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Pressing the makeshift bandage harder against his arm, Bill stumbled through the doors of the accident and emergency department and went up to the desk. He checked himself in, trying not to specify exactly how he got the deep cut on his arm, and then slumped into the nearest chair. He let out a shuddering sigh, and tried to rub the congealed blood from his fingers by wiping them on his trousers. He didn’t have much success, and, sighing, looked around the waiting room.
Sat across from him was a man who looked about his age, and it wasn’t exactly difficult to work out what had happened to him. He had a split lip, a bleeding nose, and a black eye, his blonde, chin length hair was matted with blood, and he was clutching his arm to his chest, clearly in a lot of pain. He chewed on his lip and bounced his legs up and down, looking like he was about to burst into tears as he stared down at the floor. He was dressed rather formally considering how late it was; he was wearing a blue suit with a Union Jack pattern on his waistcoat and smart shoes, reminding Bill of an office worker.
But he didn’t look very smart: his waistcoat was covered in droplets of blood, the elbows and knees of his suit were ripped, blood was soaking through several patches of his trousers, his shoes were scuffed and his tie had clearly been pulled on by whoever hurt him, because the knot was now tiny, and the tie now extended right down to his knees. He appeared to be humming a tune, but Bill couldn’t work out what it was.
Bill peeled the tea towel off of his arm, and had another look at the cut. The bleeding was showing no sign of stopping; he was definitely going to need stitches. Feeling a bit sick, he covered the gash again, grimacing at the stinging pain it caused.
He looked up at the clock – it was eleven thirty at night, which explained why almost every other person in the waiting room seemed to have ended up here because they were drunk. Except the man sat opposite him.
Bill knew he should probably mind his own business, but he was so bored and this bloke looked so upset that he just decided to do it. He shuffled forwards slightly in his seat, and cleared his throat. The bloke jumped and looked up at him, his eyes focusing on the top of Bill’s head.
“Hi, there, mate,” he said, trying his best to smile and ignore the pain and light-headedness that was only getting worse as he lost more and more blood.
“Hello,” the man said, in a very formal, upper class accent that sounded oddly flat. His voice was quiet and shaking slightly.
“My name’s Bill,” Bill said. He considered offering the bloke a hand to shake, but stopped himself when he looked at his blood coated fingers.
“I’m Tim,” the bloke said. He wiped his bloody nose on the back of his hand and smiled, but he wasn’t looking Bill in the eye.
“Hi, Tim. Um,” he said, trying to think of something to say, “how long’ve you been waiting in here? I’ve only just arrived.”
Tim shrugged, and then winced. “Fifty eight minutes. And I’ll probably be waiting for quite a while yet, as it’s very busy in here. It might be two hours before you get seen – unless you’re condition is worse than mine.” Tim leaned forwards and stared at the tea towel wrapped around Bill’s forearm, frowning. “That looks like a very deep cut.”
“It is,” Bill said, smiling weakly.
“So you might get seen more quickly,” Tim continued. “That’s what triage is, you see. If you’re condition is considered life threatening, you’re put in the red category, and get priority over everyone else. Then there’s amber, for people who need to be treated very soon to stop their condition getting even worse. You might be in that category, if you’re losing a lot of blood. I’m probably in green, because, whilst I’m in a lot of pain, I probably...” Tim trailed off, his very pale cheeks flushing slightly. “Sorry. I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
Bill smiled, not wanting to stress Tim out further.
“A bit,” he said.
Tim smiled back and wiped his nose on his hand again. “Thank you for not shouting at me.”
Bill frowned. “Why would I want to shout at you?”
“Because people usually shout at me when I’m babbling. They always say something like ‘shut up, Tim! You’re so annoying’. So your reaction made a change.” Tim said, and for a few seconds he appeared to have tears in his eyes.
Bill smiled sadly, feeling rather sorry for Tim. But he didn’t know what to say to express this, so he just kept quiet. Tim didn’t seem to mind the silence; Bill heard him start to hum the same tune again as he stared into the middle distance.
They both looked up when another man slumped into a chair two seats down from Tim. He looked far too excited and hyper considering where he was, and that was what drew Bill to him. And then he looked at him properly, and his eyes widened.
