I thinking?
Oh my God, you fancy your best friend, the she-devil inside said. How desperate. And how weird.
I didn’t fancy her, I reminded myself. It’s fine to admit your friend is fit.
We left the disco and sat down in McDonald’s with a mountain of food. I lifted a Big Mac to my mouth and took a giant bite. One night of junk food wouldn’t kill me and, dang, it tasted good.
“Lorna!” Becki said, mouthful of fries. “You’re a fucking vegetarian. What are you doing?”
“Oh shit, yeah,” I said, dropping the burger back in the box, mouth and fingers sticky with sauce. “I forgot.”
As the girls fell about laughing, I tried to feel remorse for my crime. Sorry cows. Sorry sheep. Sorry chickens. Sorry pigs.
“Still, no point in the poor animal dying for nothing,” I said, taking another bite.
“Worst. Veggie. Ever,” said Holly, chewing on a McNugget.
“So, ladies, what are we gonna do for the rest of the night?” Millie asked.
Rest of the night? I was due back in an hour.
Becki finished her burger and licked the mayo off her full, pink lips. “Dunno. What else is there to do?”
“What else?” said Millie, like it was the dumbest question ever. “It’s Friday night in the city, bitches. Let’s go to a club.”
“Do you reckon we’ll get in?” asked Holly. “Even Lor?”
“Course,” Millie said. “We’ll go to Neon. It’s only round the corner and I know one of the bouncers.”
“Awesome,” Becki said, sucking on her vanilla milkshake so that it left a creamy film around her mouth. “What do you reckon, Lorn? You in?”
“I haven’t got much choice,” I said. “You’re my lift home.”
“You can always get a taxi if you’re not feeling up to it,” said Millie, with pretend-friend concern. “Y’know, because of your condition?”
“Oh yeah, don’t feel you have to,” said Becks.
“Yeah, we’ll chip in for a cab for you,” Holly smiled.
“No, I’m good. Let’s go,” I said.
Give me the Auntie Claire hair dryer ov
er a pity party any day. Besides, I wanted to live, dammit.
We got to Neon only to find that Millie didn’t know the bouncer quite as well as she claimed. Worse still, there was a female bouncer on the door too. And she wasn’t having any of me. I pretended to be on the phone as I glided in behind the others. My amateur dramatics didn’t work.
“Hang on,” she said, as the other three waltzed in through the door of the club. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen?” I said.
Why did I say it like a question? Jesus I was thick.
“You don’t look eighteen,” she said. “When’s your date of birth?”
I gave the right answer, casual as denim. She wasn’t convinced.
“Got any ID?”
Outpatient card. Library card. Yeah, I had ID. I tried the library card.
“With your date of birth on,” she said.
Becki and Holly ducked their heads back out of the door and asked what the problem was.
“You three are okay, but she looks too young.”
I could feel the eyes on me from the queue behind. My humiliation was complete.
“Oh let her in,” said Becki. “She’s got a heart condition.”
“So?” laughed the male bouncer.
“She’s gonna die soon. Going to a nightclub is on her bucket list,” said Holly, winking at me.
The female bouncer snorted and shook her head. “Bullshit.”
“Show ’em, Lorn,” Becki said.
What the hell, I thought. Might as well milk some mileage out of it.
I pulled up my top to reveal the scar in all its scabby glory.
“Christ almighty,” said the male bouncer, gawping at the severity of it.
“So? You’ve had your surgery,” said the woman.
“Yeah, but it didn’t work,” I said, giving them the Bambi eyes.
“The doctors say there’s nothing more they can do,” said Holly, pouring it on.
It was the male bouncer who cracked first. “All right, go on then.”
“Soft arse,” the woman said, pretending to play the violin.
I was in, gosh darn it!
