Thicker Than Water

People hurt and killed each other, or themselves: broke against pavements, were impaled on railings, swallowed razor blades, carved gnomic messages on their own flesh or the flesh of their loved ones. There was blood, and there was pain. It drew me in, until I couldn’t see the land any more.

Was self-harm just another current within that sea, or was it something else? Mark, the dead boy, had cut himself and written poems about it: the wounds were clearly part of his inner life; the most intense and precious part. And Kenny had got the habit, too: as though it was something you could catch.

‘Felix Castor!’

The voice was acerbic, angry, the emphasis very pronounced. I came out of my grim reverie and found myself looking up at the nurse, who was standing at the foot of my bed with my chart in her hand. And I understood her tone immediately, because she already knew me. But not by that name.

‘Nurse Ryall,’ I said, weakly. ‘Petra.’

The redhead quirked her head and flashed her eyes meaningfully.

‘Basquiat,’ I said. ‘Would you believe I’m here undercover?’

She thrust the chart back into its holder with more vigour than was necessary. ‘It doesn’t matter what I believe,’ she said. ‘That bloke upstairs was under police guard because someone had tried to murder him. I don’t know how you got in there, but I’m going to report it to the shift registrar and let her decide what to do with you.’

I tried to jump up out of the bed to head her off, but the pain relief I’d been given was working too well for that.

"‘They’ll want to know why you didn’t ask to see any ID,’ I called hastily.

Nurse Ryall hesitated, and then turned back to me with a flush of anger on her face.

‘You told me—’ she began.

‘No, you just made an assumption,’ I countered. ‘And I played up to it. Look, give me a minute to explain. I can’t stop you from reporting me, but if you do we’re both going to be in the shit for nothing.

She stared at me wordlessly for a long time. I held on for the answer, keeping my stare locked with hers.

‘Go on,’ she said at last, her tone verging on grim.

I pointed to the chair that Nicky had left vacant. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

‘Because you said you’d only need a minute.’

‘That was poetic licence. I’ll need ten.’

She consulted the watch she wore pinned to her chest. ‘I don’t have ten minutes,’ she said. ‘I’m on ward rounds.