stop her munchie sessions starts oinking at me. It takes all my strength not to finish it off for good by ‘accidentally’ letting it fall to the ground.
I think I ran around the campus in record time before seeing Clive’s figure in the window of the lab. Not having the chance to reduce my sweatiness isn’t helping my mood. I want to be mad at him, but right now exhaustion is winning. It’s probably fortunate for both Clive and the pig.
‘What did they say?’ I ask once Clive is off the phone.
‘They want to speak to me on Monday afternoon. Nothing to worry about, they said. You don’t need to look so concerned. I’m not in trouble.’
‘Where are you going to meet them? Do they want you to go to the station?’
‘Ah. They said they’d come and see me at home. I guess they didn’t mean here,’ Clive says, with a chuckle. ‘I didn’t really think about that when I agreed.’
‘What time did they say they’d arrive?’
‘About two o’clock.’
‘Okay,’ I say, even though it’s not really okay. ‘Will you need someone with you? I’m not sure I can get the time off with such short notice.’
‘I’ll be okay by myself. I can just get a taxi over to yours, save inconveniencing anyone. I’ve been doing enough of that as it is.’
‘Are you sure?’ I reply, knowing that I’m very unsure myself, but too tired to come up with any other plan of action.
‘It’ll be fine.’
I wish my tiredness would allow me that kind of strength of conviction.
Tess arrives back from the allotment and insists on giving Rob and I a lift back home. Not wanting to keep any of us up any longer than necessary, we ensure Clive is okay (I take a quick set of observations to make sure his flushed cheeks aren’t an indicator of anything else) before we head off.
‘Is everything okay?’ Tess gestures to the blood pressure cuff as she asks.
I should nod. I want to issue out some kind of reassurance that he’s okay, but is he really? His heart rate is fine, as is his BP, but are those indicators really telling me everything I need to know? Because something tells me knowing his heart rate is in the correct parameters isn’t telling me the whole story, and nor is Clive.
28
Clive
When all was quiet (it was surprising how busy the university campus was turning out to be in the middle of the night), Clive retrieved his allotment journal from the bedside drawer he’d placed it in. Perhaps what he’d found was a half-note. What didn’t make sense in isolation might when he found the rest of what he’d written.
It was a brown moleskin notebook and it was well-thumbed. Clive took pride in the things he’d documented inside its pages. It was not something he’d ever choose to deface unless it was very important. He’d invested time and effort into its contents.
He leafed through the journal page by page. He’d had it for at least ten years and it contained all the information about his allotment for every season. He knew what varieties of potato had done best (Maris Piper), what organic remedies he’d tried when there had been a particularly bad infestation of blackfly and in which row he’d planted which seeds each year.
Since he’d been in hospital, even though it had been with him, he’d not opened the journal. He’d not really felt like it. There didn’t seem much point when he wasn’t in the throes of planning what to do next. It would have only depressed him. Even now it made him sad that he wasn’t down there every day sowing seeds that would come to fruition over the coming weeks.
Clive cheered himself up with a sip of hot chocolate. It was the first he’d had with a tot of whisky after he’d toured the alcohol section in the Polish store and quickly worked out that whisky translated as whisky and they had some miniatures on sale. They were perfect for the job.
It was easy to find the torn page. It was like a scar in the middle of the book, reminding him of the scar in the crook of his elbow.
He shook his head at another non-memory.
Placing his mug down, he gave the journal his full attention, creasing it wide open so he was able to see. Other than the tear where the paper had been removed, there was nothing else. No other notes or indicators as to why he’d ripped