Page 30

Thirty

Wednesday 5pm

Tom

Was Charlie dead? Had he been shot, too? Tom couldn’t remember. The voices were still there, disturbing him, making demands when all he wanted was to be still and calm. He didn’t want to look up at the light at the top of the water — it looked attractive, but he had an idea that looks could be deceptive. And if Charlie wasn’t there, did he want to go? It would be easier to stay here and wait for the lights to go out altogether. He thought it probably wouldn’t take long, and he could spend the time drifting and remembering how it had been. Him and Charlie. How they met. His growing understanding that Charlie was the person for him. Charlie’s courage. The way Charlie walked into danger because it was the right thing to do. The feeling of Charlie’s skin against his own. Charlie laughing. The images of Charlie dissolved and Tom saw that he was back in the bookshop with Orianna and Charlie. The shooting started again, and Tom saw Charlie move.

He ran towards the gunman. Did he get killed?

“Where is Charlie?” he asked, though he didn’t think it came out right. “Where is Charlie?” he asked again. Because when he spoke, even through the weight of water, the voices started up again and he could listen. He listened but none of the voices were Charlie. He closed his eyes against the light and floated in the darkness. Swimming up through the water would be hard work, and he was so tired. The soft darkness embraced him gently, pulling him away from the surface, and he let it happen.

Charlie

Charlie watched the TV without enthusiasm. It was tuned to a rolling news station: someone in the studio, someone else on location and a ribbon across the bottom of the screen. Suddenly the words Blue Wave Books caught his eye.

Victim of Blue Wave Books shooting dies in hospital bringing the number of dead to three. The victim has not been named at this time. NYPD say the investigation is ongoing and complex. Press conference later. The New York Yankees…

Tom. Tom had died and no one had told him.

Here, in this hospital, a few corridors away from Charlie, who loved him, who would have begged him to live and comforted him if he couldn’t. And now Charlie felt nothing. Just a gaping hole where his life used to be. A hole filled with what ifs. What if he hadn’t chased the gunman? What if he had been quicker with the tourniquet? What if he had forced his way into Tom’s room? What if he had said no to the New York trip? What if they had sat somewhere else in the bookshop? What if…?

At the edges of his consciousness, Charlie felt the swell of a tsunami of grief and loss. If he let himself go, he would be overwhelmed in an instant. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t face it, wasn’t ready. His jaw hurt from the effort of holding back the tide of pain, and his heart felt heavy in his chest. His arms wrapped round himself when he wanted Tom’s arms, wanted Tom. Tom’s old leather jacket was in the bag on his lap, but he couldn’t move to put it on. The pain got behind his eyes and into his throat, but he didn’t give in. If he thought about living in a world without Tom, grief would swallow him whole and spit out the pieces.

Because there had never been anyone who had seen Charlie as Tom had. No one stopped Charlie’s heart the way Tom did. Charlie thought of Tom’s eyes, and the way his eyes and hands moved together as he drew. Tom’s pencil made marks on paper like his hands made marks on Charlie’s skin. Now those marks were etched, as if Charlie had been dipped in an acid bath, the acid stripping everything away except the marks Tom made. That was all Charlie was. The marks Tom had made. The scream began to force its way out of Charlie’s chest, and he stood up needing somewhere private to let it out.

He ran blindly toward the nearest bathroom, tears obscuring his vision. In the entrance, a cleaners cupboard stood open, mops and buckets stacked against the wall. Charlie threw himself inside and closed the door behind him, sank to the floor and let go of his self-control.

All he could think of was Tom. Tom in his red lumberjack shirt, Tom naked on his knees in front of Charlie, Tom in his suit, in his beautiful office, Tom with his children. All the plans they were making. The trips they discussed. The places Tom wanted to visit in New York. The way they were going to grow old together. The proposed exhibition of Tom’s drawings of Charlie. All gone as if they had never been. A future that wasn’t going to happen. Charlie left here, on his own with a future he couldn’t face, didn’t want to acknowledge, couldn’t bear. He put his head down and let the tears flow silently, washing away all his dreams. The ache in his face wasn’t the bruises anymore. It was the pain of loss.

The door opened behind him and he fell into the light. A man in overalls looked down at Charlie.

“You lose someone, my friend?” he asked and Charlie had never heard such kindness. He couldn’t answer but he didn’t need to. “Let’s get you somewhere better than this,” the man said, and stooped down to help Charlie to his feet. He hugged Charlie and Charlie wanted to cling to this stranger, except the stranger wasn’t the body he wanted to cling to. And that was another loss, the loss of the body that felt like home, and Charlie didn’t think he could survive any more.

“Charlie! Oh my God, Charlie.” He felt soft hands pulling him into an embrace, soft hair falling over his face. He heard Orianna whisper, “Thank you,” and footsteps fade.

“Tom,” Charlie said. “I want to see Tom.”