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COOK
Recovery was slow. The hospital queue even longer it seemed but within a few days, about 20 staples, and some very helpful "medicinal" (if slightly illegal) marijuana he was able to ignore the throbbing pain in his extremities and focus instead on making soup and bringing it to Blondie in bed, who spent a great deal of her time wallowing. She was in much the same state he was, just utterly defeated. She hadn't really done much of anything since Emily walked out on her, and as ironic as Emily's statements were, he is actually the one taking care of his best mate. Not the other way around. Plus, he feels ridiculously shit about the whole situation.
They had spoken, he and Naomi. About the night he saw, or rather hallucinated, Effy standing in the rain. It had been a difficult conversation, bringing up old demons that they had both thought were gone and buried. He told her about getting hit by the car, and making his way not to casualty, but a mate's place who offered pills and IV morphine instead. He doesn't remember very much after that, except the constant injections and the substantial mixture of every Class A he could procure in that disgusting squat. And hell, every B and C as well. He wasn't picky. His mobile had been crushed in the accident.
She hadn't looked upset at his admissions, just lost. Helpless. So he told her about seeing Effy again in the haze of opiates and hallucinogens, wanting to be with her so desperately and doing line after line of whatever powder he found until his heart felt like it was being shredded and crunched and he vomited up blood before passing out for what he could only assume was at least a day. It had felt like a failure, like Effy would not be proud of that. So he had tried again. Somewhere in the blur, he was offered an opportunity for speedballing, which, well, fuck it, why not? The smack was top notch, and the high fucking indescribable. But he hadn't seen Effy then. He's still not sure how many days he spent fluctuating back and forth from the skag and various other drugs to borderline sobriety. As the comedowns got worse, he decided in one particular rut between episodes of being sick, to go for it again. Packing his rig for the speedball of his fucking life (and his second of day, he supposed), he had made a decision.
Naomi had begun to cry at this point in his narrative and he had to pause, but had no idea what to say to her. Comfort just wasn't possible. He had needed to continue so she let him.
After sitting and staring at the syringe, he doesn't remember much, monging out to a magnificent state. He knows that needle poked his vein. He knows the crisp buzz, followed by a sublime brown rush. And he knows for certain that Effy was there. Somewhere. Possibly even before he decided that the mushrooms and infinitely more lines of coke would be a brilliant idea. He couldn't make her leave and he couldn't make her stay. It had been like a constant tug-of-war. There was the best feeling of his life, followed only shortly thereafter by the worst. Convinced he was slowly dying, he swore he had seen his life flowing out through his fingertips. And he had heard voices sometime later in that ephemeral dreamstate. One, he was certain, had been Eff telling him to fuck off and stop being a shithead, that they were over now. Apparently there had been more seizures, that horrible feeling of a strangled heart and blood in his mouth. And that's how he ended up banging down the flat door.
After the conversation had ended, Naomi said very little. She had just stared and said she was glad he made it home. Until she asked if he had been trying to kill himself. The answer was harder to admit to her than to Katie, from what he remembers of their shower conversation. It was just better in that blissful place, close to God, Effy, whatever. It was better than the fucked up shit life he had been living. Yeah, ODing would be the easiest way. The pained look that had taken over Naomi's features was enough to immediately regret telling her the truth.
And now he lies down next to her, pulling the duvet over them both and settling into yet another evening of dull silence.
"You need to get tested," she finally mumbles into the darkness.
He sighs. "Not really an issue."
"Like fuck it's not," she hisses, although only half-heartedly. "You're pumping shit into yourself in a squat, Cook."
He laughs. "Babe, they may be addicts, but they're not complete mongs. It was all clean."
"Debatable," she growls. "You'd better go. I need to know. You bled everywhere." There is definitely fear in the tremble of her voice and he decides to give in even though he is certain there is nothing to worry about. Absolutely 100%. But it couldn't hurt if it sets her mind at ease.
"Fine, Blondie. We'll do it your way, like always," he says with a chuckle, feeling in better spirits than he has been for a while, since well, since little Katie Fitch had one of the most massive, flailing orgasms he'd ever had the pleasure of giving another person. Yeah, he was a sodding oral rockstar.
