Nicky dropped me off at the doors to the Alfred Hospital’s ER. He didn’t want to come in and hang around, explaining: “Sick people clash with my colourings.”

I smiled at him grimly and nodded as I got out of the car, carrying Michael’s over night bag. But he called out my name just before I closed the door.

“Puck,” he began, a troubled expression on his face. “Um… look… let me know how things go, won’t you?” he asked awkwardly. “I really hope Michael’s going to be ok,” he offered. “Phone me or whatever if there’s anything I can do.”

Again I nodded, thanking him for the offer as well as for driving me to the apartment. I closed the door on the sports car and watched as Nicky drove off, honking his horn in farewell as he turned onto Commercial Road.

I lingered outside for a minute or two, considering my approach, given the circumstantial evidence that someone – perhaps Tish herself – had been with Michael mere hours before his suicide attempt. I also pondered the significance of the footprints on the floor; who had left them? And when, precisely? And if Tish had seen Michael last night, why hadn’t she mentioned it to Desi or I?

I had an uneasy sensation of tightness in my belly as I turned around and walked back into the hospital to regroup with the others.

As I greeted them softly, Desi’s eyes opened and she immediately sat up, gesturing for me to sit between them. There was no sign of Alexander in the immediate vicinity. When I asked, Tish indicated that he was in the toilets, probably throwing up again.

“So have you heard anything…?” I asked, looking from one girl to the next.

Desi shook her head. “Nothing real helpful.” she replied. “Find anything at the flat?”

I shook my head. “Nothing I could see to give a clue as to what he’s taken,” I said, deliberately keeping the details of the opened French windows, the muddied footprints and the collection of cigarette butts from them. Nor did I mention the messages from Leo. It seemed to me too early to be bothering them with that information, especially as I had yet to figure out what any of it meant – if it meant anything at all. Besides, I had to put a theory to the test before I took a step in that direction.

Tish spoke up: “I filled out those forms,” she advised me. “Had a bit of a chance to speak to the doctor who’s overseeing him,” she said. “While they’re still listing his condition as critical, there are signs that it’s stabilising. There are clear indications that his heart, liver and kidneys are under considerable stress, but they do appear to be coping at this stage.”

I listened to Tish’s recitation carefully, with much interest; not only because of the information she was imparting, but for the way in which she supplied the details. Perhaps it was the result of working in her chosen field – Tish worked in the palliative care unit of a large hospital, focusing on patients aged in their mid-teens to mid-twenties. It was only natural that the demands of working in such a role would require her to take measures to distance herself from those in her care to a certain degree, or else Tish (and thousands of health care workers just like her) would burn out and go mad within a year or two.

But this was Michael she was discussing, not some stranger. And yet I couldn’t help but notice that not once did she refer to him by name.

“There’s something else,” Tish said, her voice softening a little, allowing a glimmer of the real Tish to shine through her professional façade.

“Oh…? What?” I asked.

It was only then I noticed the A4 Sized piece of paper neatly folded in two, sitting by her side. She picked it up and handed it to me. “It’s the email he sent Alexander,” she explained.

I took it from her outstretched hand. “You guys have read it?” The girls both nodded quietly. I flipped it over and unfolded it.

Alexander,

I ask that you follow these instructions as closely as possible. Please try to remain calm. At this point, there is nothing else you can do.

Under no circumstances are you to go into my room. Given your weak stomach, it would be a serious mistake. Instead, you should call 000 and ask for the police. Advise either the operator or the police that your flatmate has taken his life several hours ago.

You will need to let the police into the apartment (assuming this reaches you at the lab and not at home), so I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the lab and arrange to meet the police at the flat.

You should contact Puck, Desi and Tish as soon as you’ve finished reading this. I have faith they will do their very best to assist, despite the circumstances. They will be helpful to you.

Some practical information for you: -

• I’ve already paid my rent, due on the 15th of this month, and have left the Rent Card on the dining table so you can use it to pay yours. Pick up the card as soon as possible and keep it safe. The phone bill has been paid as well, and I’ve made sure money will be available for the gas/electricity when they come in, as well as my part of the next phone bill.

