Tyrant’s Blood. Fiona McIntosh
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things. Not to her, anyway.
‘A death?’ he asked as she was staring at him.
How could he know her that well? It was infuriating sometimes. The tide of emotion she’d kept at bay rose but she wouldn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. If her training had taught her anything it had taught her to hold part of herself back from patients, or risk being swallowed by misery. But there was more to not showing her sorrow. In her quietest of moments she worried that she was a cold person; someone who let few past her guard. The truth was, she didn’t particularly want to share her life with anyone. Reg didn’t count, of course. He was a stranger she’d befriended so many years ago she couldn’t remember her time in the hospital when he was not roaming the botanical gardens, ever near, always available to give her a few minutes, always able to say the right things…even when he wasn’t actually speaking. Something was missing in her for sure—the lonely gene, perhaps…the one that triggered normal people to go in search of others and make friends. She obviously didn’t possess that gene. It was as if she were a misfit, walking around a world of people she didn’t feel she was a part of. She looked like everyone, talked like everyone, even to some degree acted like them. But there was a hole somewhere—a divide she couldn’t bridge between herself and everyone else. Reg was her curious lifeline, for he too was a misfit and seemed to understand even though they never discussed such intimacies.
And so she went through the motions of life—always had…even with her parents. For many years she’d thought this was simply because she was adopted. It bothered her to the point where she’d even taken some therapy for it but she knew in her heart that this was not a learned response—something she had reacted to on discovering her adoption. No, this was deep. It was in the blueprint that had made her who she was. And its particular presence in her DNA or whatever it was, meant she didn’t feel fully connected to anyone except Reg, the hospital groundsman.
‘Yes,’ she answered, finally able to accept that Jim Watkins was no longer of this life.
He said nothing.
‘Mmm,’ she confirmed but it came out as a soft groan, hugging herself as another pang of guilt reached through her body and twisted in her gut. She was answering a question he hadn’t asked and yet they both knew the question existed, hanging between them.
She began to explain, even though he hadn’t requested any further information. ‘I try not to choose, Reg. I have to be careful.’
‘Save all.’
‘I can’t. I’m different enough already; can you imagine what the media would do if it cottoned on to this?’
He shrugged.
She gave a mocking half-smile. ‘Proper journalists are just the tip of the iceberg. The gutter press and popular magazines, the hacks and mischief makers and those awful revelation shows that masquerade as current affairs,’ she said, mugging at him, ‘they would just slurp this up.’
He shook his head now, slightly amused, mostly baffled.
‘They’d never leave me alone, Reg.’
‘You’re looking thin.’
‘That’s a joke coming from you.’
‘I could eat a horse and it wouldn’t show.’
‘You’re lying. I know you so much better than you think. We’re thin, Reg, because we’re both hollow. Neither of us are filled with anything except a strange misery. I recognised it in you the moment I met you—the moment you walked into my life and tripped me.’
‘I didn’t trip you,’ he growled gently.
‘How else would you describe it?’
‘I tripped, and stumbled into you.’
‘And stopped me from going to see the clairvoyant at the Otherworlds festival.’
‘Rubbish. We were strangers. How could I have any hold over you?’
‘We weren’t strangers. Even if we’d never met I’ve always had the curious feeling that we’ve known each other all my life.’
He made a scoffing sound, offered her half of the orange he’d laboriously peeled while they’d been talking. She took it, inhaling the fresh scent of citrus surrounding them.
‘How old are you, Reg?’
‘I’m not sure.’
She laughed.
He looked at the segment of orange in his hand. ‘It’s true. I’ve lived too long,’ he said, looking down. ‘So I’ve never really known.’
‘Well, beneath all this fuzz,’ she said, tugging at his beard, ‘you look about mid thirties.’
‘And you’re just twenty and considered a genius, so you already know what it is to have that kind of attention levelled at you,’ he replied, returning to their previous topic.
‘Exactly!’ she snapped. ‘They didn’t leave me alone for almost a year when they discovered I’d qualified for Medicine so young. It’s all quietened down again. Now I’m just another intern at another big city hospital.’
‘And uncannily, often inexplicably, saving lives.’
‘Listen, I want everyone to just accept that I have talent and I developed really early. I can’t help that. The fact that I have a sixth sense for patients can’t be helped either but I don’t want to turn it into a sideshow and that’s what it would become if we continue down the pathway you suggest. The hospital will become suspicious, the community will start to request only me for all procedures and the media will start to hail me as some sort of messiah.’
‘Perhaps you are.’
‘Stop it!’ she said, flicking him with the back of her hand.
She ate the orange, enjoying the tart explosion in her mouth and they sat in an easy silence for a few minutes and watched the world of the gardens go by—mothers pushing prams, dogs walking their owners, couples canoodling in the early autumn warmth.
‘But how come we’re so comfortable together, Reg? Do you think it’s because we’re both orphans?’
‘Because we’re friends.’
‘Name another friend that you have.’
‘I don’t have any and don’t say you don’t either, because I’ve seen you with them.’
‘Spying on me, eh?’
He gave her a disdainful sideways glance.
She tossed some pith of the orange she’d peeled off into the nook of the tree where they sat side by side. ‘You’ve seen me with colleagues and acquaintances. You’ve not seen me with a friend. The only friend I have is you. Being with you is when I’m honest with myself and can be truly myself.’
‘Then I’m privileged.’
‘So explain why that is.’
‘Because I’m such excellent company.’
She gasped. ‘You’re no company at all. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You hold long, difficult silences,’ she nodded when he was about to say something, ‘not with me, I’ll grant you, but even during the most normal small talk you manage to make whoever is with you feel incredibly awkward. I’ve watched you. No eye contact, no smiles, mainly shrugs and grunts. You terrify women.’
He shrugged as if to prove her point. ‘It’s my special skill.’
‘I wish I understood you.’
He risked placing a hand on hers, then took it away quickly, as if burned. ‘You do. And in doing so, you understand yourself.’ Reg stood, helped her up. ‘We’re birds of a feather, us two. Just accept that we’re the loners of the world and we’re lucky to have each other.’
She