A sort of nervous energy gets you through your shift on Sunday. You have some difficulty finding someone to switch shifts with, but in the end Harry agrees. But not without needless prying into why you want to switch shifts of course. You tell him it's none of his business. Miraculously, he lets it go.
You don't get much sleep that night. Trant instructed you to arrive at his place no later than three thirty a.m. to give you time to get to the port. You walk over there, not wanting to have to face questions about borrowing the pool MC on your day off.
You feel oddly nervous approaching Trant's building in the early hours. This will be the first time you came here since the... unpleasantness. It feels presumptuous to key in the code to the front door as you normally do, so you press the button labelled Heidelstam in Trant's neat handwriting.
"It's me," you say when you hear the crackle of static coming from the speaker.
"Jean, why didn't you come up?"
"Uh, I…" You think to make some excuse like you forgot the code, but give up. "Don't know."
"Well, no matter. I'm ready to go, I'll be down in two minutes."
You shift from foot to foot as you wait, smooth down your hair and brush tiny bits of dust off your coat. You hope you don't look like the absolute fucking mess you've been for the last few days.
Trant looks radiant as ever, backlit by the light from the lobby. He smiles at you, and you smile back uneasily. "Honestly, I can't thank you enough for this, Jean," he says, keeping his voice low. You notice he is carrying a large satchel, so overfilled that it won't close.
You shake your head. "What else would I be doing at three thirty on a Monday morning?"
Trant hands you the keys to his motor carriage. "I wouldn't presume to make assumptions about your life, but most of us would be sleeping."
"I don't sleep, you know that," you say as you both climb into the MC. "Sleep is for the weak."
You start the engine, and final strains of a soft melody come from the radio, followed by a presenter speaking in a tone so low she is almost whispering. A song featuring sad trumpets starts to play as you set off towards the port.
"Have you been to Ozonne before?" Trant inquires.
"No. Only been out of Revachol a couple of times," you say, keeping your eyes on the road.
"So this will be your first time on a boat?"
"No. We went fishing," you say, then add, "once."
"Who took you fishing? Was it your father?"
You inhale sharply and don't answer. You said too much.
"You'll like Virmandeux. It's a beautiful city with impressive architecture and many small independent boutiques and restaurants. But of course its gentrification over the past few decades does mean its neighbourhoods lack the sort of character and diversity we see in Revachol."
"You mean there's no poor people."
"That would be one way to put it," Trant says. "The archipelagos of Ozonne were traditionally populated by farming and fishing communities, but sadly they have been largely squeezed out by wealthy land owners. Still, it is a lovely place to visit. Perhaps we will have time to do a small amount of sight seeing after my appointment."
"You're optimistic."
Trant is quiet for a long moment. Somehow, the trumpets have become even more sad as the song on the radio continues. "I find that in times of great hardship, there isn't any other way to be."
"Sorry. That was an asshole thing to say."
He sighs. "You may be right. The return ferry is late, but I have no way of knowing how long the appointment will be or how taxing the tests will be. Still, would it hurt to pretend that we are going on a pleasant day trip?"
You scoff. "I'm sure you could imagine yourself some better company."
"Actually, even if I was not sick, I think I would enjoy taking a trip with you."
Your face feels warm. You shoot a glance at Trant to confirm he is also looking straight ahead. "Trant, I think we both know that you wouldn't have called me if you had a choice. No-one ever does."
Trant goes very quiet. Shit. You wonder if he's still mad at you. This might be a very uncomfortable twenty four hours. You could try to apologise, but that often makes things worse.
"I tried to call you on Friday when I felt unwell. You were the first person I called."
"And you chose wrong, because I wasn't even there."
"I'm not judging you for that. What I'm trying to say is, you were the first person I thought of."
You're not sure how to respond to that. You did tell him to call you any time. That's probably what he's referring to. And you don't mind. You're so, so glad he reached out to you. You think you might need him more than he needs you. But you don't want to be a burden, so you keep that thought to yourself.
