Richard had always hated hospitals, but this one was, by far, the worst
that he had ever set foot in.
Maybe that was why Rich hadn't visited his father more often,
but it was a crap excuse, and he knew it.
This afternoon, as per usual, the place positively stank:
its own unique blend of disinfectant and despair.
"Hey, sexy!" yelled some woman, in her sixties, or possibly
seventies, as Richard passed her in the corridor.
He pretended not to hear. It was only Iris.
She was "famous" in the mental health circles, in which Timothy Anderson now shuffled. Iris enjoyed chatting up teenage
boys, principally because they reminded her of her three sons and seven grandsons - none of whom would give her the time of
day, since she had had her first breakdown, in 1977.
Shit, it was bloody scary, how much of this "patient
history" stuff Rich actually knew, off by heart. Probably more than most of the nurses, and certainly more than
almost all of the shrinks, put together.
"Hi, Dad." The man in front of him was a much older,
fatter, more dishevelled version, of the man whom Richard has always thought of as "Dad".
"Steven! It's great to see you, son!"
Richard hated that. Steve visited their father
even less than Rich, but you wouldn't have guessed it, judging by the number of times that Dad called his youngest son "Steven".
He tried not to let it get to him, but it still hurt.
A lot.
"It's Richard."
"Richard - oh, I'm sorry, kid. Why am I always calling
you Steven?"
You tell me, Dad, thought Richard, but he didn't say anything,
and even forced a slight smile. He had to stay positive, for his old man's sake. Imagine being stuck in this shit-hole,
24/7. It would have been enough to drive anyone crazy.
How they actually expected this sort of environment to be
beneficial to someone who was already classed as "crazy", was beyond Richard's comprehension.
"How's school?"
"It's okay."
"And Steven? And your mum?"
"They're both fine." But ask how I am, Dad.
Ask how I am!
"That's good. Hey, you didn't hear how Arsenal got
on the other day, did you?"
That said it all really, didn't it? "They won 2-1."
"Great stuff! Do you know who scored?"
Richard didn't give a shit who had scored. "No, I
don't know, Dad - sorry."
"No? Oh well, not to worry. I'll have to ask
Steven, when I see him next. He always was more up on the football than you, wasn't he? Oh, by the way, did you
know that your friend Charlotte's mum was brought in, a couple of days ago? Tried to top herself again, apparently."
Bloody Hell!
"N-no, I didn't know. She never said a word.
Listen, Dad, I'm going to have to get going now."
"Okay, Ste-Richard. I'll see you again soon?"
"Sure, Dad. Take care, yeah?"
"Will do, son. And tell your brother to get his arse
over here, will you?"
Steve. Always Steve. It was tearing Richard
up inside, but he'd never let his dad in on the fact. What was the bloody point?
Focus, Rich, he told himself, as he left the building.
He could have looked for Charlotte's mum - seen how she was - but somehow, he was more bothered about Charlie.
What the Hell had given him the right to be such a shitty
excuse for a friend to that girl? Because she fancied him, and he didn't fancy her?
Because Charlotte felt the same way about Richard as he
felt about Julie sodding Bishop?
Richard went to "text" her, and then remembered that she
didn't have her phone. He rang her landline instead. He listening it ringing for what felt like
ages, before his call was diverted to answer-phone. Shit!
"Hi, Charlotte. It's Rich. Can you give me a
ring some time? Thanks."
"Richard, don't hang up! Sorry I didn't answer.
I thought you were someone else. I'm just - that is, I was - I..."
Richard listened for a while, as Charlotte tried to talk
through her sobs. After a couple of minutes, he'd had enough. "I'm coming over to your place right now, and I
don't want any excuses, okay? I'm not leaving you on your own, in this state."
"N-no, you can't. My a-aunt's going to be back soon,
and I can't - I c-can't - I don't want you to see me like this!"
"Too bad. I'll be there in about half an hour or so.
I can't believe Emma and Bryony aren't with you. Some bloody 'friends'!"
"But, Richard, you don't understand. They - I mean,
I..."
"Charlotte, listen - that's my bus. I'm going to run
for it, or it will be at least twenty minutes to wait, for the next one. I'll see you in a bit, okay?"
