Page 20 of Indie

I’d moved across the room without realising. The sound of the soft padding of my feet on the vinyl floor tiles, barely registering against the cacophony of the machines. And soon I was right in front of him, dropping to my haunches, tilting his chin up to look at me, just as he had done last night. He let me lead his face to mine, the stubble on his chin from unshaved skin prickling against the side of my finger. I pushed his face up till those brown eyes pierced mine, digging deep into my soul. And deep in his, I could see his pain, of the need to be a man, to not be seen crying, to not be beaten by his emotions.

“It’s ok,” I whispered. “It’s ok to cry, Indie. It’s normal. Completely normal.”

His eyes misted over again, a fresh set of tears rushing forwards and he tried to move his head from my fingers. But I gripped his chin, my thumb resting in the cleft in the middle, keeping his gaze on me. I wriggled closer, scooting between his legs, the warmth from jean-clad thighs radiating against mine and for a moment I needed to bite my lip, to still thoughts that were not welcome right now.

“I’m here for you, Indie.” I had no idea why I needed to say that. I was his father’s nurse. I could offer him comfort, but I wanted to offer him more. Much more. “No one will know how you feel. I’ll keep your secret. I’ll keep you safe.”

But I didn’t know how I could do that. How I could help him through this other than just be present? Give him that shoulder to cry on, that person to talk to. Because I saw no one else here supporting him. Helping him. Comforting him. And somewhere deep down inside me, an ember of heat rose to my stomach, fuzzy and warm. No one but me. I would help him through this.

Then I did something stupid. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling his face into my chest, pulling him against the thin shirt of my uniform, feeling the heat of his breath against me, and the gentle soaking of his tears through the fabric of my shirt. Holding him to me, I felt his body shake with gentle sobs, into my arms, into my heart. And then he moved, his arms suddenly consuming me, pulling me closer to him with a strength I had underestimated. And it was warm, and comforting and protective. So, I closed my eyes and selfishly enjoyed it. Enjoyed the comfort, the feeling of his arms around me.

We stayed like that for what seemed like minutes. Time ticking away as I sat quietly on my haunches, his face buried against my chest. The muscles in my legs burned hot, a tiny tremor starting in my toes as my limbs begged for release, starved of oxygen from the position they had held for so long.

And then suddenly he tore away from me, pushing up and onto his feet. He didn’t utter a word. Or a sound. Nothing. But he strode across the room, plucking the black leather jacket from the coat stand in the corner and then silently left, uttering none so much as one syllable. And still I stayed, my weight on my haunches, glancing around at the room, bewilderment taking away any other thought. Behind me, machines beeped, softly menacing against the whooshing sound of the breathing apparatus forcing oxygen into the old man’s lungs.

Chapter Ten

The room had suddenly closed in. The incessant beeping of alarms, screaming at me, terrorising me. For a moment she’d stopped all of that, halted it. Her arms had provided the comfort I didn’t know I needed. The comfort I hadn’t realised I’d craved. She was warm, her heart beating against me as I wrapped myself around her, feeling the rhythmical vibration against my chest. It was like it was her heart keeping me alive, stopping me from tipping over into the darkness, holding back the despair that was trying so hard to break my walls each time I stepped into this fucking awful room.

Maybe it was the room, the feel of death hanging around, waiting for his moment to take my father’s life from him. Towaltz him away into the underworld. And I could feel it too. Icy fingers around my throat, around my heart, squeezing ever tighter. Forcing the air from my lungs. From my body. Stopping the flow of blood. Stopping the beat of my heart. And then the room had shrunk again, the walls sliding towards me; the light sucked away till only grey and black shadows moved.

I needed to get out of there. To get away from the darkness. From the shrieks of the machines, because when they stopped that hideous sound, it was all over. And I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready for any of this shit. For Death to do his thing. For my father to breathe his last. For me to lead the motorcycle club I’d grown up in. To lead men into war again. Towards death. Towards everlasting torment.

My heart was racing, frantic against my ribcage. And I could feel the ragged pull of oxygen through my lungs, the back of my throat burning. I needed to get out of there. I needed air. I should explain. But I couldn’t. Any words that I tried to get out were strangled by Death’s steely grip on my throat. I had to go.

Pushing up onto legs that felt like they weren’t a part of me, I stepped around her, ignoring the surprise in her eyes. And I didn’t look back. Only at the door. At my escape. At the fresh air and silence that waited for me outside. I staggered forwards, yanking at the handle, a blue-clad member of staff on the other side almost falling in the room on top of me. And they looked even more surprised than Emmie as I barrelled through them.

*****

There was a buzz in the pub across the road from the hospital. Nurses drinking after a long shift. Visitors drowning their sorrows in a pint of beer or glass of wine. Just like me. I glanced around, my vision not as sharp, the clock on the wall behind the bartender no longer legible.

No one had talked to me. Not since the first few punters who had tried to make conversation and given up or backed away when I sipped, disinterestedly, on the drink I’d clutched in my hand. I barely felt the liquor on the edge of my tongue, the whisky having burnt my taste buds away, and all I could feel was that enveloping warmth every time I took a swig from the glass.

The bartender had piled the last two with ice, despite me murmuring something unintelligible about not wanting any. I’d scowled, but he’d pushed the thick chunks into the glass anyway, and now they melted, watering down the liquor and I guessed that had been his intention. But I didn’t stop. Because right now I was numb. I couldn’t feel anything. No pain. No sorrow. No dread. No anxiety. But the loneliness remained. And I needed much more alcohol to dumb that one down. Because that had lived with me for decades. Like a parasite feeding on my every energy, nothing I did made it go away.

The Kings had never filled that hole, no matter how hard I’d tried. But it wasn’t my club, even if I was Vice President. It was my dad’s, and soon it would go to the grave with him. Unless I had the energy to fight what might be inevitable, anyway.

I slid the phone out of my pocket, closing one eye as I tried to read the display and the tangle of text. I think it said that Magnet had some intelligence on who’d hit my place a couple of days ago, despite the number plate not giving us any clues. But I couldn’t read the message properly, the words moving in front of me, coming apart and rejoining, running away from me every time I tried to focus.

Fuck. I needed another drink.

“Anuffer,” I signalled to the bartender. He’d been joined by another now, unless I was seeing double. No, I wasn’t seeing double. The other turned, and they seemed to discuss me,sending the heckles rising on the back of my neck. “Hey, Jo. James. Jonny. Whoever the fuck you are. A man could die of furst over here.”

He shook his head at me or at his mate. I wasn’t sure. But he walked across anyway.

“I’m sorry, mate. It’s time to go home.”

“What you shtalking about?” I held the glass towards him.

“You’ve had enough. I’m sorry we’re not serving you anymore.”

“Ssshut up. There’s nuffing wrong with me.”

I stood up off the bar stool, my head suddenly spinning, knocking me off balance and tipping me sideways. Scrambling for the bar top, my hands slipping on the smooth surface and now time slowed, as I slid sideways, towards the floor. Fuck.

But the floor didn’t come, something stopping me, firm hands holding me and a tiny squeak coming from my side. I swayed, and stopped, my legs suddenly able to support my weight again, helping me straighten up and then lowering me back onto the seat. The grip on my arm and my side didn’t loosen.

“You with him?” The bartender asked someone beside me.