Free Sleight of Hand by Nick Alexander

has died as well. I can be so selfish sometimes, it scares me.
    I send him a guilty text. “Thanks babe. Sorry about the me, me, me. Love you masses. xxx”
    Ricardo immediately answers with, “But if love is never having to say sorry … ?”
    â€œAww … he knows Love Story,”
I murmur.
    After much rather gruesome digging around, I find a front door key in what I assume to be Jenny’s mother’s handbag. Unable to get any information from the hospital other than the generous visiting times (two-thirty to eight-thirty) I eat another round of crumpets, put my vomit-stained trousers in to wash, and head off on foot towards the town centre.
    The grey featureless day does little for Camberley. The pavements look dirty and grey, the houses repetitive and mundane. The town centre with its mall, and its Boots, Body Shop, and Superdrug is so generic it could be literally any town in Britain.
    The crisp clean air and scintillating light, the postcard beaches and fragrant forests feel truly an ocean away today. It’s never until you leave that yourealise what you’re leaving behind. And it’s never until you return that remember why you left in the first place.
    *
    I haven’t really thought much about what to expect at the hospital. I suppose that if I guessed I would picture Jenny sitting up in bed, looking chipper, and being rude to the nurses. Or perhaps, perched on the edge of the bed waiting to be taken home – irritated because I am somehow, “late.”
    In fact, she is snoring lightly when I arrive, so I sit and watch her sleeping, and wonder if the greyness of her complexion is caused by lack of makeup or if it reveals something unsettling about her condition.
    Some fifteen minutes into my bedside vigil, I glance over and see that she has one eye open. I tip my head sideways and lean into her field of view. “Hello you,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
    Jenny stares at me in silence. She looks sad. If she is thinking about anything, I would guess that it’s the loss of her mother. Poor Jenny, she’s really not having a good month. Thinking back to Ricardo, and Nick, and her dad, and her brother, I realise sadly that she isn’t having a particularly good
life
.
    Suddenly emotional, I swallow with difficulty. “Are you OK?” I ask. “How are you feeling?”
    Because she still says nothing, I murmur, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and cross the ward to speak to a nurse.
    â€œExcuse me, but, Jenny Holmes, she looks awake but she isn’t speaking … Is she OK?”
    â€œHer over there?” the nurse asks in a thick Polish accent. “The girl who have seizures last night?”
    â€œYes. Did she have more?”
    She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just know she have seizures.”
    â€œRight. She’s not answering me. Is that normal?”
    â€œShe’s tiring, I expect,” the nurse says. “They always are after seizure.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œShe just needs sleep,” she says.
    â€œShould I just leave her then?”
    â€œSit with her. I’m sure she like that. But don’t expect too much talk.”
    â€œRight. And do we know … you know …
why
, yet?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy she’s having seizures?”
    The nurse shakes her head. “She’s book for CT scan at four, so we know more later. Now, I’m sorry, but I have to change dressing, so …”
    â€œSure, sorry.”
    I take a deep breath and return to Jenny’s side. “Are you actually awake sweetie?” I ask. “Because I’m not even sure if you can hear me.”
    Jenny rolls her eyes, which I take as confirmation not only that she can, but that the sarcasm centre of her brain is still working.
    â€œDo you need me to do anything?” I ask. “Do you want me to bring Sarah in to see you?”
    Jenny’s brow wrinkles, her