Almost Forever Read online

  ‘The last person I want to see is another doctor,’ I joke bitterly but Harry is not laughing. ‘I’m okay, I promise. It’s just this constant headache today. It’s extra painful for some reason,’ I say, closing my eyes for a minute, and pressing firmly against the tender spot on my shoulder. I dig in with my knuckles, trying to get some relief.

  ‘Paul will get better soon. It’s just a matter of a few more days. We just have to be patient,’ I say really wishing that was the truth.

  ‘Fran …’ Harry is about to say something, but before he can continue, a knock at the door booms across the corridor, interrupting him. I open my eyes in surprise.

  ‘Are you expecting someone?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘I have no idea,’ I tell him when he stands up.

  ‘Right. I’ll get it then, shall I?’ he says before walking out of the living room.

  ‘Thanks, you are a star!’ I call after him, moving the cushions around and trying to get a little more comfortable. As I settle in my freshly arranged nest, I hear an indistinguishable chatter coming from the corridor. I don’t recognise any of the voices so I start to wonder who it could possibly be.

  After a few seconds Harry re-enters the room. Two people are following him: a wiry teenage boy and a petite lady just a step behind. She looks too old to be his mother but they resemble each other so I assume they are somehow related. They both stand near the door of the living room, as if they don’t feel welcome enough to walk in all the way to me.

  ‘Please come in, have a seat,’ offers Harry but they just remain rooted to that same spot.

  I look at them with detached curiosity, and even if they look somewhat familiar, I can’t quite figure out who they are and why they are here.

  ‘Mrs FitzRoy …’ says the boy and I flinch at his words because I’m still legally Francesca Willson. I swallow the pain caused by that thought as he continues, ‘We are very sorry to disturb you. I’m Fahim.’ He stutters a little as he introduces himself. ‘And this is my grandmother, Tanjila.’ He turns his head slightly towards the woman at his side. ‘Sorry, she doesn’t speak much English,’ he explains as I wait patiently for him to tell me why they’re in my house.

  He is young, probably sixteen. His dark complexion highlights the pale jade colour of his eyes. Under his open parka, he is wearing jeans and a grey jumper and he looks just like one of the many boys who live in the neighbourhood, and because of that, the woman next to him stands out even more.

  She is dressed in a beautiful red sari embroidered with gold-coloured decorations that start on the hems and run all the way down the sides, intersecting the intricate patterns of the fabric. She wears a matching headscarf and a thin chain connects a gold earring to the metal circle pierced through the side of her nose. Her skin is darker than her grandchild’s and her eyes are midnight black. She is clutching a foil-covered dish.

  We wait in silence, patiently, for a reason as to why they are standing in my living room, dressed for a Monsoon wedding, and bringing a gift. The silence is growing increasingly awkward and even Harry is looking between us, waiting for some sort of explanation.

  ‘We brought you Nokshi Pitha,’ the boy says proudly. ‘My grandmother made them for you and your family to say thank you. We are truly sorry for what happened to your husband and extremely grateful to him.’

  I try to remain neutral at his words and not reveal that shock and heartache have ripped through me.

  ‘Do you know Paul?’ I ask, swallowing loudly.

  Fahim nods. ‘I’ve seen him in our off-licence sometimes. He saved my mother …’ And then his voice breaks and the silence descends between us as we wait for him to recover.

  I watch him as he fights to get his emotions under control again.

  ‘My mother was alone in the shop. It never happens,’ he adds quickly, the need to justify himself clear from the guilt in his tone. ‘If I’m not in, one of my uncles usually comes to keep an eye on things. It was mid-morning, broad daylight, and I just popped out for a minute. I didn’t think …’

  He takes a deep breath, shakes his head a little. ‘Even when I saw them walking down the pavement on the other side of the road, I didn’t think much of it. There were four of them. I gave the police the most accurate description I could.’ His voice wavers slightly as he continues. ‘I don’t usually make assumptions and judge people for how they look, so I ignored them even after they called me names and shouted death threats. I dismissed them, shook off their racist slurs, even justified their behaviour thinking they were probably drunk.’