• Under the circumstances, I’d recommend you give the real estate agent notice on the 15th of this month (or beforehand, whatever you choose to do). While your name is not on the lease and mine is, given the situation, a faxed letter from you explaining the situation will be enough to satisfy their requirements, in terms of providing sufficient notice. I cannot imagine you’ll want to continue living here, but hey, if you do, that’s up to you, but even I find the idea kind of creepy.

• Under no circumstances should you contact my family with regards to what has transpired. It would be too stressful for you. If anyone is to do that, let the police handle it, it’s what they get paid for and they’re also trained in this area. I don’t even want Puck to have to deal with this matter, and he knows them personally.

• Please give some consideration to adopting Hamilton. He’s very fond of you and you appear to have a soft spot for him. I do not expect you – or anyone else – to take care of Booty and Bindi. 3 cats are just too much. There are contact details that may be helpful in finding a new home for the girls (and Hamilton, if you choose not to keep him) stuck on a Post-It Note, on the side of the fridge. This could be difficult, but Booty and Bindi really need to stay together. Bindi could cope on her own in a new home, but Booty would fret.

Whatever you hear over the next few weeks, one thing you should know: this was my choice and no one else is responsible in anyway, or to blame.

Michael

When I’d finished reading it, I examined the top section of the printed email, which provided details of the sender and recipient, and noted the time Michael had forwarded it to Alexander’s hotmail account: 11:56pm the previous evening (Sunday). I had a hunch that it was the last thing Michael did before he settled himself upon the bed and lost consciousness.

The other thing that struck me about the note was its tone; it was remarkably practical and thorough, for one thing. That Michael had gone to such lengths to ensure his financial responsibilities were taken care of, not to mention highlighting to Alexander such things as the Rent Card on the dinning table, giving notice to the real estate agent and providing information about the cats, both amazed and chilled me.

But what intrigued me most was the curious attitude displayed towards Alexander. On the one hand, the note was distant and impersonal, but there were small passages here and there that indicated something softer and more considerate.

I knew, of course, that Michael and Alexander’s friendship had experienced a glitch in recent months. Where once Alexander was included in every social activity that Michael participated in, more recently Michael had appeared at events without inviting Alexander along. And when their paths did cross – chiefly at The Depot – I’d observed tensions between them.

When I’d approached Michael about it, he stiffened and his face grew hard, but I’d known Michael too long to miss the pain that glittered in his eyes. “Look, it’s between him and me,” he replied. “We’re flatmates,” he told me, “but that’s it. We’re not friends. Friends don’t use one another,” he added cryptically.

Any further probing on my part (or Desi or Tish’s, for that matter) had been met with the patented and impenetrable brand of Michael McDermott Resistance – he’d shut down, fall quiet and silently glower with hurt and anger. In the end, I let the matter drop, figuring that two such (formerly) good mates would eventually work out their issues and everything would be back to normal in due course. Yet here we were – nowhere near ‘normal’.

One night at The Depot, a couple of weeks ago, I’d dared to tackle Alexander about the matter. I’d spotted him sitting at the bar on his own, after we’d finished our respective shifts, and so joined him for a drink. Trying to naturalistically, and subtly, bring up the matter of his and Michael’s friendship wasn’t easy. But when I eventually succeeded, Alexander’s dark eyes (already troubled) withdrew to the back of his skull. He’d shrugged helplessly and said that things were ”fine”.

Not prepared to accept that, I’d bluntly told him it looked to me there was a tension between them, and asked him what was going on.

“I dunno’,” he finally said, acknowledging there was a problem. “Guess we’ll figure it out…” His voice had trailed off as he shrugged uncomfortably, and before I could pursue the matter further, he threw back the rest of his drink and announced he was heading home.

Presently, I folded the copy of the note and handed it back to Tish. As Alexander had said earlier to the girls: nothing in it hinted at why Michael had tried to kill himself.

“I need a fag,” I said softly and rose from the chair.

“Think I’ll join you,” Tish said, and so the two of us headed outside while Desi remained in the waiting room for Alexander to return from the toilets.

Outside, Tish and I stood near my favorite leaning pole. I lit up while Tish fished a packet of Yves Saint Laurent cigarettes out of her handbag. I watched her carefully, then offered to light her smoke. She accepted the gesture with quiet thanks. And so we stood there, in silence, for a couple of minutes, gazing distractedly at the street.

“Puck…?” Tish said. I glanced round at her. “Is everything ok?”

