Evie threw her tennis racket and tube of balls on the hall carpet, trudged upstairs, and cried, ‘I’m home, darling.’
There was no reply. As usual, her fiancé had power-napped in their conjugal bed, woken fully refreshed, slung on his faded boiler suit, and scurried off to the garage. Evie decided to leave him to his own devices until she summoned him to dinner, his favourite dish: a stack of eight fish fingers daubed in baked beans, and a jacket potato, spattered with ketchup. After wolfing it down he invariably returned to his den until bedtime. Evie would be fast asleep by then.
Guilt-stricken, she reflected on the deceit she practised, wondering how he might react if he ever found out. Scott was too gentle to hurt her. She imagined, he would hold his pudgy face in his hands, shake his head in disbelief, profess his undying love for her, plod to the toilet, then cry his heart out. In a way, she was relieved the house was empty. At least, she wouldn’t have to hide her lying eyes.
She reached the landing. There was a bookshelf under the window, crammed with torn books she never found time to read. A solid teak chest of drawers decorated Chinese punch bowl, a wobbly globe. Evie sunk to her knees and slid out the drawer stuffed full with plastic folders: cherished photos, happier times, fleeting memories, holidays: Florida, Thailand, Italy, Mull, Cornwall.
Feeling ashamed of herself, she bit her lip, shut the drawer, made her way to the bathroom, and undressed. She cleansed herself of him in the shower, brushing her teeth, combing her wet hair as if brushing teeth or combing the tangled knots out of her beautiful flame-red hair would redeem her for her adultery. Then she went to her bedroom.
Scott finished repairing his last plasma screen of the day and checked his watch. Evie would be home from tennis by now, showered, naked, waiting for him to climb into bed with her. Perhaps, she’d let him kiss her cheeks, give her a little hug. He shook his head. In his dreams! His love for her had been superseded by a hobby. How did she feel about that? He clenched his fists in frustration, impotent, pondering how to rekindle the flames of their long-lost love.
Evie stood in front of the mirror: head bowed, eyes closed, lips pursed, stony-faced. Cursing herself for what she’d done, with him, in the heat of the afternoon. Her pale freckled skin was sunburnt tell-tale blush pink, her lipstick kissed off by his hungry mouth, on the hottest day of the year. She folded her arms over her chest, afraid to look at herself in the mirror, fearing his memory, then raised her arms above her head.
No sign of an unusual rash, no prominent veins.
‘I love you, Evie, I’ll never leave you,’ he’d promised her. She shook her head in disgust.
Evie placed her hands lightly on top of her head.
She wasn’t bleeding or weeping.
Evie lay on the bed and felt near her nipple, keeping her other arm still, by her side. She felt a twinge, a pull. Worried, she moved her fingers over her breast in a spiral motion, then she felt the bottom of her breast. Placing her arm above her head, she repeated the examination for her other breast, feeling the part of her breast which extended towards her armpit. When she was sure, she slipped on a comfortable, loose-fitting t-shirt and shorts, went downstairs, and put the potatoes in the oven.
Scott was distracted by a whimpering sound coming from the doorway. Evie, mumbling,
‘Supper’s ready when you are, darling.’
Shiny tears streamed down her cheeks. His heart sank. She needed him, more than he could imagine. They went inside. He took off his boiler suit, then hurried to the kitchen to be with her.
Her shoulders heaved. Her nose dribbled. Black mascara ran down her puffy cheeks. A lump caught in Scott’s throat. Sad for her, worried for her, he pushed his food around the plate, heaping dehydrated fish fingers in a sorry pile on top of the burnt baked beans, the cremated jacket potato. He lost his appetite.
Evie held her head in her hands and wept, her face hidden by her curtain of beautiful flame-red. He stood by her, cradling her head against his chest, stroking her rich mane. He loved her so much, felt her pain, yet struggled to find the question, his sense of foreboding preventing the words from shaping in his dry mouth.
She buried her head in his chest. He held her tight, scrunching her up, hugging her like mad. Her breasts squashed against his chest, lips brushed his neck, kissing his skin, she murmured,
‘I’ve got a lump in my left breast, Scott.’
He was shocked. He clutched at her. Tried to reassure her,
‘It’s probably a cyst, Evie. I’ll take you to see Dr Meredith in the morning, put your mind at rest.’
‘I’ve got a lump in my right breast as well.’ Evie cried into his chest, in floods of tears.
*****
MiaSunday was the day of the charity flight in aid of the local hospice. Mia, the West Essex Air Cadets squadron leader, and Evie’s sister received a text saying that Scott had a summer bug and would have to pull out. Just as she was about to test the squad’s knowledge of safety.