  He swallows, looks away then returns his gaze to me. ‘I was wrong. I should have followed my instinct and …’ He looks down, his shoulders sagging. ‘My mother, she, well, she’s still in hospital. They broke her wrist. She may lose her sight from the injured eye and the doctor had to put ten stitches across her forehead, but she’ll live.’ He lifts his head and his eyes are now filled with fire. ‘The police said she was lucky that your husband came to her rescue. It wasn’t a robbery, Mrs FitzRoy; it was a hate crime and they would have most likely killed her.’

  He clears his throat and I sense my heart filling with rage at the thought of what they may have done to that poor woman, if Paul hadn’t stepped in. I shiver at the thought.

  ‘We owe your husband for her life and we are deeply sorry that he’s in a coma.’ Fahim looks at Harry and says, ‘I looked at the footage from the CCTV.’ He cringes slightly before adding: ‘One of them reached for my mum and, while holding her by her neck, he pulled her out from behind the counter. That was when your husband walked in. She said he could have easily walked away, maybe stepped out and called the police, but he didn’t.

  ‘He headed straight for the one who was holding her and confronted him. He managed to strike a punch before the other three turned on him. The one who had my mother by the neck slammed her head against the counter and then crushed her wrist under his shoe when she crumpled to the floor; then he took a bottle from one of the shelves and smashed it against the counter and turned his back at her to …’

  Fahim turns to look at me leaving his sentence unfinished. ‘Anyway, she thought she was going to pass out because of the pain in her arm, but when she saw what they were doing to your husband, she crawled towards the register and pressed the panic button. When they heard the alarm going off … they … they threw your husband on the floor and …’

  His voice breaks a little so I finish the retelling, because I can tell he doesn’t have the heart to paint such a horrific picture for me.

  ‘They kicked Paul unconscious and left him bleeding to death.’ I look at him and then say, ‘Your mother was really brave, Fahim. Please thank her from me.’ My words are full of sincere gratitude, knowing that Paul would have been even worse if she didn’t call for help when she did.

  Fahim doesn’t know what to say. His lower lip is trembling slightly and I see his eyes are shiny with tears. He’s only a boy, worried about his mum, I remind myself while looking at this young man with such great strength in his heart and plenty of courage. When he sniffles, and his pain fills the air around us, I can no longer contain the emotions inside me. Tears stream down my face too. I try to dry them away, while he just lets his flow and drip from his chin as he stands, head high. I admire him for it. I stand from my place on the sofa, move over to Fahim and hug him tightly. We stand together for a heartbeat that feels eternal.

  I break away from the boy when Fahim’s grandmother takes a step forward. She lifts the tray in her hands. I’m astounded by her gesture of kindness that I can’t reciprocate.

  ‘I don’t have anything to offer in return,’ I say more to myself than to them, but the real reason for my embarrassment is that I know I don’t deserve her generosity.

  There have been moments in the past few days when I’ve wished that Paul never set foot in that off-licence and that makes me feel guilty.

  I turn away from them and sit back on the sofa, trying to hide the truth flashing behind m
y eyes and the disappointment in myself at my horrible thoughts.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Harry, stepping in to compensate for my lack of action. He takes the tray from Fahim’s grandmother’s outstretched arms. ‘This is very kind and totally unnecessary. We are humbled by your sympathy,’ he adds, placing the tray on the coffee table as I move back to my place on the sofa, subtly reaching for a tissue to dry my cheeks.

  ‘These are so beautiful,’ says Harry, lifting the foil and unveiling a dozen dainty cookies that parade an intricate design so unique and special that I’m struggling to believe they were handmade. Harry is saying all the rights words and I’m so thankful he’s at my side.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ Harry offers again, pointing at the two armchairs that are facing the sofa where I’m sitting. ‘I’ll get you a tea or a coffee so you can tell us how you made these incredible decorations by hand,’ says Harry with his amazing charisma, which is always waiting to shine through.

