Page 8 of The Way We Fell

“The grafts look like they’re healing nicely. What’s the surgeon said about them?”

“He’s happy enough. Suppose someone ought to be.” I bite out between my teeth. My skin is beginning to itch. I need her hands off me. I need everything off me. I need to get out of here. I need to not be touched.

“And the leg? How are you finding the weight bearing? You never did wear a support boot, did you?” Her fingers prod at one of the almost-completely-healed surgical scars.

“Couldn’t. Skin grafts.” I hiss. “It’s tender. It hurts at night.” I hate admitting it, but Cody has been my physiotherapist since I returned to London, and despite being smaller than most high school students and freshly qualified and licensed to practice, she’s already perfectly capable of seeing through—and calling me out on—all of my bullshit. Including the lies about being fine.

It’sfine, from a medical perspective. Because of the multiple skin graft surgeries required on both legs, and the infection that had me in a coma and almost cost me my right leg for a second time, the bone break and the metal rod repair were all but healed before I was finally discharged from the hospital. But it stillhurtsand I can’t shake the fear that it always will.

“We can talk about some pain relief for that.” Cody’s hands leave my leg and I heave a sigh of relief as she stands. The top of her head meets the line of my nipples and she leads me in a slow, steady walk across the hallway to her office.

“Not needed,” I insist. “I don’t need drugs.”

“If you’re in pain, Mr Bevan…”

“Jay.”

“Jay. If you’re in pain, there are things we can do. You don’t need to suffer.” She takes a seat behind her desk and I drop heavily into the chair opposite.

“Look, Cody.” I try my hardest not to sneer, but I’m not sure how successful I am in that particular endeavour. I lean across her desk towards her. “I’m going to be suffering either way. I don’t need drugs. I don’t want drugs. I need my leg to start fucking working, and once it does, I’ll be on my merry fucking way. So just tell me what I need to do for that, and I’ll do it.”

To her credit, Cody barely bats an eyelid at my attitude. I pull myself back to my own side of her desk and slump down in the chair.

“Your leg is working just fine, Jay,” she says calmly, like I’m not being a complete prick. “It’s taking your weight. It’s healing well. It looks exactly as I’d hope to see it. Better, even. Given time and more rehabilitation, there’s no reason you won’t be back to full strength, or something close to it.”

“How much fucking time is it going to take?”

Cody flips a manila folder closed and sets her hands together on top of it, regarding me silently for a moment before leaning closer.

“How long is a piece of string, Mr Bevan?” She raises a full, fluffy eyebrow. “Keep doing the exercises you’ve been given. Don’t overdo things. Listen to your body. And take a damn painkiller once in a while if it’s hurting. An over-the-counter one will do. Pain is your body’s way of telling you something’s wrong—”

“Of course something’s wrong, my fucking leg doesn’t work.”

“Your leg works perfectly fine, Mr Bevan. You can take my professional advice, or you can suffer on your own. How are you coping at work—how’s the leg doing?”

“Fine,” I answer sullenly.

“You’ve started driving the armoured money vans now, haven’t you?”

I started my hands-off training for the job shortly before leaving the hospital, and jumped straight into the physical aspect the day after my discharge. It’s been a couple of weeks now.

“I’m a cash in transit driver, yes,” I correct her. Like a grade-A dickhead. If I were her, I’d probably have kicked me in the nuts by now.

“I’m glad to hear your leg is handling the demands of the job, I’m sure it’s not easy. Now, I imagine you have plans for the rest of the afternoon—I know I certainly do. Enjoy the rest of your day, and I’ll see you next Thursday.”

I hold back a growl as I haul myself into a standing position. My leg is fucking killing me after our session, and I try to hide the limp by taking slow, deliberate steps as I leave the office. I stop only for a moment in the men’s room to swap my basketball shorts for jeans, then take a slow walk back to my car. My gait is uneven now and I have no idea if I’ll ever walk comfortably again, never mind run. It’s not like I was an athlete, anyway. But running used to be a way for me to clear my mind and avoid thinking. Without it, I have nothing else to do but think. And thinking is the last thing I want to do. Thinking brings about feelings I don’t want to feel—the anger, the resentment, the guilt.

Thinking reminds me that I’m here and others—my friends, my brothers—aren’t. It’s easier to just not let myself think or feel at all.

I lower myself into the car and slam the door closed. Finally. My ears ring as the world tilts just barely off-axis. Enough to be uncomfortable, but not quite enough to make everything spin. I sit for a few beats before I hold my foot on the clutch and push the button to start the engine.

The radio begins to blast a loud symphony with booming brass and crashing cymbals, and I jab my finger at the button a few times before hitting it. Fuck. My pulse races, throbbing in my wrists and my throat. I let my head fall back against the headrest, giving myself another moment to regain control of my senses before carefully levering the car into gear and pulling out of my parking space. I drive home in silence, my only company the patter of raindrops on the metal roof and the occasional squeal of my worn-out wipers on the windscreen.

Before I realise where I’m headed, I steer the car through the archway of Ruth’s block of flats and turn into one of the visitor spaces. I pull sharply at the handbrake, feeling the car rock on its suspension, and jam my thumb into the ignition button to kill the engine. A quiet alarm sounds as I open the door, and I reach back in to turn off my headlights before slamming the door, clicking the lock button on my key fob, and limping to the nearest building.

Ordinarily, I’d push myself and take the stairs, but I’m drained, mentally and physically. I tap my foot impatiently as I wait for the lift, and continue tapping as it takes an age to carry me up four floors to Ruth’s door.

“It’s me, Roofus,” I call as I rap my knuckles against her door. I continue to play my hand against the door until I hear heavy footfalls on the other side.

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