What Doesn't Kill You Page 5

  ‘It shows me how much you care,’ she’d said.

  His short shift at work had been unusually quiet compared to recent weeks. The record rainfall and high winds had battered most of Britain, with Portland taking the brunt in Dorset. Perhaps people had finally got the message it was safer to stay at home. Or perhaps the novelty of nine metre waves had worn off. Griff had seen enough to last a lifetime.

  As he headed for the cottage, his mind wandered back to his dad and the lunch Evie had organised. It was destined to be a circus, with Evie the ringmaster, Griff the slapstick clown, and poor Tess, expected to jump through hoops. It wasn’t right. Logan was stronger than Evie gave him credit for. He could take the truth.

  ‘Bad idea,’ Griff said, disappointed with his lack of clear thought. His problems with Evie were private. Besides, what would his father say? He’d be disillusioned and upset that his son couldn’t keep a marriage together, and pity from Logan was not welcome.

  The notion was powerful enough to ensure Griff’s silence.

  After a further ten-minute drive, he parked the car next to his Land Rover and prepared himself for putting Dylan to bed. That meant assuming a relaxed stance, putting on a smile and pretending there was nothing wrong with life.

  He opened the door and immediately swapped Evie’s keys for his.

  There was an eerie silence to the cottage – an unfamiliar stillness. ‘Hello?’ Ozzy trotted out from the kitchen and nuzzled Griff’s legs. ‘All right, boy? Where is everyone?’

  The pounding of footsteps across the landing, the horrendous coughing and retching echoing around the bathroom, and Evie’s voice, speaking in hushed, comforting tones, answered his question.

  The commotion disturbed Ozzy and he trudged back to the kitchen.

  Griff kicked off his shoes and ran upstairs, taking them two by two as he always did. He stopped outside Dylan’s room and waited. Evie and Tess, the daughter enveloped in her mother’s arms, disappeared into the far bedroom. Neither saw Griff. Acknowledging Evie had everything in hand, he released the safety gate to Dylan’s room, and stepped through. There was his boy, fast asleep, arms signifying his surrender, his head turned to the yellow beam channelling its way in from the landing. Griff pushed the door to, and giving his eyes time to adjust to the shadows, leaned over Dylan’s bed. He’d missed putting him down tonight.

  He brushed the fine, feathery fringe from Dylan’s forehead and laid the back of his hand on his cheek. ‘You’re boiling,’ he said. The heat Dylan was radiating shocked him. He pulled back the blankets, undid the metal poppers of Dylan’s sleepsuit, and freed him of the garment. Dylan’s eyelids flickered, his dark lashes fluttering, tiny black quills against his hot, pink skin. ‘It’s okay,’ Griff murmured. ‘You keep sleeping.’

  Without warning, Dylan’s arms and legs stiffened, his eyes burst open, and a look of sheer terror projected from deep within. He was fixed on Griff, no recognition, no smile. No breath.

  ‘Shit.’ Griff thumped at the light switch, the brilliance illuminating a curtain of blue drawing up from Dylan’s chin. Securing the small, rigid body in his hands, Griff lifted his son from the bed and placed him on the floor, the smell of hot skin assaulting Griff’s nostrils and the thick, unpalatable air, coating his tongue. His teeth set on edge as he swallowed. ‘Dylan? Dylan?’ No response. He tapped his son’s shoulders, hoping for a reaction. Still nothing. ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘Come on!’

  A gust of air swirled round him as Evie landed beside him.

  ‘Dylan!’ She crumpled to the floor and seized her child’s hand, her slim form casting a shadow over him. ‘What’s happening?’

  Griff could hear the tears, the strain in Evie’s voice, and as desperate as he was to offer physical comfort, Dylan was his priority. ‘He’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I’m with him.’

  Evie’s silhouette retreated, giving Griff the light and space he required. He put two fingers under Dylan’s chin, a hand on his forehead, and gently tipped the toddler’s head back. With his ear an inch from his son’s mouth, he listened, watching Dylan’s chest.

  No gush, no rise. No sign of life.

  Never before had Griff been faced with the horror of losing his own child. Never before had a second lasted an eternity.