  Fahim politely refuses the invite, unwilling to intrude further into our privacy, he says, and I sense they have done what they came to do and they are now ready to return to their family, to their own sorrow, to their own pain, to their own journey back to normality.

  Harry thanks them again, and so do I this time, actually managing a few words of gratitude. I wish Fahim’s mum a quick recovery and promise to come to the shop with Paul as soon as he’s out of the hospital.

  When they leave the room, I press my hands to my face and rub my eyes, trying to dissipate the irrepressible despair I feel at the thought that I’m promising too many people that Paul will get better soon while my hopes for his recovery are dimming with every minute he spends in a coma. I try to compose myself knowing that Harry will return shortly; but when he appears in the doorway and looks at me, I know that any attempt to hide my distress will fail.

  ‘They were very kind to come over with a gift, given their own tragedy,’ he says with a sadness in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. I nod in agreement. I know that if I speak my voice will tremble. ‘That woman is an artist. Have you seen how beautiful these cookies are?’ he asks in a weak attempt to make small talk, but when my lower lip quivers he comes and sits on the sofa next to me and takes me in his arms. The sobbing starts and he holds me until I manage to stop the tears that are inundating my eyes.

  ‘What Paul did …’ Harry says, his mouth muffled in my hair, his sentence unfinished. ‘He’s a hero, Fran. Don’t ever forget what he did. Whatever happens, he saved that woman’s life.’

  ‘I know,’ I answer, trying to breathe through the lump in my throat. ‘I’m just so scared, Harry. I … I can’t think of what I’ll do if …’

  ‘Paul saved Fahim’s mother’s life; he showed the world how brave he was, how brave anyone can be. Now, it is your turn to be brave. Paul needs you, Fran, and so do I.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can, Harry. I don’t know if I can be brave. I’ve never been brave before so I really don’t know if I can do it …’

  His laugh cuts off my sentence.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ My tone is bitter.

  ‘Because you are one of the most fearless people I’ve ever met!’

  I can feel my forehead wrinkling up with surprise at his statement. ‘Me? Are you kidding?’

  ‘No,’ he answers, drying my tears gently with his thumb. He’s done that many times before. ‘Do you remember the first time you came on holiday with us in St-Tropez?’

  ‘Of course, I do.’ I think back to the sun, the beach, the many summers of fun and the years full of teenage angst. I think of the happy memories I have of my holidays with Harry; I think of Paul and the night we finally got together. So much happened there. My past is tightly entwined with that villa in the South of France.

  ‘You stepped on a sea urchin, remember?’ he asks again.

  ‘Yes, I remember, Harry. If you step on a sea urchin there is no way you’ll ever forget it.’ I shiver at the memory.

  ‘A couple stopped to see what happened and the husband suggested that you immediately go to the hospital. You laughed in his face and pulled it out yourself right in front of him. You were only eleven. That’s brave!’

  ‘Maybe.’ I shrug off his compliment. ‘Or maybe I was just obnoxious and stupid. Because a few spines broke off under my skin and your dad had to take me to the hospital anyway.’

  ‘You were unlucky,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘Doesn’t take away from the bravery.’ And before I can stop him, he’s reciting other examples of my so-called courage.

  ‘Okay then. The excavation in South America. You went when no one else from your course wanted to go … How about that one?’

  ‘The media had exaggerated the danger. The political situation wasn’t that unstable, especially in the remote location we were digging, so really there is nothing to say about that one.’

  ‘Still, you went. Gutsy.’ He pokes me in the side and I can’t stop my lips from curling upwards.

  ‘I hate that word …’ I whine.

  ‘Fine. I won’t use that word. But it doesn’t change the fact that you went.’

  ‘Yes, I did go, and everyone, including you, thought it was a stupid decision to take the risk; so maybe I was just reckless … The excavation didn’t bring any good finds anyway. So, all in all, I shouldn’t have gone.’