There goes my target of raising £500.
She put him out of her mind. Such men were sent to test her. She read the riot act to the team:
‘No flying without a helmet.
No flying within fifty metres of overhead power lines, communication cables, satellite tv aerials, transmitters, office rooftops, or cable cars.
No flying within 5 miles of civilian airports, over any political, military, medical, atomic, or scientific research establishment.
No snooping on neighbours at work, rest or play.
No aerial horseplay, misleading gesticulations, or use of foul language.
All flyers to possess a current pilot’s licence and membership card.
Before an airlift, flyers to declare all pre-existing medical conditions using the confidential online questionnaire and confirm that they had attended full bi-annual assessments of their general physical and mental health, eyesight, and hearing.’
The cadets grew restless, shifting foot-to-foot under the weight of their cumbersome jetpacks. Raring to go.
‘Shall we fly now, troops?’ Mia teased.
‘Can we just lift, girl?’ Stella asked as Rick tightened her safety harness.
The stunning pale-faced, straggle-haired, sun-bleached blonde with hooknose and raspberry lips, just turned 21, could barely contain her excitement.
‘Okay! Now, lift!’ instructed Mia.
‘What have you done today to make you feel proud?’ they sang, selecting lift, levitating: stand-up sorcerers ascending into a blue heaven. Angels on jetpacks! There was a crackling buzz in the cadets’ helmets as their mikes kicked in.
‘And stay right there! Now hover!’
Rick took the lead, pouring through last-minute pre-flight checks: cautionary advice for the less experienced cadets while they hung suspended in mid-air at a safe height of two metres.
Mia was the only flyer in the club who could afford the new AE-45 nuclear-powered jetpack. Rick was more interested in her tight-fitting orange spandex jumpsuit, fly-in-your-face hair, classic red satin lip-gloss. He watched intently as she donned her reflective ebon solar helmet fitted with glare-proof sun visor.
He was her underlying decoy, her aeronautical stool pigeon if they encountered operational difficulties. In other words, Mia delegated, in all but name, responsibility for the team to him. Under their leadership, WISC had never experienced an aerial fatality.
The learner flyers that day were:
Stella McVie: a vegan, Cordon Bleu Cook hailing from Stirling. She rented her jetpack.
Nina Spitz: a tall, beaky, raven-haired 24-year-old beauty of Westphalian descent, short-spiky black hair, nickel tongue stud, all-over bronze suntan. An unrepentant Goth, she worked as an auxiliary NHS Staff Nurse at Princess Catherine Hospital in Harlow. Nina rented her jetpack.
Clyde Benson: originally from Montserrat, an adorable sun-kissed Adonis, shaven-headed, broken-squashed nose, stubbled face, thick lips, pearly-white teeth. Aged 18, the baby of the team, he was going places, or so he told them. The truth was that he worked split shifts as a Care Assistant in a local Nursing Home. Somehow, he had managed to scrape enough money together to rent a jetpack.
Rufus Pilkington-Smyth: a smarmy, toffee-nosed ten-stone weakling. Once wealthy and well-connected, the midult now managed five local estate agents’ shops from an office in Hertford.
Nigel Sparks: a ginger-haired six-foot, high-flying, Night Warehouse Distribution Manager for a national supermarket chain – based out of Cheshunt. Gormless, but immensely affable.
The flaming hot fireball hung high in the cloudless azure sky. Perfect weather for summer jet-packing and lazing around afterwards by the water’s edge over a late liquid picnic lunch. The team flew in a tight v formation at an altitude of sixty metres. The triangular formation, flown responsibly, made it impossible for the four back-markers to overfly the three forward flyers.
Rick agreed to Mia acting as forward scout to locate Tom Planter’s Field, the idyllic lakeside setting for their picnic. Tired, thirsty, hot, and irritable, without warning, she boosted. Boosted and climbed fifty metres. The immediate effect was to boost her fellow cadets into following her. Rick and Stella sat comfortably on her flanks while Nigel, Rufus, Clyde, and Nina held the back line. They safely jumped the narrow River Wid, hurtled over Swan Pond Plantation, and skipped Causeway Cottages, joining the route of the A414 trunk road to Ongar. All of them looked forward to letting their hair down. Creating a few mystifying crop-circles. Indulging in their picnic packs. Sunbathing, a discreet skinny dip wild swimming in the lake, a power nap before setting off for home: Mia’s garden landing pad opposite Harlow Common.