  Years of experience, a career of saving others, awards for bravery – nothing, absolutely nothing prepared Griff for this. A cool hand brushed his arm.

  ‘Griff?’

  He risked a glance at Evie. At that moment she appeared barely bigger than Dylan. Her green eyes, now grey rainclouds threatening a deluge, were pleading with Griff, needing him to step up. Her sheer intensity powered through him, inducing his instinct to kick in.

  He was back.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘But I need you to call an ambulance.’

  Evie didn’t move.

  Without looking at her, Griff repeated the instruction, adopting an assertive tone. ‘Now.’

  He didn’t know if it was the increased volume of his voice, or Evie’s plea of help into her mobile that entered their son’s consciousness, but a huge gasp filled Griff’s ear.

  It was the sweetest sound.

  Dylan’s chest rose and fell with a life-affirming rhythm.

  ‘Are you through to the paramedics?’

  Evie nodded.

  Now working swiftly, Griff put his ear to Dylan’s mouth, listened, and watched his child’s chest. The regular pattern that greeted him was completely at odds with his own fast-paced, shallow breaths. ‘Good boy,’ Griff said, rising to his knees. He took Dylan’s nearest arm, laid it out to the side, and reached for his furthest hand. He brought it across the tiny body, and placed the palm under the boy’s cheek. Lifting the toddler’s scrawny leg, Griff faltered. His son’s calf was less than half the size of Griff’s arm. So small. So helpless. ‘Come on, Hendry. You’ve trained your whole life for moments like this.’

  He shouldered away a tear threatening to obscure his vision, and completed the manoeuvre, rolling Dylan onto his side. Keeping a constant watch on him, he spoke to Evie. ‘Tell them Dylan’s breathing and he’s in the recovery position.’

  She relayed the information.

  ‘Now, unlock the front door, and wait for the ambulance.’ He looked at Evie. The storm had broken and her face was soaked. ‘He’s okay, I promise.’ Griff managed a smile and a nod, and encouraged Evie on her way.

  The contrast of the hypnotic calm against the chaos of the last few minutes left Griff uneasy. Every rescue left him this way. His brain would process it as normal, allowing his body to absorb the shock.

  But this wasn’t normal. This was his son. His son, who for one second too long, he thought was dying.

  ‘I will never let that happen,’ he said, his jaw clamped with tension. ‘You, your sister, your mum, you’re my world, and I’ll move heaven and earth to protect you.’ He stared down at Dylan, whose colour had returned. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. I’m not losing anyone else.’

  The paramedics suggested Dylan had suffered a febrile convulsion, brought on by a spike in his temperature, and the hospital confirmed this was likely to be the case, but they were keeping Dylan in for observation. The bed the ward sister offered Griff was comfortable enough, and it was alongside Dylan’s bed, but sleep was not on the agenda. Griff had promised Evie he’d watch over their son. Perched on the edge of the mattress, he was sticking to his word.

  ‘Everything okay, Mr Hendry?’ A nurse, dressed in white, stepped into the room and took Dylan’s wrist between her fingers and thumb.

  ‘It will be, once I get my little lad home.’ Griff tried to generate a smile, but wiped away the evidence of his poor attempt as he dragged a hand over his face. ‘I thought I’d lost him.’

  ‘The paramedics said you had everything in hand by the time they reached you. A real pro.’ The nurse tucked Dylan’s arm by his side and looked at Griff. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. Seizures are frightening.’

  Griff took
up position next to the bed and leaned his elbows on the top of the raised safety bar. ‘You’re not kidding.’ He gazed at Dylan. ‘I’d have done a deal with the devil at that moment. Take me, not my son.’

  ‘I would have, too.’ The nurse recorded something on a handheld unit and slipped it in to her pocket. ‘Technology,’ she said as if explaining its use. ‘No more clipboards at the ends of beds.’

  ‘He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?’ Griff rose from his stoop. ‘I mean, there’ll be no lasting damage?’

  ‘He might have some confusion for a day or two, but that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’ The nurse cast one final look over Dylan. ‘He’s a lucky boy to have you on his side. Our children are very precious.’ Then she left the room as quietly as she’d entered.

