Loving Danny (23 page)

I posted the letter in the postbox at the end of my street, waiting until I had heard it flutter down and hit the bottom before I turned and walked away. Now it was too late to change my mind.
Danny’s fate lay in the hands of a faceless postal worker.

I didn’t tell my parents it was over with Danny until the next day. Mum said she would be there for me if I wanted to talk and reassured me that the pain I felt would fade. Dad just patted
me on the back and told me I was being very mature. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘you’ll look back on this relationship and wonder what you ever saw in Danny.’

His blasé attitude irritated me. I wanted to ask him how he could be so sure. He had never known, and would never know, what it was like to have a soulmate, to share that
once-in-a-lifetime connection that is beyond words.

I told Emily that I believed her and had forgiven her for the kiss, but try as I might, I couldn’t remove the image of her with Danny from my mind. It was there when we chatted, when we
hugged, when we laughed. Something fundamental in our relationship had shifted; it would take many months to repair it.

And so, I got on with the business of living without Danny. I kept myself as occupied as possible, working late and taking books and papers home to read. I e-mailed my friends abroad and rang
Debbie for a long heart-to-heart. Aching for company and consolation, I told her I’d like to come up and stay with her for the weekend. I got back in touch with Dee and planned a summer
holiday with her, after her A-level retakes. I even enrolled in an evening class in photography.

Of course I couldn’t erase Danny from my mind entirely. Everything reminded me of him: bus journeys, music, TV programmes, other couples holding hands. They taunted me, forcing me to
recall what I had once enjoyed and to acknowledge what I had now lost. Crying became as natural to me as eating or sleeping – I couldn’t remember a time when my eyes hadn’t been
sore and puffy. But I discovered that I was far stronger than I had realised. I didn’t break. Whenever I felt upset I would look to the future for comfort – to new adventures at
university, new places and new friends. Life would go on without him, propelling me forwards. Grateful as I was, it was depressing to accept that the future was unstoppable. As far as the universe
was concerned, Danny and I were just specks of matter, tiny and insignificant.

And then Danny had to go and spoil it all with one last, dramatic performance. How could I have forgotten that he never left the stage without playing an encore?

T
he call came at two p.m. on a Saturday afternoon, not quite two weeks since I’d last seen Danny. He hadn’t replied to my letter and I
had finally stopped expecting to hear from him. I no longer jumped each time my phone rang.

But, for a split second before my mobile began to vibrate, I saw a clear image of Danny in my mind, and I
knew
something was very wrong.

The number was unfamiliar.

‘Naomi, it’s Mike – you know, the keyboard player from The Wonderfulls.’

Why was Mike ringing me? How had he got my number?

‘Mike? Hi, how are you?’

‘Yeah, all right.’

I could tell from his anxious tone that he wasn’t calling to make small talk. ‘Listen, Naomi, I’m sorry, but I’ve got some really bad news.’ He took a deep breath.
‘Maybe you should be sitting down, or something. Danny’s in hospital.’

‘Oh God,’ I said. I felt my legs buckle. ‘Oh God.’

‘He’s at St Hilda’s. I thought you’d want to know.’

My mouth was suddenly so dry that I could hardly speak. Had there been an accident? Was Danny ill? Had he hurt himself? ‘What’s happened? Is he OK?’

Mike took a deep breath. ‘He took an overdose, Naomi. And he’s cut himself up pretty bad. But he’s OK. I’m going to see him this afternoon and I know he wants to see you.
Would you like a lift?’

‘Yes, please. I’d really appreciate that.’

I felt completely numb after our conversation, as if, subconsciously, I had been expecting this news. I was neither scared nor anxious – I wasn’t aware of any emotion, or any
sensation at all. And then, the strangest thing happened. It must have been the shock, but all I could think about was what to take Danny in hospital. What do you give somebody who’s taken an
overdose? Grapes? Chocolates? Magazines? Who could I ask? Danny had felt so desperate that he wanted to die – almost certainly because of me – and all I could worry about was whether to
run to the corner shop and buy a pound of red seedless or the
NME.
I was driving myself mad with the simplest, most inane decision.