Thrilled, energised by her impromptu boost, Mia made out the field of golden barley by their sought-after acre or so of rippled water, sparkling in the distance. The cadets were now flying speeds of more than ninety miles per hour, an exhilarating headwind gusting in their faces. They smiled at the gleaming windscreens from a head-to-tail traffic jam far below: the impotent passengers clambering out of stalled vehicles remonstrating with no-one, waving their arms in pointless piques of road rage. The jet-packers ignored them all, riding the skies: refreshed, revived.
Without a care in the world.
****
Nervous, Scott waited in the crowded reception at The Elms Medical Centre, flicking through a woman’s health magazine while Dr Liz Meredith examined his fiancée’s breasts. When she emerged from her assessment, Evie’s face was pale and drawn. She was shaking, frightened. The news scared him half to death. Evie told him she had been referred to see the specialist, Mr Hill, at the general hospital. Said she’d like to go home. Spend the day talking with him. Just being with him? Asked if he could be there for her, to help her come to terms with the shock.
Scott promised to support her always. Forget his hobby. He felt guilty for all the wasted hours he’d spent, tinkering with his grown-up toys when he should have been enjoying her pursuits, sharing her interests. Evie took his arm, and they left. It was pouring with rain when they stepped out into the car park. The sun was shining when they left home. They hadn’t thought to bring a brolly.
Miserably, they walked along the forest road, the bright green leaves on the trees washed out, blurred, faded, like their hopes for the future. Evie felt her phone vibrate in the back pocket of her damp skinny jeans, drew it out, and checked the screen. She had a new text:
Evie, sorry I left you in the lurch on Saturday. Had to collect Lucy and Poppy from a birthday party. Just wanted you to know I miss you. I’ll support you. But I can’t leave Alice, not with the twins starting school in September. Wanted to know if you’re free for tennis next week?
Nick xx
Evie uttered a foul curse under her breath, her cheeks burning with anger.
Scott stopped walking and stared at her, ‘Something the matter?’
‘Would you believe it?’ she lied, ‘It was Alice, asking if I wanted to play tennis on Tuesday?’
‘What did you say?’
‘What do you think I said?’
Evie was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 35.
Mr Hill gave her two options: an intensive course of radiotherapy, or a mastectomy. Scott sat with her, squeezing her small warm hand, staring over Hill’s head at the rain, drizzling down the window, wishing he could turn back time. Change the tragic course of events. Make Evie better with his own magic potion. Be her warlock, her wizard of love. But there was nothing he could do, except comfort her. He stared at her flushed face knowing her mind would be working furiously. Evie’s mother died of breast cancer.
Hill sat in his swivelled chair, his hands clasped as if in prayer, waiting patiently, giving Evie all the time in the world to make the decision that could save her life. A bluebottle buzzed the window, an irritating distraction at such a testing time. Hill brushed the flakes of dandruff off his pin-striped suit.
Evie squeezed her man’s hand, raised her head, took a deep breath, and thanked Mr Hill for explaining the choices available to her. She requested surgical removal of both of her breasts. After such a traumatic experience, she fervently hoped her battle with the cancer, manifesting inside her would finally be over.
In her words:
‘Cancer drained the life out of me, made me feel like death, chewed me up until I ached deep inside. She ate right into me.’
In the end, God bless her, Evie made the ultimate sacrifice, endured the final cuts, had those stinking daughters of bitches cut out of her ulcerated breasts. Scott marvelled at her defiance, the contemptuous disrespect she showed for her bloody tumours. She left hospital and tore the thick lint dressings off her lacerated chest in front of him, in the bedroom, as he consoled her.
God, but she was brave! How he loved and admired her. How he wanted to eat her all up, his woman sundae, there and then. How she screamed in anger, pain, and rage when she ripped off her bloody swaddling.
There was no sign of her hideous tumours. Nor of those beautiful breasts he first fell in love with deep in the bluebell woods in the happiest years of their lives. Her lumps were cut out, for sure, leaving her with just torn-out, tear-jerking wounds, stitches sewn-up by the surgeon who took her breasts away. At least, she was neatly stitched. She screamed,
‘I hate you, cancer! I hate you!’
She broke down, reaching out for him. He held her close, stroked the wet hair off her scared face, cuddled and consoled her. He kissed her inflamed cheeks. Anything to quell her shaking fury, her heart-wrenching soul-pain. He felt her, first time since God knows when. Felt the unfamiliar sensation of her bone pressing like plate armour against his manly chest. Felt helpless for her. Completely lost for words. What does a loving man say to a still-young woman when she’s just been told she’ll never suckle her baby?