Neither of you say anything until you get closer to the port, and Trant helps you with directions. The roads are almost entirely clear this time of morning so you made it there in plenty of time. You buy tickets from the guard at the booth, and are directed towards an area where other vehicles are waiting to board the ferry. The sea looks choppy, and it starts to rain.
Eventually you're directed to drive onto the ferry and argue with the steward who has needlessly exact ideas about where you should park. Then Trant surprises you by getting out of the MC, and tells you that you need to sit in the ferry for the journey. You imagined you'd be sitting in the MC for the duration.
Inside, it isn't dissimilar to a train or a bus. But it's very hot and stuffy, full of stale, recirculated air. Trant offers you the seat next to the port-hole, as you have never been on the ferry before. You sit down and Trant sits beside you. The seats are small and his thigh presses against yours. Part of you really really enjoys that. But another part of you wishes you both had a choice in that matter.
"I've brought some supplies for lunch, or should it be breakfast?" Trant says, patting the satchel, which he has placed on the floor in the small amount of space between the seats. "But perhaps we should try to get some sleep before then?"
Thinking about sleeping beside Trant makes you recall the times you have slept together. More times than two colleagues really should have done. Twice, you've slept with him in his bed. You've cuddled. Even for friends, you are pushing the fucking boundaries of acceptability. But at least that means you won't have to try and make conversation for seven hours. Or in reality, mostly listen to Trant and try not to put your foot in your mouth.
You're startled by the noise of the engine and the sudden movement of the ferry.
"Is it always like this?" you say.
Trant smiles and nods. "It's normal. Don't worry."
Your stomach lurches. It wasn't like this on the fishing boat.
You watch the other passengers as Trant closes his eyes again. Periodically, someone will get up and walk or run to the door that leads to the deck. It takes your sleep deprived mind a bit of time of watching people leave and come back looking dreadful to realise they are going out to throw up. You've heard of sea sickness, but you didn't really consider that it might apply on a boat like this.
Good job you're only feeling mildly sick. The heat in the room isn't helping. You struggle out of your coat and surreptitiously check if there is some unseen mechanism to open the port-hole. There isn't. You try to hold it together. All you need to do is stay in your seat and not disturb Trant. Outside, you can see the waves becoming more and more violent as the ferry sails out to sea. Watching them makes your stomach spasm even more.
You tap Trant on the shoulder, and he opens his eyes. You open your mouth but can't speak. You put your hand over your mouth and grimace, and thankfully he understands and gets up to let you leave. Your head spins as you stand up. You reach the side of the boat just in time to vomit over the side.
When you go back in you insist on switching seats to sit on the aisle side. You feel like shit and your mouth still tastes like vomit. Trant rubs your arm. You don't deserve it, but you find yourself powerless to struggle away from his comfort.
"I was sea sick the first time I was on a boat," he says. "That was when I was very young. My whole family went out on my uncle's boat. I think it was for the birthday of one of my cousins. My father sat me down and explained to me why people get sea sick. It was interesting, but I was six so I thought it was unfair that I couldn't play and eat cake."
It sounds like Trant is very similar to his father, but you don't know if he would appreciate you commenting on that. You rub your forehead, you have a headache starting. Your stomach still doesn't feel right either.
You end up running out to vomit twice more, then feel on edge for a long while, waiting to be overcome by the horrible urge again. Trant dozes beside you, his head lolling in response to the movement of the boat. You're struck by how desperate he must be to make this godawful journey. You wish you could do something to make it easier for him. He keeps on telling you how grateful he is to you, but you know you're not doing enough. Only, what can you do? Most days, the best you can do is force yourself out of bed and drag yourself through the day without physically ripping anyone's head off.
He stirs and turns to you, looking up at you through his eyelashes. "How are you feeling?" he asks.
You blink at him. It should be you asking him that question. "I'll live," you say.
He opens up his satchel and brings out a flask. "I don't have any water I'm afraid, but I did bring coffee if you'd like some?"
You nod. The acidic taste of vomit is still in your mouth.
