Free The Bright Side by Alex Coleman Page B

solid hour. I sat down beside him and … and nothing, actually. I just sat there, listening to his wails and gulps and periodically rubbing his back. When eventually I got up to leave, he grabbed my sleeve and told me in a matter-of-fact manner that he had no plan to go on living if Jonathon died. My mouth fell open. I started to protest, but he put his finger to his lips and shushed me. It’d be easy, he said. No body. No fuss. He’d just leave the house one day and he wouldn’t come back. Then his face creased up and he pulled me closer. I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, was that understood? It was to be our little secret .
    I got away from him as quickly as I could and ran home to Gerry. He had no doubts. “The authorities” – whoever they were – would have to be informed. How would I feel if the worst happened and he followed through on his threat? The man needed help. I knew he was right, of course, and yet I hesitated. There was still a good chance, according to the doctors, that Jonathon would pull through. And even if he didn’t, there was no way to be sure that Tony would actually do anything. He’d been very drunk when he said it. Gerry was furious at me and said that if I didn’t tell someone, then he would. We argued about it constantly. He became increasingly angry as time wore on, but I came to realise that his own threat had been an empty one; he had no intention of telling anyone. Without ever making a firm decision to do so, I wound up keeping my mouth shut. I saw Tony as frequently as ever during that period, but never found a way to ask him if he’d meant what he’d said. Quite apart from anything else, I got the distinct impression that he didn’t remember saying it. I convinced myself that by bringing the subject up, I might only succeed in planting an idea that he’d never seriously considered .
    And then, slowly but surely, the news from the hospital began to turn positive. The “ifs” and “buts” that had peppered every doctor’s report gradually dropped away and the word “remission” was spoken out loud. Tony seemed unable to believe it and didn’t show any real signs of relief until he was given a firm date for Jonathon’s discharge. The day before the big event, he called at my front door. He looked like a different man, as if he’d been suffering from a demonic possession and had just had a very successful session with an exorcist. I made tea and we sat down at the kitchen table. It was the first conversation we’d ever had in which it was okay to laugh, and we did. He told me that Jonathon had demanded a welcome home party and had specified that the venture should be undertaken with an attitude of “Money is no objective”. Tony had already been planning one, of course, but had made a great show of pretending that he wasn’t keen on the idea. Jonathon went spare when he heard his dad’s protestations about being broke and having no time to get things organised and ended up calling him a “complete bastard”. Hadn’t he noticed that his son had nearly died? Hellooo? What the hell was wrong with him? My smiles and giggles gradually faded as Tony related this story, and he noticed. Did I think he had been cruel? Not so. I had to understand something – he’d been sure that he would never get the chance to tease the boy again; that it would be all hand-holding and anything-you- wants until he finally slipped away. This wasn’t cruelty; it was normality . He teared up when he said this and I found that it was contagious. Before long, the pair of us were bent double over the kitchen table. Then Tony got up and came around to my side. He leaned over me and put his arm around my shoulder. I’d been his best friend in these last few months, did I know that? Even though he had no family – no brothers or sisters, no parents, no wife – he’d felt supported and that was down, almost single-handedly, to me. He wanted to thank me, from the bottom of his heart. I had