Evie called the cancer her she-demons. The nickname helped her cope with the cure that she dramatically requested of Hill. With the fact that, one day, her infernal curse might return to smite her, to plague her into an early grave.
So, what does a loving man say?
Scott started with what he considered to be a positive suggestion, ‘Keep fighting, darling’.
Too late for that, surely. That battle was over, wasn’t it?
He tried to reassure her: ‘Don’t worry, my angel, we’ll beat this curse together.’
‘Beat what curse, baby?’ she quizzed, all tired out, ‘She-demons not coming back, are they?’
‘No, course they’re not. Never. Not ever.’
‘You look well now, honey,’ he said, trying to flatter her.
‘You really think so?’ she sniped, ‘Without my tits?’
He ran out of patience. Couldn’t she see how hard he was trying, for her sake, to understand? Taken aback, he tried to answer. Evie interrupted sparing him the angst, soothing his pent-up frustration, reading his troubled mind:
‘Please don’t, darling. Just say you understand me, and you’ll always love me.’
‘I understand. I’ll always love you, Evie,’ he repeated dumbly, sighing with relief.
‘Well then, there’s nothing left to worry about is there?’
She smiled, kissing his cheeks, turning to face the mirror, inspect her scars, lick her wounds. Evie vented out her full fury, swallowing hard, screaming herself hoarse, a woman possessed:
‘You lost this time cancer! I won! Now fuck off out of my life and don’t come back!’
Scott was shocked. He’d never heard his wife swear before. At least he understood her now.
Evie never played tennis again. After a year in the clear, Mr Hill confirmed the devastating news. The cancer had returned. Recurrent stage IV cancer had now manifested itself in her scar tissue where the growths were hardest to treat. A sentinel lymph node biopsy revealed her cancer had spread quickly, in the form of painless swellings under Evie’s armpits, inside her lymph nodes, leaving her with swollen dead woman’s arms. Everything had been going so well, all things considered, when the dreaded blight returned. Out of nowhere. Attacking her with a vengeance. Spreading its bloody mayhem along her spine, inside her lungs, her liver, threatening to invade her brain.
Hill explained to Evie that her condition would get worse. She should, therefore, embark on a course of treatment. Expediently. He and Martinson, the radiation oncologist, recommended chemotherapy.
Why didn’t she go along with chemo? Was her hair that important to Evie?
Perhaps, Scott reasoned, it was because she regarded her flame red hair as sacrosanct, her last stand so to speak, against her cancer. Her final normality statement before she faded.
Hill and Martinson suggested that she consider alternatives: herbal, holistic, stem cell, laser-invasive, invasive CRISPR-CAS9 cell, DNA mutation therapies. They advised her to attend clinical trials for radical new drugs: untested, controversial Posi-interferons, equally lethal cell-busters.
Scott argued tearfully with her as they tried to come to terms with the enormous challenges facing them as a couple,
‘Evie, please, give it a try. What have you got to lose?’
Inexplicably, she refused further treatment. Other than sedatives and painkillers to help her cope with the excruciating pain. The somatic pain, her constant dull ache – which got worse whenever she moved. The visceral, deep-aching pain that cramped and twisted and tore at her insides. The pain that was so frequently unbearable, compounding her abject misery. Evie felt nauseous, suffered bouts of diarrhoea, constipation, lost her appetite, lost weight, exhausted herself. Most of the time she spent bed-ridden or just hobbling aimlessly around her bedroom.
She seemed hell-bent on dying with a heavy heart. Hill suggested that she made plans. When Evie asked the toughest question, he regarded her compassionately, and replied:
‘I’m deeply sorry. Without further treatment, I don’t expect you to survive for six months.’
She fell into a deep malaise, an inescapable pit of helplessness, withdrawing into a mystery-spiral of her innermost fears, entering the lair of the black dog through a shadowy doorway of despair. A door that led her to eternal damnation, impenetrable catatonic silence, struck dumb by Hill’s shocking prognosis.
They went to see the psychiatrist, Mr Mushtaq. He prescribed the most advanced medication available to him, starting with electroconvulsive therapy, lithium, risperidone.
‘Come in, please sit down, Evie. I see you brought your husband,’ Mushtaq ventured politely.
A bony, angular soul of spritely disposition, Mushtaq smelled of Old Spice, Beef Madras. He reminded Evie of the Fay Maschler-recommended Indian restaurant in Brick Lane she used to frequent before she met Scott. The wiry waiters there told the most unbelievable children’s jokes as they served up her Chicken Balti with an ice-cold Cobra, she recalled.
‘Evie?’
