Swimming Upstream (5 page)

I shrugged off my coat and began to heave myself
shakily up the stairs. Half way up I became afraid I was going to fall back
down. I decided it would be easier to leave the crutches behind and go up
backwards on my bottom. Once or twice my foot thudded against the stair and a
spasm of pain shot through me, causing me to squeal and stop and gasp for breath.
At last I reached the top and, hauling myself up with the aid of the banister,
I hopped heavily and slowly into the bedroom. I would have to get in to work
somehow in the morning, I decided. Grab a taxi. I really didn’t want to miss my
first chance at presenting on prime-time radio. In any event it was too late
now to call and line up someone else. I shrugged my bag off my shoulders, set
my alarm for 3.00 a.m., and pulled out the bottle of painkillers they'd given
me at the hospital. The label said I should take one or two, with food. I
swallowed three, undressed, and crawled under the duvet where I lay, cold and
dejected, until sleep overcame me.

When I woke it was daylight and the sun was
streaming in through the window. I felt a fleeting, random burst of happiness;
then I tried to move my legs and the gentle throbbing started up again. The
memory of last night’s events crept over me. With a start, I remembered that it
wasn’t supposed to be daylight; it was supposed to be 3.00 a.m. I reached out
and pulled my alarm clock from off the bedside table. I groaned, and flopped
back down onto the pillow. It was ten past eleven on Tuesday, as far as I could
tell. I had slept through the Breakfast Programme. Not only had I missed my
moment of glory, I was going to be in big trouble with my boss.

I lay motionless on my back for a few moments. My
arms and legs felt like lead weights. Eventually, I lifted my head. It felt
heavy too. I flung myself sideways out of bed and landed on the floor with a
thud. Pain shot and burned its way through my ankle and up into my shinbone. My
entire body felt bruised and stiff. I crawled to the top of the stairs, and
peered through the banisters, where I could see the answer phone machine
flashing like crazy.

Going downstairs was easier than going up. I could
either hang onto the banister and hop, or slide all the way down on my bottom
with my good leg as a lever and my bad leg in the air. I tried both. Sliding
down won in the end, because it was quicker. I crawled frantically to the
telephone and pressed the button on the answer machine. There were three
messages, two from Phil, the station manager, and one that was just nothing
except white noise and what sounded like music and people talking in the
background. Phil wanted to know what had happened to me, and why I hadn’t turned
up for work. He sounded concerned the second time. I deleted the messages and
dialled Phil’s direct line number. It went to answer phone. I left an
apologetic message and then spent the rest of the day sitting on the sofa,
watching daytime TV, going over and over everything in my head and waiting for
the phone to ring.

At six I heard the sound of a key wriggling
noisily in the door lock and the front door opening. I leapt up from the settee
and hopped across the room. Larsen stood in the doorway, looking drunk and
dishevelled. His eyes were cloudy and red-rimmed, his chin was covered in a
couple of days’ worth of stubble and his long blond hair was lank and matted. He
was wrestling with his jacket, trying to yank his arms out, but he was all
twisted up. One arm sprang free and caught the doorknob.

“Ouch,” he said, shaking his hand and sucking it. “Ouch,
ouch, ouch.”

Momentary relief that he was back was quickly
replaced with the anger and frustration that had been brewing inside me all
afternoon.

“Shut up,” I hissed. “And shut the door.”

“But it hurts,” Larsen whined. He closed the door
and leaned against it.

I remained standing on one leg in front of him,
hanging onto the banister for support. “You’re drunk.”

Larsen cocked his head to one side. “What are you
implying?”

“Look at the state you’re in! Where have you been?”

“Erm. The pub?”

“The pub,” I repeated, nodding.

“What have you done to your foot?” Larsen said, suddenly
stabbing the air repeatedly in the direction of my bandaged ankle, as if it was
something I maybe hadn't noticed.

“What do you care?”

“Is it all right?” His eyes widened in sympathy.

“No, it's not all right,” I said. “It's not all
right at all.”

We stared at each other in silence.

“We had this little party, you see…” Larsen began.

“Who’s we?” I said. “I thought you were in
Manchester?”

“Ah, and now that’s where you’re wrong.” Larsen
wagged his finger. “You’re normally right, Lizzie, about everything in fact. I’ll
give you that. But on this occasion…”

“Where were you then?” I demanded.

