Page 9 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

“What?” The word comes out as a breathless whisper, my heart pounding in my ears. Although my eyes are still closed, I can feel Dusty’s hand on my back. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure of the details exactly,” she replies. “But I believe that the storm brought a tree down on the car he was travelling in.”

“Is he… is…” I open my eyes and swallow hard, my throat burning as I do so, but I don’t think I can finish that sentence.

“He’s in surgery now,” she says kindly. “We’ll know more soon. Would you like us to call and keep you updated, or would you rather come down to the hospital?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I reply, already peeling the covers off my legs.

“Okay then, Mr Everett, we’ll see you shortly. I’m not certain where they’re going to put him once he comes out of surgery, but if you check in with the main reception, they should be able to direct you to the correct floor.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up the phone, and as I climb out of bed and stand, the room spins again, and I end up dropping to the floor.

“For god’s sake, Tris,” Dusty tuts. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’ve got to get to Danny,” I reply hoarsely as I push myself up, but Dusty’s hands cup my elbows and settle me back into a seated position on the side of the bed.

“Tell me what happened, boo.”

I look into her concerned face and my eyes fill with tears. “Danny’s been hurt. There was an accident—a tree fell on his car. He’s… they’re… he’s in surgery now.”

“Okay, sweetie.” She strokes my face gently, and I’m glad that whatever freak power got us wedged together in the same body also seems to have created a connection between us that allows me to physically soak up the comfort she’s offering. “We’ll get you to the hospital, but you need to take it easy. You’re really sick, Tristan, and the last thing we need is you passing out on the way and me having to steal your body again. Upstairs Management is still pissed about the last time.”

I let out a weak laugh and wipe at the hot tears rolling down my cheeks with the back of my hand. My nose rather attractively starts dripping, forcing me to sniffle loudly and then lean forward to grab a couple of tissues.

“I’ll get you some clothes. You just sit there for a moment, okay?”

“Don’t bother,” I wheeze. “Just grab me some socks and my boots.”

“You’re seriously going in your pjs?” Her brows rise.

“I really don’t care what I look like.” I watch as one of my drawers opens and a pair of socks fly across the room towards me. “Sometimes, I swear it’s like living with Mary Poppins,” I murmur, shoving my feet into my socks.

“Well, Iampractically perfect in every way.” Dusty grins at her attempt to lighten the mood.

I manage to yank my boots on, and this time I stand more slowly, with only a slight sway. I carefully cross the bedroom while my head pounds like a jackhammer.

I manage to avoid the pots of rainwater and make my way toward the kitchen, grabbing my jacket on my way past the coat hooks. I try to slip it on over the old hoodie of Danny’s I’m wearing over the top of my pjs, but my arms get tangled in it and by the time I’m finished fighting with the bloody thing I’m sweating.

With my phone in one hand, I order an Uber. While I wait, I rummage in one of the cupboards and retrieve a couple of packets of Lemsip. Knowing that they’ll work quicker than popping pills, I shove one into my pocket for later and rip the other open, emptying the powdery contents into a mug.

I don’t have enough time to boil the kettle and then wait for it to cool to drinking temperature, so I simply run the hot tap and fill the mug. Giving it a quick stir with a teaspoon to make sure the powder has dissolved, I lift the mug to my lips and down it in one go, then grimace at the chalky aftertaste of lemon and paracetamol.

“Damn, boo.” Dusty stares at me.

Thank god it’s the max strength stuff and is laced with enough paracetamol and god knows what else to keep me on my feet for a while.

My phone pings to let me know the Uber is outside. I quickly pick up my keys and wallet, shoving them and a whole handful of tissues into my pockets, and, with Dusty hovering over me like a six-foot mother hen in stilettos, I head out of the flat.

* * *

By the time we reach the hospital and pay the driver, every inch of my body is aching and shivering. My head pounds and I feel horrendous, but all of that is a very distant second place to the gut-wrenching fear of losing Danny. My stomach rolls and churns uneasily and I feel like the Lemsip is about to make a reappearance.

Climbing out of the car, I brace myself against the weather; the rain has thankfully died down to a fine drizzle, but the wind is still strong, which is not in any way helpful to someone who’s not currently stable on his feet.

My body shakes from the effort by the time I reach the main entrance. I grab one of the surgical masks from the dispenser just inside the door and put it on, painfully aware that I really shouldn’t be spreading my germs around a hospital right now, but my need to be close to Danny eclipses any tugs of guilt. I only hope to god none of the staff kick me out. It’s not like I can successfully hide my symptoms; my voice cracks and warbles like a kid going through puberty, and I’m sweating like I’ve been overcooked in a sauna.