  ‘Life is precious,’ Griff said, repairing to a wooden-armed, padded chair on the other side of the bed. ‘And fleeting.’ The harsh reality of losing his best friend at sixteen had brought that home to him.

  It was inevitable he’d think of Kieran – he’d been like a brother to him, best man material. They’d been friends for eight years, from high-pitched gigglers to strapping youths, travelling the tremulous path to manhood together. Young adulthood, Griff corrected.

  They’d met within a week of the Hendrys moving to Dorset. Logan had relocated a number of times in his life, working his way through medical school and surgical training. Eventually, he took a paid position in Wales, where he qualified as a surgeon. There he’d met and fallen in love with Marilyn, married, and cradled his son in his arms for the first time. The Hendrys moved when Logan accepted a senior medical appointment in a Dorset hospital. They sold their Welsh chocolate box of a cottage, left Logan’s adopted homeland, and settled in a small English village on the South-West coast. It was renowned for its green telephone box, two pubs, and a school with three classes. That’s where Griff first encountered Kieran. That’s where their mums helped out once a week, listening to the children read aloud.

  Griff could picture the two women, their skirt-covered knees almost reaching their chins as they huddled on the pint-sized chairs, their index fingers skimming across the page. They became close, like Griff and Kieran. So did Kieran’s dad and Logan – the men often met at one of the pubs on a Friday night. Firm family friends.

  The only one without somebody was Kieran’s sister, Imogen. She was five years younger than the boys, not even at school when Griff first moved to Weymouth. He remembered how much she adored her big brother – proper hero-worship, despite Kieran’s constant teasing.

  Griff could picture her too – short, always in red corduroy dungarees and orange wellies. And he could recall how she was forever hanging on to his coattails.

  She hadn’t held on to them at Kieran’s funeral service. She’d hardly even looked at Griff. And while no one directly blamed him for Kieran’s death, no one said it wasn’t his fault.

  From that point on, despite Griff’s best efforts to keep a brotherly eye on Imogen, the families drifted apart. Not even their mums spoke to one another.

  The twenty-four-year-old memory was as vivid now as it was then.

  ‘Pack it in, Hendry,’ Griff said, smoothing his hands along the polished arms of the chair. ‘You’re tired and emotional. And it’s a rubbish combination.’ He rubbed his sore, stinging eyes, then examined his fingers, half expecting to find cactus needles embedded in their tips. ‘Man, I could use some sleep.’ Reclining further, he rested his head on the high back, tuned into the ebb and flow of Dylan’s breath, and fixed his eyes on the slumbering boy. ‘But I’m not letting you out of my sight.’ A succession of yawns and a much-needed stretch distorted Griff’s words. ‘One minute like this,’ he said, ‘then I’ll text your mum.’

  Chapter Six

  Tess

  Poor Dylan. I hope he’s okay. Mum’s pretty shaken up by the whole affair. I want to sit with her, but the minute I’m vertical, I throw up. She wasn’t looking so good herself last night. I expect it’s the shock. Or this bug.

  Google told me what a febrile seizure is. Scary to witness, but usually harmless. From what Mum said, it sounds like Griff did all the right things.

  He deserves to be called Griff. Just for today.

  I wonder how long they’ll be at the hospital. I told Mum she should go. I could see she wanted to – even when she was in my room, her head wasn’t. She and Griff must have been at the front door when I heard him promise he’d stay with Dylan. His voice was low. It reassured Mum. Even I found it soothing. That’s how I know I’m ill. I’m developing a tolerance for Griff. What a crappy bug.

  Poor Dylan.

  If I had the energy to open my eyes, I’d read the time. It must be getting on for six. Perhaps I should prop myself up a bit. No. Even turning over is stirring my stomach. I’ll stay still.

  ‘Hey.’

  Mum’s crept in. The bed dips at my feet. She’s perched on the end.

  ‘I’m awake,’ I grumble.

  ‘Have you managed any sleep?’

  ‘A little. You?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Heard from Griff?’

  There’s a silence, and I’m compelled to open my eyes. How is it possible for a room in darkness to spin? I catch a glimpse of Mum’s profile, a golden aura surrounding her. It’s ghostly, and fuzzy, and doing weird things to my gut, so I shut my eyes and hold out my hand. There’s sufficient light from the landing for her to see what I’m doing, but not enough to see my arms. Her icy fingers wrap around my sticky palm.

