Compound Fracture (Part 1)

I yawned and groaned in bed as consciousness reluctantly returned. Stretching, back-arched, legs fully extended, suddenly a savage pain gripped my left calf, causing me to sit bolt upright, clutching at the offending muscle, the initial belief that a giant tarantula had crawled into bed with me and plunged its three inch fangs into the fat of my leg quickly dispelled as I realised it was simple cramp, albeit a painful, intense bout.

I struggled to the edge of the bed and stamped my left foot down on the ground a couple of times, grimacing and groaning some more as, instead of lessening, the pain seemed to intensify so that it felt as if my calf muscle must surely tear itself free of the bone.

‘Aaaarrrrgggggh,’ I complained to the universe as I tried again, planting my foot squarely on the ground and stretching my toes out as far as they would go, attempting to render my foot completely flush against the carpeted floor, a technique that had proved effective during previous booze-related cramping incidents.

Carefully, now, with foot in the correct position, I hoisted myself into a standing position, and took all of the weight on the cramping leg and, miracle of all miracles, as suddenly as it had started, the pain subsided, the muscle-shredding agony replaced by a dull ache somewhere deep in the meat of my leg, a sensation I could certainly deal with better than the hobbling pain it had replaced and, besides, if past experience was anything to go by, even this would soon vanish.

‘You bastard,’ I chided my own leg, slapping at my left thigh for good measure, as if somehow it were the fault of my lower limb that I had chosen to pour two thirds of a bottle of single malt down my throat the night before.

‘Bloody hell.’

I clutched at my head for a second, rubbing at my eyes, finally shaking my skull from side to side, trying to clear my thoughts, succeeding only in bringing on a bout of nausea, though one that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

I looked at the clock.

7.35 already.

Work beckoned like a big, horrid, beckoning thing.

‘Let’s quit,’ I said to myself, contemplating it for a second, glancing at the sideboard, looking for my phone, as if sight of it would compel me to place the call.

‘Sorry, boss, won’t be in today. I quit,’ would be my opener. ‘Why, you ask? Well, I can’t stand the fact that I have to breathe the same air as you. I can’t stand the fact that molecules that once resided on you inevitably find their way onto me. I can’t stand your teeth. Or your face. Or you. So get fucked.’

I couldn’t see the phone. Not that it mattered. I would never place such a call. I didn’t possess the required testicular fortitude. Instead, just as every day, I would go in, fill out the stupid fucking forms, smile at the clients as they left my desk, some happy to have signed away the next twenty five years of their lives, others furious following rejection, still others seemingly indifferent to the whole process, just going through the motions, doing what was expected, like ants following the chemical trail left by their scouts to the fresh supply of meat and, just like the ants, most would come out the other end of the journey just fine.

Though some would not.

Where the hell was my phone?

My bowels were starting to grumble, and early morning ablutions just weren’t the same without some candy to crush. Somehow, the relentless monotony of arranging sweets on a touchscreen served as some kind of laxative in the new millennia. Where generations past relied upon caffeine or nicotine or, on occasion, something somewhat stronger to open the anal floodgates, my generation preferred to jab our blunt, skill-less fingers at an electronic device that cost more than our parents would have paid for the family car.

‘We deserve to die,’ I told the room that I was still scanning, looking for the blasted phone.

‘Where are you?’ I demanded, as if it may have gained the power of sentience and could answer me back.

‘Here I am, Ali,’ it would screech electronically. ‘Come jab at me pointlessly whilst you void yourself. Truly, imbue me with a sense of purpose.’

‘No need for sarcasm,’ I told it as I spied the device, at last, there on the windowsill and, as I moved towards it, I noticed something else on the windowsill, too. Something small and delicate. Something clearly alive, for its antennae were twitching.

‘Morning, Mr. Wasp,’ I said cheerily enough, grabbing the phone and heading to the bathroom.

