6th April 2011
“He’d just have to make his own one, right?”
Yazid had the TV on, but he wasn’t listening to it. Because the letters had started arriving.
Ali had gone to work by the time Yazid had managed to get up the energy to get out of bed, and there’d been letters piled up on the mat. A package from Macmillan Cancer Care. A letter from the hospital confirming his appointment next week. A bundle of NHS leaflets about leukaemia—even a guide to telling family and friends.
Fuck, Khalid. He’d have to call Khalid. How the hell was he…
Yazid had opened them all, and piled them up on the coffee table. He didn’t want to read them. He didn’t want to deal with it yet. He wanted a breather, damnit, some f*****g time to get his head around it—around the fact his own bones were poisoning him—b
