Page 34 of A Long Way Back
“One week. Then see how you feel.”
“Fuck off. And shut the door.”
Ink deliberately left it open.
Chapter Five
TAY WAS EXHAUSTED AND HE ached all over. He closed his eyes, desperate to go to sleep, but sensed that wasn’t going to happen. He was torn between being glad Ink had pushed him to exercise and resentment that this was the result. He hated the way he walked with his crutches. He hated people watching him walk like that. He hated Ink seeing him walk like that. How fucking hard could it be to make his legs do what he wanted? And his mouth.
But itwashard. When Ink had been so careful not to touch him a few moments ago, something shifted inside Tay. Even when the hospital staff had been made aware of how much being touched distressed him, some of them still did it without showing any sympathy or understanding. Tay got it, he really did. They were busy. They didn’t have time to calm him down before they turned him or did stuff to him. But Ink had listened. Ink had cared.
Because I’m paying him. Because my mother bought him a bed to sleep in. Because he has nowhere else to go.Tay didn’t want it to be just because of that. He rolled to face the other way.
A few weeks ago, when he’d been really low and questioning every decision he’d made, including the one to come down to London, he’d decided to stop putting pressure on himself to get better as quickly as he could. Since that had been his aim right from the time he became fully alert, not making an effort was harder than it sounded. He’d always been driven and motivated: at school, at university, at surfing and in his job. Everything that he did, he wanted to be the best at, but he’d had enough. He was so tired of it all, tired of waking and facing a day that would be the same as the day before and the same as the one after, and Jonty more out of reach with every day that passed.
So he’d told himself it wasn’t wrong to lie on his bed resting, it wasn’t wrong to give himself a break, it wasn’t wrong to stop putting himself through hell doing his exerciseswhen they didn’t fucking make any difference!He’d cancelled the physio and reneged on his promise to continue with his exercises. Instead of struggling through the day doing things that made him unhappy, he’d decided to concentrate on stuff he enjoyed.
The plan had seemed sound at the time, possibly made when he was high because everything looked better when he was full of codeine, but it hadn’t worked. There hadn’t been some miraculous improvement in his mindset. Mostly because nothing made him happy. It wasn’t just that he was pining for Jonty, though he sort of still was. The only time pleasure surged was when the codeine kicked in. He had enough sense to know that was not a good thing, particularly when he was taking the tablets more often, and more of them.
The overall result of hisdo what the hell I wantexperiment was that he’d grown increasingly depressed, increasingly reliant on illegally obtained drugs, and he still shambled around like an old man who’d had a stroke.
Something had to change. Maybe his mother’s mental kick had made him see how often he said or thought no, when he should have been more positive. The irony was that the old Tay said no to nothing. The new Tay said no to almost everything. Could Ink be the catalyst he needed?
So why am I being such a dick to him? Why is helettingme be such a dick?If Ink was treating him differently because he was brain damaged, he wanted him out of the flat—like yesterday. He didn’t want anyone around who felt sorry for him. He felt sorry enough for himself. He needed to be treated as if he was just another guy, not as a disabled one.
He understood a bit better now how disabled…disadvantaged…handicapped… physically challenged people…whatever the current term was—felt. He’d not bothered to learn the acceptable term because he couldn’t accept this was his life. Just because he was in a wheelchair, he was treated asnot normal, and that was both insulting and patronising.
Yet Tay still walked like the crooked man in the nursery rhyme. Maybe he’d never walk as he did before. There’d be no runs on the beach, no surfing in the sea he loved, no cycling, no…fuck it.His doctor had been at pains to point out that everyone with a brain injury was different, recovery varied from person to person.No shit, Sherlock.But Tay understood that determination wasn’t always enough.
He wanted to take his pills and slide into oblivion, but they were still in his sock drawer and he didn’t have the energy to get them. While he was still trying to figure out if it was worth the effort of getting off the bed, he fell asleep.
AND WOKE TO THE SMELL of something cooking. Tay pulled out his phone to check the time. Just after six. And there was a text from Ink.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Tay tapped backDon’t know. Why?
Ink was quick to respond.To get to Mr Grumpy’s house. Knock knock.
Tay smiled.Who’s there?
Ink textedChicken.
Tay laughed.
Dinner’s readyInk texted.
Tay pushed himself up, shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his crutches. As he passed his chest of drawers, he hesitated, but didn’t stop. The pills could wait.
When he reached the kitchen, he drew in a breath. Ink had set the table, folded pieces of kitchen roll into some sort of shape next to the cutlery, and opened a bottle of wine.
“Sleep okay?” Ink asked.
“Yeah.” Tay slid into the seat and rested his crutches against the work surface.
“Chicken stuffed with anchovies and sprinkled with dried kippers, with a side of tomatoes,” Ink said.
Tay looked up to see him smiling.
