Never Let Go

The metallic clank of the cleaner’s bucket woke Roddy and a harsh whiff of bleach caught the back of his throat, making his eyes smart. He blinked in the morning’s warm light and recalled the events of the previous evening. How Lydia’s tousled mane swirled round her serene face and the gentle laugh as he floored the accelerator. In the blinding glare of the oncoming headlights, she’d called out his name. There wasn’t much after that, except blue flashing lights and a siren in the night. 

   He tracked the janitor’s progress as he swilled the grey bundle of thick, loose strings over the floor’s faded linoleum; its scarred surface glistened under flickering strip lights. Roddy could move his eyes, but little else. A stiff brace held his neck straight and they’d secured his right arm aloft, burdening it with three pounds of plaster. His legs were immobile too; suspended above the mattress as if he was riding an invisible horse or a Harley Low-Rider. 

   The cleaner approached Roddy’s bed and jabbed his mop underneath with a muttered apology and a cursory aside about the day’s weather forecast. 

   ‘What time are the doctors due, pal?’ whispered Roddy, through cracked lips.

   ‘There’s a shift change around eight, sir.’

   ‘I hate to ask but…’ Roddy said, wincing at the ache in his jaw. ‘Any chance of a cup of water or--- ’

   ‘Hey,’ said the cleaner, squinting his eyes. ‘Aren’t you that Rockwell fella from the detective show?’

   ‘How could you tell?’

   ‘My wife’s a big fan, of course.’   

   ‘I’m not exactly in character.’

   ‘She loves that husky voice.’

   ‘Any possibility of a glass of--- ’

   ‘Can I get an autograph?’

   ‘How about a selfie?’

   ‘She’ll never believe it.’

Roddy Rockwell knew he was going to make it big when he was a young lad. He had charisma to spare and a self-possessed attitude that said he was in control of his life. As a youngster, Roddy soon learned how to use his innocent face to get what he wanted and charmed his way out of every scrape. He amused his mother with his antics and she encouraged him to perform for her friends on a homemade stage in the front room. He’d recite stanzas of Lewis Carrol poems and speeches from Shakespeare’s Mid-summer Night‘s Dream for their entertainment. 

   As a teenager, he never missed a Saturday morning at his local picture house and saw every Western ever made. The projectionist was a friend of his mother’s and let him stay all day to enjoy endless screenings. He’d spend his spare time glued to the silver screen, watching his hero’s movies repeatedly, memorising every line. 

   Born Rodney Arthur Williams, Roddy adopted his mother’s maiden name as a teenager and so Roddy Rockwell was born, and destined to follow his star. Without a husband around, Doreen Rockwell indulged her son’s fantasy, and he soon became the man of the house. Roddy developed a swagger and the manner of a matinee idol before he was out of short trousers and broke every girl’s heart at school. 

   It wasn’t long before he got work in the new video stores that were emerging and gained access to an even larger selection of films. Roddy fell in love with all the leading ladies of the day and criticised their judgment when they married or expressed an interest in a headline-grabbing heart throb. He set his sights on the international movie business and his success was just a matter of time.

   Roddy got his first break at Shepperton Studios working as a props handler. A well-known production company spotted him and encouraged him to seek an agent. It didn’t take long for the charmed young man to go from walking on parts, to single lines and then speaking parts in obscure European costume flicks. During this period, Roddy had a narrow escape from the clutches of a predatory old director who admired his looks from a far. He made various improper advances towards Roddy and dubious promises that would never materialise. 

   Luckily, the advertising world came to Roddy’s rescue, and he got a couple of memorable roles. I’m sure you must recall the confectionary advert where the man of mystery arrives in his lover’s boudoir, having skied ahead of an avalanche to deliver her heart’s desire? Don’t worry, nobody remembers the name of the product, but we all fell in love with the notion; the romantic ideal and the daring hero defying certain death to prove his worth.

