‘Come in. Come and sit down. Do you want a drink?’
‘Got whiskey?’ he says, and gives a short, shaky laugh. I try to laugh too, but it doesn’t sound like a laugh to me, more like a choke.
‘I wish. Hospital tea or coffee from the vending machine, or water.’ I point to the plastic jug. ‘On the whole I’d recommend the water.’
‘I’m OK,’ he says. He comes and sits in the plastic chair next to my bed. But he’s hardly sat down when he pushes himself to standing again. ‘Fuck, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’
‘No!’ I grab his wrist, and then look down at my hand holding his arm, astonished at myself. What the hell am I doing? I let go at once, as though his skin burns. ‘I — I’m sorry. But I just meant …’ I trail off. What did I mean? I have no idea. Only that I don’t want him to go. He is a link to James.
‘Please stay,’ I manage at last. He stays, standing, looking down at me, and then gives a short, curt nod and sits.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says again. ‘I wasn’t expecting … You look …’
I know what he means. I look like I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life and then patched up again. Badly.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ I say, and I surprise myself by managing a smile. ‘It’s mainly just scratches and bruising.’
‘It’s your face,’ he says, ‘your eyes. I see a fair bit of domestic violence in my line of work, but those shiners …’
‘I know. I only saw them myself this morning. They’re kind of spectacular, aren’t they? They don’t hurt though.’
We sit in silence for a second and then he says, ‘Actually you know what, second thoughts, I might get a coffee. Want one?’
‘No thanks.’ I’m still coasting on the remnants of the coffee Lamarr brought. I’m not yet desperate enough for the vending-machine stuff.
Matt gets stiffly to his feet and walks out of the room, and I can see the tension in his shoulders as his back disappears down the corridor. I almost wonder if he’s going to come back, but he does.
‘Shall we start again?’ he says as he sits down. ‘Sorry, I feel like I kind of cocked that one up. You must be Leo, right?’
I almost flinch. It’s such a shock hearing it – James’s name for me – from his lips.
‘Yes, that’s right. So James … he told you about me?’
‘A bit, yeah. I know you were … I dunno. What would you call it? Childhood sweethearts?’
For some reason the words bring a rush of tears to the back of my throat and I feel my lip wobble as I try to answer. Instead I just nod, silently.
‘Fuck.’ He puts his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry – I just – I can’t believe it. I was only speaking to him a couple of days ago. I knew there was stuff … things going wrong … but this …’
Things going wrong?
I want to ask more, to probe, but I can’t quite get the words out, and Matt’s still speaking.
‘I’m really sorry to barge in like this. If I’d known how ill you were I wouldn’t have … the nurse didn’t say. I just asked if I could see you and she said she’d find out. But I heard from James’s mum that you were with him when he—’ He stops, gulps, and forces himself on ‘—when he died. And I know how much you meant to him, and I wanted—’
He stops again, and this time he can’t carry on. He bends over his cup, and I know he’s crying, and trying to hide it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says at last, his voice croaky, and then he coughs to clear his throat. ‘I only found out last night. It’s been … I can’t get used to it. I kept thinking there’d been some mistake but seeing you like this … it’s kind of made it real.’
‘How … how did you know James?’
‘We were at Cambridge together. We were both into theatre – acting, you know, plays and stuff.’ He rubs his face on his sleeve, and then looks up, smiling determinedly. ‘Goes without saying, I was shit, but luckily I realised that in time. Didn’t help that I was acting next to James. Nothing like seeing the real thing for showing up the fake.’
‘And you kept in touch?’
‘Yeah. I used to go and see him in his plays every now and then. Everyone else in our year became bankers and civil servants and stuff. Felt like he was the only one who made it, I’m kind of proud of him for that, you know? He never sold out.’
I nod, slowly. Yes, that was the James I knew. The man he’s describing is painfully familiar. The James I knew. My James. Completely unlike the unreal, materialistic person I’ve been hearing described all weekend. I thought James had changed. But perhaps he hadn’t. Or not completely.