The One Read Free Page B

needed to say.
    ‘So. What are you looking for? I mean, you must have some idea. If you know what you don’t want, surely you know what you do?’ Paton’s voice was knife sharp, and cut through the chill of the room. She sat up in bed, sheet clasped around her naked body. Vulnerable, she felt like a wounded bird whose nest has been upturned by bullying children, and the sheet offered her a modicum of protection, not quite armour, but better than nothing.
    ‘I don’t know, Paton, but I’ll know when I find her. I’m sorry it’s not you. I really am.’
    ‘You know what, Tom? I would laugh if you got to the end of your life, and you were old and sad and alone, and you realised it was me… me all along. I was the one. Me. I would laugh.’
    The tap of his feet on the wooden floor, and the gentle slam of the front door being closed shut ricocheted around Paton’s soul for an aeon.
     

- 12 -
    It was the sound of laughter from the TV that woke the old man from his sleep. Groggy, he could make out the giggles of children and the chortles of adults, seasoning conversations where the words had faded and blurred and muddied. The nurse was seated near the wall-screen, and she was laughing softly. The wintry sun shared its weak light with the window, but not enough to heat the room. His hover-chair had been manoeuvred close to the fauxplace, the dark glass logs shining blue-bright, and with the lapcoosh tucked in tight around his thin legs, he was warm, perhaps too warm. He struggled to open his eyes, but they were heavy with sleep. The nurse, sensing the old man was awake, turned and smiled over at him.
    ‘Oh… you’re back with us then,’ she said. ‘Have you seen this show? It’s very funny.’
    The old man ignored her, although his black eyes, red-rimmed, found the screen. They sit in silence until the nurse looked at her watch, as if to confirm what she already knew. ‘It’s nearly dinner time,’ she said, swivelling around in her chair. ‘Tell you what. I’ll stay and eat with you.’
    The old man sighed. ‘You’re new,’ he said.
    ‘Yes, I am, Mr Marshall. How did you know?’
    ‘If you knew anything, you’d know that I always eat alone. I prefer it that way. I…’The swoosh of the trolley-bot entering the room interrupted his tirade and he sank, subdued, back into his hover-chair, the smell of roast chicken and potatoes and gravy seeping into the room from under the cloche.
    The nurse smiled at him. ‘That’s not very sociable. How do you know you won’t like my company if you’re not even prepared to try?’
    The old man started. From a shining point way back in the recesses of his brain, a spark of memory pushed its way forward. A different time, a different place, but it was there. The memory wriggled and squirmed and demanded to be noticed.
    ‘What did you say?’
    The nurse lifted her slim frame from her hover-chair and walked over to the trolley-bot, choosing a meal, then lifting the cloche, breathing in the savoury steam and collecting cutlery. She picked up a tray and cutlery, before sending the trolley-bot over to the old man with the roast chicken.
    ‘I said… you’re not being very sociable. How do you know you won’t like me if you’re not even prepared to try?’ She clipped the tray to his hover-chair, handing him his dinner, cutlery and a crisp, linen napkin.
    The old man sucked in his breath, reached out and grabbed her arm, fingers digging into her flesh. She looked directly at him, and he recoiled in recognition, the years falling away like sheets of rain.
    ‘Your name,’ he said sharply, almost panicking. ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘I’m Paton,’ she said, laughing.
    And the old man wept, the years falling away like sheets of rain as regret burrowed into his soul like a cancer.