Trant unscrews the cup that forms the lid and pours some coffee into it. Then he takes a sip from it himself before passing it to you. You're struck by the familiarity of the gesture. You touch your lips to the cup that just touched his, and you barely taste the coffee, so distracted as you are by the thought of how Trant's lips might feel pressed against your cheek, your lips, your neck. Oh, thank you Jean, let me show you how very grateful to you I am.Your head spins.
You feel Trant's hand curl around yours and gently take back the cup before you can spill the remaining coffee on your trousers. You shake your head. You're getting delirious from lack of sleep. You watch as he tips his head back to drink the rest of the coffee, then screws the lid back onto the flask.
"Do you want anything to eat?" he asks.
You shake your head. You shift in your seat and check your watch. Somehow, not even an hour has passed.
Trant rubs the back of his neck. "I should have brought a pillow," he says, "but I was struggling for bag space as it was."
"Sleep on my shoulder. I mean, if you want to," you say.
Trant scoots down a little in his seat and nestles his head on your shoulder. He rests a hand on your arm. Finally, you feel useful. You feel his breathing grow deeper and his body go still. You close your own eyes. Trant resting on you helps you relax, but the strange noises and the movement of the boat stop you from falling asleep.
Your stomach doesn't feel good, but you try to swallow down your nausea. Now Trant is sleeping on you, you don't want to disturb him. You feel even warmer now with him pressed against you. The heat is getting a bit too much. Careful not to disturb him, you open a few buttons of your shirt and roll up your sleeves.
You turn your face away from him and rest the side of your head against the headrest. It isn't long before your neck starts to hurt. You turn your head the other way and rest it against Trant's. He stirs, woken by your movements. You feel his hand move down onto your bare arm, then run back up again. Your breath catches in your throat. He continues to gently stroke your arm, and you realise he is running his fingers over the scars and fresh scabs and you suddenly feel terribly self-conscious.
"Did you get these in the field?" he asks, turning your arm over to inspect the other side.
You almost choke. "Not… all of them," you say.
His brow creases as he traces a long scar up your arm, pink flesh standing out where the hair hasn't grown back. Then he reaches out and pulls your other arm by the wrist so he can see it. "You burned yourself," he says.
"It happens," you say hollowly.
He touches the burn marks and the scars on your other arm, and looks like he might cry. You feel a crushing guilt. You've dragged him further into your fucked up world, and made him worry about you even more. Why the hell does he have to care so much?
He lays his head on your shoulder again, and wraps both his arms around your arm nearest to him, as if he thinks if he holds you tight enough, he can save you from yourself. That's a nice little fantasy, but totally impossible. More likely, you'll pull him down with you. Isn't he afraid of that?
Please, please don't let go, you silent beg him.
You close your eyes and try to focus on Trant's breathing, instead of the unpleasant mechanical noises of the ferry and the storm raging over the sea. You think about how he cried over that picture you drew, that might have been impressive if you were thirty years younger. How he drew a picture of you in vivid detail. He sees the best in you, somehow. Is he seeing something that isn't there?
In his journal he described you as his favourite person. When you read that, it struck you as so over the top that it was farcical. It couldn't be true. But Trant is a little bit over the top. You like that about him. Maybe you misinterpreted what he wrote. You wish you'd read more, while you had the chance. You won't get another one now.
What else did he write? That you're wonderful, that he wants to tell you how wonderful you are. The kind of slushy nonsense people say about the person they're with that has always occurred to you as a) malicious joking, b) manipulative or c) lying to show off to other people. You imagine Trant and his ex-wife, no doubt he would have said such things to or about her. And you try to picture him saying them with any of those three intents, but you can only imagine him speaking genuinely. But she's different, she's a perfect welkin-woman who has probably had men queueing up to kiss her feet since she was a teenager. But you, you can't imagine what Trant sees in you. And that's why, as much as you want to believe those things he wrote, you can't.
A few hours before the ferry is due to dock at its destination, Trant shares the food he brought along with you. He seems pleased when he tells you he prepared it himself, but modestly tells you it isn't much. But it's a hell of a lot more than you'd have managed, if you'd have even thought to bring anything along other than a packet of cigarettes. He decides it is not breakfast or lunch, but brunch, You sneer at this, and he laughs.
