Page 33 of Bad Friends

“Yeah, I promise.”

Silence descends and I look across, finding him deep in thought. I wonder if he’s thinking about him and Adam, how they used to be so in sync and now there’s this whole elephant in the room – Susan – who’s a wedge between them. Not that Adam knows about Theo’s feelings, he hasn’t got a clue; though he recognises people obviously admire Susan, or Susie as he calls her, Adam doesn’t see that Theo has the capacity to fall for someone in the same way he has.

“Did you notice how he didn’t mention Paul once?” I find that so interesting.

“Well, I didn’t say anything, to anyone. Lips are sealed.”

“Unless Susan doesn’t like Paul? And he didn’t mention him for that reason.”

“I think Adam knows more than he’s letting on, probably cos Paul rings him first. I reckon Adam is protecting you from what’s going on in Paul’s life. Either that, or Paul has done something to really anger Adam, which could well be the case. He’s a married man now, he acts different, looks different. Paul’s Paul, whereas Adam is settled, a one-woman man. Leagues apart suddenly. Yeah, we can all get along still, but our experiences are different now. If Paul rang him and said something Adam didn’t agree with, you can bet Adam told him so.”

“Or Paul’s madly in love with his holiday romance and Adam doesn’t want to rub it in my face?”

Theo laughs so loudly, I think the car is about to pop. “No, fucking, way. No way, kid. Absolutely no fucking way.”

My stomach flips, just thinking about Paul; but the bitterness is still there, swishing around my gut, a reminder of how he left me – naked and alone, totally in the dark to his troubles.

Chapter Thirteen

I’m leaving work and it’s been a long day. January and February dragged and I thought things would eventually get easier, but it doesn’t seem any better now we’re in March. I could blame it on the bad, dreary weather but honestly, the cases I’ve been handed lately get worse and worse. I wonder if this is how they bed you in with a career like this; lull you into a false sense of security with the less complex patients, then suddenly pile on the personality disorders, the suicidal and extremely damaged. My head’s spinning with treatment plans. It physically hurts being around such poorly people all day. I don’t think the average Joe realises how hard it is to work in this field, because our patients often don’t understand what’s happening to them and don’t want help, either. And none of it is their fault. It’s the fault of our complex biology and the way in which, sometimes, it doesn’t work out. And it’s sometimes unexpected. Nobody saw it coming. No history, nothing, and in an instant, lives are changed forever. And ever.

I intend to leave the hospital the way I always do, but then I get this strange feeling inside telling me to walk the long way around to my car. I usually slip out the side entrance, but today, I don’t know, something’s telling me to go out the front. Maybe I need the extra walk to grab some fresh air.

Heading down the path which runs through the hospital gardens towards the exit, I have to pass through all the smokers creating their own smoke bubble right on the edge of hospital premises. Now I remember, this is why I never walk this way, plus it’s longer. Duh. Why today?

I’m about to put my head down and sprint through smoggy corner, when something catches my eye. A guy in a check shirt is crouched on the floor with his back to the metal perimeter fence. His hands are shaking as he holds his cigarette, the ash tip extremely long, like he forgot what he was outside for. I know that body, that hair, those legs.

“Paul?”

He doesn’t hear, or he decides not to answer.

“Paul?” I almost shout.

He looks up, shaken from his thoughts.

His eyes are red and bleary. He quickly looks away, down at his cigarette, which he drops to the floor and puts out with his boot as he stands to full height.

“What are you doing here? Nobody said you were back.”

He folds his arms, but not like people normally fold their arms. He sinks into his shoulders and almost drops his chin to his chest, crawling into himself, eyes to the floor.

“Nobody knows. I got a call and had to come. There was no time.”

“What’s going on? You’re scaring me.” It’s the sound of his voice, like he’s not there; he’s just a shell and some automaton has taken over.

“It’s my dad, alright,” he says, savaging me with his gruff tone. “He’s fucking… fucking…”

“You’ve seen him? He’s in there?”

“He’s dying, Lil. He’s fucking dying. That fucking cunt is dying in there.”

He keeps his same posture but shudders as tears drip from his eyes, flicking off his forearms to the floor.

Okay, this isn’t the same as prescribing knitting or long walks or sudoku to help keep people’s minds occupied with routine and gentle mental exercise. This is Paul, who I love, and who is in incredible pain. I can do things for him above and beyond what I do for my patients, who I have to honour with a code and a professional distance.

“Do you have to go back in? What are you out here for?”

He’s trembling but speaks. “I ought to, he might not last the night, but I can’t. I just can’t.”

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