  ‘Just stop it!’ he says, looking at me with serious eyes. ‘I can’t stand self-deprecation that borders on self-pity. So just pull yourself together and dig out that fearless, reckless, obnoxious, gutsy girl I know and love, because you have a battle to fight and you are not going to win it with that attitude.’

  ‘I …’ I’m trying to find the right words to explain to him that I feel guilty for what happened to Paul and every time I look at him in that hospital bed, every time I think of what happened to him, the sense of responsibility I feel cripples me.

  ‘It’s my fault, Harry. It’s all my fault,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Don’t be stupid!’ Harry says, holding me by the shoulders, almost shaking me, but not quite. ‘The only guilty people are the ones responsible for what happened – those racist bastards who attacked Fahim’s mother and put my brother in a coma. No one else is at fault here.’

  ‘I know that. Rationally I know, but if I didn’t ask him to get the money for Cecilia, if I didn’t get my heart set on that stupid Japanese maple tree,’ I say, taking a deep breath. ‘We would have just called a taxi and gone to the airport.’

  ‘All right,’ Harry says, with a resigned tone. ‘But Fahim’s mother would be in the morgue instead of recovering.’

  ‘Oh my God, Harry, how can you say that? I’m glad Paul saved her.’

  ‘Good, because Paul saved her life and that’s the only thing that matters here.’

  ‘Of course, it matters. All lives matter. I just can’t stop thinking that I sent him there …’

  ‘Fran! Stop. Thinking like this isn’t healthy,’ he says. ‘If you start down that road, we could go on forever shifting outcomes, shifting the blame. What happened, it’s not your fault, Fran.’

  ‘No …’ I say, shaking my head at the recognition that Harry is right. ‘It’s not my fault and do you know what else I realised?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I realise that I do need to dig up my feisty side because I want those bastards who put Paul in the hospital to spend a very long time behind bars.’

  ‘Now you’re talking, sister …’ says Harry, taking my face in his hands and placing a loud kiss on my forehead. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  Chapter Five

  It has been two weeks since Paul was assaulted and there’s been no improvement in his condition. Not a small encouraging flutter of eyelids, or a response to their constant testing. I keep walking into his room with a smile, carrying a new book or an old photograph, hoping that soon I’ll find something that will trigger a response. Nothing has worked so far.

  While he lies unconscious in a hospital bed, so much else is happening because
of him and for him.

  True to our words, Harry and I set things in motion to ensure justice would be served. We reached out to our contacts, even the most tenuous acquaintances, so that Paul’s story got as much coverage as possible. With Harry being a freelance journalist he knew exactly who to call, who to send this story to. But it also helps that as soon as we mention the name ‘FitzRoy’ many doors open for us.

  While we worked to amplify the message through the media, Fahim and his family did the same within the community. Soon enough the men who had caused so much trauma that day had nowhere to hide. They were caught yesterday when the police took down their neo-Nazi organisation, which was radicalising young people from a disadvantaged background in and around South London.

  ‘Paul, your picture is everywhere,’ I tell him, holding his hand as I sit in the chair next to him. ‘You really need to wake up now … The press wants to talk to you, the BBC has mentioned the possibility of featuring your story in one of their documentaries, people around the world wrote about you on every social media platform you can think of, even the Prime Minister commended your actions. There is even a hashtag for you – no, I’m not kidding: someone started it and #paulwakeup is trending. Look,’ I say lifting my phone in front of his face. I wait a few seconds, my heart in my throat. This is it, I tell myself, he’s going to wake up. ‘Never mind, we’ll look at it another time.’

  I continue to tell him about all the nice comments people have made online. I pretend to be jealous of the many declarations of undying love he’s received in the letters the postman delivered in the past few days. I mention the remarks of the numerous well-wishers that I encounter every time I step in, or out, of the hospital ward.

  He may not be reacting but I know Paul can hear me; I know he can feel people everywhere cheering him on. The wave of optimism around me makes me feel stronger and with that conviction I decide that Paul is just about to wake up.