‘Sorry, Mr Mushtaq,’ explained Scott, ‘Evie has been a mute since she was re-diagnosed. And we’re not married. I’m her fiancé.’
Mushtaq nodded graciously taking notes on his tablet as they spoke, especially during the pregnant pauses in the conversation, not once taking his eyes off Evie. Scott saw him print off a prescription.
Bit early for that? he mused.
Evie stared blankly at Mushtaq, wincing with pain.
‘Not well, are you Evie?’ Scott said, flexing his sweaty fists. Psychiatrists made him nervous.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ Mushtaq asked him, ‘You look tired. Perhaps a sedative might.’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘That’s good,’ Mushtaq nodded furiously, sucking the leaky tip of his NHS biro, ‘Go on.’
‘Evie gets depressed these days, don’t you? Can’t sleep at night. Doesn’t want sympathy, just understanding. Gets distressed. She’s frightened of dying, naturally. Worries a lot about what will happen when she’s gone? But she’s not suicidal, are you Evie? I think we both thought, that when Mr Hill operated on her, that would be the end of her ordeal. We were so wrong.’
Evie nodded, shook her head, nodded again, and burst into floods of tears. Mushtaq proffered his red polka dot silk handkerchief which she gratefully accepted.
‘Now you must take these tablets, Evie,’ he insisted, ‘One in the morning, one at night. Please, to keep you on an even keel and help you sleep, you understand? You do understand, don’t you?’ Mr Mushtaq decreed over his hornrims, trying not to sound overly patronizing.
She nodded in the way velvety grey nodding dogs nod in car rear windows. He looked across the table,
‘Scott?’
‘I’ll make sure she does. Thank you, Mr Mushtaq.’
Mushtaq glimpsed at his watch. Eleven o’clock, soon be home time. He felt his spirits sag as they stood to go. The woman looked soulless, emotionally deconstructed, ready for her death, her eyes: black holes of utter despair. He felt her loss bore into his heart. There was nothing he could do. He blinked and turned his attention to the man: haggard, exhausted, struggling.
‘No, thank you, Scott,’ he said kindly, ‘Please arrange an appointment for one months’ time with my receptionist and take good care of Evie until next time. Mind how you go.’
Goodbye, he thought sadly.
Electro-convulsive therapy and risperidone made no difference to Evie’s state of mind. She needed professional palliative care, accepted she might have to go into a hospice. Scott saw the local hospice as a wonderful place. But, marvellous as the care nurses were, it was her last resort. Dare he say it? Evie’s final resting place.
Throughout her fight with cancer, Evie maintained, Scott was amazing. Every day he cooked her meals, did the shopping, cleaned the house, washed up, laundered, ironed, took her to the clinic, pool, and gym complex where she adopted a punishing exercise regime. Until she was too ill to continue.
He wondered how she felt, having her independence taken away from her. He controlled her bowel motions, stool motions, mealtime, bath-time, bedtime. She tried hard to push herself, to cope without his help, but failed miserably. Because he never gave her an inch of space to succeed. At least, that’s how Mia summarised the situation when they met on the back lawn.
‘I don’t know how you manage,’ she moaned, ‘I’m not letting you carry on like this a minute longer. You’ll give yourself a nervous breakdown. Just look at the state of her. Can’t you see she needs round-the-clock professional care? Evie should be in a hospice for goodness sake.’
‘She wants to spend her final days at home with me,’ Scott shouted, ‘Don’t you care at all how she feels?’
‘I’m acting out of the kindness of my heart. Everything I do for her is in her best interest.’
‘Is it now? Is it necessary to confine Evie to her bed, ban her from leaving her room? What are you trying to do, Mia? Kill her off? You seem to forget she’s your sister. Show her some damn respect, won’t you?’
‘You know what? I don’t care anymore! I’ve had enough of this. I’m leaving!’
He told her to lower her voice, nodding imperceptibly towards the house, acutely aware that Evie was watching them from behind her shuttered bedroom window.
‘Please, trust me, Mia,’ he pandered, ‘I’ll work things out. She’ll be fine.’
Truth be told, Scott found it impossible to cope, ground down by Evie’s illness. His life had become increasingly intolerable as she turned: disturbed, unpredictable. She was driving him mad. He could no longer manage realising, deep inside: he too was in desperate need of help.
His predicament came as no surprise to Mia. Was it any wonder when she considered all they’d been through? She stood in the garden, staring him out, hands on hips, business-like, tossing back her chestnut hair, trembling with frustration. Mia had heard it all before.
‘Please, let me help, Scott,’ she whispered, ‘You know I love you.’
He sighed, ‘Of course, I know!’
