Page 46 of London's Calling: Part 1
A horn beeps behind me, and I show them the finger in the rear-view mirror. “Dad, gotta go. I’ll call you when I know more.” I hang up and head home.
There’s no sign of Roni or Carl, so I assume she’s still not returned. I head inside, collecting my mail as I go. If she’s not back in a few hours, I’ll call her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Roni
I’m exhausted. I’ve been stuck at this damn hospital for the last forty-eight hours with a short trip home to shower, sleep—barely—and back again. Nothing has changed. Clayton’s father is still in a coma with a machine basically breathing for him.
Clayton sits beside me on a two-seater sofa at the back of the private room while his mum sits at Clayton Snr’s bedside, holding his hand.
Getting to my feet, I say, “I’m going on a drink run. Would anyone like something?” I look to Clayton, who shakes his head without so much as a glance in my direction. “Mrs Simmonds, can I get you something to drink or eat?”
She startles at my question, looking over to me. “It’s Angelina, and no, dear. I’m fine, thank you. Why don’t you head home. You’ve been here long enough.”
My heart races at the prospect of leaving, going home to relax away from this suffocating tension. The second I move to leave, Clayton’s voice echoes in the room.
“She stays.”
My previously racing heart stutters at his demand. Before I can muster enough breath to even sigh let alone argue, his mother speaks up.
“She’s leaving, Clayton, no arguments.” He grumbles but doesn’t argue. “Please, Veronica, go home and get some rest. We’ll let you know if anything changes.”
I can’t get out of there fast enough. After saying goodbye to Clayton and a relieved thank you to his mum, I practically run from the room, the hospital, and I don’t even bother hailing a cab, having got a cab here this morning, choosing to walk for a while and just breath in air that isn’t laced with antiseptic and death.
A shiver runs through me as I reach London Bridge tube station, and I pause at the top of the steps, inhaling a large breath before jogging down into the chaotic underground station. It’s coming up for rush hour and the station is abuzz with people heading home for the day, eager to escape the manic city of London and find refuge in their home.
Tube stations always bring forth an image of an ant colony. The workers, the little people, yet the cogs of society, the ones who keep the world turning. Although I think ants cherish their workers far more than we do.
Arriving at the platform, I check the electronic overhead board for the next tube just as a gust of hot air bursts along the platform, signalling the arrival of a train. Seconds later the unmistakable clunk of the high-speed tube rumbles through the black tunnel, then whooshes past me as I step forward, preparing to board when it comes to a stop.
Less than ten minutes later and a tube journey equivalent to being sardines in a tin—literally—I arrive home. My phone has been blowing up since I exited Green Park station, but as it’s my father, I’ve happily ignored it. Closing the door to the apartment, I lean against it, dropping my head to the wood with a thunk. And my phone rings again.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” I whisper, though I wish I could shout it from the rooftops, or better yet, answer the phone and tell it to him straight.
Pushing away from the door, I walk into the lounge and sling my bag onto the sofa before thudding to the kitchen. The apartment is cast in shadow as the sun sets outside, and my stomach rumbles as I pick up a takeaway menu, needing something quick and greasy before I crash in my bed. After ordering my pizza, I take a quick shower, not bothering to wash my hair tonight.
By the time I exit my bedroom, the apartment is in complete darkness. I flick the kitchen light on as I enter, letting out a scream when a figure appears in front of me.
He steps forward, grabbing me by the arm as the other slaps over my mouth, muffling my terror. “Shh, Ice Queen, it’s just me.”
I slap at his chest with my free hand until he releases me. “Fuck you, Rawlins! You scared the shit out of me,” I cry and slap him again for good measure.
He just laughs. He fucking laughs, which only makes me madder. “What the fuck do you want? Gotta say, I’m surprised to see you back again. If you were hoping to get laid, forget it.”
He strokes a hand over his scruff covered jaw, looking contrite. “About?—”
“Not interested. Is there some part of that you don’t understand?” I turn away from him, striding into the lounge and just realising I’m wearing the skimpiest short set pyjamas I own. He hurries after me, pushing the thought from my mind.
“Hey, listen,” he demands as he snatches the underside of my arm and spinning me round to face him. “Look, I get your pissed at me, and that’s fine, but I need…I heard about the old man.”
I drop my head, giving it little shake, before looking back up at him. “You’re joking, right? No, of course not,” I snap, answering my own question. “Okay, fine, all you need to know is he looks like he got hit by a fucking bus and will likely die without waking for a second to reveal what really happened to him.” I watch his face, eyes widening. “If that’s all you need, then we’re done here and you can leave.” Before I can demand he let me go, there’s a knock on the door.
I look to the door, then back to Mickey, who looks just as confused as me.
“It must be the pizza guy.” Mickey tilts his head and rolls his eyes. “Maybe I didn’t shut the door properly?”
“Veronica, open the door,” comes Clayton’s voice on the other side.
