Take the A-Train Read Free Page A

and teach you how to use the crutches, then you’re free to leave.’
    I interrupted. ‘I know about crutches.’
    ‘The physio will have to be convinced.’
    I tuned him out and lay back. ‘Bring on the physios then.’
    Fiona came to visit that evening and I told her I was free to go home.
    ‘Great!’ she said. ‘Do you still want a lift?’
    ‘Yes, please.’
    Wanda had cleaned up and closed down my flat and brought my keys back. I gave them to Fiona and she went off to check the place out and get some food in and put the heating on. She was back within a couple of hours.
    ‘You can’t stay there,’ she said briskly.
    ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘I live there.’
    ‘There are too many stairs for you to get up and down for a start, and there’s no bath. You can’t be in plaster and use a shower. And if you stay there someone will have to come and look after you, and the place is far too small for two.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Come and stay at my place. It’s got three bedrooms and I can look after you with no bother.’
    ‘Haven’t you got anything to do? No work, I mean.’
    ‘Sure, but it’s not nine to five. I can fit you in.’
    ‘Sounds good.’
    ‘Unless the lift breaks down.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’m on the twenty-seventh floor.’
    ‘How many?’
    ‘Twenty-seven,’ she said proudly.
    ‘Where the hell do you live then?’
    ‘Tower block. Top floor, babes, but it’s great when you get there.’
    ‘Does the lift break down often?’
    ‘Often enough.’
    ‘And if it does?’
    ‘Piggy back for you, son, but don’t worry – I’m sure it’ll be all right.’
    ‘Not a good idea. I’d sooner be home.’
    ‘Cooking for yourself and drowning in your own dirt?’
    I thought about it for a moment, the advantages and the disadvantages. ‘OK, Fiona,’ I said. ‘You’ve talked me into it.’
    ‘There goes that old enthusiasm again.’
    ‘Sorry, I was just thinking.’
    ‘Dangerous thing to do, Sharman. Cut it out, will you?’
    ‘I’ll try.’
    The next morning she picked up my suitcase and an overnight bag and a couple of plastic carriers. You stay in hospital for sixteen weeks and you start to acquire stuff you don’t want to leave behind. Clothes, books, all sorts of shit people had brought me and I wasn’t about to dump. Fiona was dressed in a thick brown leather jacket with a fur collar over a big sweater that reached halfway down her thighs, and woolly leggings tucked into high-heeled boots. Around her neck she wore a long scarf striped black and white. ‘Christ!’ she said as I passed her the bags and stuff, ‘this lot weighs a ton.’
    A couple of nurses had come in to say goodbye. One had brought me my take-away drugs: pain killers, sleepers, etc. I thanked the nurses and apologised, I hoped sincerely, for any trouble I’d given them. They were all smiles but I knew they’d forget about me by shift end. That was OK, I expected them to. It was the nature of the job.
    I used both crutches and pushed myself along beside Fiona, past the open wards, through into the waiting area and out to the lifts. It was strange to be mobile again, even in a limited way; strange to see people uninterested in my welfare.
    We descended in the big lift that smelt of old food down to the lower ground floor and out to the car park. ‘I’m over there,’ said Fiona.
    I’d never thought to ask what kind of car she had, but I guessed as soon as I saw it sitting in its slot. It was an acid yellow Spitfire – with the roof down. The weather outside was cold and getting colder. ‘You need to put the hood up,’ I said.
    ‘There isn’t one. It got slashed a month ago and I haven’t had it replaced.’
    ‘What happens when it rains.’
    ‘I get wet.’
    ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘I suppose that explains the kit.’
    She looked down at herself and giggled. The giggle still worked and I smiled, against my better judgement. I was wearing a maroon sweater with a shawl collar over a pale lemon Oxford cotton