They fall into another period of silence. And he's not sure if it's the right time, if there ever will be a right time for this, but it needs to be done.
"I'm going home," he whispers to the air, barely audible.
He can feel Naomi shift around until he knows she's staring the best she can in the dark, trying to figure out how to react. The least likely of his predicted outcomes happens.
"But, you are home." She sounds like a child, lost and confused. He shakes his head, grimacing as his healing head wound rubs a little to hard against the pillow.
"Bristol home."
"For how long?"
The question sends sparks of guilt and regret throughout his body and he knows he has to answer truthfully. "Indefinitely." He reaches over and grasps for her hand, finding it easily, like it's second-nature. He's going to miss that. He knows that as much as he thinks he's going to miss her now, when the first night back in Bristol comes, that pain is only going to pale in comparison. No one in his life has ever believed, trusted in him the way she does and he feels like he's somehow betraying that now, which only adds to guilt of the feeling he broke up her relationship with the munchkin. Resisting the urge to just take it all back, he grips her hand harder. "I love you, you know that, Blondie. You're my best mate. I wouldn't go if I didn't have to."
"You don't," she interrupts. "If it's about the drugs, we can get help here."
He sighs, feeling himself unravelling in light of her desperation. "It's not the drugs, babes. You just gotta take care of shit sometimes."
It's amazing how he can predict the coming moments, the way her body tenses with indignation and she begins to protest. "No. You don't get to leave me too. No, James, you bloody don't," she pleads, her voice breaking. He reaches for her but she pulls away, a firm hand pushing against his sore chest. It's a warning.
He wants to explain it all too her. Katie's offer, the need to get away from this hole and his dead end in London, the way he believes answers wait in the murky harbour water, in the colourful houses of Totterdown and in the freedom of standing in the middle of Clifton bridge. But that all sounds fucking cheesy and gay so he doesn't say it out loud. "I'm not leaving you, I'm going home."
"Did you have a thought about what happens to me? I'm completely alone, and soon to be fucking homeless cos my savings can't pay for this flat alone."
He wants to ask if he was merely a source of income but knows better. If she were more angry than just scared, he probably would have done. "Of course I thought about you, you twat. I'm doing this for you. I'm just holding you back here."
The tremble in her voice is far more pronounced now. "No, you're not. You don't..." But they both know better, have for a while, and hearing it spoken aloud has just made it all the more real. He can tell Naomi's mind is whirling with objections, arguments to prove him wrong. But as a testament to his truths, she never actually voices any of them. They know they became mates because of pain and heartbreak, then they rallied together as best mates, chaining their souls together, when Effy left, if only because it was harder for her to drag both of them with her at the same time. But she's really gone now, she doesn't want to tear them from this world, and he's not afraid anymore. Blondie has yet to realise this herself. He just wants her to be happy, and the one person who makes her genuinely blissful has walked out because of him.
He hopes this olive branch will help. "Kate's coming round tomorrow, with your Ems, yeah? Sort it."
There's an intake of breath on from the girl. "How do you know?" She's suspicious. It's better than angry, and much better than crying.
"I nicked your mobile when you were sleeping," he admits and watches her snatch it from the beside and scroll through the call history, her face illuminated in a blue glow. She frowns harder, then shoves it in his face.
He tries to focus on what she's showing him but can't since she won't stop waving it at him. "You spoke for 34 minutes to Katie? You're buying me more credit." She pauses for a moment. "Such a tosser."
Her insults are common enough behaviour so he takes them in stride and curls up around her, ignoring her feeble attempts to ward him off. He knows she's relieved that Emily's coming round. "Just so you know, I know I'm not your substitute dad. Ems is talking bollocks. I'd never leave you if you weren't ready to let go." When he feels her relax, and then nod off, he allows himself to sleep as well.
.
.
