I want to die in my own way. It’s my illness, my death, my choice.
This is what saying yes means.
It’s the pleasure of walking, one foot in front of the other, following the yellow lines painted
on the floor of the corridor all the way to reception. It’s the pleasure of revolving doors – going
round twice to celebrate the genius of the person who invented them. And the pleasure of the air.
The sweet, cool, shocking outside world.
There’s a kiosk at the gate. I buy a Dairy Milk and a packet of Chewits. The woman behind
the counter looks at me strangely as I pay her. I think I might glow a bit from all my
treatments, and
some people are able to see it, like a neon wound that flares as I move.
I walk slowly to the taxi rank, savouring details – the CCTV camera on the lamppost
swinging on its axis, the mobile phones chirruping all about me. The hospital seems to retreat as I
whisper goodbye, the shade from the plane trees turning all the windows to darkness.
A girl swings past, high heels clicking; there’s a fried-chicken smell about her as she licks her
fingers clean. A man holding a wailing child shouts into his phone: ‘No! I can’t bloody carry
potatoes as well!’
We make patterns, we share moments. Sometimes I think I’m the only one to see it.
I share my chocolate with the taxi driver as we join the lunchtime traffic. Today he’s on a
double shift, he tells me, and there are too many cars on the road for his liking. He waves at them in
despair as we crawl through the town centre.
‘Where’s it all going to end?’ he asks.
I offer him a Chewit to cheer him up. Then I text Adam again: U HVE PROMISES 2 KEEP.
The weather’s changed, the sun hidden by cloud. I open the window. Cold April air shocks
my lungs.
The driver drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. ‘It’s complete gridlock!’
I like it – the stall and shove of traffic, the deep thrum of a bus engine, an urgent siren in the
distance. I like creeping so slowly down the High Street that I have time to notice Easter eggs still
unbought in the newsagent’s window, the cigarette butts swept into a neat pile outside the Chicken
Joint. I see children carrying the strangest things – a polar bear, an octopus. And under the wheels
of a buggy outside Mothercare I see my name, faded now, but still weaving the pavement all the
way to the bank.
I phone Adam’s mobile. He doesn’t pick up, so I leave another message: I WANT YOU.
Simple.
At the junction, an ambulance stands skewed, its doors open, the blue of its light flashing
across the road. The light even flashes onto the clouds, low above us. A woman is lying in the road
with a blanket over her.
‘Would you look at that,’ the taxi driver says.
Everyone’s looking – people in other cars, office workers out for their lunchtime sandwich.
The woman’s head is covered, but her legs stick out. She’s wearing tights; her shoes are at strange
angles. Her blood, dark as rain, pools beside her.
The taxi driver flicks me a glance in his mirror. ‘Makes you realize, doesn’t it?’
Yes. It’s so tangible. Being and not being.
I feel as if I have sap in my toes, running up my ankles and into my shins, as I knock on
Adam’s door.
Sally opens it a crack and peeps at me. I feel a surge of love for her.
‘Is Adam in?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be in hospital?’
‘Not any more.’
She looks confused. ‘He didn’t say they were letting you out.’
‘It’s a surprise.’
‘Another one?’ She sighs, opens the door a bit further and looks at her watch. ‘He won’t be
back until five.’
‘Five?’
She frowns at me. ‘Are you all right?’
No. Five’s too late. I might be completely anaemic again by then.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s gone to Nottingham on the train. They’ve agreed to interview him.’
‘For what?’
‘University. He wants to start in September.’
The garden spins.
‘You look as surprised as I was.’
I fell asleep in his arms in that hospital bed. ‘Touch me,’ I said, and he did. ‘I love you,’ he
said. ‘Don’t you dare tell me I don’t.’ He made me a promise.
It starts to rain as I walk back down the path to the gate. A fine silver rain, like cobwebs
falling.
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