The Unfortunate Life of Quin Toller

Quin Toller read the letter again then dropped it onto the coffee table. He inhaled deeply, left hand steadying his pounding heart. Why didn’t he ignore the first one? You don’t ever expect it to come to this, do you?  It had seemed such a small request, churlish to refuse.

Damn his father for having a sister. And damn Auntie Maggie for having a kid. Quin couldn’t recall ever meeting his cousin Blanche. Of course, he must have. She was only a few years younger so there were countless family Christmases at Grandma Gladys’s; Quin had been every year until, in his thirties, he’d moved away. Blanche definitely didn’t go to Grandma Gladys’s funeral; Quin and his father had been the only mourners. Except that pretty blonde nurse from the care home. Quin wished he’d had the courage to ask her out, but it didn’t seem like the right thing to do at a memorial service.

Had Blanche been at Quin’s father’s funeral? There were a lot of people and Quin was so caught up in his own grief. His blood pressure rocketed; the sound of it had rushed in his ears. Like now.

Quin pressed the reset button on the blood pressure machine. The plastic cuff inflated and pinched his upper arm until he winced, frowning at the screen. The cuff began to deflate and his arm thudded as the blood was released.  A few seconds later the box bleeped, and the remaining air rushed out of the cuff. The soft plastic pooled around his elbow as Quin tilted his head to read the grey-on-grey screen. Oops, 150 over 89. That’s pretty bad. He ought to stay and do the yoga meditation the doctor had advised, but his BP would be even worse if he got stuck in the rush hour traffic and ended up late for work. It was bad enough that Cousin Blanche would make him miss work at tax deadline time. The internet said he would need time off and this whole thing might go on for four to six weeks. How would he get away with that, without everyone knowing his business?

Quin hated people knowing his business. It was probably best he hadn’t invited that nurse out on a date. She’d ask all sorts of questions about his life. She’d visit his apartment and move things, like the cushions. The thought made Quin’s blood pressure rise more and he determined to put this whole thing out of his head. There were another five days until he had to decide, anyway.

Quin began his daily routine for leaving the house. Three taps on the coffee table and he stood, taking the empty coffee cup and washing it. Three taps on the kitchen doorframe. Standing in front of the hall mirror he combed his hair, counting the strokes 1-2-3. 1-2-3. Quin straightened his tie and pulled on his overcoat. Three turns of the key in the lock, three taps on the doorframe. One more peep into the corridor to make sure he wouldn’t meet any of his neighbours in the hallway.

What if I get an infection and must take even more time off work? Is that covered under the health plan? Surely, I’d be volunteering to take the risk. They’ll say it isn’t included in the policy. Quin stood at the bottom of the stairs. So busy worrying, he’d forgotten to count. There are seventeen steps. Quin considered climbing back up and counting them. What if something bad happens because I didn’t count? The last time had been a dreadful day; he’d missed an error in a client’s books and the mistake had been found by the trainee typing up the accounts. So embarrassing, he still blushed at the thought.

Quin remembered his therapist’s words: ‘Our minds are pattern-matching machines. If we look for a bad day, we will find things that make it a bad day.’

He’d asked the therapist about the counting.

‘Does it make you feel better to do it? To know there are seventeen steps?’

‘Yes,’ Quin said. ‘It makes me feel safe.’

‘Then that’s fine.’ The therapist had laughed and told Quin he should call for another appointment if ever a different number of steps was there, when he counted. Quin didn’t think the therapist was very good; he didn’t go back. But he was relieved that the counting was okay.

Quin paused. Placed a hand on his chest. Felt his heart pounding. There was no time to go back up and count the stairs. No, I’ll be late for work. He resolutely tapped three times on the front door surround of the apartment building before leaving.

In the car, his mind rolled back to a month before, when the first letter arrived. He almost didn’t open it; so many of those letters marked ‘Not a Circular’ are junk-mail. And even when he read the letter, the name didn’t mean anything. Blanche Swann. Of course, he’d no idea she had married; the surname had no relevance. He even struggled to remember Aunt Maggie’s married name. Something ordinary like Baker or Taylor. No matter.

He had called the hospital and they explained about his cousin but wouldn’t give him her address or phone number. Data protection and client confidentiality, they said. But she must still live in or near town, to use the same local hospital. What would he say to her anyway, if her number hadn’t been unlisted? It would be an awkward conversation, best avoided.

The letter had said the odds of finding a match were one in forty. That there were plenty of volunteers on the register who’d probably be the right type. It was the charity’s policy, at a time like this, to contact the patient’s nearest and dearest (indeed!) to ask them to sign. No commitment. Just a simple blood test. Stay on the database until you’re forty-four. Nearly there already.

When Quin went to the medical centre and the nurse took his blood, which did hurt quite a lot actually; the nurse told him it was his fault she’d left a thumbprint-sized bruise on the inside of his elbow. He was dehydrated. Ought to drink more water and less whisky. He should cut down on cake, get more exercise too. She told him he needed to keep a waistline below forty inches if he was to avoid blood pressure problems.

