“Holly! Oh thank God, I truly can’t-”
“I hope I have a hearing problem.”
“What?”
“Because I truly couldn’t imagine why I would get a call saying that an inmate at a jail in Greater Manchester would like to talk to me.”
“I, er…”
“And you can imagine my surprise when I heard it was you! I thought, wow, thank goodness it’s Simon—I obviously heard the operator wrong.”
“Holly-”
“So please explain to me, Simon, why you happen to be calling me from the county jail. I have had one of my worst days in the last five years, so I cannot imagine how anything you tell me could make it any worse. How are you even out of the hospital?”
“I said I was on the up-tick! Purefoy’s been letting me go to a nearby café every now and then for fresh air, so long as I’ve got a nurse, a little oxygen tank and a respirator.”
“Then why are you in jail right now?”
“I lost my nurse and went for a little stroll today-”
“What on earth did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“So what the hell did you do?”
“I was brought in for assault-”
“SIMON!”
“I swear to God, I can explain!”
“Simon, you are attached to a small oxygen tank twenty-four hours a day, you nearly died last month and you can’t weigh more than nine-stone. You mean to tell me that you assaulted someone?”
“Some racist bigot was hustling a coloured girl near an alley—he had it coming!”
“Well then you should have called for help, not ran headlong into a sure fight! You’re not a bloody vigilante, what’s wrong with you? Your lungs aren’t the damn problem, Simon—it’s your brain that needs checking!”
“I’ve told you a million times: I don’t have a damn brain tumour!”
“Then what on earth possessed you to assault someone? And in your condition, too! You could have been killed! And why are you calling me with your one phone call? I’ve already made it clear that I want to be left alone, Simon. And why haven’t you called Purefoy?”
“That’s the thing—he’ll never let me out again if he finds out I did this! I’ll be stuck in that room forever!”
“So you’re calling me?”
“I don’t have Miss Abby’s number!”
“Oh my God, I was mistaken—you have indeed made my day even worse than it was five minutes ago, congratulations.”
“I’m sorry, okay? But please, just hear me out: they’re letting me off the hook if I post an eighty quid bail-”
“I haven’t eighty quid, and even if I did I certainly wouldn’t spend it on the likes of you.”
“I know that! I’ve got savings, from my grandmother—I just need you to pick some of my money up at the bank. That’s all I need, and I promise to pay you for gas and everything!”
“What—you think they’ll just give me your money?”
“No! I just need you to bring me a withdrawal form, which I can then sign and give to the good people at the police station.”
“You’re meaning to tell me that I must drive for nearly an hour at eight o’clock at night to ferry you a withdrawal form? You’re insane—by far the most mentally deficient person I have ever laid eyes upon!”
“Calm down, Holly!”
“No I will not! I am a very patient person—people complement me on it frequently, but you, Simon—you are the most adept person at destroying any fortitude and serenity I have, and I’m continually amazed by how good you are at infuriating me!”
“But at least I’m good at something, right?”
“Oh! You’re—you’re despicable! Mark my words, Simon Dalaigh: the minute I get to that prison I—I don’t even know what I’m going to do, just hope that your apologies will help me recover my good sense!”
“Oh my God, thank you, Holly, thank you so much! You’re a life-saver!”
End of call.
YOU ARE READING
The Things That Stay
Teen FictionThe year is 1965: a year thrumming with promise and hope and change all around the globe. But for two people, change seems out of the question. Their worlds are rigid, stuck, fixed—and completely contradictory to one another. Holly is a frazzled and...
