Page 19 of Indie
“Your father has taken a turn for the worst overnight. We thought you might want to come see him.”
“Thank you,” the words stuttered over a suddenly dry throat.
I ended the call so I could dial another number. And this one didn’t leave me waiting.
“Indie?”
“Tony. Need you to take over a watch for me. I’ll text you the address. Need you here yesterday.”
*****
Machines beeped around us. A multitude of different chimes, in different rhythms, at different intervals. Incessant. Urgent. Filling my head full of fuzz, like I was in the room, but I wasn’t. Like I was watching the TV, or a movie, or in a nightmare with no ability to wake up.
He was lying almost flat, a squashed pillow giving his head the tiniest of support. Not that you could see much of his head, or his face. A tube protruded from his throat, attached to a machine that breathed for him. Big, loud, painful breaths. It was worse than hearing the constant wheezing of his chest these last few weeks.
A hand placed on my shoulder. Light and reassuring. But there could be no reassurance here. No comfort in watching my father die. I glanced down at the mobile phone in my hand, to where I clutched it like someone was trying to prize it out of my fingers. My knuckles were turning a creamy white from where the blood drained from them.
“He’s stable now, Mr Carter.”
I nodded, not taking my eyes off the phone. Where the fuck was Demon? He needed to be here. Dad would want him here. I needed him here. To share the burden. To have someone with me while I watched my father die. I couldn’t do this one alone.
Chapter Nine
Daylight assaulted my eyelids. Bright and warm. My arms and legs were heavy, stiff from an exhausted sleep. I must have stayed in the same position all night, barely moving, barely rolling over. And clearly too tired to put my pyjamas on. The jeans felt almost stuck to my legs, contributing to the stiffness and the inability to move much, pinning me in that same position all night.
But I’d fallen asleep at the table. I remembered now. I’d watched Indie take the dog out and then I’d just close my eyes. Indie. Shit!
The room swam, the creams and beige of soft furnishings, curtains and wallpaper peppered with mould spores from failing windows and poor maintenance, span in front of me. I launched myself out of bed, the tightness of jeans over weary legs sending me crashing painfully to one knee, the threadbare carpet offering little cushioning as I flailed around like a drunken moose.
But at the window I slowed, suddenly anxious to peek out of the middle of the curtains and into the street, nervousness sitting heavy in my stomach. I pulled at the middle, teasing them apart just a little. Just enough to allow an eyeball to peek out. And that enormous weight of nervousness dropped, morphing to disappointment in freefall. Indie’s van was gone. The only vehicles in the street were a few old cars, less battered than mine but equally passed their best, and a slate grey four-wheel drive I didn’t recognise. Odd.
I let the curtains slip back into place and climbed back into bed, wriggling out of my jeans and sliding between the warm comfort of the sheets. My mind wandered off to dark places, contradictory against the brightness of mid-morning light. I hadn’t seen my kids in days, working every available shift I could get my hands on, just to make sure I could put some food on the table, for them at least. Today was a day off, time to rest, to pick my babies up from school, to see their smiles and hear tales of maths, and timetables and who had fallen out with who.
My phone buzzed from the side table, and I glanced at the number, recognising the digits lit up from the green display. For a moment, I placed it upside down, listening to the rumble of the device against the wood. It was my day off. The first in a long time. And I was exhausted. Physically and mentally. But I was also broke. On the bare bones of my arse, and that phone callmeant money. Turning the phone back over, I swiped across the display and placed it against my ear.
“Hey, Emmie. Any chance you could come in? Sarah and Beth called in sick and we’re below quota.”
“Sure,” I stifled the sigh.
It was a full shift. It meant money. Money straight into my bank account, which meant it was harder for Gaz to get his hands on. Gaz. My stomach lurched, and I stroked at my lip, at the scabbing skin. A shift meant he couldn’t get to me for a few hours.
“Oh, and Emmie?”
“Yeah?”
“Just to let you know, Ste Carter has taken a turn for the worse. He’s in a bad way. We’re not sure he’ll pull through this time.”
Silence.
“I just thought I would let you know in advance. I know you’re quite fond of him.”
*****
Straining on my toes, I peeked in through the little square window set high in the door. Even from outside the room, I could hear the machines beeping, an orchestra of noise, badly paced. Sounds I’d heard for years. The signals of doom, of pain yet to come. And I was used to every one of those beeps and shrieks, each variation of noise telling me something else. But today felt different, and I wasn’t sure it was because of the strange connection I had made with the dying man in that room,or whether it was because of the son I’d only just met days before.
Tentatively, I nudged the door open, carefully pushing through. Indie’s eyes were trained on the floor, a mop of thick grey hair flopping over one side. My feet squeaked on the floor tiles, and his head snapped up, his gaze meeting mine and then turning away again. Not wanting me to see the streaks of tears down his face, or the red eyes from hours of crying. The man who had been so stoic, so calm and composed, and now I could see how vulnerable he was in this moment, how hard these emotions were to him. The man who should always be in control. I knew. I’d seen this countless times. But this time it wrenched on my heart, like Indie himself was tugging on it.
Right now, I knew I was interrupting a real private moment, as he watched his father die before his very eyes, wasting away each second, the machine making noises in the background, each shrill sound making him flinch. Each sound dragging him closer to the inevitable. And maybe the sounds were some sort of comfort. With each beep, there was still life, however weak. However hopeless.