He has also brought along a guidebook to Virmandeux. Flipping through it, he reads out interesting facts. You try to listen, and look at the pictures.
It's raining heavily by the time the ferry docks, and the deck is slippery as you return to the MC. You drive off the ferry and make your way out of the port. You have to stop a few times to ask for directions, but you eventually see a road sign for the hospital.
Beside you, Trant fidgets. He checks his watch. "In a few hours, I may have a diagnosis," he says.
"Any clue what it might be?"
Trant doesn't reply immediately. "They are performing tests for a number of things. We shall see." He sounds cagey, nervous. You understand. If he refuses to name it, he can hold onto the hope that it might just be nothing after all.
"Mikael will be taken care of, I've seen to that," he says as you pass another sign to the hospital. "He will inherit the majority of my money and assets, I have made sure that is written into my will. I will also be leaving sums of money to several charitable organisations I support. And I'll leave a sum to the RCM, which will pay for my replacement in the short term at least."
You feel a dull ache in your chest as he speaks. You picture Trant's funeral. Will Harry be there to hold you up and stop you collapsing at the graveside? Or will he let you down even then? "I don't want another Special Consultant," you say.
"Why, one was more than enough trouble for you?" he says. You shoot a glance at him and sees how he grins to show he's joking. You'd make that sort of remark with a blank expression.
"Is, Trant. Is. One is more than enough trouble for me. You'll be fine! This goddamn foreign doctor will sort you out. You'd better fucking be fine!"
"Oh, if anyone can argue with illness and win, it's you Jean."
You turn off the road and drive in through the gates. If it wasn't for the sign, you wouldn't believe this was a hospital. It's not like the run-down ex-mills and brutalist skyscrapers that serve as the hospitals in Revachol. This looks like some quaint historical building that people like Trant would visit on a day off.
You park the MC and follow Trant into the building. The receptionist looks up at you and gives you a strained smile. "Can I help you?" she asks, her expression clearly radiating I can't.
"I have an appointment with Dr Gautier. It's Trant Heidelstam."
"Mr Heidelstam, I'm so sorry. We did try to call you this morning. Dr Gautier has had an accident and can't see you today."
"I see," Trant says. "We had to set off early to make it here, so that's why I won't have answered."
"I'm very sorry, sir," the receptionist says, as if she expects you to just leave.
"It's taken us almost ten hours to get here, and you tell us the doctor won't see him?" you say, feeling your blood pressure rise.
"Sir, Dr Gautier is not here. He fell from his horse during a polo match at the weekend. He has injured his back and will most likely need surgery," she says.
"That's… unfortunate," Trant says.
"No. It's not good enough, that's what it is," you say. "You call the doctor, and we'll sit here and wait."
She shakes her head. "That won't be possible," she says, and turns to Trant. "You're at the top of the list to be rebooked. We will call you as soon as we know when the doctor is able to return to work."
"This is bullshit," you say.
"Jean-"
You raise your voice. "No! We're not just gonna fucking leave. We're here now, and someone is going to see him. Today. Do you understand?"
"Sir, you need to calm down," the receptionist says.
"No, you calm down. Do you know who I am? I'm with the RCM!"
The receptionist shakes her head. "I don't know what that is."
Her remark throws you for a second, then you remember that the RCM doesn't exist outside of Revachol. "Listen, I'm going to tell you what is going to happen. You are going to sort this out, and we will wait here until it is done. Yes?"
The receptionist gets up from her seat. "Let me go and speak to someone," she says, heading down a corridor.
You look at Trant. He's shaking. You put a hand on his back. He doesn't say anything, but moves slightly closer to you.
You end up waiting so long that you begin to suspect the receptionist was lying to get away from you. But eventually she returns to the desk, and looks at Trant. "Mr Heidelstam, we have a trainee doctor, Dr Newman, who has agreed to see you and carry out the tests. Once Dr Gautier has recovered from his surgery he will be able to assess the results. Is that acceptable?"
