The Rebirth of Henry Whittle

RECOVERY

Henry had come. I'd seen his reflections in the mirrors. Multiple Henries killing my English teacher, not quickly and efficiently, but slowly and messily.

I'm under Henry's arm, against his chest. He's sitting up, his back against the damp, rough wall, one knee bent, his injured leg stretched out.

I barely register Priti being carried out or Kirsten, broken, bloody but alive, being pulled from the freezer.

"Don't look Phoenix. Close your eyes and visualise home."

So, I do, because Henry has the cleaver deeply embedded in his thigh, I'm covered in my English teacher's brain matter and armed police and paramedics are everywhere. It's like the night of our car crash: blood, people, noises...death.

Me, Henry, Priti and Kirsten need medical attention, and so all the players left in the game are enroute to Hillingdon Hospital.

I travel in the ambulance with Henry. I insist. I'm not letting him out of my sight. I'm holding his hand up until they take him through to theatre. I know we're in public, and we're uncle and niece so I held back; it was excruciating.

Now one of the ambulance crew shuffles me to the assessment area. There, on a bed, I close my eyes and lose consciousness.

I wake with a white gown on and a drip attached via cannula - again! It's freaky. Pulling the stiff sheet back, feeling woozy and shaky, I seek Henry out. Wheeling my drip beside me, I read the names of my sleeping neighbours; no one I know – lucky for them – their survival rate just increased. I creep to the empty nurses' station and run my eyes down the board listing patients and their room. Henry is in a single room; K.

"Phoenix," he breathes gently as I approach his bed.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Because it's two am, the ward is quiet until a squeak, shuffle, shuffle, squeak."

He reaches for the night light above his bed. I hold my breath prepared to see a very different Henry.

"Click."

The same gorgeously grim Henry stares at me like I'm angel delight. I bend over, careful not to hurt my soldier and we gently kiss. It's phenomenal; it's a masterpiece. Fuck, I love this man.

"You look irresistibly injured. Only you can wear a bruise better than Ryan Gosling. How are you?"

"I'm feeling pretty cleaver."

Tears fill my eyes and my shoulders shakily shudder.

"Phoenix, I'm sorry, I wanted to break the tension; you know I don't do comedy."

"No, it was funny - cleaver, clever. You're making real progress."

I pause. I sit on the edge of his bed. He's upright, his chest bare, dressings covering stitches. I find a place undamaged by cuts or bruises, near his heart and rest my palm there. I never want to stop hearing Henry's heart. I never want Henry to stop breathing, like my Mum had.

"I don't know how you did it, Henry."

"Kill?"

"No. How you kept going, fighting, what you put your body through, the cleaver."

He raises his hand and gently touches my cheek, a reminder of how tender he is with me. He rests his head back and closes his eyes.

"Henry?"

"Umm?" He responds, opening one eye.

"Bring me home and make love with me...we've gotten so good at it."