The afternoon arrives without much fuss but he can tell Blondie's so nervous she's going to piss herself in a minute. Offering her a spliff, which she obviously declines, he sits back in his chair and tries to concentrate on the programme about horses. He doesn't even like horses particularly but Naomi has some sort of coursework about animal cruelty to work on and decided a more fruitful (and rapid) approach to research would be watching documentaries instead of reading. He can tell she's barely registering what's happening on the TV screen. The way she's chewing on her bottom lip is a telltale sign. It figures that as soon as she gets up to put on the kettle, a key turns in the lock and the Fitches step into the room. He only affords Emily a short glance because he's still a little pissed off at her for going off on Naomi yesterday, and for her obvious lack of concern for him. It's peevish but he can't help it. Katie, however, looks well buff and he has an honest moment of confusion about how he never really noticed before. She was always a set of great tits, but he could see all over her now and while she doesn't present the manipulative air of challenge Eff had, she is still a complete and proper stunner. They both stand somewhat awkwardly in on the other side of the room, waiting for Cook to say something welcoming. He looks back to Emily, fidgeting in place. He recognises, with some resignation, that she hasn't brought her overnight bag with her. It's a sign that they don't plan on staying. He shrugs at her.
"What do you want, Emsy, an invitation? It's your place an' all, mate," he says carefully, making sure no more callousness comes out than necessary. She huffs in irritation at his attitude and makes her way to the kitchen, somehow knowing Naomi is hiding in there. Katie takes a seat on the sofa and winces.
They can hear the sound of talking above the drone of the television, which at this point is showing kill pens and horse slaughterhouses. Not the best choice of entertainment. He listens for Naomi's voice. At least they're not screaming at each other. Yet. He takes a long look at Katie and she catches him.
She smirks. "If you're wondering, I talked some sense into her last night. I told her about you coming back with me as well. Don't worry so hard about Naomi. She's in good hands."
He's not sure if she means Emily's or her own. He wonders if Katie Fitch is magic because despite Effy (and himself) pulling everything apart, she's kind of brilliant at putting it all back together again. Like it doesn't take any effort at all.
"Safe," he says absently, trying to figure out how to move over to the sofa without looking like a desperate pillock. Fuck it. That's never stopped him before. But he doesn't get the chance to make a move. A loud crash is heard from the kitchen and his stomach drops and Katie's eyes widen in confusion. She jumps up from the sofa with her back ramrod straight, shoulders squared for a confrontation. But there's no screaming. Cook grins and stands slowly, and waves at Katie to sit back down.
"Unless you want nightmares, sit your fit arse down. I'll check on them." He moves carefully towards the other room, like it's all some sort of spy game. Poking his head around the doorway, he sees what he expected: Ems, her back to him, is propped up on the kitchen table with her knickers dangling around an ankle and her skirt hiked up around her waist, and his best mate with her top lost somewhere as they snog languidly. That much is a relief. It isn't the frenzied fuck of regretful mistakes. More like the slow, dedicated act of redemption. He watches as Naomi pulls back and whispers something intently, cupping her face with both hands. Emily barely nods but he can hear her say "You really scared me, Nae," before she pulls Naomi's lips towards her again. The pot of leftover pasta has rolled across the floor, and some of the hardened noodles have spilled out.
"Cook!" Katie calls loudly and he stops his contemplation of the pasta pot. "Stop perving then." He slinks back over to the sitting area and slouches down next to her. It's almost like a week earlier, except he feels possibly even more lonely now knowing what he has to do in the coming days. This time Katie reaches over and links their fingers together.
"I guess this means you want to call me 'James' now, yeah? Or some other soppy crap name."
She chuckles. "We're not there yet, babes."
He thinks that's as good as a promise.
.
.
It takes a week and a half to tie up all loose ends in London, and pack what little of his shit he's bringing home to Bristol. He knows tonight and tomorrow morning are going to be the hardest hours of this new adventure. He's decided no drugs, no excessive drink; not tonight. He wants a clear mind and a clear memory, even if there was nothing quite like the brand of hilarity that ensued when Naomi and Katie got pissed and started yipping at each other. Things have calmed down substantially in the wake of the past few weeks, and he's thankful to see the smile back on Blondie's face, and the way she can evoke that crinkle in Little Fitch's nose when she giggles. He's not stupid though, and there's still tension deep down but he honestly thinks they are possibly in an even better place than before Katie visited, because there's something she does that slaps bandages over everything, helping it heal. Literally and figuratively, obviously because Blondie's been little to no help in that department since she's been so preoccupied with uni again, and shagging her girlfriend during all her free time. And good on her for that, because he doesn't think he has ever – even in college – seen Ems look quite so bloody satisfied. They're moving to a smaller flat soon, something that is completely theirs and free from haunting memories of this one. And he thinks of the secret trip he and Naomi made to Hatton Garden and wonders what will come of that.