His hair was singed like it had caught fire, and his whole face, with the exception of the skin around his eyes, was covered with soot and red and shiny like he had sunburn. From behind his smeared glasses, his eyes kept darting around the room as though he couldn’t keep focused on one thing for very long, and he tapped his foot against the floor. Like Tim, he was dressed in an overly formal manner; his tweed suit with old fashioned leather knee and elbow patches looked most out of place. And, just like Tim, his clothes were damaged: his suit was covered in soot, and, in several places, it appeared to have had caught fire at one point, as it was now charred and covered in holes.
He must have seen Bill looking at him, because he extended a burned, blistered, sooty hand towards him. Bill didn’t shake it.
“Hi, I’m Graeme,” he said, smiling.
“Graeme,” Tim said flatly, smiling like he found the word amusing to say.
Bill’s curiosity got the better of him, and he had to ask, “What happened to you?”
“Happened to you?” Tim said, just as flatly as before. Bill frowned slightly, wondering why Tim was copying his words, but he didn’t say anything. He saw Tim give him an apologetic smile.
Graeme grinned, as though he was waiting for this question. “I had a little accident in my lab.”
Bill didn’t bother to ask what had happened to Graeme, or even why he had a lab, or even why he was in said lab this late at night. Something told him that he wouldn’t understand, and that this sort of thing wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary.
“Little accident—” Tim cut himself off by clamping a bloody hand over his mouth. “Sorry.”
A few minutes later, a nurse came into the waiting room and called Tim’s name. Tim gave Bill and Graeme a nervous smile, before stumbling to his feet and following after her. Despite barely knowing Tim, Bill found himself hoping Tim would be all right.
*
Bill needed six stitches in his arm. The doctor who did it kept casting glances at the scars on his forearms and looking at his face and frowning, and Bill tried to ignore him. He knew exactly what was going through the doctor’s head, and he didn’t want to talk to him about it.
When he went back out into the waiting room, he saw that Tim was back. His face was now stitched up, and his arm was in a sling. He sat down opposite Tim, and smiled at him. When Tim saw Bill was there, he smiled too. He seemed to be calmer now, and looked a lot better without all the congealed blood on his face, but he was still rocking backwards and forwards.
“I needed five stitches in the cut on my forehead,” Tim explained shakily. “And they had to X-ray my head in case my skull or nose was broken, and then they X-rayed my arm. I’m waiting for the results. How did yours go?”
Bill shrugged. “Just what I thought. Six stitches.”
Tim frowned as best as he could with his forehead puckered up with stitches, and leaned closer to Bill. “Um, Bill, this might seem, um, a bit forward of me, but can I, um, ask how you got that cut?”
“It’s a knife wound,” he said. Well, that was actually true.
Tim’s eyes widened. “You got knifed?”
“No, no, I didn’t get knifed,” Bill said hurriedly as Tim started rocking more violently. He took a deep breath and kept his voice low as he said, “I cut myself.”
He watched Tim swallow hard and look down at the floor. “I see.”
But Bill could tell Tim didn’t really understand at all. To be honest, he didn’t understand why he hurt himself either, but he just felt like he needed to do it. It didn’t really make sense, which was probably why Tim didn’t understand him, because Tim came across as being a very literal minded bloke.
*
Tim was off getting his X-ray results when Graeme came back out into the waiting room. The soot had been cleaned from his face, and his hands were wrapped in bandages. Now his face was clean, Bill could more clearly see the red, shiny burns that covered most of his lower face, and he relaxed slightly when he realised that they must have only been minor burns.
“First degree burns on my face, second degree on my hands,” Graeme said, sitting down beside him. He held up his hands and tried to flex his heavily bandaged fingers.
“Does it hurt?” Bill asked.
Graeme shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
Bill looked at him, and he saw Graeme was grinning. Graeme saw him looking and spluttered with laughter. He didn’t feel like laughing, but Graeme’s laughs were surprisingly contagious, and Bill found himself chuckling too.
He didn’t know why, or how, but Bill had someone found two people who he got along with and understood by complete accident. They just seemed like kind, friendly blokes, and Bill had a feeling that they were just as lonely as him. And something told Bill that he, Tim and Graeme were going to become the best of friends.