"Yes, thank you," Trant says.
"Dr Newman has his own patients to see, so you will have to wait until he can fit you in, but please help yourselves to coffee and snacks in the waiting area."
You follow Trant to the waiting area. It is filled with plush armchairs, a far cry from the benches and broken plastic chairs you've sat on in the Jamrock Public Hospital. A few other people are waiting, they all look devastatingly wealthy. Trant takes a seat by a window, through which the rain is beating down on a well-maintained garden. You go to the coffee machine and bring back a cup for you and Trant.
Trant wraps his hands around the cup, and blows on it. It comes out like a heavy sigh.
"Polo accident," you say, shaking your head.
"I feared this may have been a completely wasted trip," he says.
"I wouldn't have stood for that. Not after that fucking boat ride."
A middle aged lady on the other side of the room gives you a stern look from over her magazine.
"I could probably have had these tests done somewhere in Revachol, and waited for a specialist to review them. I'm sorry I dragged you out here, Jean."
You shake your head. "You don't control the horses," you say, and can't resist smirking. "And from the sound of it the doc can't either."
A young man steps into the room, and calls the name of one of the other patients. He looks as young as some of the totally green patrol officers. You hope that isn't going to be Trant's doctor, he barely looks old enough to drive.
You drink several more cups of coffee as you wait. Fatigue is catching up with you, and you notice Trant's eyes fall closed more than once.
Eventually, Trant's name is called by the way too young doctor. Trant leaves his bag with you, and gets out the Virmandeux guidebook for you to read. The urge to snoop through his bag while he is away strikes you, but you restrain yourself. You flip through the guidebook, and find that Trant had already read the interesting parts to you on the ferry.
You tap your hands on your thighs, wondering what sort of tests Trant is undergoing, and if the young doctor knows what he's doing. You stare out of the window and watch the rain come down.
Time passes. It's too quiet in this room. Despite their efforts to make it comfortable, it doesn't quite overcome that aspect of all waiting rooms, the feeling that you might go mad if you stay here long enough. You go outside for a cigarette. There's nowhere you can stand where the wind doesn't blow rain as you, so you smoke it quickly, then go back inside.
There's a stack of magazines on a table in the corner of the waiting room. Out of utter boredom, you look through them. The majority of them may as well be named Bourgeois Interests, and the interest they hold for you is exactly zero. A magazine with an aggressively smiling woman on the cover and brightly coloured mismatching fonts saying things like five outfits that will drive him wild. Utter garbage, but it might be a good thing to quietly mock to pass the time. You slip it inside a gardening magazine just in case that snooty woman sitting opposite decides to pass judgement on you again.
Flipping through the articles, you quietly chuckle to yourself as you can't find a single one that doesn't involve an obsession with appearances, comparing oneself to others or the obsession with snaring a man. You actually feel a little bit sorry for women, if this is all life holds for them. It makes you think that maybe your life actually could be worse.
The advice column is quite entertaining. One reader has written in to say that she has a crush on a colleague and thinks it might be mutual. Half way through you realise you're no longer reading it in a mocking way. He stops by her desk for no reason. Makes excuses to see her outside of work. And he's always smiling at her. It sounds like this woman has her own Trant Heidelstam. You feel your face flush, and you scan down to the reply. Well, duh. Of course he has a crush on you. Go for it girl! You cringe at the annoying way the advice giver writes, but persist in reading the response which outlines some ways she might make a move on her crush. Disappointingly, none of them come across as even remotely useful for you, personally. Of course they don't, because this advice is not for you, or for anyone who has half a braincell.
You close the magazine, and return it and the gardening magazine to the pile. That stupid article has really got you thinking about the absolutely idiotic possibility of making a move on Trant. You're insane for even contemplating this. You've lost your fucking marbles. You're not good enough for him. You know that. But if he really has feelings for you, maybe he will overlook that.
You feel like your time is running short. Whatever happens with his diagnosis, things are going to change between you. If he's fine, you'll drift apart. He won't need you any more. He might feel a new lease of life and start dating again, meet someone nice and forget all about you. And if he's really not okay, your time together will be limited. But what can you do, what can you say?