With a clang, he dumps a handful of cutlery onto the kitchen table, sliding it all around to bracket the plates. Katie is beside him setting up rather nice and delicate wine glasses he can swear never existed in this flat before. He knows. He would have taken great joy in hurling them around. They're silent, as they tend to be often in the last few days and he knows it's because they've both stepped into an area of life that was previously blurry and unimaginable. Tomorrow is the start of something, and that's enough to scare them both into silence.
It's pretty lucky that they have Naomi to constantly prattle on about some boring-arse issue of the day. The girl likes to go on... as she is at the moment while she checks on the boiling potatoes. It is possibly about the success of Malawi in implementing fertilizer subsidiaries despite IMF restrictions, or maybe about the Japanese poaching of whales for human consumption in the Antarctic under the guise of scientific research, or even the effect of burning petrol on climate change in the fucking highlands of bloody Scotland and how it makes all the sheep cry. He has no clue, but it doesn't really matter because it's the same kind of thing she always rants about. It's almost the same as putting on talk radio, but at least that has advert breaks. Meanwhile, Ems is just sitting in a chair, staring at her blathering on and on and on, her eyes sparkling.
"Careful there Ems, swoon much harder and you'll fall off your seat," he comments with a wink, and a blush rises to her cheeks.
Almost immediately, he feels a hot, wet chunk hit his head and hears it drop with a plop to the tile. Looking down, he sees a potato and glares at Naomi, who has a rather large serving spoon in her hand and a smug grin on her face. "Oi, wanker, if she wants to swoon at my feet, she can," she states simply, glancing at her girlfriend. "I'm very swoon-worthy."
Katie makes a gross snort-like sound beside him, and he laughs. Naomi's just narrowed her eyes at the brunette and Emily's flushed darker, suddenly finding the placemat incredibly interesting.
"Aw, look, you guys, stop it. You're embarrassing my little sister," Katie says with mock sweetness, refraining from letting go of the chuckle that's in her throat.
"Just shut up," Emily growls under her breath. Blondie takes the opportunity to start up about something else completely unrelated and probably important for the well-being of the planet until the meal is ready and on the table. Then she just begins what he assumes to a hippie would be a tremendously exciting and informative one-sided conversation about the profitability of organic farming in the southwest of England, pointedly talking about Bristol's obvious inclination towards this trend. It's a little hard to make out however when her gob is stuffed with veg.
He doesn't tell her to stop though because it's likely the last time he'll hear her voice in person for a while.
It seems wrong somehow to not get marvellously fucked up on his final night in London but they persevere anyway, choosing to relax in the sitting room with a DVD. Everyone immediately vetoes Blondie's choice and she slumps sullenly into the sofa cushions until Ems snuggles up to her, whispers something that is obviously filthy in her ear and she brightens instantaneously. He doesn't even want to know anymore. Katie, after watching them for a moment, smirks and raises an eyebrow in his direction. He taps the side of his nose and chuckles. He's still surprised at the ease of their even silent conversations.
That night, Naomi climbs into bed with him. Katie takes the sofa, and Emily agreeably sleeps alone. It's magic, really. As the quiet descends over the flat, he can feel his best mate fidget and shuffle about in the sheets. They don't speak either. She merely reaches out and spoons up behind him, like so many times when he'd have nightmares about Effy.
Sometime around half 3, he feels the dusting of a kiss to his cheek and then the mattress springs free of her weight. He can hear her careful footfalls all the way back to her own bedroom and he knows at that exact moment that he's made the right decision to leave. Things change. They move. Time is the unstoppable force, and therefore no immovable object can exist.
In the morning, he wakes to a head of wavy brunette hair tickling his nostrils and he doesn't feel lonely. He doesn't think of Effy, or Naomi.
