someone’s taking the piss there — and sits me down near the ambulance. Something is pulled over my face. I hear someone telling me to breathe. I do what I’m told, too weak to fight.
Frank’s sitting on the ground next to me, his arms stretched out over his knees. When I look at him, he grins at me.
“Nine-nine-nine,” he says. “Easy enough number.”
I nod, put one hand on the mask covering my nose and mouth, and concentrate on taking deep breaths.
11
This doctor’s a piece of work. Looks like he’s just finished his GCSEs and he has a trio of tiny scabs on his neck that shows he’s yet to master the art of shaving. He’s also patronised the fuck out of me for around the last fifteen minutes. He’d know the exact length of time, because he’s looked at his watch more than he’s looked at me.
So, I’m not entirely convinced when he says, “No harm done.”
I squint up at him, the strip light burning my eyes. I bring up one fist to meet a rattling cough. “You think so?”
“Some smoke inhalation,” he says. “We can do more tests, but I don’t think they’re necessary. You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t feel fine.” I attempt a disgruntled sigh, hear the crackle in my chest. “That sound fine to you?”
“Like I said, you took in some smoke. But you should bring that up in a couple of days.” He looks at his watch again.
I don’t say anything for a moment, just stare at him until he actually looks at me. Then: “You late for something?”
“Sorry?”
“You keep checking your watch, makes me think there’s somewhere you need to be.”
“No,” he says. “Look, what I suggest you do, if you have any lingering concerns, you should see your GP.”
I pull myself from the bench, taking the tissue paper with me. “Well, thanks for your time, anyway.”
Leave the room, fumble for my cigarettes, just to make sure I’ve still got them. I head down corridors full of coughers, bleeders, sniffers and moaners with one hand over my nose and mouth. Like I haven’t got enough problems with my health, I need to pick up something nasty from this bunch of patient zeros.
Head for the exit, push out the double doors and let my eyes adjust to the rapidly fading light. Must be knocking on ten-thirty, but the sun’s refusing to go down without a tussle. Dim enough to let my headache drop in intensity, though. Just as soon as I can open my eyes properly.
I pull my cigarettes from my pocket, shove an Embassy between my lips and look around the car park. Can’t see my Micra anywhere, so it’s probably back in Longsight. Which is a major pain in the arse. Still, that taxi fare’s going to Plummer, and I don’t want to hear any complaints out of the bugger.
Daft Frank turns up just as I’m lighting the cigarette. I frown at him. “What you doing here?”
He holds up one bandaged hand and grins. He stands well out of my smoking range.
“Right. You break it?”
“One of my knuckles went out of whack,” he says, touching the bandage. “Slight dislocation, the doctor said.”
“You get anything for it?”
He frowns. “How d’you mean?”
“Painkillers.”
“Nah.” Frank pulls a face. “Got no use for painkillers, man. They make you loopy. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“So, you did that student some damage, then.”
“Don’t, Cal.”
“I’m not trying to wind you up, mate. Just saying, thanks for stepping in.” I exhale, breaking into a cough that I have to quell with one hand.
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” he says.
“Frank, don’t—”
He waves his bandaged hand through the cloud of smoke. Making a point.
“Don’t start that shit again, mate. We were getting along for a moment there.”
“You’re killing yourself.”
“You fuckin’ drama queen. I think I’m entitled to a smoke, Frank. Had a bit of a rough night tonight.”
“And that’s making it better, is it?” He reaches forward, plucks the Embassy out of my mouth and tosses it to the
Frank’s sitting on the ground next to me, his arms stretched out over his knees. When I look at him, he grins at me.
“Nine-nine-nine,” he says. “Easy enough number.”
I nod, put one hand on the mask covering my nose and mouth, and concentrate on taking deep breaths.
11
This doctor’s a piece of work. Looks like he’s just finished his GCSEs and he has a trio of tiny scabs on his neck that shows he’s yet to master the art of shaving. He’s also patronised the fuck out of me for around the last fifteen minutes. He’d know the exact length of time, because he’s looked at his watch more than he’s looked at me.
So, I’m not entirely convinced when he says, “No harm done.”
I squint up at him, the strip light burning my eyes. I bring up one fist to meet a rattling cough. “You think so?”
“Some smoke inhalation,” he says. “We can do more tests, but I don’t think they’re necessary. You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t feel fine.” I attempt a disgruntled sigh, hear the crackle in my chest. “That sound fine to you?”
“Like I said, you took in some smoke. But you should bring that up in a couple of days.” He looks at his watch again.
I don’t say anything for a moment, just stare at him until he actually looks at me. Then: “You late for something?”
“Sorry?”
“You keep checking your watch, makes me think there’s somewhere you need to be.”
“No,” he says. “Look, what I suggest you do, if you have any lingering concerns, you should see your GP.”
I pull myself from the bench, taking the tissue paper with me. “Well, thanks for your time, anyway.”
Leave the room, fumble for my cigarettes, just to make sure I’ve still got them. I head down corridors full of coughers, bleeders, sniffers and moaners with one hand over my nose and mouth. Like I haven’t got enough problems with my health, I need to pick up something nasty from this bunch of patient zeros.
Head for the exit, push out the double doors and let my eyes adjust to the rapidly fading light. Must be knocking on ten-thirty, but the sun’s refusing to go down without a tussle. Dim enough to let my headache drop in intensity, though. Just as soon as I can open my eyes properly.
I pull my cigarettes from my pocket, shove an Embassy between my lips and look around the car park. Can’t see my Micra anywhere, so it’s probably back in Longsight. Which is a major pain in the arse. Still, that taxi fare’s going to Plummer, and I don’t want to hear any complaints out of the bugger.
Daft Frank turns up just as I’m lighting the cigarette. I frown at him. “What you doing here?”
He holds up one bandaged hand and grins. He stands well out of my smoking range.
“Right. You break it?”
“One of my knuckles went out of whack,” he says, touching the bandage. “Slight dislocation, the doctor said.”
“You get anything for it?”
He frowns. “How d’you mean?”
“Painkillers.”
“Nah.” Frank pulls a face. “Got no use for painkillers, man. They make you loopy. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“So, you did that student some damage, then.”
“Don’t, Cal.”
“I’m not trying to wind you up, mate. Just saying, thanks for stepping in.” I exhale, breaking into a cough that I have to quell with one hand.
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” he says.
“Frank, don’t—”
He waves his bandaged hand through the cloud of smoke. Making a point.
“Don’t start that shit again, mate. We were getting along for a moment there.”
“You’re killing yourself.”
“You fuckin’ drama queen. I think I’m entitled to a smoke, Frank. Had a bit of a rough night tonight.”
“And that’s making it better, is it?” He reaches forward, plucks the Embassy out of my mouth and tosses it to the
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