  ‘You’re still very warm,’ she says. ‘Have you had any water?’

  ‘I have, but I got rid of it ten minutes later.’

  ‘It’s important you keep drinking. Every little drop helps. I don’t want you in hospital as well.’

  She fidgets and my bed rocks. It’s not good. It reminds me of when I went on a ferry crossing to France. We were with Dad. It was rough. Everyone was heaving and puking, the toilets were blocked, and the stench made it a thousand times worse. I’d never seen a person turn green. I thought it was an expression, but it really happens. I think I must be a pistachio colour right now.

  My head rolls to the right and Mum’s breath cools my face. She’s sharing my pillow. She’s curled up next to me.

  ‘Would you like to climb in?’ I ask, folding back my corner of the duvet.

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’

  It’s been a while since we snuggled together. We used to do this all the time when I was younger. We were safe when we were together.

  I pull Mum to me. ‘Don’t catch this bug.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled by my size. I’ve the constitution of an ox.’ She releases a short, quiet laugh and the burst tickles my nose. It’s not a real laugh. It’s not like the ones I hear when she’s in her bedroom with Griff. I cringe when the noise filters out from their room because I know what they’re doing, but he makes her laugh, and that’s so different to what I’d hear when Dad was around.

  I never know what to do when Mum cries.

  ‘Griff sent a text five minutes ago,’ she says, reminding me I’d asked the question. ‘Dylan’s had a good night, his temperature is normal and he’s waiting for breakfast. They’re going to make their own way back so I can stay with you.’

  I swear the bed just levitated. Our combined worry was weighing it down.

  ‘They’re hoping to come home once the doctor’s been round.’

  She brushes her fingers over my cheek, and turns the edge of my duvet down. I notice she said the word home and included Griff in the sentence. Is he coming home, or is he bringing Dylan home? I’m not sure I should ask. I’m not sure it’s my business any more. Something’s happened between them to drive them apart, but I don’t know what. I have to believe that Mum would tell me if Griff put her at risk. She said he was one of the good guys, and I think he probably is. Despite my knee-jerk reaction yesterday, I can’t imagine he would hurt Mum, not intentionally. Not with his fists. He’s all about rescues and white knights and g
alloping steeds, and I want to trust him, but people change. Or lead you on. Or deceive you. I know it happens. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

  ‘This is nice,’ Mum says, my thoughts carried away on her wave. ‘We’ll have Dylan with us next time.’

  ‘He wriggles too much,’ I say, although the idea pleases me. After what I heard about his seizure, wriggling is good. ‘You can have him next to you.’

  Mum’s silent. She’s thinking. She does a lot of that. Not one for talking. I understand. I’m the same when it comes to hard stuff – stuff I know will upset her or make her feel bad. Stuff best kept to myself. She’s had plenty to deal with in her lifetime and me adding to it would be selfish. And anyway, it’s down to me to handle these things. I’m nearly sixteen. Another few months and I’ll be legally old enough to have sex. Not that I want to go there. My mind has drifted into murky territory so I brighten it by visualising Stephanie. ‘Did I tell you I met a girl yesterday?’

  ‘The French girl?’

  Mum remembered.

  ‘Yeah. Stephanie.’ Her name is easy to say – it falls from my mouth – a breeze, a waterfall. ‘She’s pretty cool.’ It’s a good word. No wonder Rick likes using it.

  ‘Is she the same age as you?’

  ‘Seventeen, maybe.’ She never told me. If she’s older, I can’t see her wanting to hang out with a fifteen-year-old. ‘Speaks great English. Cute accent.’

  ‘Cute?’

  My pillow evens out and my hip sinks lower. I’m guessing Mum’s leaning on her elbow. ‘Yeah. Cute.’ I chance opening my eyes in the hope the room stays static. Everything is in focus and perfectly still. Dawning daylight from the window is mixing with the yellow glow from outside my door, and Mum is studying me. I shove my arms under the cover. ‘What’s wrong with cute?’

  She gives this funny one-shouldered shrug and adopts an innocent expression. ‘Nothing.’