Miss Wrong and Mr Right by Robert Bryndza Page A

get him some stuff. I felt very odd. I watched the clock go round once, and then my name was called out.  
    ‘Please go through there, and ask for Dr Best,’ said the receptionist, pointing to a set of swing doors opposite. I went through into a huge room divided up into cubicles.   A tall thin man turned from staring at a bank of X-rays.
    ‘Natalie Love?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m here for Benjamin Jarvis, is he okay?’
    ‘Follow me,’ he said. He took me to a cubicle on the end of the row, and pulled the curtain open. Benjamin was lying propped up in bed. He was wearing a green hospital gown, and now had two IV lines in his arm. His face was still swollen to twice its size, and he still looked as if he was wearing a fat suit.
    ‘He had a very nasty reaction, but he should make a full recovery,’ said Dr Best. ‘It was a rather odd mixture of pepper and vanilla yoghurt on his face…’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. There was a pause and the doctor went on.
    ‘Is that something I could perhaps find in Waitrose? My wife loves their Heston Blumenthal range, is it something new?’
    ‘No, it was pepper spray.’
    ‘Oh, right…’
    ‘No. It was just a misunderstanding…’
    The doctor was now looking at me differently. Like I had gone down in his estimation. I wasn’t a fellow Waitrose shopper. I was a trouble-making chav.
    ‘Right… Well I’ll want to keep him in until morning for observation,’ he added and then scuttled out. I went to the bed and took Benjamin’s hand.
    ‘Hello Benjamin, it’s Natalie, I’m so sorry…’ I said.A nurse came in and adjusted the IV fluid going into his arm.
    ‘His belongings are in the plastic bag in the bedside cabinet,’ she said. ‘Do you want a cot?’  
    ‘We haven’t got a baby,’ I said.
    ‘No. For you dear. If you want to grab a few hours’ sleep? Once this IV has gone in, he’ll probably be free to go home in the morning…’ she peered at Benjamin. ‘He’s asleep now, we gave him a sedative too.’
    I agreed to have a cot and thanked the nurse.
    ‘Why don’t you get a drink whilst he’s asleep? I’ll be around.’ She pointed me in the direction of the cafeteria, and I went and grabbed a large americano, and took it outside the main entrance.  

    It was a warm summer night, and moths were swarming around the orange streetlights. There were small groups of nurses smoking. An old man in a wheelchair came to a stop beside me.
    ‘I could get into trouble bringing you out so late, Gerald. You’ve got five minutes,’ said a nurse. She secured his brakes and went back inside. The old man’s face was plump with jaundice, and he fumbled around under his blankets, pulling out a creased pack of cigarettes. He teased one out with a swollen hand. He located a lighter amongst his blankets, and eased the cigarette into his mouth. Big black bruises dotted his arm, presumably from attempts to find a vein. Despite using both hands on the lighter, his swollen fingers couldn’t get it to work.
    ‘Do you want a hand?’ I asked. He nodded gratefully. I took the lighter and lit his cigarette.
    ‘I shouldn’t really,’ he said breaking into a hacking cough. ‘Ooh that’s lovely though.’ I took a swig of my coffee.
    ‘You all right lass?’ he asked.
    ‘Um, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘How are you?’  
    The old man looked down at his walking frame, the bags of fluid hanging off it.  
    ‘Sorry that was…’
    ‘Don’t worry lass,’ he wheezed. ‘I’ve had a bloody good life. I’m nearly ninety…’ He reached into his blankets again, pulling out one of those purses where you have to squeeze the top so the edges part. He held it out towards me with a shaky hand.
    ‘Do you want something from the shop?’ I asked. He shook his head and then went into a coughing fit, turning almost blue before he recovered.
    ‘Look inside,’ he said finally. I took the purse and gently squeezed it open. I could feel something rigid, and I pulled out a stack of