The pain had caused Wayne to throw up all down himself. Luckily, this didn’t happen until he was safely in the ambulance, away from all those cameras. One of the paramedics injected him with a hefty dose of painkillers, and he began to calm a little.
From that point onward, the world had a kind of weird blur, and he felt as though he were moving in slow motion. He was lifted from the ambulance and laid out on a gurney.
“Wayne?” said a voice. “Can you hear me, Wayne?”
Wayne looked round and to his surprise saw that his dad was standing over him. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t. He just didn’t have the energy.
“It’s going to be alright, Wayne,” said David. “Don’t you worry, son.”
But even in his doped-up state, Wayne wondered if his dad was telling the truth.
David watched as his barely-conscious son was wheeled into an operating theatre, out of his sight. A man in green surgical scrubs approached. “Mr. Carter? My name is Chowdhury, and I’ll be performing the operation on your son.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it,” said David, absently. He did not even ask it as a question.
“Well,” said Chowdhury, “the important thing is that we get started on the reduction surgery as soon as possible.”
“Reduction surgery? What’s that?”
“It means that we need to get the bones realigned. That will allow us to assess the damage.”
“Listen, Chowdhury,” David said, taking a step toward the surgeon, “he’s going to be alright, isn’t he? Up and about, and what-have-you?”
The surgeon was unfazed. “Your son has suffered a very serious injury. Unfortunately, we won’t know the full extent of said injury until I get him under anaesthetic. My assistants are prepping him now, and then I’ll get to work.”
“But…”
“I’m aware that your son is a football player. With that in mind, I think you ought to prepare yourself for the worst.”
“You mean you can’t fix him?”
“I mean that I may have to put a couple of metal rods in there. Your son will be lucky if he doesn’t walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready to operate.”
David stood dumbstruck, watching as the surgeon strode away. A dangerous cocktail of anger and impotence coursed through him. Things were spiralling out of control; events were running away from him. He was powerless for the first time in a long time, and he did not like it.
*
The sight that met Wayne’s eyes when he regained consciousness was not an encouraging one. He was lying on crisp, white sheets, no doubt in the best medical facility money could buy. His right leg was suspended from the ceiling by a network of marionette-wires and cables, but he almost did not recognise it as his own. The flesh that was visible was purple. Not a healthy colour. It was also snared by a cage of interlaced metal rods. The last and most troubling fact was that it had no feeling whatsoever. Wayne looked at it the way he might look at a museum piece in a glass case. It might have been anybody else’s leg, but certainly not his own.
On the plus side, it was certainly straighter than it had been when he last saw it. But that was about the only good thing he could say. It was well and truly mangled, even after hours of surgical treatment.
Hours? Days? He realised that he had lost all conception of time. A digital clock on top of the small bedside cabinet told him it was three in the afternoon. But which afternoon? He must have been fading in and out of consciousness for days.
“You’re awake,” said a nurse, and that’s when Wayne started to take more notice of his surroundings. He had a room to himself, of course, and it was decorated with flowers and coloured wallpaper. The hospital staff had evidently done their best to make the place as palatable and homely as possible. The table by the window was filled with flowers and cards, undoubtedly from fans and other well-wishers.
Before Wayne could say a word, the nurse skittered out in search of a doctor. She returned with a tall, statuesque fellow named Chowdhury. It turned out that he was the one who had operated on the leg. In other words, he was the one responsible for the mess of ruined flesh and wires.
“Mr. Carter, I’m pleased to see that you’re awake,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
Regaining some of his composure, Wayne finally spoke. “How the fuck do you think I’m feeling?”
If Chowdhury was affronted, he didn’t show it. No doubt he was used to this kind of thing. Instead he pulled up a chair, scraping its rubber-tipped legs across the parquet floor. “Wayne, you’ve had a very serious injury.”
“Thanks for the diagnosis.”
“It happened four days ago. Do you remember anything about it?”
Wayne shook his head, so the doctor continued: “Aside from the visible damage, your right leg was also broken in several other places. Almost shattered, in fact. To try and minimize the long-term effects, we had no choice but to insert two steel rods. The healing process will be long, and you will require extensive physical therapy…”
Wayne cut him off. “Healing process? Does that mean I’ll be able to play again?” It was a glimmer of hope, and he’d take it.
