Page 93 of Road Trip to the Riviera
I think about hailing one of the taxis. But he’s too close for that. His progress is slow and although I’m almost as incapacitated as him, I know with a bit of a concerted effort, I can catch him up.
I begin hobbling like I’ve never hobbled before.
42
HAL
‘This is not a prison, monsieur.’The doctor’s words as he huffily accepted that I was going to leave, whether he liked it or not, echo in my head. I seem to have a real talent for upsetting people at the moment. But all I can think about is getting away, going home. Resuming the life that I was relatively happy with until this whole thing started.
If you’d told me even a week ago that I’d be leaving Sarah in the lurch like this, I’d have thought you were mad, but I’m sick of myself, sick of the hope that I let myself feel. Sick of the way that I’ve made Sarah believe that we could be something. When in her life, I just seem like a bad luck charm.
All these years I’ve put myself first, and although this seems mean, this is the first time I’m really putting Sarah front and centre. I’ll book a train as soon as humanly possible, God knows how I’m going to manage it, but I am. And if this makes Sarah hate me, well it’s probably for the best.
The police have given me the address of the scrapyard that’s taken Betty; have told me there are a few belongings if I care to collect them. Thankfully, my wallet and passport were in the front pocket of my jacket when I was in the van so it’s just pots,pans, books, clothes. There was nothing valuable, nothing with even any sentimental value other than Betty herself. And I can’t face seeing the dented scraps they’ve managed to retrieve.
Admittedly, I don’t feel great as I exit the hospital and scan the car park for a cab. Of course, there isn’t one waiting, as I’ve not had the forethought to book one – the argument with various doctors took all my time and I knew I had to leave before visiting hours. So I decide to make my way to the nearest café, see if I can book a taxi to the train station in time for my departure.
I’ve always thought of myself as fairly fit, but my arms are already aching like mad by the time I reach the corner. My leg seems fine, probably a result of the painkillers, but my head is spinning and I have to admit that the thought of sinking back into a bed – even a hospital bed with its plastic-covered mattress and thin pillow – seems blissful.
But I mean what I said. I’ll get myself seen by a doctor as soon as I get back to the UK. I just have to get there, is all.
I’ve developed a slowish but fairly comfortable pace, and if my calculations are correct, I’ll get to the café in ten minutes. I try to tap into my inner athletethat’s the eye of the tiger!and push on.
I’ll admit there is a part of me which is sitting back, observing the idiocy of what I’m doing and shaking his sanctimonious head. But I’ve done it now; I’m committed. So there’s very little point in worrying about it.
At first, when I hear a voice calling my name, I think I’m imagining it. Not hearing voices or anything, but just misinterpreting a distant voice, shaping words into my name. It’s happened more than you might imagine over the years. From a little way away, ‘Hi’ sounds quite like ‘Hal’, as does the opening syllable of ‘hello’. I’ve turned expectantly on more thanone occasion just to see someone waving at their friend across the street.
So I hop on.
Only the voice continues, draws closer. I glance behind me and there’s Sarah, about twenty metres back, making an impressive pace on her crutch and boot combo.
I double down, picking up speed as best I can.
But I can hear her behind me, saying my name. Hear the click of the boot on the pavement as she approaches. I try again to speed up, jabbing my crutches forward, dragging my poor leg along. My shoulders and upper arms are screaming, and my T-shirt begins to stick to my back in the hot sun.
‘Will you just bloody stop?!’
Sarah’s voice is so close now that I realise I’ve lost.
I turn around and see her, red-faced and about as enraged as I can ever imagine her being, rapidly hobbling her way towards me.
‘For God’s sake, Hal, could you nothearme?’ she says when she reaches me.
‘I… It’s just—’ I stutter.
‘You do realise that we’ve attracted a lot of attention?’ she says quietly. I realise that there are several people filming us on their phones. I realise how we must have looked – a chase-down on crutches; two injured people moving as quickly as they can. Christ, we’re going to be all over TikTok later, aren’t we?
‘Hey!’ I say to the wannabe filmmakers, ‘piss off, will you?’
‘That’s not going to help,’ she tells me. ‘Come on. Just sit down.’
There’s a low wall next to us and she indicates it and suddenly it’s as if that tiny brick structure looks like the comfiest, most cushioned sofa I’ve ever seen. I want to be on that wall so badly I could cry. I stumble over and sit, and oh God… It’s bliss.
‘What were you doing?’ Sarah says, sitting down next to me.
‘I didn’t think you’d come back,’ I lie. ‘I just wanted to get home.’
‘And, what? You’ve decided to walk back to England?’ she asks, looking pointedly at my leg and raising an eyebrow.