“The Juggler's to begin with, and then ...” He
lowered his head. “Back at Jude's. C'mon Lizzie, don’t give me a hard time.”

“Jude? Why were you at her house? What happened to
the gig last night?”

“Cancelled.” Larsen looked up at me again. “So we
came home, went down the pub. Everyone was there. Doug and Marion, Brian...”

“And Jude.”

“Well…yeah..”

“So what about me? Did you not think to tell me
you were back? Why didn’t you come home?”

Larsen was sobering up pretty quickly. “I tried to
phone you, I left a message ...” He tailed off. “Didn’t I?”

I took a deep breath. “Where did you sleep last
night?”

“At Jude’s, I told you. All of us. It was late…”

“
Where
at Jude’s?”

“Where did I…?” Larsen paused. “I need a drink.” He
walked into the kitchen. I hopped after him. He pulled a carton of milk out of
the fridge and swigged from it and, at the same time, switched on the kettle,
which started to boil loudly.

“So?” I asked, over the noise of the kettle.

 “What was the question again?”

“Where did you sleep? I asked you where you slept.
At Jude’s. On the sofa? On the floor? In her fucking bed?” I screamed at him. The
kettle boiled to a crescendo and switched itself off.

“No. No, of course not. I slept on the floor.” Larsen
leaned towards me and took my hand. I pulled it away.

“Are you lying to me?”

“I swear.” Larsen pulled me towards him again. “Come
on baby. Give me a break. We were all drunk. We just crashed.”

“God, Larsen, I could have really done with you
being here last night - and today. You’ve been back in Cambridge for twenty-four
hours and you didn’t even think to phone...”

“Fucking hell, I’ve had
enough of this,” Larsen announced suddenly. “I’m going to bed.” He pushed past
me and headed up the stairs.

He re-emerged a few hours later. I was sitting in the
living room watching the news.

“I'm sorry,” he said softly, appearing in the
doorway.

“Dave phoned. He’s dropping your gear off
tomorrow. I’m sorry the Manchester leg of the tour got cancelled.”

“Yes, well at least we played Bradford and Leeds. So
that paid for the petrol. Makes sitting in the back of a van for hours with
Dave’s sweaty armpits and a drum kit in your back all worthwhile.” He paused. “D'you
want a cup of tea?”

I shrugged and stared at the telly. The Chancellor
of the Exchequer had announced that high street spending was up by fifteen
percent.

“You been out shopping again?” Larsen smiled. I
didn't laugh. He sat down next to me and took my hand. I let it flop in his,
like a fish.

“How's your ankle?” he asked.

“Sprained.”

“How did it happen?”

I told him. Larsen looked shocked. “What the hell
were you doing, crossing there?”

“I don’t need a lecture,” I said. “It hurts.”

He folded his arms and sat back, staring at the
telly. A minute later he turned and smiled at me, leaned forward and promptly
started kissing me. I was so surprised, I couldn't react for a second or two. Larsen
took that as a green light, and thrust his hand up my jumper. I pulled back.

“What?” He looked hurt.

“This isn’t the time…”

“It’s never the time,” said Larsen. “These days.” He
stood up.

I looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

“To get a drink,” he said, and disappeared into
the kitchen.

The noise of the television suddenly became too
loud. I picked up the remote and switched it off, lit a cigarette and looked
around the room, trying to figure out something to say before he came back;
something to make us both feel better. I looked at the walls - white with a
shade of green - that Larsen and Doug had painted when we first moved in, and
the framed oil on canvas over the gas fire that Jude had given us as a
housewarming present. It was supposed to be a man and a woman embracing but it
just looked like streaks of angry colour and meant nothing to me. I suddenly
felt the urge to throw something at it. I wondered if I concentrated hard
enough I could make it fall off the wall.

Larsen returned from the kitchen with a bottle of
whisky and two glasses. He looked from me to the painting and back again, and
frowned.

I said, “You don’t know how tired I get, doing a
different shift every week. And I’m in quite a lot of pain, you know.”

Larsen said nothing. He twisted the top off the
whisky bottle and poured two generous measures.

“Not everything can be solved by jumping into bed
or downing a bottle of Jack Daniels,” I added.