But the surgeon’s expression quickly snuffed it out. “I understand that you were a professional footballer, Wayne. That’s what makes this all the more difficult. What you have to understand is that it could have been so much worse. In fact, we even debated whether or not to amputate. But you were lucky – we were able to repair some of the damage. Having said that, it’s important that you come to terms with the fact that it is highly unlikely you will ever play football again.”
Wayne’s brain was whirling. “Not impossible though?”
The surgeon cleared his throat. “Nothing is impossible,” he said, “but I think it might be wise for you to make… alternate arrangements. I’m very sorry, Mr. Carter. If you’d like, I can arrange for a psychiatrist to…”
Wayne stopped listening. He was in shock. In a single stroke, his livelihood and his very reason for existing had been snatched away from him. And it was all his dad’s fault. If not for David Carter and his illegal activities, none of this would have happened. Dad had promised to keep him safe. He had assured him that the Popovs dealt in empty threats; that there was nothing to worry about. Well, there had been something to worry about after all.
Wayne began to cry angry tears. Dr. Chowdhury, he realised, had left. The nurse tried to comfort him, to dab at his face with tissues, but he shoved her away. He needed to let it out. He lay back on the bed and sobbed.
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Later that day, his dad paid him a visit. David had obviously formed an understanding of hospitals based purely on repeats of Holby City, because when he turned up he was bearing a bunch of lilies and a packet of grapes.
Lilies. Funeral flowers. Fitting, Wayne thought, to mourn his son’s career.
“There he is!” David said, all false good cheer. “Looking better already. We’ll have you up and about in no time.”
Wayne turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at his father, let alone hear his meaningless platitudes.
“How are you feeling?” David asked more quietly. “I’ve spoken to the doctor and he says you’re doing well.”
Wayne snorted, but kept his face away from David.
“Well, as well as can be expected…” David conceded. Then he lowered his voice. “Believe me, son, the Popovs will pay for this. They will rue the day they ever hurt my son.”
A glint of triumph glittered in David’s eye, and a horrifying thought occurred to Wayne. He stared at his dad, a sick fear building in his stomach. When he spoke, his words came out shaky.
“Did you do this on purpose, dad?”
David blinked, surprised. “What?”
Wayne licked his lips. “Did you let them ruin my career on purpose? Because you needed an excuse to bring them down, once and fore all?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Wayne,” David snapped, a lick of anger in his voice. “Your football career meant everything to me.”
“Your career means everything to you,” Wayne spat. “And the Popovs have been threatening that for you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” David said, shaking his head. “I can’t just take out the Popovs, son. Yes, we’ll have our revenge, but it could take years. So while your theory sounds good on paper, it doesn’t hold up. I don’t need an excuse to end them, because I’m not going to. Not yet, anyway.”
Wayne glared at him. “Maybe, but I still wouldn’t put it past you.”
David’s voice was carefully neutral. “Do you really think so poorly of me?”
Wayne almost laughed. “What did I watch you do the other day? If you can so easily take a man’s life, then taking his leg must mean nothing to you.”
“You ungrateful brat,” David breathed. “I’ve sacrificed so much for you, and this is how you repay me?”
“Sacrificed for me?” Wayne was incredulous. “This is all on you!
“What?”
“This. Everything. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be in this state. Maybe you didn’t plan it, but it’s still your fault.”
David stared at him, stony-faced. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb. You should have let me skip the match. If you’d let me skip the match, I would have been fine.”
“I think you’re being a bit dramatic, Wayne.”
“Am I?”
“You’ll be up and playing footie in no time.”
“Up and playing in no time? I’m lucky they didn’t cut off my fucking leg!”
“You need rest, that’s all,” David said, rising from his seat. “ I’ll let you get some sleep.”
“You could have taken me out of the game!” Wayne shouted. “But your pride was more important to you than my life!”
David didn’t respond. He set the lilies and grapes down on the table with the other gifts, then left the room. It was his answer to everything, when things didn’t go his way. Either throw his toys out of the pram, or simply walk away.
Wayne watched his father walk out with undisguised resentment. David was behind this all. One way or another, it was his doing. He’d escalated the feud with the Popovs. He’d dangled Wayne as bait. He’d spent his entire life sacrificing others for his own ambition. And now he, Wayne, would be lucky to walk again.
“That’s it!” Wayne roared. “Fucking walk away, big man!”
