I couldn’t believe it! Michael. Michael! He’s back.
But I wasn’t going to let him in. I couldn’t have him seeing me in such a state. I haven’t had a shower for as long as I can remember and there’s this spot on my chin that I’ve had to squeeze and squeeze. Peter Falk might be able to get away with looking like he’s slept in a hedge but I’m not a famous TV detective (wearing what is surely a wig). A girl must have some self-respect/control/ soap. Thus and therefore I pinned myself to the wall and tried not to breathe and hoped Michael would go away. He bent down and pushed the letterbox open and stuck his nose right through it. I nearly had a heart attack and jumped behind our new pine bookshelf. Michael and I stayed like that for about three minutes, which is actually a very long time. Then I heard him straighten up. I knew the front door was unlocked (because nobody ever locks their doors on Guernsey) but I was 99% sure he wouldn’t come in. I took my chance and darted up the stairs. It was definitely anxiety-making, because I wanted to see him but also didn’t.
Then, when I heard him walk round the side of the house, I realised he was limping. It shocked me but it shouldn’t have. After all, he’s lucky to be walking at all. The accident nearly killed him and when he finally regained consciousness he couldn’t turn his head or say his name.
I lifted the net curtains an inch and there was Michael, inspecting the hydrangeas. He’s still as good-looking although his hair’s a lot shorter (they must’ve had to shave it to stitch his brain back in). He walked around the patio, examining the ornamental weeds and looking out to sea. Our house is at the bottom of the Village, which is also the top of a cliff. The garden runs down to meet scrubland, which borders the cliff path that runs to Fermain Bay. The whole of the Village is sort of toppling into the sea, but then, if you live on an island the sea is always near.37
I wonder if Michael remembers the last time he was here. He might not because it was just before his accident and he’s apparently lost some of his memory glands. Perhaps he needs my help. Or maybe he wants to talk about Nic. He’s been in England for half the year, so he wasn’t here when Nic went off the cliff. He wasn’t here when everything went wrong. He was lucky, really, being in a coma.
A coma is a deep sleep before you die. I was often amazed at how deeply Dad could sleep, even in the middle of the day. I used to want to prod him just to check he was still breathing. As it happens, he was in a real and proper coma when his heart stopped working. Dr Senner told me that. Some people stay in a coma for a very long time, but this is not good for you (or for the people around you). I’m not sure if that means you are better-off dead. Look at Michael. He’s back from the dead in time for Christmas.
The last time I saw him was about a fortnight after his fight with Pete. By then I was definitely in love with him, and I’d also managed to convince him that Mum needed help with the garden. Mum didn’t need help with anything, but she was out with her new best friends the Christian-Aid-Tin-Rattlers, so I had Michael all to myself. I poured him a big glass of Dad’s remaining whiskies and we sat on sun loungers, watching the powerboat races. At first I felt quite awkward and couldn’t think what to say to him. I know everything about Michael so it’s not like I need to ask questions. I know what bands he likes (Jesus and Mary Chain and The Cure), and where he bought his jacket from (Easy Rider in the Market Place), and what football team he supports (Arsenal Rovers). In the end I told him how impressed I was with how he’d handled Pete.
He sighed and stared at his hands.
‘Pete Mauger thinks he’s some fucking big shot. He walks into a room, expecting everyone to lick his arse. Fucking morons thinking they’re special.’
I nodded sympathetically but felt a bit scared.
‘This piss-pot island does it to you. It’s the same