“Not sure I know what you mean,” I said, more bite and chill to my words than intended.

She seemed to digest that response thoughtfully for a moment, before pressing on. “You just seem … I dunno’... a bit distracted…”

“My best friend is in the hospital,” I reminded her curtly. “Yeah, guess I am a bit distracted at that….”

Tish gently shook her head. “That’s not what I meant… I meant that, well, since Nicky dropped you off – since you got back from Michael and Alexander’s place, you just seem to be troubled or something. What’s up, hun?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

I dragged on the cigarette, draining the last few carcinogenic drops out of the tabacco before I dropped the butt on the ground and crushed it with my shoe.

“I’m sorry,” I offered to her. “Just finding this kinda’ rough…. It’s doing my head in, Tish; trying to figure out why he did this!” I cried.

Stepping closer to me, Tish put an arm around my waist. “That’s understandable, hun,” she said, and we lapsed into another silence.

As I stared ahead at the street, I asked her: “Tish…? When’s the last time you spoke to Michael?”

Almost imperceptibly, her body stiffened. But her voice retained its soothing and calm qualities as she replied: “Why do you ask…?”

I shrugged. “Guess I’m just curious,” I told her. “I mean, he’s been planning this for how long? We don’t know, but it would be fair to say it’s probably been more than a couple of weeks, right?” And Tish nodded in agreement. “Well, there was nothing in Michael’s attitude that I saw – that I can think of now – to hint at this,” I said, my head turning slightly towards the hospital behind us. “But may be I’m just not as observant or as smart as I’d like to think I am,” I concluded. I turned now to face her. “So what about you, Tish? When’s the last time you saw him? Talked to him?”

Her eyes turned downward, to the ground, then flicked back up as she shrugged nonchalantly. “S’ppose it was after he finished worked Saturday night… Well, Sunday morning, I mean,” she replied. “Remember? We were sitting at the upstairs cocktail bar, around 7:00am? And Michael had just finished working downstairs. He had a drink with us… chatted a bit… the usual,” she said. “And then he left about an hour or so later. He seemed fine to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I nodded in agreement. “I remember. He did seem fine enough,” I said. But what had me thinking more was the strong likelihood that Tish was lying; that she had seen Michael some time on Sunday, at his apartment. The question was why was she lying to me?

Even as I hit the ‘send’ button, I knew how impersonal the message was, and started to ask myself why I was putting up a barrier between Drew and myself? But that was a line of thinking I didn’t have the time or energy for. I looked at the time on the screen of my mobile phone. It was 1:03am.

“Patricia Vale…?” A middle-aged, female nurse was standing in the doorway. On hearing her name, Tish rose from her seat and moved quickly to the older woman. They chatted for a moment or two before Tish pulled away and returned to us, a smile on her face.

“We can see him,” Tish announced. Desi almost squealed with delight and relief, jumping to her feet.

“He’s still unconscious… but we’re allowed to stick our heads in for a few minutes,” Tish went on to explain. I got to my feet as well, and like Desi, started to follow Tish towards the nurse. But then I noticed that Alexander remained in his seat, his eyes locked on us, looking like the school kid who was always the last one chosen to be on a team.

“Tish…?” I said. “We can all go in, right…?” I asked her, and she swung round to face me, clearly noting that Alexander had lingered behind. She frowned.

‘Well... yeah… I mean… you, me and Desi… but,” she paused. “I’m not so sure about Alexander,” she said in a discreet tone, although it was unlikely he would’ve been able to hear us anyway. “I mean… we grew up with Michael… I’m just not sure he would want Alexander to see him in this state. Or any one else, if it comes to that.”

I was about to say something, but it was Desi who got in first: “Babe, Alexander cares about Michael as much as any of us,” she stated. “He’s been here all night, just like us. He’s going through Hell, just like we are,” she pointed out. “He’s got as much right to have this chance to see him as any of us do.”

Tish looked doubtful, but when I added my support to Desi’s statement, she relented. Desi span round and called to Alexander to join us. And so the four of us followed the nurse to where they were keeping Michael.

At first, none of us dared to speak. But finally, Desi broke the silence and stood by his bedside, brushing a few hairs from his forehead. “Hey babe… we’re here, sweetpea,” she informed him. “You can wake up now… everything’s going to be ok. Really. It is.”