 

I closed the front door as gently as I could, eager that my overly inquisitive neighbour not hear me return. A pleasant enough chap, Bert, but I really wasn’t in the mood for a conversation about the state of the wheelie bin collection service under the current Labour council. That was a Saturday afternoon conversation, when time seemed more fluid, less precious, each moment wasted on a Friday evening filled with resentment and regret.

I waited next to the front door, breath held for a few seconds, pleased when no movement was heard from the adjacent flat. Either he was out or asleep. Or dead. He could be dead, I mused, head cocking to one side as I contemplated my feelings were it to turn out to be true. I mean, he was a bit of a pain in the arse at times but, in general, he was a decent sort, with a good heart, and a mean way with cultivating strawberries, his allotment a constant source of fruit and vegetable delights, delights he was only too happy to share. It was the social contract, I guess. The unspoken agreement. You put up with my griping over trivia, I’ll provide you with a punnet of juicy, delicious strawberries whenever they are ripe.

A fair trade, really.

Don’t die, Bert.

I moved into the flat, dismissing unfounded and thoroughly morbid thoughts of my neighbours untimely demise, and set about settling in for the evening, starting with the belt of my trousers, unbuckled and loosened, left to flap around uselessly. Next came the shirt, straight off, chucked onto the bed, ready for collection post-shower and, just as I was about to bend over and take off my shoes, I noticed it. The wasp. Still there on the windowsill.

‘Hello, fella,’ I said to the arthropod, approaching.

Rather rudely, it seemed to ignore me.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ I asked it, leaning down in front of the windowsill, eyes on the same level as the insect, our faces – do wasps have faces? I suppose they do – about six inches apart, focusing my eyes, trying to peer into his, curious to see if it were possible to make eye contact with a creature whose own eyes were made up of hundreds of reflective surfaces, discovering that it was not.

‘Shy, are we?’ I asked him. I assumed it was a he, anyway. The females were queens, right, and they never left the nest? Right? I’m sure that’s what Attenborough had taught me.

I blew a little air in his general direction, not trying to aggravate him, just attempting to elicit some kind of response: confirmation of life, if nothing else.

Dutifully, he twitched his antennae and, I would have sworn, turned his head a little in my direction as if, just as I was he, he were trying to get a better look at me.

My phone rang, making us both jump. Ok, probably just me. I fumbled in my pocket, my trousers halfway down my legs by this point, and half walked, half stumbled back towards the bed, taking the call as I struggled.

‘Hi, you,’ I said.

The voice on the other end of the line was strained, and it was clear that she was holding back tears.

‘Course you can. No worries,’ I assured her. ‘Yeah, five minutes ago.’

I plopped onto the bed as we spoke.

‘No plans. Well, seeing you, actually.’

Then the tears came.

‘Look, just get over here. I’ll cook your favourite.’

She agreed.

‘See you in thirty,’ I confirmed, then, ‘I love you.’

She hung up without responding.

 

Her eyes were damp as she entered the kitchen. She had let herself in with the key I had given her a couple of months ago, the first girlfriend to whom such an honour had ever been bestowed.

‘You sure?’ she had asked at the time and, though I had answered yes, the truth was somewhat more fluid.

‘Heh,’ I greeted, dropping the tea towel, stepping towards her, taking her in my arms, feeling her begin to shake as fresh tears started to flow.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked softly, placing a delicate kiss on the crown of her head, just where her mouse-brown hair parted into three distinct areas.

She shook her head against my chest by way of response, not yet ready to talk. I kissed her again and waited and, eventually, she broke away from me and moved to the kitchen table, her back turned, now, apparently unable or unwilling to meet my gaze, so I allowed her the time she needed.

‘There’s wine,’ I told the back of her head, grabbing it off the work surface and putting it in front of her, along with a glass.

Still she would not look at me.

I put another glass alongside the first.

‘Yes, please,’ I answered the unasked question as she began to pour the first and, it was as she finished serving that she summoned the courage to turn and face me.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

It was my turn to cry.