He heard the lift doors sliding shut, and wondered if David had even heard him.
*
It was two weeks of close observation and intensive therapy before Wayne was allowed to go home. The metal cage was removed from his leg and a standard plaster cast was put in its place, but he was not allowed to walk – not even with the aid of crutches. So, feeling like an utter fool, he let himself be wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair.
The two bodyguards who had been keeping an eye on him in the run-up to the match were now all that remained of his security detail. The Popovs had already done their worst, so David had evidently put a stop to the patrols and the plainclothes men. The two remaining bodyguards wheeled him out into the chilly morning air and helped him into the back seat of the Rolls – the most spacious of his cars. Even that was a bit of a squeeze, and jets of pain shot through his leg as the bodyguards did their best to manoeuvre him into the most comfortable position.
Wayne sat in sullen silence as they drove him home.
The mansion now felt conspicuously empty without all the security people milling about the place. Once he was installed in his wheelchair, Wayne found out for himself how impractical the gravel driveway was as he made his way to the front door. One of the bodyguards offered to push him, but Wayne just shook his head.
He sat up in his chair, stretching his arm out to open the front door. So this was life now: even the most mundane activity was a major effort. Thanks, Dad.
Once inside, Wayne told the bodyguards to leave him alone. They didn’t need to be told twice. This was depressing.
Wayne sat in the kitchen, running through the events of the last few weeks again and again in his mind. Right up until the moment time stopped, and his career ended, when Ronnie Vincent launched that savage attack.
“Game over,” Wayne said under his breath. “Game over.”
*
The surgeon, Chowdhury, had not been kidding when he said that Wayne would have to undergo intensive physical therapy. Specialists came to and from the house with alarming frequency over the next few weeks. But they accomplished little. They managed to get Wayne up and out of his wheelchair, but it was as if he had lost all semblance of coordination. He struggled with the crutches, which made him frustrated, which ruined his concentration and made him struggle all the more. It was a vicious circle.
Needless to say, David was paying for the finest care available. But it just wasn’t enough.
Meanwhile, Wayne found himself deluged with more flowers and get-well-soon cards from fans and players and corporate sponsors; people who had mocked him and made fun of him, who had chanted that he only played because of his dad. The hypocrisy was sickening. But even though David was footing the bill, he made a point of only visiting his son when he absolutely had to. When he did visit, things were frosty between them, and they barely spoke.
For all intents and purposes, Wayne was utterly alone.
The only highlight of his daily routine was the painkillers that gave him a brief respite from the gnawing agony. He knocked them back as often as he could and even snuck a few extra ones when the therapist wasn’t looking.
He looked ahead, and saw the future unfurling in front of him as an endless sequence of identical days. No progress. No hope. No life. Just the hollow walls of this empty mansion and the echoing squeak of his wheelchair.
Fuck it, he thought. Fuck it all.
*
“Alright, boss?” asked one of the bodyguards. Wayne had surprised them by rolling into the room while they were in the midst of a hand of Texas Hold ‘Em.
He surprised them again by smiling. “Alright, boys. Sorry to break up the game, but I need you to do something for me. Bring me some beers, would you? I feel like drowning my sorrows.”
The guards understood. “Sure thing. Where do you want them?”
“Bedroom’s fine.” Wayne rolled away again.
They carried a crate of lager into his bedroom, as instructed, and he smiled again. “Back to your game, boys. Don’t let me keep you.”
Once they were gone, Wayne opened up the crate and removed a few cans. He heaved himself onto the bed, cans and all, and slipped his hand under his pillow. There they were: his ticket to freedom. He took out the pills he had been hoarding and looked at them. He had been keeping back a couple out of every single pack, and now he had enough to do the job. He cracked open the first can and took a sip. Then he opened his mouth and brought a pill up to his lips.
But he couldn’t do it. In spite of everything; all the heartache, the trauma, the rage. He just couldn’t do it. He took another sip of lager – Dutch courage – and tried again. But he still couldn’t do it. It was as if his body was in revolt. It wouldn’t let him start taking the pills.
Eventually, he gave up and threw the pills across the room. They peppered the carpet like buckshot. Then, feeling a surge of anger, he threw the can of lager. It landed on its side, dribbling out its contents like a drunkard’s piss.
He sat there in bed, with his head in his hands, and cried.