Mike rang the doorbell an hour later. I waited until he was standing on the doorstep before I told my parents where I was going, so they wouldn’t try to stop me. I knew they’d never
argue with me in public, in front of a stranger.

‘Oh, Naomi,’ said Mum sadly as I left. ‘I do hope you know what you’re doing.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Give Danny our best.’

The car journey was uncomfortable. Here we were, two people who hardly knew each other, thrown together by something unspeakably horrible. I wondered if Mike knew that Danny and I had split up
and, if he did, whether he blamed me. Was it my fault? Had Danny hurt himself because I’d left him, because I sent that letter?
What have you done, Naomi, what have you done?

‘Have you brought him anything?’ I asked. Anything to break the silence, to stop the guilty voices in my head.

‘No,’ he replied, glancing over at me. ‘But I took him his iPod this morning.’

‘You’ve already seen him?’

‘I was the one who found him, Naomi – last night. I didn’t want to call you until I knew he was all right. And it took some time to get your number.’

‘You found him?’

‘Yes. He called me yesterday afternoon, saying he wanted to rehearse. I thought it was odd; we never rehearse on a Friday and we haven’t got together for weeks. I was the first to
arrive. The door was on the latch and I found him lying semi-conscious on the living room floor and called an ambulance.’

‘How awful,’ I said, remembering the shock of Danny’s blood on the carpet. Poor Mike. This must have been far worse.

He nodded. ‘It wasn’t nice.’ He paused, evidently visualising what he had seen. ‘He must have meant for me to find him. He’d taken some pills and cut a kind of
circle into his arm, with a knife.’

‘He cuts himself, Mike. He’s done it before. Did you know that?’

He didn’t flinch. ‘Everyone knows Danny has problems. They’ve got worse since we didn’t get the record deal. To be honest, it’s caused the band a lot of hassle. We
were talking about winding it up.’

‘Winding up The Wonderfulls? Oh my God. But you’re so good.’

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Cheers for that. It’s all getting to be too much like hard work, though.’

‘Do you think it’s my fault, Mike?’

‘No!’ He laughed. ‘Of course not. You’re the best thing that ever happened to him.’

He had meant to be kind, but hearing that made me feel even more guilty.

‘I dumped him, Mike. A couple of weeks ago.’

‘Oh, Naomi, he didn’t tell me – I had no idea. I wouldn’t have called if I’d known. He asked for you – I assumed you were still together.’

Danny hadn’t told his friends we’d split up? Hadn’t he understood my letter? How could he not believe it was over?

‘No, no,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I’m pleased you did. I still love him. I’d hate to think of anything happening to him and nobody telling me.’

We had arrived at the hospital. Mike parked and came round to my side of the car to open the door for me.
He’s a gentleman
, I thought,
just like Danny.
We walked into the
building together in silence and Mike called the lift. ‘He’s in a ward on the third floor,’ he said, squeezing my shoulder. He had noticed that I was starting to shake. ‘Let
me go in for a couple of minutes first and then I’ll come out and get you.’

I paced the corridor. St Hilda’s is an old Victorian hospital, Gothic and grand on the outside and dilapidated on the inside. The walls were yellow-white, the curtains faded and tatty, and
the fixtures and fittings chipped and outdated. Thankfully, there was no smell. That’s what I dreaded most about hospitals – the stench of urine and chlorine and sick all mixed together
like the devil’s perfume. My grandma had reeked of it when I went to visit her, a couple of years before. She had died the next day. Now, whenever I thought of her, I caught a whiff of it in
my nostrils again. I didn’t ever want to associate that smell with Danny.

Mike came to find me a few minutes later. ‘He’s OK,’ he said. ‘He’s looking forward to seeing you. I’m going to get off now.’ He kissed me on the cheek.
‘Good luck.’

He pressed a piece of paper into my hand. ‘My number – in case you need to call me.’