Larsen handed me a glass and I took it. “I can’t
do anything to please you anymore,” he said. “I don’t have anything you want.”

“Oh Larsen, that’s not true!” I protested weakly. “It’s
just… different now, that’s all. Things have changed.”

“Well, I haven’t changed,” said Larsen.

I sighed. I realised he thought of this as some
kind of plus point.

“No, you haven’t,” I said. “You never change. You’re
still exactly the same as you were when I met you, only you drink more, are at
home less, and I’m sorry to tell you, Peter Pan, you’ve got a few more wrinkles
on your face.”

Larsen’s hand flew automatically to his cheek. He
stood up and started pacing the room.

“That's so bloody typical,” he said, angrily, and
stopped to jab his finger at me. “You used to like me the way I was. You
thought I was funny, even when I was drunk. I never pretended to be anything I wasn't.”

“Well, it stops being funny after a while.”

“And what about you?” he continued.

“What about me?”

“Well, if I'm Peter Pan, then you're bloody Wonder
Woman. All you care about is reading the bloody one o'clock news and roaming
around the countryside, chasing after the story that's going to get you that
news editor job that you're after.”

I took a large swig of whisky. “What's wrong with
roaming around? I like roaming around. I want to go everywhere. You don't want
to go anywhere. I want to go to Paris…Rome…I want to go to Africa. Bosnia,
maybe.”

“
Bosnia
?” Larsen looked up at me as though
I were an alien. “You
are
kidding, right?”

“It’s important, what’s happening to the people
there. The Serbs…”

“There is no
way
you are going to Bosnia!”

“My problem,” I said, ignoring him, “is that I don't
know where to go first. With you it's a choice between the Juggler's Friend or
the flipping Dog and Duck.”

“Oh that's great,” said Larsen. “So everyone's got
to be a high flyer like you. Well maybe I like being here.”

“But you never are here!” I spluttered, and banged
down my glass. Larsen stared at me, wide-eyed. I bit my lip and said, more
softly, “You're never here when I come back.”

Larsen sighed and refilled our glasses. “If you're
talking about last night, I'm sorry.”

I lit a cigarette. Larsen looked at his feet. “I
love you,” he muttered, eventually.

I shook my head. “No. No you
don't
.”

“What?”

“You don't love me, not really. That's just
something you say to keep me loving you.”   Larsen opened his mouth to protest,
but shut it again. “If you loved me, I'd feel it,” I added. “But I don't. I just
feel…” I tailed off. “Tired,” I said, finally.

“Tired? Tired of what? Tired of me?”

“No. No, I don’t mean that.” I sighed. “Not tired
of you. Just tired. Tired of being the strong one.”

“I'm no good for you. You don't need me,” said
Larsen.

“How do you know what I need?” I sighed,
frustrated. “You think you know, but you don't.”

“Funny that, isn't it?” said Larsen, his voice
loaded with sarcasm. “I've only lived with you for the last six years -”

 “- Seven,” I interrupted.

“What?”

“It's over seven years.”

“Is it?” Larsen looked at the blackness outside
the window for a minute, then nodded. “Yep, you’re right.” He turned and
grinned at me. I smiled back, the tension between us broken. We both fell
silent and sipped our drinks.

“Bosnia,” said Larsen, half-smiling and shaking
his head, as if I were child. “You don’t want to go to
Bosnia
.”

“No,
you
don’t want to go to Bosnia,” I
said. “I’m not you!”

Larsen looked hurt. “Have you any idea what it’s
like reporting from a war zone? It’s not just about getting your face on the
telly, you know. People go missing, get kidnapped…”

“I know...”

“You know. You know it all, don’t you? You won’t
be told anything!”

“Well, why do you want to
tell
me
everything.”

“Because I care about you! That’s why!” Larsen got
up and lit the gas fire and sat down in front of it with his back to me,
staring into it as if it were a real one. After a while I got up and settled
onto the floor beside him. He put his arm round me and I leaned my head against
his chest. My face was pleasantly warm and the whisky was making me dozy.

The telephone was ringing. Larsen stirred beside
me, but neither of us moved. The answer phone clicked on and I could hear
Phil’s voice telling me he hoped I was all right and that I shouldn’t rush
back. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.