Page 46 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

T he SUV pulled into the car park for the Gartnavel General Hospital.

“If you’re going to make me watch some old creep in a white lab coat dissect a body or something, I will absolutely do my nut,” I said.

“Shhh. I told you, you’ll love it.”

Mitch popped the door and held it open. “Perimeter is secure, Mr Kennedy. No scrum.”

“Scrum?” I asked.

“There’s no press,” Cole explained. “See, told you.”

Five minutes later we were walking around the gynaecological oncology ward, still without a photographer or reporter in sight, just a lot of patients and nurses with smiles wider than their faces. A member of the hospital administration staff was introducing Cole to the patients—some who’d come in for surgery the night before, others who were recovering from earlier surgery, and some who’d come in for chemotherapy. Fiona and I hung discreetly back.

“Does he do this often?” I asked.

“Everywhere we go,” Fiona said. “Without fail.”

Cole was posing for a selfie with a woman who was rigged up for her treatment. She must have been about my age. Mid, maybe late, twenties. No older. She had no eyebrows and had a bandana wound around her head. She was wearing what looked like a homemade crocheted cardigan in extremely cheerful rainbow colours. She looked so sick and so tired but thrilled to be meeting Cole Kennedy.

“Isn’t it painful?” I asked. “To be reminded all the time?”

“It makes him feel close to Mum,” Fiona said.

“That’s so sad.”

“He was on tour most of the time Mum was ill. He didn’t get to be there for it. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself.”

I stepped further into the room, closer to Cole and the woman, hoping to catch a bit of their conversation. Cole’s arm was around her shoulder. At first, I thought they were taking more selfies. Then I realised a child’s voice was coming out of the phone. They were on a video call.

“Do you know who this is?” the woman said. There was an indecipherable noise from the child. “Genevieve, this is Cole Kennedy. He’s come to visit Mummy in the hospital.”

The little girl began singing “ Oh, Genevieve, oh, Genevieve .”

“That’s right!” the woman said. “Cole is the man who wrote your special song!” The woman had tears in her eyes. So did Cole. My heart nearly broke.

“Would you like to sing your special song with me, Genevieve?” Cole asked, his face wide-eyed and goofy, in that way adults ham it up for children.

Cole started singing. “ Oh, Genevieve, you know I have to leave …”

Cole’s beautiful baritone echoed through the hospital a capella, drawing nurses and patients like moths to a flame. A good-looking lad—the woman’s husband, I guessed—took out his phone and recorded the moment. His eyes were wet, and his hand was trembling. A nurse took the phone from him, volunteering to film. The woman, singing along with her idol, serenading her daughter through the phone, reached for her husband’s hand. He grabbed it and held it like it might be the last time. Still, they sang—through smiles and tears.

“ Will you wait for me, Genevieve, with your sad brown eyes? Will you forgive me, Genevieve, for all these goodbyes? Oh, Genevieve, oh, Genevieve, I wish I could stay. But life don’t work out that way. Oh, Genevieve .”

I’d heard that song a thousand times. I had never realised it was so sad. How had Cole written a song like that? What had he been going through? By the time the song was done, there must have been about twenty people hanging around. Everyone was crying.

* * *

Back in the SUV, I stared down at the door handle, rubbing the back of a fingernail across the fabric of the door, letting the weight of what I’d witnessed settle over me.

“Her name’s Iona,” Cole said. “The cancer is in her abdominal cavity. Stage four. Just like Mum.”

Fiona looked up and reached a hand behind her seat. Cole grabbed it and held it.

“She’s twenty-six, Fi. Same as me. Genevieve is four. Four!”

Why had he done this to himself? Was he punishing himself for not being there when Orla died? I wasn’t sure this was healthy.

“The husband was a wreck,” Cole said.

I looked over at him. He was still staring out the window. Glasgow was going past, but he wasn’t looking at it, not taking it in.

“Iona’s mum was lovely. Genevieve’s grandma. She was looking after Genevieve. She said Iona was ‘an OG Kenneddict.’ OG . She actually said OG . Like, how old must she be? Sixty-something?”

Fiona didn’t speak but let Cole hold her hand. I followed her lead and said nothing. If Cole did this everywhere, Fiona and Mitch must have been through this dozens of times. I figured they knew what he needed in this moment. He seemed childlike. Not only because he was holding his sister’s hand but because there was something childlike about the way he was grappling with the idea of mortality. This was so uncomfortable. I was totally baffled about why I was here.

We pulled up outside the Glasgow Arena slightly before ten, as Cole had promised. Nick was already there.

“Thank you for coming,” Cole said. “It means a lot to me that you did.”

I stuck my finger into the door handle and turned to look directly into Cole’s eyes for the first time since we’d left the hospital. “Why did you ask me to come this morning?”

Cole looked surprised. “Did… did you not have a good time?”

“You took me to an oncology department to have a good time ?”

“No! It’s… I thought… I mean, we’d been talking about the healing power of music, and?—”

My door swung open without me lifting the handle. Mitch stood on the other side, holding it for me to get out. The sun glinted off something, and I noticed he was wearing a trans flag lapel pin.

“I should go,” I said. “Nick and I have got a four-hour drive ahead of us.”

“No, don’t go!” Cole said. “Come with us in the jet instead. There’s a lot I want to tell you.”

“You’re taking a jet from Glasgow to Manchester?”

“Um… yeah.”

“We will discuss your reckless carbon footprint later,” I said. “But I can’t. The van isn’t modified for Nick to drive.”

“Both come in the jet, then! Pleeeeease.” Cole’s eyes were pleading.

“You’re missing the point. We need to get the van to Manchester for tonight’s show. No van, no show. And if there’s no show, there’s no million quid. Your rules, not mine.”

“Stay right there,” Cole said, opening his car door. “I have an idea.”