Matthew 2

My eyes snap open but the rest of me seems to be paralysed. I try to move. I try really hard, but I can’t, even though I am definitely awake. I can think though. That part of my brain is working overtime, and as I slowly wake up, the fear starts again.

I wish I could stop thinking. I wish it would go away. It’s been on my mind for weeks now – ever since I started having this urge to ring Matthew, ever since that awful feeling that there was something bad about to happen.

It’s about Joel too. That’s why I’m so scared.

Just before Joel died I had dreams like this; really weird dreams, about being at college, standing outside the long glass corridor that connected all the sections together, in that bleak little outdoor space we used to go to smoke joints, and the building was on fire. I was waiting there – we all were, waiting for everyone to come out safely, and mostly they did – all my friends – and we milled around and smoked, and kept half an eye on the door, and chatted a bit, only no one was really paying attention to what was being said because we were all waiting for everyone to be safe.

I couldn’t see flames, or smell smoke, but I remember watching the fire fighters. They looked so much bigger than us, in their breathing equipment and uniforms, and they were running up the corridor and I watched and watched and T came out and Aaron, and then Ad and Nadine and Miranda and – and Joe never came. In the dream I knew it – I knew he wouldn’t ever come out, and I knew there was nothing I could do about it.

And now I have the same feeling. I know. I just know. And I’m terrified. I don’t want these horrible things to happen and I don’t want to have these dreams. I want to be an ordinary person who just goes to gigs and does a few drugs every now and again. I want my friends to stay alive, not die suddenly when they shouldn’t. I feel as if I am complicit, as if it’s partly my fault.

I should go to Matthew’s’ house, break the door down, rush past the girl who keeps telling me I can’t speak to him, only I’m not brave enough.

And then suddenly it’s too late. There’s a knock and someone shouts “telephone!” through the door. I know. I hope, all the way down the stairs, that I’m going to be wrong. I wish so hard.

It’s Danny – one of his friends. His voice is low and gentle as he tells me. I can hardly speak,

“How?”

“The same thing as Joel. He was very ill. We didn’t know. None of us did. His new girlfriend…”

I wonder how many of us had faded away from his life. If he felt abandoned, alone. It’s really hard to speak.

“I kept trying to ring. She always answered”

“She was the same with everyone. None of us were allowed to visit”. He pauses

“It’s in West Hampstead…the funeral; will you come?"

My time’s up. He needs to go to the next one on the list, I can tell. He tells me dates and a time and then he goes.

I take a breath. I am ok. I remember to say thank you. I put my finger on the buttons to end the call, then I dial Zachy’s number. It rings and I picture the little hallway in his house, willing him to hear it and open his door.

I didn’t cry when Joe died because it didn’t feel real. This time it’s different and once I start, I can’t stop.

Zach sounds irritated;

“I can’t understand you. Speak up. What are you……take a deep breath. Stop crying! I don’t know what you’re telling me”

It takes ages because I can’t stop even for long enough to make the words. I have to do it in little bits. Then he finally gets it,

“Stay there. Don’t move. Go and wait in the entrance. just stay there.”

He’s put the phone down on me. I go and sit on the floor in the foyer, my back pressed against the wall, my face in my hands.

He is there very quickly – ten minutes. He’s been running and he looks flustered; as he pushes through the door he drops some of the rolled up paper he’s carrying.

“Here look…hold this one because it’s still wet”.

He gives me the painting that isn’t rolled up, then he puts down the others carefully. He hugs me awkwardly, because of the painting, and I start crying again. Zach has never been so kind before.

“How did it happen? Stop crying. Look, I’ve brought you some paintings….It’s ok… I’ll come with you to the funeral. Will that help? You want me to? I’ve never been to one before because I fucking hate them but I will for you, ok?"

I look at him for a minute. He’s dishevelled – he hasn’t shaved for a while – there’s blonde fuzz on his face, softening the hollows of his cheeks. He’s grown tall lately, which is strange because he never eats and he has quite a big smack habit. I look at his eyes and he’s frowning slightly, then he looks away to scratch his arm and I can see the bandage on his hand. I examine the wet painting; it’s of a soldier crouching in the jungle, gun at the ready, looking out for any possible ambush. The rusty red colour is still wet..

“Zach?”

“My blood.”

And at that moment I realise how precious he is to me and I love him so much, for the blood, and the paintings, and the hug, and offering to come with me to the funeral – for all he’s done for me, and because there don’t seem to be all that many of us left anymore

“It’s beautiful”

He nods, takes my hand, pulls me gently, and we walk together up the stairs to my room.