All the Small Things (part 34)
Tom let the door swing shut and moved slowly to the counter.
“Dougie, is that you? Come on, it's all right, time to go.”
He crouched down, peered around the wastebin, saw a pair of Etnies, two pink socks, slender hairy legs. He grasped the bin, pulled it out a little way. Thin arms clutching knees, fair hair, a grey shirt.
Thank God.
But he's so pale. Why won't he look at you? “Dougie?”
Tom pushed the waste bin aside and got down on his knees. Doug cringed, pressed further into the corner, turned his head away. His eyes looked sideways, flitted from from corner to corner, shadow to shadow.
Tom pulled back, bit his lip. He's shaking so hard. What is it? Does he even know you're here? “Dougie, it's me, it's Tom.”
Come on, Fletcher. Danny or Harry would do this without thinking. Nothing to it. Everybody does it. Tom took a breath and held it, reached out, put his fingers on Doug's arm. Oh my God, so that's what clammy feels like.
Tom let out his breath and swallowed. It's like having a balloon in your chest. Breathe again. You can do it. He slid his palm onto Doug's skin, moved it up and down like Danny always did.
“Come on, Dougie. It's all right now, they've gone.”
Doug's eyes stopped their frantic movements and turned towards him.
He sees you. It's helping.
“Tom.”
Tom rubbed his arm. “How are you doing?”
“I'm sorry.” Doug's head lowered to his chest.
“Come on, it's all right.”
Doug leaned forward suddenly, reached out, wrapped his arms around Tom, put his head on his shoulder. “I'm sorry.”
The balloon in Tom's chest suddenly expanded, pushed his heart and lungs against his ribs, squeezed his stomach. His vision blurred, he tasted the tuna sandwiches he had for lunch, sour now, mixed with coffee. He blinked, looked towards the toilet, measured the distance.
No. You can do this. He needs you. You said you'd take care of him. You will do this.
Tom's arms shook as he wrapped them around Doug's body.
Danny's feet slammed onto the concrete landing. He hurtled through the door, tripped on the carpet and fell headlong across the corridor, sending his phone bouncing off the wall and skittering along the floor. He scrambled after it, grabbed it, blinked at the display. Calling Doug. He jammed it against his ear. Nothing.
“Doug. Where are you, mate?” He pulled his feet under him. Louder.
“Doug.” Which way? Left. No, right.
“Dougie, are you there? Talk to me.”
Thud thud thud, along the corridor.
Tom closed his eyes and held on. “It's all right.” You're going to be sick. “They've gone.” He needs you. “It's just us here.” It's too hard, get away. “You're safe now.” Fletch said it got harder. You can do it.
You talk when you're thinking. Listen. And the ridiculous image of a headless Ninja Turtle appeared in his head.
Tom rubbed Doug's back, forced himself to swallow. It burned his throat. He heard Danny's voice. It was very faint.
That's not inside your head, more like under your feet.
Tom looked around, saw Doug's phone beside the waste bin. He reached for it, shifted his leg and hooked it with his foot, flicked it close enough to his hand. He looked at the display, then put it to his ear.
“Danny?”
Harry reached the lobby, looked around. The receptionist he spoke to earlier caught his eye; he shook his head.
He'll be OK, she mouthed.
Just what I needed to hear. Smile, nod, move. Where? Where do I go now?
He turned and scanned the lobby. Fletch was on the far side, the Security man a little further away. Other than that, just a few random people going about their business, slowly, calmly, nothing at all the matter. On the far side of reception, an sign hung over a door. Concierge, Lost and Found.
Harry started to laugh. I should have tried there. Oh fuck. I'm sorry, Dougie, I just can't think.
Fletch waved at him from the other side of the lobby, telling him to come.
He took three steps, and then it hit him.
The line went dead.
“Great timing, Jones.” Tom rolled his eyes, lowered the phone and started thumbing through the numbers. He found the name he was looking for and pressed the call button.
“Fletch? … No, it's Tom, but he's here, he's OK. Shaky… Staff toilet, a couple of doors down the corridor on the right… Look, can you give us a few minutes? … Yeah, better than everyone bursting in at once… Yeah, if you can… Great. Cheers, Fletch… Yeah, I'll tell him.”
He rang off, moved his hand towards his pocket, stopped and handed the phone to Doug.
“Thanks, Tom. I appreciate it.”
“Dougie?”
“Keeping them away, not doing it in front of everyone.”
“What?”
“It's not how I… I wasn't sure, I thought, like, ‘Dougie Poynter, you have been evicted. You have thirty seconds to leave the Big McFly house.’”
Doug pushed away, sat with his back against the wall and stared at the floor.
“How long do I have? Zukie, his stuff, he doesn't like being moved. I'll have to call Mum, get her to bring the car.”
Tom gaped at him.
“Do I have to write a letter, sign something? What am I supposed to do?.”
“I don't understand. You want to quit? Why?”
“I don't blame you. It's pretty obvious I'm crap at the job. Sorry I let you down.”
“Dougie, what are you talking about? I thought you loved it in the band.”
“Don't mess around, I can't… I know about the meeting. It's OK, just say it. I'm fired.”
⇐ Part 33 - Part 35 ⇒