Faint

 

 

IT’S TOO cold to stay still for long, so we get up and carry on along the park towards Micky’s place. A lonely figure stalks down the other side of the road, but I’m so focused on Micky that it takes me a moment to realise it looks a little like Dollman. The closer I watch, though, the more I realise it’s not. I haven’t seen Dollman since he dragged me into his room at the hospital, which is strange because I used to see him most nights. But I’m so full of anticipation of going back to Micky’s flat and doing sex stuff with him, thinking about Dollman is a secondary thing.

Guilt is the only thing that has me hanging back.

Micky squeezes my hand. “You okay?”

“It looked like Dollman,” I whisper. “Over there.”

“The tall guy?”

“Yeah. But it’s not.”

“I’ve seen that guy before.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No. I’ve just seen him hanging around sometimes.”

The man keeps walking, and I watch until he’s swallowed by the dark.

“Let’s….” Micky stops and runs his hand through his hair almost sleepily.

It’s strange the way he suddenly slows. He turns to take a step, but his legs give way beneath him and he starts to fall.

It happens so fast, but quick as lightning my arms are there around him as he collapses—my shoulder screaming in agony.

He’s told me there are signs when he’s about to faint, but as far as I could tell, he displayed none of them. He went a little weird, but that was all.

Taking care not to bump his head, which lolls back on his neck, I lay him gently down on the pavement.

My hands shake, but I don’t start to panic until I put my hand over his mouth to check he’s still breathing—and I feel nothing.

My heart stops.

Why isn’t he breathing? Why isn’t he fucking breathing? He was talking to me a second ago!

“Micky?” I shake him gently, my fingers probably digging a little deep as they press into his arms. “Micky!” I almost shout.

Phone. Ambulance. My brain is down to dealing in single words. I pat him all over, search his pockets. His phone is there, thank God. I swear I see his eyelids flicker. I put my hand over his mouth again. Nothing. Keep it together. I will keep it together. I will not fall apart.

Your hands are cold. If he’s breathing shallowly, you won’t feel it. Put your face against his. Your lips have the most nerve endings. They’re one of the most sensitive parts of your body.

Dashiel’s voice. Except it doesn’t bring me the comfort it once did. I know it’s just me, pretending. But Micky lying on the pavement in front of me isn’t pretending. It’s the truth, in all its cold, stark, lifeless glory.

I lean down, my face hovering over Micky’s. Soft, shallow breaths meet my lips. He’s breathing. My relief is almost painful, like that first breath of air when I resurfaced after I fell in the Thames. I put my hand over his heart, but there are so many layers of clothes I can’t feel anything.

“Micky?” I say again. He remains unresponsive.

I press the keypad on the phone, but the screen stays blank. It won’t turn on. The battery is dead. I choke back a sob and slip my hand beneath his top. His heartbeat is slow under my palm, but it’s there.

If I can’t call an ambulance from his phone, I need to move him somewhere I can call an ambulance from. Like a payphone… or Donna’s. Her flat is close.

Micky stirs as I gather him up in my arms, ready to carry him.

“What happened?” he asks me. “Did I faint again?”

I nod.

“I can’t feel my hand,” he murmurs. “My arm feels funny.”

“We’ll go to Donna’s. It’s near here.” I slip my arm underneath his shoulder to help him to his feet. If he still feels strange, we’ll call an ambulance from there.