I’ve worked with the public now, for almost half my life. I’m not naturally an outgoing person, which tends to make me a good watcher and listener, which in turn, has meant that I’ve gotten really good at reading people. Hairdressers are almost like therapists for some people. They sit in our chairs, they get served a beverage of their choice, including wine or champagne and while they sip their drinks and get their scalp massaged, they open up. They vent about the things that have pissed them off and they quite often spill secrets or gossip that they’ve been hanging on to. Some of the gossip is the absolute truth, some complete and utter bullshit. I’ve learnt over the years to spot the bullshit and the bullshitters. I’ve learnt to spot when someone is about to cry, when someone needs your opinion and when someone needs you to just nod, smile and let them spill their guts. What I’m witnessing now from Doctor Jayer Patell, right in front of me, is a man panicking, which in turn is making me panic. Why has Marcus been to see him and why do I not know about it? Is he sick, ill, and not telling me?
“Shit!” he half-huffs and half says. “Sorry, I was out of line.” I open my mouth to speak, when he continues, “Give him my regards.” He moves off into his consulting room and shuts the door behind him. I stand alone out in the corridor for a few seconds, gathering my thoughts and debating whether or not to knock on his door and demand an explanation, but I never was the type to seek out confrontation. So I leave it and head back to my car, then to the supermarket to grab something for dinner.
Marcus texts, just as I get home.
Sorry babe, I’m in court tomorrow. Need to work late. Don’t wait up. Love you, M x
I feel him slide into bed and open one eye to look at the clock. It’s eighteen minutes past one. I turn and spoon myself into his back and kiss his shoulder.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Sorry, I woke you, babe. I should’ve gone to the spare room.”
“No, that’s fine. You’re very late.”
“Unexpected fraud case was landed on us. We have to be in court at nine tomorrow morning and I wanted to make sure we were prepared. There was a lot to go over.”
“Did you eat?” I ask as I reach around and run my hands over his belly. I feel his stomach muscles tense as I touch him.
“Yeah, we had takeaway delivered to the office. Go to sleep, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
I desperately want him to turn around, to wrap his arms around me and to kiss my neck. To just have one night where I could fall asleep feeling loved, desired and wanted. Instead, I swallow back my tears and go to sleep pressed into his back as tightly as I can, feeling lonelier than ever.
Conner
It takes me a few seconds to work out what’s just happened. I’m wet, someone just threw water over me and I’m now soaking wet.
Fuckers!
My head aches but not nearly as much as it should, considering the alcohol and drugs I’ve consumed since my feet landed on British soil. I’ve no idea how long it’s been? How long since Jet’s death... since the funeral? I’ve no idea about anything anymore, only that I’m thinking and I hate thinking. Thinking leads to remembering and I hate remembering. Remembering leads to feeling and I don’t want to feel – I really don’t want to feel.
“Time’s up Reed. Get your arse out of bed and into that shower before I drag you out.” I open one eye, and the light shining into the room from the open curtains hit me like a laser beam.
“Fuck!” I complain. “Shut the fucking curtains and get out,” I say loudly. I want to shout, but shouting will require effort and I simply don’t have the energy for anything that requires effort.
“Move your fucking arse boy. I won’t warn you again.” I don’t need to open my eyes again to know who’s talking to me. It’s my dad and he sounds thoroughly pissed off.
My dad and I had done a lot of bridge building over the last ten years or so. Once I had the money, I’d gotten him into a rehab program, where it was discovered he was suffering from a form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, otherwise known as PTSD.
I had been a baby when he had gone off to fight in the Falklands war. He was part of the Special Forces that landed at San Carlos, otherwise known as Bomb Ally. His squad had been key in securing the beachhead, allowing the safe landing of further troops to fight in the conflict. His unit had come under fire numerous times and he’d witnessed things a young man in his twenties should never have to. Added to this were operations in the Gazza Strip and Northern Ireland. The toll of which had been massive on his mental well-being.
He’d come home on leave, to his wife and four little boys and simply couldn’t handle the normality of it all. He turned to drink, which led him to become violent toward my mum. She eventually left him and went back to her old life, which my dad knew nothing about as a junkie. Whoring herself out to pay for her next fix. This ultimately led to her death, something else that severely affected my dad’s already less than healthy mental state. He spent the next fifteen or so years drinking himself into oblivion. As soon as the band signed their first deal, I gave my brothers the money to get him some help. Once he’d dried out and had seen a psychologist for well over a year, he finally started to get his shit together. He asked to see me and we sat down and had a long overdue heart to heart.