I looked over at Tish who stood tall and impassively at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Michael as though afraid to look away in case he faded from our world entirely.

I stood on Desi’s right hand side, while Alexander hovered in the background, a couple of feet behind Tish, his hands buried deep in his pockets, yet I could detect, through the dark denim, that his fingers were fidgeting anxiously.

Tish took the hospital chart from its resting place at the foot of Michael’s bed. She passed a careful but critical gaze over the various sheets of paper attached to the clipboard. Appearing satisfied, Tish returned it to its rightful place. Then she moved to the side of the bed, opposite Desi and I. She sat on the edge, tilting her head slightly as she looked upon Michael’s drawn and haggard face.

I found my focus fixed on Michael’s ash-white face. Dark circles, like bruises, resided below his eyes and there was a string of tiny red dots across the bridge of his nose as well as around his eyes. His lips were pale and grey and his short, dark brown hair looked coarse and lifeless.

But then a small, strangled squeaking sound alerted me to Desi’s tears. I turned to her, her face reddening, her eyes swollen and filled with pain and hot tears. She stepped back from the bed, shaking her head. I went to her side and put my arm around her and she buried her face in my side.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry,” she mumbled into my chest.

“Hey… hey, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, sweetie,” I told her. “It’s ok, it’s ok, ssh…” I said as soothingly as possible.

She lifted her head to look at me, then glanced at Michael and shook her head again before saying to me – to all of us: “Just wasn’t expecting him to... to be like this,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse with fear and pain. “He looks so… God.. I don’t know what he looks like!” She pulled away from me and made to leave the room. “I’m not helping… I shouldn’t be here,” Desi said and picked up her feet, weaving around Alexander and fleeing down the corridor.

I glanced at Michael, silently thinking how right Desi was – it just didn’t seem real; none of this seemed real. And as I looked at the shrunken, pallid sack of flesh before me that was just begging to be buried, I wondered if Michael was actually in there at all…?

My eyes moved across to Tish. “I’ll go check on her,” I informed her and started to head off after Desi. But Tish met me at the doorway, taking me by the hand, holding me back.

“Wait, Puck,” she urged. “Let her have a minute or two… She needs it, I think,” Tish said.

“May be what she needs is us,” I said pointedly.

Tish frowned at me, biting on her lower lip. “Have I done something to piss you off?” she asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Dunno… Have you?” I replied, turning the question back on her.

At that moment, I was only vaguely aware of Alexander moving closer towards Michael’s bed. The rage within me was clouding my senses, but not my tongue.

Tish sighed. “Puck…? What does that mean…?” asked Tish, sounding wounded.

“All it means is this: Desi is hurting. She needs us. Leaving her alone isn’t going to help her – not right now, anyway,” I told her. I then caught a glimpse of movement and turned to the source.

I saw Alexander had taken a chair and had pulled it up by Michael’s bed. He sat, leaning in as close to Michael as he could, and he was holding Michael’s right hand in his own two large and tremulous hands. There was something about the image that filled my heart with knives and fire and pain.

I nodded in Alexander and Michael’s direction, saying quietly to Tish: “See? That’s what friends do for one another…”

She followed my gaze, then turned back towards me. “I’ll go find Desi,” she announced. “You stay here,” she said. “Um... unless you want to come with me…?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s ok. You go,” I agreed and watched her leave the room. I turned back round to Alexander and Michael. I could see Alexander’s lips moving and could almost – but not quite – catch his soft, deep voice as he spoke to the unconscious figure before him. I noticed his grip on Michael’s hand tighten, and Alexander seemed to bow his head, almost as if in prayer… and then something happened; Michael was moving… no, not moving… he was shuddering and twitching; bucking as if filled with terrible and powerful demons.

Alexander stumbled up and out of the chair, pulling away from the bed, his expression blank and unreadable, while I heard someone bellowing for a nurse. It was a moment or two before I realised that it was my own voice I’d heard.

I moved toward Michael’s bed, unable to believe what I was seeing. He continued to thrash and spasm violently, his eyes rolling around between flickering eyelids, spittle flying from between gnashing teeth… and then there were nurses and doctors everywhere – shouting out to one another in incomprehensible medical jargon - while Alexander and I were roughly pushed out of the room…

<< - >>

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