Sketches, Dispatches, Hull Tales and Ballads - University of Hull

60
Gerald considered lying, then dismissed the idea as ridiculous,
after all, what did he have to hide?
‘Six or seven.’
Mick smiled to himself.
‘That’s the difference between me and you, isn’t it? I’m the poor
bugger who has to live with not being able to sleep, but you just
study it.’
‘I never claimed that my work was autobiographical.’
Gerald couldn’t fathom the look he gave him then, but before he
could say anything else Mick turned left, and put his foot down.
‘You know something, I used to watch my wife when she was
asleep beside me, peer at her eyelids fluttering, gently rest my head
on her heart and listen to the lovely steady rhythm of her breathing.’
They raced past a row of darkened shops; some lads swore at Mick
when he failed to stop for them at a crossing; they turned left again,
tyres squealing.
‘Would you mind slowing down?’
‘I’d wonder if she was dreaming, try to picture what comforting
story she was caught up in. Then I’d go back to staring at the ceiling
and try to imagine what I would dream about, if I fell asleep. But I
never did.’
Gerald looked around nervously; they appeared to be heading out
of the centre.
‘You know something? I grew to hate my wife. I couldn’t stand the
sight of her. It drove me crazy, knowing she was off in some other,
better place, and I was left behind. I live alone now, it’s best that way.’
The rain was lashing down, Gerald didn’t know Hull, didn’t
recognize any of these places. Then they were on a flyover, to the
left a monumentally ugly Premier Inn erupted from somewhere
below, like a malignant growth.
‘Mick, Mick. I want you to turn round and take me to my hotel.’
When he didn’t reply, Gerald took out his mobile.
‘Right, I’m going to – ’
Gerald felt a sharp tug as Mick grabbed the mobile from his hand