Page 17 of The Twelve Days of Christian
She sits beside me and continues in that toddler-soothing voice.
“Well, that’s Samantha. My friend. She’s a nurse.”
“Better get her back in here, then, to fix the damage she’s done.” I rub at my shoulder, where jabbing pain like I’ve touched a mains-powered electric fence still shoots all the way up from my elbow. “Why the hell did she grab me like that? And why doesn’t she know who I am?”
I’m not vain about my fame, and sure, guitarists don’t get their face splattered around like lead singers, but surely most people of a certain age in this country would recognise me.
“Look, Sam’s not really into popular music. Apart from knowing it’s Ollies band, she hasn’t a clue about Stellar Riot. And she’s one of those rare people who has no interest in social media.”
“Well, can’t fault her for that,” I say. I’ve never hidden my loathing for all that shit. “But really, to just launch in and attack me…”
Haley sighs impatiently and carries on in a low voice.
“About three years ago, late one night when she was coming off shift, Sam was attacked in the hospital car park. It was awful. She was lucky—some people came along and the guy took off. Cops got him later. She wasn’t badly hurt, but it still really messed her up.”
“Shit, that’s terrible.”
OK, maybe I’m feeling a tiny bit sorry for this girl, Sam—even if my head still throbs, and the tendons in my arm are so stretched I doubt I could even hold my guitar.
“And as part of moving on from that, she took up martial arts—Krav Maga. She’s been doing it for a while.”
“Well, she’s really good at it. Black belt, I suppose?”
I rub at my temple where I can feel a lump. My fingers graze over my brow. Can you break your eyebrow? There’s bone there and sharp pain.
“They don’t have belts.”
“Well, if they did, hers would definitely be black. She’s a fucking master.”
“Thanks,” a shy voice says, as the door swings wide.
The tiny nurse stands in the doorway. She’s clutching something wrapped in a cloth. Her face wears a benign expression that’s hard to reconcile with the ferocity I’ve seen she’s capable of.
“Let’s get some ice on that.”
No one would believe this is the banshee who, with one flick of the slender arm now presenting what looks like a bag of frozen peas tied up in a tea towel, had me down and begging for mercy. Her voice is efficient but kind. Even so, I draw back, wary, but she’s not deterred, and presses the freezing parcel against my head.
“Hold it there with your good arm.”
She guides my left hand upwards and I cup the makeshift ice pack tight. It’s painful yet immediately brings some relief to the throbbing. Then, with a delicacy I’d not have expected, Sam unbuttons my shirt and slides my right arm free. I see her eyes flicker over my tattoos as her fingers probe gently.
“Does that hurt?”
“A little.” Under her touch, my muscles relax and my tendons no longer scream at me so loudly.
“Haley, do you have anything we can rub into this? You know, a muscle cream, sports liniment or something?”
“I doubt it.” Haley laughs. “We’re not exactly the sporty types around here. But I’ll check the bathroom. You never know.”
I’m not hopeful. My friend Ollie is a notorious slug when it comes to deliberate exercise. Lean and wiry, he’s one of those people who looks like he’s super fit, when actually his morning workout is simply getting upright. When you see him on stage, where he brings a huge energy, you’d swear he’d be the sort of guy who runs a marathon before breakfast. Not him—that’s me. Growing up on the farm, I crave early rising and time in the outdoors. Pounding the streets each morning keeps me sane. The lack of this outlet is yet another reason I’m struggling after being a caged animal for days.
Haley returns a minute later with a plastic tube.
“Well, guess Ollie had this from when he was training for that charity run.”
I remember it well. The lazy bastard moaned for weeks in the lead up. Even though it was only a pathetic little 10k, he’d had to run each day to avoid total embarrassment, hated every moment and didn’t hesitate to let us all know.
Sam grabs the tube and squirts a large blob of the gel onto her hand. It smells like a locker room, searing my nose hairs. With well-practised strokes, she works it into my arm. It’s both fiery hot and icy cold at the same time. I close my eyes, succumbing to the soothing pressure of small fingers. By the time she’s done, it feels much better. Not good, but better.
