A Long Way Down

“No,” I said, immediately at something of a moral disadvantage. “Not thanks for that. Thanks for standing here flirting in front of me. Thanks for nothing, in other words.”

“This is Stephen,” Pe

“Hi,” said Stephen. I glared at him.

“I suppose you think you’re pretty great,” I said.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Martin!” said Pe

“You heard me,” I said. “Smug git.”

I had the feeling that over in the corner, where the girls were colouring their picture, there was another Martin—a kinder, gentler Martin—watching in appalled fascination, and I wondered briefly whether it was possible to rejoin him.

“Go away, before you make an idiot of yourself,” said Pe

“It’s easy, being a male nurse, isn’t it?”

“Not very,” said Stephen. He had made the elementary mistake of answering my question as if it had been delivered straight, without bile. “I mean, it’s rewarding, sure, but… Long hours, poor pay, night shifts. Some of the patients are difficult.” He shrugged.

“Some of the patients are difficult,” I said, in a stupid whiny voice. “Poor pay. Night shifts. Diddums.”

“Sean,” Stephen said to his partner. “I’m going to wait upstairs. This guy’s throwing the rattle out of the pram.”

“You just wait and listen to what I have to say. I did you the courtesy of listening to you banging on about what a national hero you are. Now you listen to me.”

I don’t think he minded staying where he was for a couple of minutes. This kind of sensationally bad behaviour elicited a great deal of fascination, I could see that, and I hope I don’t seem immodest when I say that my celebrity, or what remained of it, was crucial to the success of the spectacle: usually, television personalities only behave badly in nightclubs, when surrounded by other television personalities, so my decision to cut loose when sober to a male nurse, in a Starbucks basement, was bold—possibly even groundbreaking. And it wasn’t as if Stephen could really take it personally, just as he couldn’t have taken it personally if I’d decided to crap on his shoes. The outward manifestations of an i

“I hate people like you,” I said. “You wheel a disabled kid around for a bit and you want a medal. And how hard is it, really?”

At this point, I regret to say, I took the handles of Matty’s wheelchair and pushed him up and down. And it suddenly seemed like an excellent idea to put my hand on my hip while I was doing it, in order to suggest that pushing disabled people around in their wheelchairs was an effeminate activity.

“Look at Daddy, Mummy,” one of my daughters (and I’m sorry to say that I don’t know which one) yelled with delight. “He’s fu

“There,” I said to Pe

Pe

“Hey, everybody,” I yelled, although I had already attracted all the attention I could possibly wish for. “Aren’t I great? Aren’t I great? You think this is hard, Blondie? I’ll tell you what’s hard, Su

But here I dried up. As it turned out, there were no examples of difficulty in my professional life readily to hand. And the difficulties I had experienced recently all stemmed from sleeping with an underage girl, which meant that they weren’t much good for eliciting sympathy.

“Hard is when…” I just needed something with which to finish the sentence. Anything would do, even something I hadn’t experienced directly. Childbirth? Tournament-level chess? But nothing came.

“Have you finished, mate?” Stephen asked.

I nodded, trying somehow to convey in the gesture that I was too angry and disgusted to continue. And then I took the only option apparently available to me, and followed Jess and JJ out of the door.

Maureen

Jess was always walking out of everywhere, so I didn’t mind her going too much. But when JJ walked out, and then Martin… Well, I started to feel a bit a

The people left behind stood around for a little while, the nurses and Jess’s parents and Martin’s friends and family, and then when we all began to realize that no one was coming back, not even JJ and his friends, no one was quite sure what to do.

“Is that it, do you think?” said Jess’s father. “I mean, I don’t want to… I don’t wish to appear unsympathetic. And I know Jess took a lot of trouble organizing this. But, well… There’s no one really left, is there? Would you like us to stay, Maureen? Is there anything we can usefully achieve as a unit? Because obviously, if there was… I mean, what do you think Jess was hoping for? Perhaps we can help her to achieve it in absentia ?”

I knew what Jess was hoping for. She was hoping that her mum and dad would come and make everything better, in the way mums and dads are supposed to. I used to have that dream, a long time ago, when I was first on my own with Matty, and I think it’s a dream that everyone has. Everyone whose life has gone badly wrong, anyway.

So I told Jess’s father that I thought Jess just wanted people to understand better, and that I was sorry if that wasn’t what had happened.

“It’s those bloody earrings,” he said, and so I asked about the earrings, and he told me the story.

“Were they special to her?” I said.

“To Jen? Or to Jess?”

“To Jen.”

“I don’t really know,” he said.

“They were her favourites,” said Mrs Crichton. She had a strange face. She smiled the whole time we were speaking, but it was as though she’d only discovered smiling that afternoon—she didn’t have the sort of face that looked as though it were very used to being cheerful. The lines she had were the sort you’d get from being angry about stolen earrings, and her mouth was very thin and tight.

“She came back for them,” I said. I don’t know why I said it, and I don’t know if it was true or not. But it felt like the right thing to say. It felt true in that way.

“Who did?” she said. Her face looked different now. It was having to do things it wasn’t used to doing, because she suddenly looked so desperate to hear what I had to say. I don’t think she was used to listening properly. I liked making her face do something new, and that was why I went on, partly. I felt like I was in charge of a lawnmower, cutting a path into places where the grass was overgrown.

“Jen. If she loved her earrings, then she probably came back for them. You know what girls of that age are like.”

“God,” said Mr Crichton. “I’d never thought of that.”

“Me neither. But… that makes so much sense. Because, do you remember, Chris? That’s when we lost a couple of other things, too. That was when that money went missing.”