Page 19 of The Way We Fell

Why can’t I move?

Why does everything hurt? Why do my legs—my leg. I can’t feel my leg.

I wriggle my toes experimentally: first the left foot, and then the right.

Where is my fucking leg?

Oh god.

The yelling ismine.

And someone else’s.

And it’s my briefcase that’s stuck, not a rifle. It’s the briefcase I’m clutching, dragging along with me. It’s someone’s boot in my ribs. It’s another pair of hands on the case. It’s a plank of wood being slammed against my helmet, the sound roaring in my ears, consuming my every sense, dizzying me. I don’t know what’s going on.

And then it’s all quiet, but for the ringing in my ears. I’m on my knees, curled into a ball. The case remains chained to me as two people lift me to my feet. I stand shakily, stomping through the pins and needles sensation in my right foot. I think I might be fuckingcrying. I’m pretty sure there’s blood pouring from my nose. Aaron rushes towards me, steering me away from the crowd of onlookers.

“Police are on their way. What the fuck, man? What happened?”

I offer him my best attempt at a glare, but I doubt it’s especially intimidating. My furrowed brow aches. My head is killing me. All the adrenaline left my body when I stood, and I have nothing left. I’m swaying with the effort of being upright.

My heart slams against my ribs, which hurt like a motherfucker, and the ringing in my ears is replaced with sirens getting closer and closer, until tall figures in utility belts surround us, and I crumble.

“You’re lucky you were wearing that helmet, Mr Bevan,” the doctor finishes his monologue. He waves his pen torch in front of my eyes one more time, and then excuses himself to leave the room.Finally. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who loves the sound of his own voice quite so much before, even in the army. And that’s saying something.

“So, tell me again what happened.”

“I said, I don’t know, okay? How many fucking times?” I flinch, tipping my head and twisting away from the nurse poking at the small wound on my brow. The uniformed policeman standing in the narrow doorway huffs a loud, impatient sigh, and his partner glares at the side of his head.

“Mr Bevan, we just want to get the timeline straight,” she says gently. She steps around her obstinate partner and squats at my bedside, one hand on the rail to steady herself. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back into a loose bun—the kind that looks like it was neat and tidy when she left the house this morning, but is now closer tounfashionably messy. Her blue eyes are piercing, and there’s a tiny stain that looks suspiciously like ketchup on the corner of her mouth. “The more we understand about the timeline and about what happened, the more likely we are to be able to find who did this to you.”

“I don’t know what happened,” I admit. The words leave a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth, although that could be the split lip, and the way I bit the inside of my cheek during the ordeal. “One minute I was walking to Bella’s, the clothes shop, and the next minute… I wasn’t.”

“Do you remember anything at all between then and now?”

“All I remember is being on my way to Bella’s, and then I was on a hospital bed with that fucking fluorescent light in my face.”

The woman sighs, pinching the material of her trousers and adjusting the legs as she stands. The nurse adjusts the lamp slightly, before continuing to poke at my brow. I wince.

“Thank you for your help, Mr Bevan. If you do remember anything—anything—please give us a call.” She digs into the pocket on her stab vest and hands me a card. “Even if it sounds silly. Anything at all might be enough to help us. We’ll let you get some rest now.”

I take the card and fold it around my fingers. The nurse continues her work. The officers leave, one hissing quietly at the other, and I close my eyes against the too-bright light. I don’t know what happened. All I know is what the police already know, what Aaron told them. He was watching from the van, and when I was just over halfway to my assigned drop point, I was jumped by a group of men in hats and masks. It felt like the ordeal went on for hours, but in reality, it was barely over a minute before he had called for assistance and run out to help me, and by then, my assailants had fled.

It was just a few men. Something I should’ve been able to handle easily. Something I’m uniquely trained to handle.

But for a moment, I was right back there—back in the moment of ambush, in the jeep, in the flames. I was transported back to the day that ruined my life, and I froze.

“I really think you ought to call someone,” the nurse says quietly once we’re alone and the door has fallen closed. “Someone must be worried about you. You have a concussion, you—”

“That’s exactly why I don’t want you to call them. A quick stitch and a good night’s sleep and I’ll be fine.” Mum and Ruth already handle me with kid gloves. Dad puts on a brave face, treats me like some kind of macho man, doing his best to avoid dealing with any emotions he might have, and any of mine, too. It comes from a good place, but I can’t deal with that right now. The only person who treats me like an adult lately is Katy. And I can’t bring her into this. She doesn’t need to worry about this. About me. She doesn’t need me to dim her light.

“I can’t let you sleep, Mr Bevan. We’ll need to perform neurological observations regularly.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” I mutter. “I’ll be fine.” I grit my teeth and try not to say something I might regret later.

The old Jay would’ve let the nurse call someone. Hell, he probably would’ve asked for it. But I’m not the old Jay anymore. I’m a new version of myself, one who finds it easier to hide behind grunts, monosyllabic responses and acerbic cuts than to let myself get close to someone. A version of myself who doesn’t want to let anyone in or let anyone worry about me, because I know what worrying does. I’ve seen what worrying about me did to my family. I’ve become a version of myself I hardly recognise when I look in the mirror.

“But—”

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