Collected Stories by Hanif Kureishi Read Free Book Online Page A

covered him with a blanket. When he brought up blood Clara called the doctor. The ambulance took him away not long after, fearing a clot on the lung.
    Roy got back into bed beside Clara and rested his drink on her hard stomach. Clara went to work but Roy couldn’t get up. He stayed in bed all morning and thought he couldn’t ever sleep enough to recover. At lunchtime he walked around town, lacking even the desire to buy anything. In the afternoon he visited Jimmy in the hospital.
    ‘How you feeling, pal?’
    A man in his pyjamas can only seem disabled. No amount of puffing-up can exchange the blue and white stripes for the daily dignity which has been put to bed with him. Jimmy hardly said hallo. He was wailing for a drink and a cigarette.
    ‘It’ll do you good, being here.’ Roy patted Jimmy’s hand. ‘Time to sort yourself out.’
    Jimmy almost leapt out of bed. ‘Change places!’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘You smug bastard – if you’d looked after me I wouldn’t be in this shit!’

    A fine-suited consultant, pursued by white-coated disciples, entered the ward. A nurse drew the curtain across Jimmy’s wounded face.
    ‘Make no mistake, I’ll be back!’ Jimmy cried.
    Roy walked past the withered, ashen patients, and towards the lift. Two men in lightweight uniforms were pushing a high bed to the doors on their way to the operating theatre. Roy slotted in behind them as they talked across a dumb patient who blinked up at the roof of the lift. They were discussing where they’d go drinking later. Roy hoped Jimmy wouldn’t want him to return the next day.
    Downstairs the wide revolving door swept people into the hospital and pushed him out into the town. From the corner of the building, where dressing-gowned patients had gathered to smoke, Roy turned to make a farewell gesture at the building where his friend lay. Then he saw the girl in the leopard-skin hat, Kara’s friend.
    He called out. Smiling, she came over, holding a bunch of flowers. He asked her if she was working and when she shook her head, said, ‘Give me your number. I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve got a couple of things on the go.’
    Before, he hadn’t seen her in daylight. What, now, might there be time for?
    She said, ‘When’s the baby due?’
    ‘Any day now.’
    ‘You’re going to have your hands full.’
    He asked her if she wanted a drink.
    ‘Jimmy’s expecting me,’ she said. ‘But ring me.’
    He joined the robust street. Jimmy couldn’t walk here, but he, Roy, could trip along light-headed and singing to himself – as if it were he who’d been taken to hospital, and at the last moment, as the anaesthetic was inserted, a voice had shouted, ‘No, not him!’, and he’d been reprieved.
    Nearby was a coffee shop where he used to go. The manager waved at him, brought over hot chocolate and a cake, and, as usual, complained about the boredom and said he wished for a job like Roy’s. When he’d gone, Roy opened his bag and extracted his newspaper, book, notebook and pens. But he just watched the passers-by. He couldn’t stay long because he remembered that he and Clara had an antenatal class. He wanted to get back, to see what was between them and learn what it might give him. Some people you couldn’t erase from your life.

We’re Not Jews
     

     
     
    Azhar’s mother led him to the front of the lower deck, sat him down with his satchel, hurried back to retrieve her shopping, and took her place beside him. As the bus pulled away Azhar spotted Big Billy and his son Little Billy racing alongside, yelling and waving at the driver. Azhar closed his eyes and hoped it was moving too rapidly for them to get on. But they not only flung themselves onto the platform, they charged up the almost empty vehicle hooting and panting as if they were on a fairground ride. They settled directly across the aisle from where they could stare at Azhar and his mother.
    At this his mother made to rise. So did Big Billy. Little Billy sprang up.