was no sign of Raymond.
Sammy’s eyes were closed but he obviously wasn’t comatose. He would be on a special ward if that were the case, hooked up to machinery, wouldn’t he? I wondered why Raymond had lied about it. I could tell from the regular way that Sammy’s chest rose and fell that he was sleeping. I decided not to read to him, not wishing to wake him, and so I put the reading material on top of the cabinet next to his bed. I opened the compartment at the front, thinking it best to deposit the Bags for Life inside. The cabinet was empty apart from a wallet and a set of keys. I wondered if I should look in Sammy’s wallet to see if it contained any clues about him, and I was about to reach forward for it when I heard someone clear their throat behind me, a phlegm-filled sound that indicated a smoker.
‘Eleanor. You came,’ said Raymond, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. I stared at him.
‘Why did you lie, Raymond? Sammy’s not in a coma. He’s merely asleep. That’s not the same thing at all.’
Raymond laughed.
‘Ah, but it’s great news, Eleanor. He woke up a couple of hours ago. Apparently, he’s got severe concussion and a broken hip. They re-set it yesterday – he’s very tired from the anaesthetic, but they say he’s going to be fine.’ I nodded, and stood up abruptly. ‘We should leave him in peace then,’ I said.
I was keen to be out of the ward, to be frank. It was too hot, and too familiar – the waffle blankets, the chemical and human smells, the hard surfaces of the metal bedframe and the plastic chairs. My hands were stinging slightly from the gel, which had seeped into the cracks in my skin. We walked together to the lift, and rode down in silence. The doors opened at the ground floor and I felt my legs speed up of their own accord towards the front door.
It was one of those beautiful midsummer evenings – eight o’clock and still full of heat and soft light. It wouldn’t get dark till almost eleven. Raymond took off his jacket, revealing another ridiculous T-shirt. This one was yellow and had two white cartoon cockerels on the front. Los Pollos Hermanos, it said. Nonsensical. He looked at his watch.
‘I’m going to pick up a carryout and head round to my mate Andy’s. A few of us usually hang out there on Saturday nights, fire up the PlayStation, have a smoke and a few beers.’
‘Sounds utterly delightful,’ I said.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
I was going home, of course, to watch a television programme or read a book. What else would I be doing?
‘I shall return to my flat,’ I said. ‘I think there might be a documentary about komodo dragons on BBC4 later this evening.’
He looked at his watch again, and then up at the boundless blue sky. There was a moment of silence and then a blackbird began showing off nearby, his song so spectacular that it bordered on vulgar. We both listened, and when I smiled at Raymond, he smiled back.
‘Look, it’s far too nice a night to be sitting inside on your own. Fancy grabbing a quick pint somewhere? I’ll need to head off in an hour or so before the offy shuts, but …’
This required careful consideration. I had not been in a public house for many years, and Raymond could hardly be described as engaging company. I quickly concluded, however, that it would be useful for two reasons. Firstly, it would be good practice, as, if things went well, Johnnie Lomond would probably want to take me to a public house during one of our dates, and so I really ought to familiarize myself in advance with the general environs and required behaviours in such establishments. Secondly, Raymond was an IT expert – allegedly – and I needed some advice. Such advice might be expensive to obtain via official channels, but I could ask him tonight, for free. All things considered, it seemed expeditious to accede to Raymond’s request. He was staring into the middle distance, and I noticed that he had lit a cigarette and smoked almost half of it while I had been pondering.
‘Yes, Raymond. I will go to the pub with you for one drink,’ I said, nodding.
‘Magic,’ he said.
We ended up in a bar five minutes from the hospital, on a busy road. One of the tables outside was unoccupied. The metal surface was covered in circular stains and its legs looked unstable, but Raymond seemed delighted.
‘Seats outside!’ he said, happily throwing himself down and hanging his jacket over the back of his chair. ‘Right then, I’ll go to the bar,’ he said. ‘What are you after, Eleanor?’
I felt a fluttering of concern in my stomach. Firstly, sitting out here, I wouldn’t get to see the inside of the public house and observe what went on there. Secondly, I didn’t know what to order. What did normal people drink in public houses? I decided to take control of the situation.
‘Raymond, I will go to the bar. I insist. What would you like me to order for you?’ He tried to argue but I stood my ground and eventually he agreed, although he seemed annoyed. I simply could not fathom why he was making such a fuss about it.
‘Right, well, I suppose I’ll have a pint of Guinness then. But I wish you’d let me get it, Eleanor.’
I put both hands on the table and leaned forward so that my face was very close to his.
‘Raymond, I will purchase the drinks. It’s important to me, for reasons that I don’t wish to articulate to you.’
He shrugged, then nodded, and I walked off towards the door.
It seemed very dark inside after the sunlight, and noisy too – there was music of an unfamiliar genre pulsing loudly from large speakers. The place wasn’t busy, and I was the only customer at the bar. A young man and a young woman were serving; that is to say, they were deep in conversation with each other, and every so often she would giggle like a simpleton and flick her dyed yellow hair, or he would punch her arm playfully and laugh in an overly loud, false manner. Human mating rituals are unbelievably tedious to observe. At least in the animal kingdom you are occasionally treated to a flash of bright feathers or a display of spectacular violence. Hair flicking and play fights don’t quite cut the mustard.
I was bored and I knocked hard, three times, on the wooden bar, as though it were a front door. They both looked up. I asked for a pint of Guinness, which the boy began to pour from a tap. ‘Anything else?’ he said. I was still stumped. I reasoned that part of his job would be to help customers in such situations.
‘What would you recommend?’ I asked him. He looked up from watching the black liquid trickle into the glass.
‘Eh?’
‘I said, what would you recommend for me? I don’t drink in public houses, as a rule.’
He looked to his left and right, as if expecting someone else to be standing there. There was a long pause.
‘Erm,’ he said. ‘Well … Magners is very popular. With ice? Nice summer drink.’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘thank you. In that case, I’ll have a Magners drink, please, on your recommendation.’ He opened a brown bottle and put it on the bar. He put some ice in a tall glass and placed it next to the bottle.
‘What’s that?’ I said.
‘The Magners.’
‘And what’s the empty glass