He glanced up at Evie, waved at her, blew a kiss at her inert mask. The face turned away.
‘Well then, that’s settled,’ Mia was saying, ‘I’ll hire a Carer. Then, I’ll find her a hospice, somewhere where she can see out her final days in peace.’
Was that a crocodile tear I saw you weep? Scott wondered.
*****
‘Ever thought about flying for charity?’ Mia asked one day, ‘Think you should, don’t you?’
Scott groaned inwardly, ‘Charity? Which charity?’
‘Any human, humane charity,’ she stressed. Mia spent most of her time stressing these days, ‘You know, hearts and minds, bodies and souls? That sort of thing. Look, Scott, if you must know I was thinking of poor Evie. How is she these days?’
Poor Evie? Scott fumed: You don’t give a damn about her, do you? Only care about yourself. Me too when it suits you.
‘Evie’s bearing up well considering all she’s been through,’ he assured her, ‘Some days are better than others. She’s a fighter and I’m with her every step of the way. We’re not going to let this beat us, Mia.’
‘You love her to bits, don’t you,’ she stated, ‘You worship the ground she walks on.’
He stared at his feet not wanting her to see his tormented face. He loved both women equally.
‘Then why don’t you do something that will make her proud of you?’ she continued, ‘Give something back for once.’
He read her like a book. Mia, the schemer, deliverer of promises, a woman who made things happen. Truth be told, he admired her ballsy strength, and more. Mia Faith was the youngest Managing Partner in the history of Blossom, Prosper & Wynn – the prestigious City law firm.
‘Sounds like you have something in mind,’ he conceded.
She grinned, ‘Haven’t I always? Sunday 15th November. I’m flying Canary Wharf Circle in aid of Cancer Research. I want you up there flying next to me if you please.’
‘November’s months away. I’ll check the diary.’
‘I already did. I hacked your Outlook. You’re free all day.’
‘You hacked my Outlook! How dare you.’
‘That’s settled then, Scott,’ she smirked.
*****
Evie and Scott were married at Our Lady of Equality Cathedral, Chelmer Valley New City, on a sun-drenched, sweltering, September Saturday afternoon. Nigel, Scott’s best man, took his side, dressed in top hat and tails, holding onto the two simple gold bands for dear life. Nina, adorably attired in an off-the-shoulder full length strapless silk pink number and an auburn wig, was the magnificent Maid of Honour, and Stella, the beautiful, bald, Bridesmaid.
Evie looked absolutely stunning in an arresting fairy-tale princess pink silk gown with a sweetheart neck, lace bodice, and layered train. The female vicar, assembled choir-children, congregation, even the collection box persons, dabbed tears from their eyes as she walked, arm-in-arm, down the aisle with her proud father, Reginald, to the inevitable strains of Here Comes the Bride. Scott swooned at the sight of his bride and had to be revived with some holy water from the chalice. Nigel carefully handed the vicar the wedding rings.
The exchange of marriage vows was, in biblical parlance, a latter-day revelation, Stella and Nina made the vow together, on behalf of Evie:
‘On this day, I give you my mind, heart, body and soul. I promise I will fly with you, hand in hand, wherever our journey leads us, together, living, dying, loving, forever and ever.’
Stella had organised a fabulous wedding breakfast for afterwards in the huge lemon-yellow striped garden marquee at the back of Rick’s country manse in nearby Purling. The Bride and Groom, keen ballroom dancers once, attempted to dance an Argentinian Tango. All too soon the wedding ball came to an end. The crowds gathered outside at dawn on the dewy lawn, chewing Parma ham and Emmental croissants or crudely swigging bubbly from greasy magnum-necks. Then the beaming couple drove off in the direction of Aldeburgh, dressed as phantom jet-packers, to rapturous applause from their startled guests.
On the happiest day of their lives.
*****
He clutched her to his chest, her bony breastplate pressing on him, her lump swelling in his throat. Evie felt lumps, painful ulcers in her breasts, once. Her loving husband ran his hairy hand over her scalp to stay the cold wind. She looked up into those clear blue-sky eyes, glittering tears trickling down her cheeks, cascading diamonds of pride. Evie kissed him: a long, lazy, lingering kiss farewell. Scott was all she had. She didn’t want to let him go. He soothed her, hugged her. Told her he wouldn’t be long. Told her he’d soon be back in her loving arms. He had to fly.
Scott rolled over and pulled the dog rose-decorated duvet behind him to keep himself warm. Savouring the decadent aroma as his face brushed her feather pillow. Eager to curl his thin, manly, body tightly around her diminutive form so that she could relish the divine presence of her clinging angel. Dying to wrap her in an intimate bundle of passion: his soft, downy, human ball of fire. Any minute now she’d smile back at him, snug and cosy in his burly arms, slide her tender fingers up and down his tingling spine.