So Mike had only come back to bring me? What a kind thing to do. Perhaps, if things had turned out differently, we could have become friends. Now, I would probably never see him again.

I steeled myself before I pushed open the double doors and walked into the ward.
Daisy Ward
, it was called.
Danny would hate that
, I thought. It wasn’t exactly rock and roll.
I had no idea what to expect, what state Danny would be in, what he would look like.

A nurse stopped me. ‘I’m here to see Danny Evans,’ I said.

She smiled kindly. ‘You must be Naomi. He’s at the far end.’

I walked past rows and rows of beds: old men, dozing or coughing; middle-aged men hooked up to machines and drips; young men staring vacantly into space. Some looked up at me expectantly,
perhaps hoping that I might have come to visit them. It wasn’t until I had neared the end of the room that I saw Danny. My stomach lurched. He was propped up against some pillows, wearing a
blue hospital gown, with tubes coming out of his hand. His hair was lank and greasy and he had at least three days’ growth on his chin. He didn’t look like Danny – this guy was
much older, much smaller in build. If I hadn’t known he was there, I might have walked straight past him.

‘Omi,’ he croaked as I approached his bed. ‘It’s so good to see you. Thanks for coming – I knew you would.’

Did he?

He beckoned me to sit down beside him, moving his tubes out of the way. Now I could see that his arm was covered in a large dressing and there were black marks on his chin, remnants of the
charcoal the doctors used to pump his stomach. He held out his hand and I took it. It was like holding hands with a ghost.

‘Sorry about the wires,’ he said. ‘They’ve got me on an antibiotic drip, to stop infection.’

‘Oh, Danny, what have you done? I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘I’m sorry, Omi,’ he said flatly. ‘You shouldn’t worry.’ Then his voice became more animated. ‘Look – I’ve got something to show you.’
He dropped my hand and started to unwrap the dressing on his arm, wincing with pain as he did so.

‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Please don’t.’

But he ignored me. He pulled away the bandages and pointed to his arm. ‘See it, Omi? See it?’ I forced myself to look. There before me, on his forearm, was a large, deep, angry
wound, in the shape of a uneven circle, just as Mike had described.

And then it hit me. It wasn’t a circle. It was an O – O for Omi.

‘I did it for you,’ he said, almost proudly.

It was too, too horrible. I felt a rushing in my ears and, for a second, everything went black. I gripped the sides of the bed and breathed deeply, until the room came back into focus. How could
I not have realised how ill Danny was? He was out of his mind. Even now, he was playing games with me. Just as he had planned for Mike to find him, so he had known that if he did something
desperate I would come running back to him.

I couldn’t look at him. ‘No, Danny, no. This wasn’t what I wanted. Don’t you understand? It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s just so difficult for me.
And doing this doesn’t help – it makes it worse.’

‘I wanted to show you how sorry I was, how much I love you,’ he pleaded. He tried to re-dress his arm, folding the bandage back over itself. But the ends hung limply, rolling
outwards again and exposing his wound to the air.

‘I’ll get the nurse,’ I said.

‘No, stay and talk to me for a bit first please.’

‘OK.’ I took his hand again. I didn’t know what to say.

‘You could have just got a tattoo, like anyone else would,’ I said eventually. It was a feeble attempt at black humour.

He laughed, in spite of himself. ‘That’s what I love about you, Omi. You always speak your mind. Everybody else has been fussing around me, scared to say the wrong thing. How could I
have let you go?’

‘You kissed my sister,’ I said, my voice suddenly serious.

He hung his head. ‘I know and I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry I did it and I’m sorry I lied. But I did it because I love you. I was missing you so much and then I saw Emily
at the party and she reminded me of you and . . . it just happened. It was you I wanted, not her.’

It was an explanation, an apology, of sorts.
Too little, too late.

‘OK, Danny, I understand – kind of,’ I said. ‘But if you’d just come clean when I came round, we could have sorted it all out then. Maybe.’