It rang a bell, but the chaos in Rhys’s mind was too loud. He let Harry tackle him onto his back and promptly fell asleep. When he woke up, it was afternoon and Joe had taken his place.
“This city is all kinds of fucked up.” Joe unfolded his long legs from the crappy plastic chair he was wedged in. “Three dudes with machetes killed eight people last night. Why does shit like that happen?”
Rhys had no idea. He sat up and glared at the heavy strapping on his swollen left foot. “Have they said when I can leave?”
“Not to me, but I’d imagine they won’t keep you any longer than they have to. The hospital is full.”
“Why are you here?”
“To stop Harry crashing the van. I think a piece of him died when the police called yesterday to say you’d been hurt.”
Guilt washed over Rhys. The last—fuck, however many hours it had been—had passed in a blur of headaches, swelling, and nurses with big syringes of drugs that made his head swim. And in his panic to find his phone, he hadn’t stopped to wonder why Harry and Joe had appeared in London in the first place. “Sorry, man. I’m fine... honest. I didn’t get hurt—I fell on my face and sprained my ankle.”
“Uh-huh. You sprained it carrying a dying man across the street when you were the only paramedic on scene for more than an hour. Don’t fuck with perspective, Rhys. Not today.”
Joe was fierce. Always had been. Rhys was growing to love him like a brother, but nausea rolling in his gut stopped him from saying so. “I need to talk to Jevon.”
“I know. My mum’s helping Angelo look for his phone, and my sister is trying to get in touch with the organisation he works for. We’ll find him, dude. I promise.”
There wasn’t much else to say, and Joe wasn’t one for small talk. He fed Rhys a Snickers bar, then fell silent, tapping his fingers against the bed rail until Rhys dozed off again.
Harry was back when Rhys woke the following morning—Joe had stayed at Rhys’s flat to pack him some things.
“You’re coming home with us.”
“No.”
“Yes.” Harry’s fists clenched at his sides until he folded his arms across his chest. “You can’t be alone right now with a head injury. Besides, you’re going to be on crutches for six weeks, need physio and rest. I’m not leaving you to rot in that flat by yourself when rehab and recovery are the only things I can do to help.”
“Right. So you’re going to collect me like you do everyone else who can’t walk to the bogs by themselves? Save me from myself? Piss off, Harry. I’m not going to the arse crack of Cornwall with you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
Ten minutes later found Rhys huddled up in the back of Joe’s cosy camper van. “Just take me home,” he pleaded.
Joe stared stoically ahead while Harry shot Rhys an exasperated glare. “Iam.”
Lies. It was all lies, but Rhys was too tired to argue. To fight. And to worry over something he couldn’t fix. Angelo had lost his phone too, and all of Joe’s sister’s attempts to contact FFP had come to nothing. Jevon would probably think Rhys had given up on him. Had changed his mind about quitting London for life on the road. Without a phone, there was nothing Rhys could do to make that right.
And without Jevon, nothing would ever be okay.
London slipped away. Harry and Joe talked quietly in the front of the van while Rhys lost his mind in the back. Common sense told him he’d find a way to contact Jevon eventually, and that Jevon would understand about the radio silence—of course he would—but the anxiety demon having a party in his brain wouldn’t quit. His ankle throbbed in time with the disquiet beating in his chest. Joe cranked the heat up, but still Rhys shivered.
“You’re in shock,” Harry said when they stopped for petrol. “I know you’ve got Jevon on your mind, but don’t forget what you’ve just been through. You saved dozens of people, bro. By yourself.”
“I wasn’t by myself. Tarryn was there, and so were a bunch of coppers.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Harry put his arms around Rhys and held him in a fraternal embrace that meant everything and nothing while Rhys’s head was in bits. “I’m just reminding you it’s okay to be shaken up. Your supervisor said there’ll be counselling and—”
“Jesus Christ, Harry... stop, will you? It was two days ago, and I’m fine.”
Rhys disentangled himself from Harry as Joe returned to the van with more chocolate and sweets to make Harry scowl. Any other day, his face would’ve made Rhys laugh, but not today.
Joe was the only one capable of laughing, apparently, when they pulled up at the farm in Newquay, six hours after they’d left London behind. His chuckle came from deep in his belly, and he exited the van without explaining.
Harry watched him go, still scowling, but then something seemed to make him smile too.