God, he loved Evie. And she loved him. She was his universe, his galaxy, his soulmate, in a sensuous solar system blended into one huge cosmos of never-ending love. He’d be lost in a void, an eternal vacuum of cold empty space, without her. Space was too dark, too vast, for him to bear alone.
The strawberry nightshade centurions, mounted on their shiny plinths of onyx, guardians to the galactic gateways of their private universe, shone out in the night. She wasn’t there. Just a lick of mouth-damp here, a lurid slash of lipstick there, and her moult: gossamer strands of flaming red scattered on a pillow, faint body imprints hidden in the hairline creases in their crumpled sheet.
What have you done today to make you feel proud? The song played on his mind like sweet angel dust. He was so proud of her today. To think, he still had what it took: the right stuff.
‘To boldly go where no jet-packer has ever gone before,’ he dreamed, ‘To fulfil my ultimate mission in Inner Space!’
Well, something like that. He lay awake, his head crammed with hope, propped up on one vein-numb arm in Evie’s boudoir, legs spread over their gigantic candyfloss-pink bed. Full of beans. Unable to contain the tremors of excitement that coursed through him.
It was early, still dark. Remnants of frost clung to the rust-dry crisps of dead leaves in the overgrown back garden, the sugar-frosted circular landing pad. Today, Scott would fly high over Canary Wharf in the OM-24 organic mega flow jetpack he assembled in his cluttered garage. Hidden under his figure-hugging jumpsuit, covering up his undoubted heart of gold, lay a black tee-shirt with distinctive orange and white lettering:
WE WILL BEAT CANCER!
He hoped to raise four hundred pounds towards Cancer Research, a gesture of his undying commitment to eradicating the blood red curse that blighted his woman’s world, once and for all.
Now, this forty-five-year-old kid was bulging at the midriff, bursting at the seams, greying at the temples. His face: set hard like tomb-granite. His nose: big, and boxer-flat in deference to his advancing years. However, his hands and arms were strong: all the better to hug Evie with. The eyesight and hearing were good. He didn’t need spectacles or hearing aids. But Scott’s fat right leg was a veritable knot of bulbous blue varicose veins that forced the space warrior to wear thick-soled regulation army boots in case his ankles swelled, like hot air balloons, on landing.
He raised an appreciative cheer from the small crowd of spectators: dealers in futures, cyber-merchant bankers dressed down for Friday. Caught a few admiring glances from the girls in clootie-bobble hats, candy-stripe scarves, knee-length stiletto boots, as they sipped Pinot Grigio, sucking cracked-ice cubes. Standing, clustered, outside the trendy bar, glass in hand. Braving the biting autumn wind that blew chilly gusts off the open water. Cheering, waving wildly, but mainly laughing at him, as he turned and walked out wharf-side to the South Dock:
‘Go on, Old Man, show us how it’s done!’
‘Lost Robin, Batman?’
Scott prepared himself for take-off. They meant well. At least, he thought they did. Mocking him like that. Gloating. Mia felt embarrassed by their unfeeling barbs, heart-broken for him.
‘Why don’t they understand, the clowns?’ she asked herself, ‘He’s a good man, a kind man. Show him some heart.’
But they offered him no respect, only juvenile contempt. Why? Because nobody likes a loser. Because every minute of their trumped-up, high-tech life was about outperforming the odds. They had no place in their hearts for charity.
‘I’ll show you,’ Scott muttered, miserably, under his breath.
‘Careful you don’t do yourself a mischief in those tight trousers!’ screamed one of the girls, the spotty brunette one, burping on cheap plonk with her giggling cabal.
Scott smiled warmly, then raised his stiff middle finger. Bored, the group scoffed, scuffled, swore, turning their backs on the human blackbird, meandering into the warmth of the bar.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I am the Black Angel!’ he cried in a rasping, breathless, voice, like Darth Vader.
Laughing hysterically, he climbed the steps to the platform to a polite smattering of applause from Sid and Elsie, an elderly couple out walking their toy poodle. He looked back one last time at her, smiling fondly at him, and waved. She coughed and turned to go.
Mia Faith hurtled past nodding her encouragement, ‘Go on!’
