Page 56 of The Making of Jonty Bloom
Jonty took his phone from his pocket and handed it to him. “Put your number in.”
Devan tapped it in and Jonty pressed call, waited until he heard Devan’s phone ring, then ended it. “Now you have mine. Call me when you’re free and we can arrange to meet. Have a think about what you’d like to do.”
THEY WALKED THROUGH THE CARpark in Seahouses and stopped by the Aston.
“Can I give you a lift home?”
“No thanks. I’ve promised to go and see a mate.”
“I enjoyed today. Except for that interfering dog.”
Jonty laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay?”
“What are you doing tonight?” Devan blurted.
“Ironing my shirts.” He chewed his fingernail. “I won’t be in the mood for anything once I’ve visited Tay.”
“Why go then?”
“Because he’s my friend. And he’s ill. He made me feel safe when no one else did and I owe him a lot for that. I’ll see you tomorrow. Check your jacket pocket. I’ve given you something precious to take care of.”
As he watched Jonty walk off, he slid his hand in his pocket and pulled out the crooked little sea glass heart. Would a few days of fun be enough? Or would it just make it even harder to walk away from him?
Chapter Nine
JONTY MADE HIS WAY TOwhere he’d padlocked his bike and helmet.He really liked Devan. He liked him too much. There was nothing he could do about that. Maybe all they’d have were these few days. Or maybe not. Jonty hadn’t talked about his parents for a long while, but he’d wanted to share his dark past after Devan had shared his.
He got on his bike, but before he set off, he took out his phone, searched for a picture of the biggest dick he could find and sent it to Devan with the wordscan you handle this?Within a minute of setting off, he wished he hadn’t done that. Devan would think it was childish. It was. Or even worse, that it was accurate. It wasn’t.Shit.
His phone bleeped with a message and he pulled off the road to check it. Devan had sent a message.Handle yes. Swallow no.Jonty chuckled.
The smile had gone by the time he arrived at Tay’s. Tay’s parents lived in a big house in Beadnell with great views of the bay, not that Tay could admire them. They’d had their place converted to care for their son who had a room on the ground floor. Tay was constantly monitored by his parents or one of his team of carers. There was someone always ready to resuscitate him. It would be a miracle if Tay made the journey all the way back from wherever he’d gone. It was what his parents hoped for. What Jonty hoped for even though he knew there was little prospect of recovery, because the doctors had said so. But how could he give up hoping? Though maybe his hope was changing, less focused on Tay’s recovery and sometimes, but only sometimes, wishing this was over.
Tay wouldn’t be considered to be in a permanent vegetative state until twelve months after the accident. Then there would be talk about taking out the feeding and hydration tube from Tay’s stomach, and allowing him to die. Jonty knew that Tay would hate his current life, existing in a state that was in some ways worse than death. But there was still a chance. Still hope. Many of Tay’s friends had given up on him, but Jonty still believed he’d open his eyes and come back. People had emerged from a minimally conscious state years later. Why shouldn’t Tay?
Tay’s mother completely refused to accept there was no chance of recovery. Tay’s father went along with whatever his wife wanted, pouring his time and energy into his haulage business, because his life had fractured the day Tay fell. Yet every time Tay’s father came home, his nightmare restarted. Tay’s mother sat and talked to Tay every day. Watched TV in his room with him. Played music. Read to him. Stimulated him by one means or another.
Once his broken bones had healed, physios manipulated his body, trying to keep his muscles from atrophying. Carers turned him regularly to prevent bed sores. Nurses came to change bags and tubes and catheters. Then his mother learnt to do it. She washed him, combed his hair, shaved him, cut his nails as if he were a baby. Doctors had treated infections even when Tay’s sisters begged their mother to let nature take its course. What a fucking horrible concept. Though Jonty no longer knew the right thing to do, except if it had been him lying in that bed, he thought he’d rather have been dead.
He laid his bike down on the drive near the front door, took off his helmet, dragged his fingers through his hair, and knocked.
Tay’s mother smiled when she saw him. “Jonty! Come on in.”
“Thanks.” He was always welcome. The only one of Tay’s friends who still came to see him.
Jonty had stopped asking how Tay was when he arrived. It upset both of them when she said there was no change. It was equally upsetting to Jonty on those occasions when she talked excitedly of Tay’s eyes opening and closing, of his reaction to a song by Coldplay, or the noises he made that she thought indicated Tay was trying to communicate. Jonty had read a lot online about Tay’s condition. He knew involuntary muscle twitches were just that—involuntary. He knew the sounds Tay made were not an indication of an attempt to talk to his mother. He understood exactly what Tay’s minimally conscious condition meant.
He braced himself when he walked into Tay’s room. “Hi mate!”
“I’ll turn the monitor off, then you two can have a nice cosy chat.”
Jonty made himself smile at Tay’s grieving, delusional mother. He took a deep breath and sat by Tay’s bed. Tay had been up a ladder cleaning the gutters at the back of his parents’ house. Tay had no fear of heights and his father did. He was also careful, that’s what Jonty didn’t understand. He shouldn’t have fallen.
But the ladder had slipped and he’d broken arms, legs and his skull. Bones would and did mend. The damage to Tay’s brain was considerable. The accident took away the life Tay had had and gave him another. A lingering disease would at least have given some warning, a chance to prepare for the worst, but this? It had been like being hit by a bus. Tay had been unlucky.
Fuck luck.
You wouldn’t say that if you won the lottery.