You're still tormenting yourself with this topic when Trant walks back into the waiting room. He looks tense, but he gives you a smile. You rush to his side and put an arm around him, letting him lean on you.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," he says as you go back through to the reception area. He writes a cheque and gives it to the receptionist. The amount on it is eye-watering.
"It's a shame about the weather," Trant says as you step outside.
"Are you really up for sight seeing anyway after all that shit?" you say, lighting a cigarette as you linger under the small shelter the building provides, waiting for the rain to subside.
He looks at you. "Maybe not," he says sadly. "Perhaps we could find somewhere nice to have dinner before we return to the port?"
"Look at this place, everything's expensive as hell."
"It doesn't matter. It'll be my treat, to say thank you for coming with me."
You take a long drag on your cigarette, then nod. "Okay."
You both get back in the MC and you drive along until Trant points out a restaurant. As soon as you walk into the place, you feel underdressed, but Trant confidently asks for a table for two, and you're seated by a window with a view of sea. The sun is starting to set.
The other diners are glamorous and most of them look like they're on dates. Your heart races. Did Trant knowingly ask you to accompany him on a date? No, that's stupid. Colleagues go for dinner together. You and Harry used to eat together all the time. Wait, bad example.
You look at the menu. There are twice as many courses as you are used to, and the prices surely must be a misprint. You're not sure what to order, so you pick at random, except where Trant suggests something in particular.
The portions are small, but the food is interesting. You manage to make conversation that doesn't involve work or illness. Mostly Trant talks about the history of Ozonne, and you listen. He looks so happy when he gets into the flow of talking. You could listen to him forever.
After the meal, the waiter places the bill down on the table in a fancy little wallet. You put your hand in your pocket. "I'll pay half," you say.
"No, you won't," Trant says.
You flip open the wallet and read the number at the bottom of the bill. "Shit. You're right. I won't," you say. You have nowhere near enough on you.
He meets your eyes. "Relax, Jean, I've got this." He writes out another cheque, and slips it into the wallet.
"Thanks," you say. "This was… nice."
"Yes. It's a shame we aren't here under more pleasant circumstances." He sighs. "Perhaps another time."
You wonder if Trant is also imagining some impossible future, where you can be together, and happy.
You're very tired by the time you board the ferry. It's dark already. You find yourself falling asleep before it even sets off, and you and Trant doze throughout the whole journey. The sea is still choppy, and you feel a bit sick, but it seems like you've vomited enough for one day. Part of you feels like you're wasting this seven hours with Trant drifting in and out of consciousness. Maybe this is all you will ever have. The least you can do is goddamn appreciate it. But what are you going to do, have a heart to heart in front of the other passengers? Even without anyone listening, the prospect is terrifying.
When you drive off the ferry back in Revachol, you have to wind the window down to keep yourself awake. Trant promptly falls asleep in the passenger seat. The sun is rising by the time you turn onto his street.
"Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?" he asks as you do a sloppy job of parking in front of his building.
You stare at him. "But you said I wasn't welcome here any more."
Trant frowns. "I never said that."
"I'm pretty sure you did," you say, but the way he looks at you casts doubt into your mind.
He rubs his head. "Look, we're both tired. We should talk about this tonight."
You know what he's referring to. Deep down, you knew that Trant wasn't going to forget about it. He's not the kind of person to bottle up his frustrations and let himself grow bitter. You fail to see what good will come of this. He'll berate you, you'll apologise for being an asshole, he'll forgive you, or he won't. Then he'll get his diagnosis. You'll stand by him no matter what. If he still wants you to, that is.
Every part of this scares you. You don't want to face it. It's easier to live in the torturous limbo of the unknown.
You're still sitting staring straight ahead, your hands resting on the steering levers. Trant touches your hand. "You look tired. Take it easy today, and try to sneak in a nap or two."
You nod. Trant gets out of the MC and closes the door. He smiles and waves, and you watch him turn to walk to his building.