Scott pulled the toggle. His chest screen flashed: jetpack engine ON! He took a deep breath. Held the jump key. And leaped! At first, he ascended slowly in hover mode like an angel. He selected boost mode to increase horizontal flight speed. Then he was flying! Free! Awesome! Invincible! Black Angel! The titanium halo floating over his head, the twin-hydro jetpack clinging to his back, his only lifelines. He soared through the sky at sixty miles an hour, just like James Bond in Thunderball when he escaped Colonel Jacques Bouvard’s chateau. His enthusiasm: impossible to subdue. Scott gazed down proudly at the mere mortals scurrying around Canary Wharf, worker ants, hundreds of feet below, startling them as he buzzed past overhead.
‘I am the master of all I survey,’ he boasted grandly.
He shouldn’t be doing this. He was fat-middle-aged, slowed down, out of shape. His GP said he had high blood pressure.
He said, ‘I’m doing this for Evie. In Her Everlasting Memory.’
Had he gone completely mad? A jetpack only lasts thirty minutes. He turned off hover mode, immediately losing altitude, falling like a stone.
Mia swooped by, ‘Pull up! Pull up!
She looked up, spotting her black birdman coming into view, zooming over Royal Victoria Docks, hurtling towards her. She could read his face now. His craggy, rugged looks. That frown of determination. His head, tiny in that huge, reinforced, ebon helmet. So vulnerable. Kind though. Warm, loving, generous.
His eyes twinkled with tears.
His ruddy cheeks squashed.
His nose bled.
He was coming her way.
‘God, but I love you, Evie,’ he screamed.
‘I love you too, babe.’
‘No! No! No! No!’
*****
He lay still, under intensive care, fully sedated, intubated, ventilated: a mess of tubes, wires, immovable plaster casts. He looked dead, but his brain was active, dreaming, hallucinating. His mind, a sea of fragmented faces, haunting screams, flashing blue lights, crews in green holding his head still, reassuring voices, the descent into darkness.
Ruth, the ICU doctor looked down at him compassionately, checked the screen: undulating with peaks and troughs, flashing lights, for his vital signs of life. The signs were encouraging. Her patient was critically ill but off the danger list, making painfully slow but sure progress. He stirred, tried to move his head, couldn’t.
Ruth gently placed a hand on her patient’s neck, felt the needle, and slowly inched it out. His eyes were closed. He felt no pain. She looked at the young Indian nurse, Hema, hair tied in a black ponytail, her brown hands: soft, caring. Hema peeled the sticky tape off his eyelids, brushed the hair off his face, felt the tension in his stubbly cheeks, mopped his brow. He was still dreaming.
The doctor gripped the thick corrugated feed protruding from his mouth and pulled it out of his throat. He awoke with a start and coughed, his breathing stilted, frightened. Hema stroked his brow, calming him. He looked so frail, stretched out on the bed, arms and legs pointing at the sky, like a dead fly on its back: unable to move or feel, paralysed from the neck down, his spine splintered, limbs stiff, swollen, shattered. Scott suffered severe head injuries. He could hardly speak.
‘Where am I?’ he croaked; his throat parched dry.
Ruth smiled, ‘Hema, I think our patient would like a sip of water.’
The nurse raised a tube to his lips. He sucked on the tube, a baby sucking on a teat, felt a little better, nodded imperceptibly. His heavy head sank. His stubbled chin rested on his chest.
‘This is the East London Hospital ICU,’ Ruth explained, ‘You have come out of an induced coma after four months. I’m afraid you suffered severe head injuries, bruising of the brain, multiple fractures of your neck, spinal column, pelvis, arms, and legs. You’re incredibly lucky to be alive. Your chances of survival were less than 50:50 when you were admitted.’
What did he think he was doing anyway, careering around Canary Wharf, Friday lunchtime, anytime for that matter? His carelessness, senseless actions, injured a disabled little boy, his mother, an Australian tourist, all of them, disfigured for life when he collided with the cable car and the window imploded, embedding shards of glass in their terrified faces.
Ruth remembered the detectives waiting impatiently outside. Chris, pouring their third cup of syrupy tea, doling out chocolate bourbons, pink wafers. They’d have to wait a little longer to interview him.
He had a visitor.
She wondered how she’d break the news to him, the consoling words. He’d been through so much torment since the collision. Since their fleeting kiss. His zephyr on her frozen cheek. Their final, endearing, enduring embrace.
The doctor appeared and asked if she would like to come through.
She sat down beside the bed, next to the man she loved with all her heart, as he lay asleep, dreaming of her. Then, incredibly, she spoke:
‘On this day, I give you my mind, heart, body and soul. I promise I will fly with you, hand in hand, wherever our journey leads us, together, living, dying, and loving, forever and ever.’
EVIE BEAT CANCER!
