track with a blanket around his shoulders and a smoke-blackened face. ‘He’ll be OK. I think he’s just in shock.’
An ambulance arrived, its siren wailing. It stopped next to Jamie and the others and the paramedics lifted the stretcher and carried Paul inside. Heather climbed in with him. The other driver was helped in by one of the attendants.
Kirsty spoke to the paramedics who told her they were taking Paul to the hospital in Bromley.
‘We’ll follow them in the car,’ said Jamie. ‘Come on, Kirsty. Oh, hang on.’ He’d remembered Chris and Lucy.
Lucy had crossed the track and was standing talking to her husband. Jamie was about to ask them if they were going to come to the hospital, then he felt a surge of anger and thought, Fuck them . If it wasn’t for Chris they wouldn’t be here. And Paul wouldn’t be in the back of an ambulance with his head all smashed up. He would talk to them later – but for now, he was only interested in his best friend.
‘Never mind. He followed Kirsty towards the car park, holding tightly onto her hand as they squeezed between rows of stationary cars to get to their own. ‘I knew something was going to happen,’ he said. ‘But I thought it was going to be me.’
Kirsty just looked at him, her expression unreadable. ‘Let’s get to the hospital.’
Eight
Jamie sat beside Paul’s bed and stared at his friend’s motionless face. Behind him he could hear the bip bip bip of the heart monitor. He had seen enough films and television dramas to know that if the line on the screen were to run flat – to flatline – he should shout for a doctor, and then panic would render him frantic and helpless as doctors and nurses would come running, their footfall heavy in the long corridors. They would bring out the defibrillator and Jamie would stand there and watch as they fired electricity into Paul’s chest, making his body buck, rising up and falling back onto the bed, the bed where he had lain since the accident, six weeks ago.
But nothing like that did happen.
Six weeks, and nothing had happened at all. Paul did nothing except lie motionless beneath NHS sheets, his eyes closed, his body continuing to function at the most fundamental of levels (his heart beating on, his chest continuing to rise and fall, his hair and fingernails growing, skin being shed) but his mind locked away in that body, doing nothing. Nothing but dreaming. If he did dream at all.
Paul was never alone. His family and friends took it in turn to sit beside his bed: his parents, his sister, his grandmother, Heather, Kirsty, Jamie. Most of them would sit and talk to him, chatting about life as it went on outside the hospital, pleading with him to wake up, expressing regret for things said or unsaid in the past. Sometimes Paul’s parents played recordings of his favourite football matches. Paul and his dad were both Arsenal fans – it was pretty much the only thing they had ever talked about – and Mr Garner would record matches off Radio 5 and play them back to his son, hoping a dramatic moment might reach into Paul’s sleeping brain and draw him back to the surface.
That’s what it seemed like to Jamie: that his friend had slipped deep beneath the surface of the world, into a deep lake of dreams or darkness, and although he was still there – still with them – he couldn’t communicate with them. He was too deep. He had been swallowed up, and all they could do was wait and see if the subterranean place in which he now dwelt would spit him back out. Or if he might float upwards, blinking with sleep-clogged eyes as he emerged into the light.
It was what he prayed for.
Jamie barely spoke to Paul when it was his turn to sit beside him. He didn’t tell stories or jokes or play music. He merely sat and watched. He didn’t believe that his friend needed chatter and prompts; no-one could pull him back to the surface with songs or football commentary. He believed that Paul needed to rest – he was
An ambulance arrived, its siren wailing. It stopped next to Jamie and the others and the paramedics lifted the stretcher and carried Paul inside. Heather climbed in with him. The other driver was helped in by one of the attendants.
Kirsty spoke to the paramedics who told her they were taking Paul to the hospital in Bromley.
‘We’ll follow them in the car,’ said Jamie. ‘Come on, Kirsty. Oh, hang on.’ He’d remembered Chris and Lucy.
Lucy had crossed the track and was standing talking to her husband. Jamie was about to ask them if they were going to come to the hospital, then he felt a surge of anger and thought, Fuck them . If it wasn’t for Chris they wouldn’t be here. And Paul wouldn’t be in the back of an ambulance with his head all smashed up. He would talk to them later – but for now, he was only interested in his best friend.
‘Never mind. He followed Kirsty towards the car park, holding tightly onto her hand as they squeezed between rows of stationary cars to get to their own. ‘I knew something was going to happen,’ he said. ‘But I thought it was going to be me.’
Kirsty just looked at him, her expression unreadable. ‘Let’s get to the hospital.’
Eight
Jamie sat beside Paul’s bed and stared at his friend’s motionless face. Behind him he could hear the bip bip bip of the heart monitor. He had seen enough films and television dramas to know that if the line on the screen were to run flat – to flatline – he should shout for a doctor, and then panic would render him frantic and helpless as doctors and nurses would come running, their footfall heavy in the long corridors. They would bring out the defibrillator and Jamie would stand there and watch as they fired electricity into Paul’s chest, making his body buck, rising up and falling back onto the bed, the bed where he had lain since the accident, six weeks ago.
But nothing like that did happen.
Six weeks, and nothing had happened at all. Paul did nothing except lie motionless beneath NHS sheets, his eyes closed, his body continuing to function at the most fundamental of levels (his heart beating on, his chest continuing to rise and fall, his hair and fingernails growing, skin being shed) but his mind locked away in that body, doing nothing. Nothing but dreaming. If he did dream at all.
Paul was never alone. His family and friends took it in turn to sit beside his bed: his parents, his sister, his grandmother, Heather, Kirsty, Jamie. Most of them would sit and talk to him, chatting about life as it went on outside the hospital, pleading with him to wake up, expressing regret for things said or unsaid in the past. Sometimes Paul’s parents played recordings of his favourite football matches. Paul and his dad were both Arsenal fans – it was pretty much the only thing they had ever talked about – and Mr Garner would record matches off Radio 5 and play them back to his son, hoping a dramatic moment might reach into Paul’s sleeping brain and draw him back to the surface.
That’s what it seemed like to Jamie: that his friend had slipped deep beneath the surface of the world, into a deep lake of dreams or darkness, and although he was still there – still with them – he couldn’t communicate with them. He was too deep. He had been swallowed up, and all they could do was wait and see if the subterranean place in which he now dwelt would spit him back out. Or if he might float upwards, blinking with sleep-clogged eyes as he emerged into the light.
It was what he prayed for.
Jamie barely spoke to Paul when it was his turn to sit beside him. He didn’t tell stories or jokes or play music. He merely sat and watched. He didn’t believe that his friend needed chatter and prompts; no-one could pull him back to the surface with songs or football commentary. He believed that Paul needed to rest – he was
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