The Complete Man and Boy Trilogy: Man and Boy, Man and Wife, Men From the Boys

He would have had that feeling of helpless terror that only the parent of a sick or injured child can understand. I knew exactly how he must have felt – like life was holding him hostage. Was it really possible that I was starting to see the world with his eyes?

He was standing outside the main entrance to the hospital, smoking one of his roll-up cigarettes. He must have been the only surviving Rizla customer in the world who didn’t smoke dope.

He looked up at me, holding his breath.

‘He’s going to be fine,’ I said.

He released a cloud of cigarette smoke.

‘It’s not – what did they call it? – a compressed fracture?’

‘It’s not fractured. They’ve given him twelve stitches and he’ll have a scar, but that’s all.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Thank Christ for that,’ he said. He took a tug on his roll-up. ‘And how about you?’

‘Me? I’m fine, Dad.’

‘Do you need anything?’

‘A good night’s kip would be nice.’

When I was with my father, I sometimes found myself talking his language. He was the only person in the country who still referred to sleep as kip.

‘I mean, are you all right for money? Your mum told me you’re not going to take this job.’

‘I can’t. The hours are too long. I’d never be home.’ I looked across the almost empty carpark to where the night sky was streaked with light. Somewhere birds were singing. It wasn’t late any more. It was early. ‘But something will turn up.’

He took out his wallet, peeled off a few notes and handed them to me.

‘What’s this for?’ I asked.

‘Until something turns up.’

‘That’s okay. I appreciate the offer, Dad, but something really will turn up.’

‘I know it will. People always want to watch television, don’t they? I’m sure you’ll get something soon. This is for you and Pat until then.’

My dad, the media expert. All he knew about television was that these days they didn’t put on anything as funny as Fawlty Towers or Benny Hill or Morecambe and Wise. Still, I took the notes he offered me.

There was a time when taking money from him would have made me angry – angry at myself for still needing him and his help at my age, and even angrier at him for always relishing his role as my saviour.

Now I could see that he was just sort of trying to show me that he was on my side.

‘I’ll pay this back,’ I said.

‘No rush,’ said my father.

Gina wanted to get on the next plane home, but I talked her out of it. Because by the time I finally reached her late the following day, getting on the next plane home didn’t matter quite so much.

She had missed those awful minutes rushing Pat to the emergency room. She had missed the endless hours drinking tea we didn’t want while waiting to learn if his tests were clear. And she had missed the day when he sat up with his head covered in bandages, clutching his light sabre, in a bed next to the little girl who had lost all her hair because of the treatment she was receiving.

Gina had missed all that, she had missed all that through no fault of her own. Personally, I blamed that fucking bastard Richard.

By the time I reached Gina, we knew that Pat was going to be all right. Now I didn’t want her to come home.

I told myself that it was because I didn’t want her to hold Pat and tell him everything was going to be fine and then leave again. But I knew it was not quite as noble as that. Where the fuck was Gina when we needed her?

‘I can be there tomorrow,’ she said. ‘This job can wait.’

‘There’s no need,’ I said, dead calm. ‘It was just a knock. A bad knock. But he’s going to be okay.’

‘I’ll be coming home soon anyway. I’m not quite sure when –’

‘Don’t change your plans,’ I said.

Listen to us – as formal as two people feeling their way at a dull dinner party. Once we could talk all night, once we could talk about anything. Now we sounded like two strangers who had never been properly introduced. Listen to us, Gina.

Cyd was standing on my doorstep holding a takeaway container.

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘No, it’s not a bad time. Come in.’

She came into my home, handing me the container.

‘For Pat. Spaghetti pesto.’

‘Green spaghetti. His favourite. Thank you.’

‘You just need to put it in the microwave. Can you do that?’

‘Are you kidding? Even I know how to use a microwave. One minute or two?’

‘One ought to do it. Is he awake?’

‘He’s watching some TV. Just for a change.’

Pat was sprawled all over the sofa, still in his Star Wars pyjamas and M&S dressing gown, watching the director’s cut of Return of the Jedi. The rule book had been thrown out of the window since he had come home from the hospital.

‘Hi Pat,’ Cyd said, crouching down beside him and stroking his hair, carefully avoiding the large plaster that now covered one side of his forehead. ‘How’s your poor old head?’

‘It’s fine. My stitches are a bit itchy.’

‘I bet they are.’