 

As I gazed at the tiny face of the wasp on my windowsill, I focused on the two comparatively large, swollen eyes of the creature, compound in nature, a thousand-thousand refractive lenses, each projecting an image of the world into the miniscule brain of the insect which, somehow, either through scientific process or the majesty of God Almighty himself, converted the myriad images into something intelligible just as I, this evening, had morphed through myriad emotions, starting with terror, transmuting into anger and now, just a couple of hours later, settling on a dim dread infused with a tinge of excitement.

In the bed, Tina mumbled something in her sleep, turning over as she grumbled, eyes flickering as if about to wake before settling back into repose, a calmness across her features that pleased me greatly, the contrast to her emotional state just a short while ago remarkable for, unlike my insect companion, my human one was as capable of great fury or sadness as she was tranquillity or joy so, now, to see her so at peace, suffused my heart with a love so profound I felt fresh tears rise, but I held them back, choosing instead to undress quietly at the bedside, slipping in beside her, disturbing her as little as I could, killing the light, content simply to hold her in the darkness for a while, thinking about our life together now, and what it may be in the future, as something that would inevitably change us forever grew silently within her even as she slept.

 

Sleep was hard to come by, my mind awhirl with possibilities and uncertainties, meaning I overslept so that, by the time I awoke, Tina was already active, planning the day, starting with a dread visit to her parents to deliver the news and, whether considered good or bad would undoubtedly be determined by the amount of whisky her father had consumed the night before, the more the better for, when dulled by hangover, he became tolerable as a human being. When sharp and active of mind, his personality was such that cold-blooded murder seemed almost forgivable.

‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ she told me as she stood in the bedroom doorway. ‘No rush, but we need to be out of here by ten.’

‘It’s Saturday,’ I grumbled half-heartedly, teasing, really, aware that the second she left, I too would be up and about, just enjoying being slovenly for a few fleeting final moments.’

‘And, watch out. There’s no loo roll. I’ll bring some back with me.’

‘Thanks for the warning. Could have been nasty.’

‘No shit.’

‘Literally.’

And she left.

I struggled out of bed, enjoying the sensation of the soft carpet between my toes. I glanced at the windowsill. He was still there. I moved towards him.

‘You still alive?’

A twitch of the left antenna seemed to serve as a response.

‘How long do you guys live?’

One, two, three twitches. He couldn’t be counting for me. Could he?

‘Is that days, weeks, months or years?’ I demanded, chuckling as he seemed to cock his head quizzically in my direction, like a puppy dog surprised the first time he hears his master sing.

‘That’s right. A joke,’ I informed my arthropod roommate. ‘It’s what we humans call a sense of humour.’

He observed me.

‘No good? Expect you prefer a jest with a sting in the tail, right?’ I quipped, leaning down towards him, breathing out harder than necessary, watching as my breath caused his antennae to move slightly and, unless it was my imagination, he shuffled a little from side to side, as if seeking a more comfortable rest position.

‘How long you sticking around for?’ I asked him, feeling brave, now, sticking out my index finger and prodding gently at his side, just below the head, careful to go nowhere near the business end, lest the sense of camaraderie that appeared to be developing was felt only on my side.

He didn’t react at all, save for another tilt of the head.

‘You hungry?’

I took his lack of response as a yes, and headed to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a teaspoon, in which were a few drops of warm water along with some grains of sugar.

I placed the meal before him and, initially, he appeared oblivious then, slowly, he moved in, struggling with the lip of the spoon, the edge slightly too high, so I tipped it towards him. His front legs mounted the metal surface, and he bowed his head towards the water and I watched, fascinated, as a short, stubby black tongue emerged from between his mandibles and dipped first into the water, then flicked at one of the grains of sugar, which stuck and vanished as he retracted it back into his mouth then – and I swear this is true – he paused, glancing up at me, as if seeking permission to continue with his meal.

‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘Eat up.’

So he did.