anything.
Sheer terror.
He shuffles away from me, clutching his right ankle in one hand. In the other I see he’s picked up the soup bowl and is holding it above his head, as if he is taking aim, is about to hurl
it at me. I make a grab for his wrist, and he lets the bowl fly but it misses me and shatters on the door jamb.
After a few seconds’ silence I go and squat in front of him, gazing at him with all the loving kindness I can express.
‘Jez, you’ve hurt yourself. You must let me help you.’
‘I want to go home.’ He shrinks back, whimpering.
‘You will go home. But you need to let me take a look at your ankle. I’ve got some gel in the bathroom and a bandage. Let’s just get it sorted, and we can take it from
there.’
‘It’s fucking agony.’
I can see he’s trying hard to be brave. I tell him he needs to put his foot up on a cushion, that it’d be better for him to go back to the bed.
‘Jez. Come on. Let me take a look.’
He tries to get up, winces again.
‘Jez,’ I say, trying to make eye contact with him. ‘There was no need for that. I was bringing you the things you asked for. I only want to keep you safe, to make you
happy.’
‘I don’t like it,’ he says. ‘I don’t like being locked up in there.’ His face contorts in pain or maybe, though I hate to think it, in fear.
‘Well you’re not going anywhere in this state. You’ll have to let me sort you out.’
He lets me help him up and limps back to the music room, recognizing after all that he really has no choice.
When he’s settled on the bed, I lift the leg of his jeans. His ankle is swelling and turning a nasty colour. There’s no break that I can detect, but my guess is he’s sprained
it badly.
I lock the door and go down for the first-aid box and some ibuprofen for the pain. I’m trembling as I gather the things together. I fill another bowl with soup, make up his lunch again,
and take up the new tray, kicking aside fragments of broken jug and bowl on the stairs to clear up later. I’m careful to sidle in the door, all my senses alert. But this time he’s
acquiescent, in too much pain, or perhaps feeling too ashamed, to try anything silly again. He lets me lift his foot, remove his sock, apply the soothing gel to the swelling. I smooth it on, taking
my time, being as gentle as I can. I take the bandage and wind it softly, softly, around his ankle, until it is swaddled in white cloth.
‘Is that better?’ I ask.
He sighs, lies back, and nods. He drinks a little water with the painkillers. We don’t speak.
I’m still shaking as I lock the door and go downstairs. I don’t like what happened, it shows me that Jez doesn’t trust me yet, after all. In the kitchen, I lean on the
windowsill for a while. Stare out at the full river, trying to let its gentle undulations soothe me. But my chest heaves and I feel a sob rise into my throat.
It’s some time before my weeping subsides. I wipe my eyes, then wrap myself up in my coat and head out of the door.
There’s still a spring tide and though it is ebbing now, the water has come over the footpath in places. Tourists tiptoe along beside the railings of the university,
trying not to get their feet wet. It seems astonishing to me that they can chatter and laugh together as if nothing has happened, while I have been through an emotional ordeal that leaves me weak
and trembling.
In spite of everything, or perhaps because of it, I want to make sure there is a nourishing meal for Jez this evening.
I get to the market and fill my basket quickly with focaccia, cheeses, and some bits and pieces from the Italian and Greek stalls, then hurry back along the river. The sun is very low in the sky
behind me. My shadow stretches east from the alley, where my feet tread the dark path, almost as far as the coaling pier where my head brushes the barbed wire at the top of the wall. I have become
a giant.
I decide to walk for a little longer, beyond the River
Sheer terror.
He shuffles away from me, clutching his right ankle in one hand. In the other I see he’s picked up the soup bowl and is holding it above his head, as if he is taking aim, is about to hurl
it at me. I make a grab for his wrist, and he lets the bowl fly but it misses me and shatters on the door jamb.
After a few seconds’ silence I go and squat in front of him, gazing at him with all the loving kindness I can express.
‘Jez, you’ve hurt yourself. You must let me help you.’
‘I want to go home.’ He shrinks back, whimpering.
‘You will go home. But you need to let me take a look at your ankle. I’ve got some gel in the bathroom and a bandage. Let’s just get it sorted, and we can take it from
there.’
‘It’s fucking agony.’
I can see he’s trying hard to be brave. I tell him he needs to put his foot up on a cushion, that it’d be better for him to go back to the bed.
‘Jez. Come on. Let me take a look.’
He tries to get up, winces again.
‘Jez,’ I say, trying to make eye contact with him. ‘There was no need for that. I was bringing you the things you asked for. I only want to keep you safe, to make you
happy.’
‘I don’t like it,’ he says. ‘I don’t like being locked up in there.’ His face contorts in pain or maybe, though I hate to think it, in fear.
‘Well you’re not going anywhere in this state. You’ll have to let me sort you out.’
He lets me help him up and limps back to the music room, recognizing after all that he really has no choice.
When he’s settled on the bed, I lift the leg of his jeans. His ankle is swelling and turning a nasty colour. There’s no break that I can detect, but my guess is he’s sprained
it badly.
I lock the door and go down for the first-aid box and some ibuprofen for the pain. I’m trembling as I gather the things together. I fill another bowl with soup, make up his lunch again,
and take up the new tray, kicking aside fragments of broken jug and bowl on the stairs to clear up later. I’m careful to sidle in the door, all my senses alert. But this time he’s
acquiescent, in too much pain, or perhaps feeling too ashamed, to try anything silly again. He lets me lift his foot, remove his sock, apply the soothing gel to the swelling. I smooth it on, taking
my time, being as gentle as I can. I take the bandage and wind it softly, softly, around his ankle, until it is swaddled in white cloth.
‘Is that better?’ I ask.
He sighs, lies back, and nods. He drinks a little water with the painkillers. We don’t speak.
I’m still shaking as I lock the door and go downstairs. I don’t like what happened, it shows me that Jez doesn’t trust me yet, after all. In the kitchen, I lean on the
windowsill for a while. Stare out at the full river, trying to let its gentle undulations soothe me. But my chest heaves and I feel a sob rise into my throat.
It’s some time before my weeping subsides. I wipe my eyes, then wrap myself up in my coat and head out of the door.
There’s still a spring tide and though it is ebbing now, the water has come over the footpath in places. Tourists tiptoe along beside the railings of the university,
trying not to get their feet wet. It seems astonishing to me that they can chatter and laugh together as if nothing has happened, while I have been through an emotional ordeal that leaves me weak
and trembling.
In spite of everything, or perhaps because of it, I want to make sure there is a nourishing meal for Jez this evening.
I get to the market and fill my basket quickly with focaccia, cheeses, and some bits and pieces from the Italian and Greek stalls, then hurry back along the river. The sun is very low in the sky
behind me. My shadow stretches east from the alley, where my feet tread the dark path, almost as far as the coaling pier where my head brushes the barbed wire at the top of the wall. I have become
a giant.
I decide to walk for a little longer, beyond the River
Similar Books