She was very sharp and strident with him. When she saw that the test was for bone marrow matching, her attitude changed. The nurse asked questions about Quin’s family, where they had come from. His cousin would be very lucky if they had a match; mixed race marriages being less likely in their grandparents’ days. As rare as one in eleven million perhaps. If they were a match, Quin would certainly be a lifesaver. Leukaemia recovery after allogenic stem cell transplant, she said, could have as much as an eighty percent chance of a long remission. Long enough to see her daughter have a family of her own, perhaps.

The odds were in his favour. The likelihood of a match was miniscule, given that they were only cousins, not siblings. A match with a stranger was just as likely. He’d left the surgery feeling relieved…virtuous, having performed his duty. But it was a match and Quin’s blood pressure had been through the roof ever since that second letter arrived. Of course he must go through with it. Even though he was terrified.

Somebody honked a car horn. Quin peered through the windscreen. The traffic lights had changed. He was at the front of the queue surrounded by angry commuters. The car wouldn’t go into gear. The engine revved loudly. Foot on the wrong pedal. Flustered, he looked down to ram the gear stick into first and the car lurched forward. Quin turned his head, just in time to see a brown-haired woman as she twisted sideways with the impact of his front bumper. Her head thudded into the windscreen leaving a dartboard-pattern of cracked glass, before she slid down the steep bonnet and disappeared. The car stalled. Quinn covered his open mouth with his hand. Blood pounded in his ears again. He began to count the beats. One, two, three. One, two, three. Like a fast waltz.

A man tapped on the side window and Quin pushed the button on his armrest. The glass slid all the way down letting in a rush of icy air that made his eyes water. The man said he was a vet. A vet?

‘From the surgery across the road.’ He pointed. ‘I saw everything. Stay where you are. The police and ambulance are on their way. Put your hand brake on.’

Dazed, Quin complied. ‘Is she…?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the vet. ‘She seems to be unconscious.’

Quin nodded.

Time became springy; it bounced back to the image of the woman twisting like an ice skater and then, bump, the spider-web of cracks appearing on the windscreen in slow motion. Repeated over and over, like a cheap TV show. Quin kept watching until the paramedic opened the door and tugged him out of his seat.

‘You are in shock. We’re going to take you to St Mary’s as soon has the police have breathalysed you. Don’t worry, its normal practice.’

‘But I’m late for work,’ he protested.

After an hour or so of waiting at the Accident and Emergency department, a tall male nurse took his blood pressure and pronounced him fit to leave. Quin wasn’t sure what to do. He asked about the woman, but the nurse didn’t know anything. ‘Is there anyone I can call to collect you?’

‘Just the office,’ Quin replied and pulled out his mobile.

He told the office receptionist about the accident, ‘I didn’t even see her until I’d hit her. She walked right out in front of me. The light was green.’ It was like a weight had been lifted, telling her about it, even though he couldn’t remember the receptionist’s name.

‘I’ll put you through to Mr Atkins. He’s the only partner in the office today.’

Quin told Atkins and felt a little better.

‘Stay where you are, Toller, I’ll come and get you.’ Quin nodded at the phone in his hand. Soon Quin found himself being led into Mr Atkins car, then he was sitting on his own sofa. The partner made them both tea, leaving the used teabags on the draining board.

‘It’s my cousin, you see. She has leukaemia.’ Quin pushed the letter across the coffee table so Atkins could read it.

‘Of course, you must take a leave of absence. You have been with the firm a long time…loyal employee…six weeks paid leave…starting immediately.’ The problem solved; Atkins stood to leave.

Quin’s car had been towed to the local garage and a few days later he collected it to drive over to the hospital where his cousin was being treated. Perhaps they could put his mind at ease about the risk of side effects and infections. Hours spent trawling the internet had made him paranoid and he couldn’t sleep for the horrible nightmares. His blood pressure was constantly over 140. But there was no choice. He had to go through with it. Work had given him leave; he was his cousin’s only hope for recovery.

Paying at the car park (such a cheek to charge people going to hospital), Quin announced himself at reception and was directed to a row of plastic seats. He wondered whether to pick up a magazine and read, or if it had been last handled by a person with germs. Hospitals are full of germs. Too risky. Maybe there were germs on the plastic chair. Quin shuffled forward and perched on the edge. He tapped his index finger on the back of his hand. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. Eventually a tanned woman in a burgundy suit approached.

‘Please follow me Mr. Toller.’ She led him to a tiny office with no certificates on the walls. An administrator, not a doctor.

‘You haven’t been in contact with your cousin’s family, Mr. Toller? You haven’t heard?’

‘What do you mean? Am I too late for the procedure?’

‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that your cousin was killed in an accident a few days ago…in front of a car…head injury…instantaneous…possibly distracted by her illness…nothing to suggest it wasn’t an accident.

The woman’s voice was distant. Quin’s vision narrowed to a tunnel; icy cold touched the back of his neck.

‘Sorry for your loss…’

Shortlisted Eyelands 10th International Short Story Contest - 2020
No longer in print