Yesterday was wonderful.
Thrills, Chills and Goldfish | Chapter 10
"Hello, you," Gill said, sitting down at Julie's bedside and lifting her hand towards Julie's, then letting it drop back down to her knee again, like she was unsure whether to touch her, whether it would be an intrusion.
Julie said nothing. Gill wasn't sure whether she was, as the doctor had suggested she may be, too 'drowsy' to reply, or merely choosing not to.
"Why didn't you tell me how bad it was?"
The answer didn't need to be spoken, Gill could feel it reverberating around the hospital room. You wouldn't have listened anyway.
Every time Gill saw someone in a hospital bed she was struck by how vulnerable the blue gowns could make them look, but it was worse than that with Julie; the emotion at seeing her best friend lifeless was a physical pain in her gut.
"I should've known something was wrong," she said quietly, "I said to Janet, you've seen more dead bodies than I have, you're tougher than I am. I should've done something when you ran out of that post-mortem."
Julie's hands, laced together on her stomach, like funeral directors often laid them when they placed bodies in coffins, twitched slightly.
"I should've taken you to that little café and bought you a coffee, or a hot chocolate or something. I mean, I'm supposed to be your friend, friends don't– they don't just turn away when they're busy, do they? We're been friends for, God, decades, I know you don't make stuff up for nothing."
Gill laced her own hands together and brought them up to her forehead, wiping her fringe from her face, spooked by the silence in the room. She wanted something to blot out the buzzing of the generator, she wanted to hear Julie laugh.
"The doctor said you were getting a bit worried about the case. It's alright, we're just about coping without you so far. We haven't got anywhere yet, maybe we would've done if you were– well, anyway, I'll hold the fort until you're back on your feet."
Julie moved her hand up to her face slowly, like every fraction of movement hurt her, and dislodged the oxygen mask slightly.
"Don't try and do that," Gill said, finding her voice was suddenly weaker. She pushed the mask back over her friend's nose and mouth. "You need it."
"Daft cow."
Gill was too surprised to say anything for a moment. "Who? Me?"
"Me."
"Nah," Gill said, reaching out and touching Julie's hand, "Not really. Well, a bit daft, not going to the doctors or something, but not really."
Julie looked frustrated, wanting to say something but not having enough energy to form a coherent explanation.
Gill said, "If Janet hadn't come round–"
"Don't."
The lump formed in her throat again, like it had when Janet had first rung her, and she couldn't dislodge it. "I'm sorry."
Julie's eyes flickered with amusement. "Soppy cow."
"You're daft and I'm soppy? Sounds about right."
"Will you get me some stuff?"
"Course," Gill agreed, glad to steer the conversation away from her guilt, "It'll give me an opportunity to see your duck pyjamas again, how could I refuse?"
"Where did they– my clothes?"
Gill stood up and went to the cabinet at the end of the room. "They're here. Covered in soup, naturally. You gave Janet and Rachel the shock of their lives when they saw you; they thought it was blood."
"I knocked the can."
With her face turned away from Julie, she took a few moments to compose herself. If Janet hadn't come round– They could have been burying a Detective Superintendent as well as the Chief Con's daughter, all because she'd been too concerned with a case, too worried by what failure to catch the murderer might mean for her career.
She wasn't sure she could ever have forgiven herself for Julie's death; the image of a coffin littered with roses took the breath from inside of her and replaced it with shivers.
"Don't feel bad, Gill."
"I don't." She felt betrayed by her voice's hoarseness.
"Do so. Left pocket."
Gill pressed her fingers into the folds of Julie's jacket and found a photograph, miraculously unscathed by the tomatoes. Julie reached out a hand for it, and Gill took it across to her, gave it to her along with an unasked question.
Julie said nothing, so Gill sat down beside her again and leant on the mattress so that she was closer to Julie; her friend shuffled along the pillow and her hair brushed Gill's arm. They looked together at the photograph of the cardigan, the socks and the locket, laid out proudly together.
"I've never told you."
Gill closed her eyes. "Never told me what?"
"Never married. No kids."
"And you– Julie, you–"
"Long time ago," Julie said, like it was insignificant, only her eyes told a different story, "You're lucky, with Sammy."
"I'm really sorry."
Julie's mouth twitched slightly again behind the mask.
"Do you want to talk about it?" She sounded like a police officer, not a best friend. "You know, I could–"
"Another time."
She nodded. "You should get some sleep. And so should I, come to think of it; got a briefing at eight tomorrow morning."
"At least I have," Julie stopped, like it was causing her pain to speak again, "I have an excuse to miss it."
"I suppose I'll let you off."
Gill didn't have the same sort of relationship with Julie as Janet and Rachel had, she didn't do hugs, chocolates, big gestures. But she loved her.
She stood the photo from Julie's hand and propped it up on the bedside table, next to her water glass. "Was it a boy or a girl?"
"Boy. Was going to call him James."
"How long–"
"Twenty one years."
Gill nodded slowly, imagined how different Julie's life could have been if she'd had a son, how their friendship would have had a different dynamic altogether, discussing nappies rather than getting pissed. Her child – James – would have been a couple of years older than Sammy, they could have gone to the park together.
She ran her hands gently through Julie's hair, took out the tomatoey tangles.
"I am 16, going on 17," she sang softly, "Only you're not. You're not bloody indestructible any more."
"I'm not sure I ever was, Gill."
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