   Last night wasn’t the first time Roddy had been involved with the emergency services. As a young actor, he’d borrowed his mother’s MG Roadster to impress his girlfriend, Stephie. They toured the beguiling byways of Britain’s south coast during a hiatus, whilst shooting at Twickenham Studios. Making the most of the agile little motor, they chased along the undulating roads of East and West Sussex, as if they were racing on the Old Nurburgring Circuit. On that occasion, the oncoming car skidded out of control to avoid Roddy and the young couple collided with a tree. Roddy was fortunate as there were no witnesses. The insurance companies never established blame after fighting for a year and agreed on joint liability. Roddy lived to tell the tale and walked away from the damaged vehicle with only his hair ruffled. Stephie, however, had crumpled shins and required extensive reconstructive surgery and countless metal pins inserted into her tibia. She never forgave him, despite encouraging him to challenge the speed limit. It wasn’t meant to be, and they drifted apart.

   Lydia was an unexpected encounter, and she was the love of his life; his leading lady and his intended bride. She was a quiet woman and an aspiring advocate who’d studied hard at school and achieved an impressive qualification from London’s prestigious Inns of Courts. They met at a fund-raising event in Covent Garden, and she fell for his cheeky smile and amusing stories. Lydia O’Connor was a gentle soul who’d skipped adolescent fumbling and avoided under-graduate entanglements in favour of her studies. Roddy saw Lydia as a challenge, an unobtainable goal and an enigma. She bore an aura of impregnability and attracted a flock of admirers who stumbled their words, tripped up and bumbled about in her presence. 

   Lydia’s charm was that she was unaware of her effect on the opposite sex and couldn’t care less. She was following her own celestial body and hadn’t wavered from its beckoning light until Roddy appeared in her immediate orbit. For the first time, Lydia’s mysterious trajectory wobbled. He caught her attention and held his own in their impromptu contest of verbal jousting and cerebral foreplay. 

   After their first encounter, she revealed her feelings to her closest confidant. Her friend’s jaw dropped when she explained how they’d finished each other’s sentences and couldn’t take their eyes off each other all night. They decided Lydia should check her bearings and verify her findings. 

   Both Roddy and Lydia resisted any immediate follow up calls or texts. There was no reason to suspect any reciprocation of each other’s unspoken desire. Time elapsed and then they both exchanged a flurry of messages within seconds of each other. It was as if they’d both agreed to leave it an exact amount of time, just to be sure. 

   When Lydia met Roddy a second time, he appeared aloof and distracted. The conversation faltered and Lydia suspected she’d been mistaken. Roddy had dark rings round his eyes and referred to his exhaustion as if it was an excuse for an early departure. Lydia sighed and reached for her coat in silence. Roddy extended his arm to help her and confided that he’d not slept since their first meeting. He believed he was experiencing a serious case of mission creep. Lydia furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, scrutinising his words. Roddy cleared his throat and defined his condition as, “a gradual shift in objectives, resulting in an unplanned long-term commitment.” Shaking her head, Lydia smiled and clutched his hands as she leaned forward to plant a delicate kiss on his lips. That was it. Their story had started. It was Lydia and Roddy forever more until the other night.

   He’d never get used to the hospital’s lumpy mattress. It was past its best and only fit for the scrap heap. The breakfast wasn’t inspiring either; the scrambled eggs matched the bed for lumps. Roddy prodded the unappealing offering with a tired looking fork. He tried a morsel and chomped it between his aching jaws. At least they were warm, well “warmish” in fact. Roddy was about to complain when two besuited men appeared at the foot of his bed. The tallest of the pair needed a shave and clutched a gabardine raincoat as he hovered behind the one in the white buttoned-up lab coat and spectacles. 

   ‘Mister Rockwell?’ asked the first visitor, checking his clipboard.

   ‘Good morning, Doctor, how’s--- ’

   ‘I’m Mister Levell,’ he said. ‘And this is Sergeant Simmons who’s got--- ’

   ‘Any news about Lydia?’

   ‘What? Oh yes,’ he said. ‘That’ll be Miss O’Connor?’ 

   ‘Yes,’ said Roddy. ‘We arrived together.’

The consultant bit his top lip and considered his response. Mister Levell never found these situations easy to manage. He was a man of logic rather than emotion and skipped the course on bedside manner.  

   ‘The sergeant has some questions about last night,’ he said, drawing a nasal breath.

   ‘It’s about the car you were driving, sir,’ said the sergeant.

   ‘But, only if you’re feeling up to it, Mister Rockwell.’

Roddy hadn’t got time for all this inconvenience. His diary was packed with appointments and meetings to attend. His agent had big plans for Roddy’s future and a pile of scripts for him to consider.

The End