The funeral is held on a sunny Thursday afternoon in a small Methodist church in nearby St Dominick. Only a handful of people attend, including Doris, Simon, Ellie, and Adam. There are the obligatory hymns and readings, but Grace and I find we are unable to manage a eulogy, so instead the minister says a few words about Christ’s undying love, and then it’s over. She’s buried in a small plot near the car park: the note in her will said as far away from any Brethren as possible. The wake is held in The Bell; just some pale sandwiches and teas and coffees in a back room. By four o’clock it’s all over. As we wish the last of the mourners goodbye, I spot a vehicle in the pub car park. It’s only when I see the driver’s face that I’m certain.
‘Ryan,’ I whisper, but stay frozen to the spot. I feel Grace’s hand on my arm.
‘Do you want me to speak to him?’
‘No. I can manage.’
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Adam has noticed him too. ‘I’m going to go over there and tell him to bugger off.’
I hear the hiss of a muted argument as Grace tries to rein Adam in. ‘Let her handle it, for God’s sake. She’s perfectly capable.’
I take a breath and walk towards the car. Even from a distance, Ryan looks old. His brown hair is flecked with grey and thinning at the temples. His face is lined and there is the beginning of a paunch. Where is that beautiful boy who took me upriver in his dinghy? As I approach, he appears to relax.
‘Hello, Ryan.’
Behind me, I hear Grace’s voice. ‘Leave her be, Adam. Simon, take him inside and get him a drink. I’ll stay out here.’
Ryan steps closer. ‘Katie.’ His voice is soft, tentative. The last time I saw this man was at our son’s funeral.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Me and the girls are visiting Mum and Dad.’
‘Oh.’
‘I heard about your mum.’ His eyes shift to where Grace is standing. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, with a regretful smile, adds, ‘I just wanted to pay my respects.’
‘Pay your respects?’ I’m finding it hard to believe that Ryan, who, as far as I’m aware, has never even met my mother, would feel this way.
‘I was a coward,’ he says. ‘I should have stayed and fought for you.’ This admission is so unexpected I don’t know what to say. ‘I abandoned you, Katie, just because it was easier.’
‘You were only sixteen.’
He steps a little bit closer. ‘The apprenticeship in the West Midlands,’ he says, his tone cautious, ‘it was set up by them – the Brethren.’ I stare at him open mouthed. ‘I only found out later; and by then, well, it was too late. I was working, had a …’ He stops himself.
‘Girlfriend?’
He nods.
It was never too late for me, I feel like saying, but I keep it to myself. I stare at him, angry and perplexed. ‘Why are you telling me all this now?’
He swallows hard and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down.
‘Maisie is pregnant.’ Maisie is Ryan’s oldest daughter, born six years after Michael. ‘Same age as you were when you fell pregnant with Michael.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Seeing what she’s going through has made me realise just how difficult it must have been for you. On your own, in that house with that woman.’ The mask is off, and Ryan’s resentment flashes like a beacon. ‘I should never have abandoned you. I was a coward and I’m ashamed of myself. Forgive me Katie,’ he begs. ‘Please say you’ll forgive me?’
My brain, already struggling to process everything that has happened in the last few weeks, falters, like a computer program with a sudden blip. I try to speak but I can’t form words. I close my eyes to try and steady myself, but the opaque veil has already descended.
A paramedic is leaning over me, calling my name.
‘Kate? Can you hear me, Kate?’
I lift my hand to my throbbing temple. ‘It hurts.’
‘You had a bit of a knock,’ says the paramedic, ‘and a bit of a gash.’ There is some sort of dressing against my temple. ‘You were out for a little bit, so we’d like to take you to hospital to have you checked out.’
‘No hospital,’ I whimper, and pushing the paramedic’s hand away, I try to sit up. The pain in my head is so excruciating that I collapse back onto the stretcher.
‘It’s all right, honey.’ Adam is beside me now. I can smell his cologne. ‘They just want to check that your head is all right. That’s all, nothing else.’ He mutters something to the paramedic about checking my GCS.
‘Okay,’ I mumble, wishing only for the pain to go away and that I can sleep forever.
A foam support is slipped around my neck, and I feel the stretcher being lifted into the ambulance. I hear another voice. Grace. She’s speaking to Adam.
‘I want to ride with her in the ambulance.’
‘Only one person is allowed,’ Adam replies, sounding testy. ‘You can meet us at the hospital.’
I want Grace there, I think; and Simon and Ellie. I mutter something to the paramedic as he preps me for an IV line.
‘What’s that, love?’
‘Will Michael be there too?’
22
I spend two nights in hospital with severe concussion. When I’m finally discharged, both Adam and Grace come to collect me. I’m just folding my dressing gown when I hear them approach. The look on their faces is odd, almost conspiratorial, as if something has passed between them that I am not party to. Grace sits on the bed and pats the space next to her. I sit down and await her instructions.
‘Adam and I have been talking,’ she begins.
Adam is beside me now. I can feel the hairs on his arm tickle my wrist.
‘Kate,’ his voice is soft. ‘The doctor says that because you were unconscious for a time there is a possibility that you could experience some side effects from your head injury.’
‘Side effects?’
‘Post-concussion syndrome,’ says Grace, taking the baton. ‘Fatigue, disorientation, depression.’ Ah, the magic word. ‘The doctor has recommended that you’re not alone, that you’ve got someone watching over you for at least a week. That’s why I was thinking you could come and stay with me. That way I—’
‘The doctor also recommended that you’re somewhere familiar and comfortable,’ interrupts Adam, a slight edge in his voice. ‘With no stress.’
‘There’ll be no stress at my place,’ says Grace defensively.
‘It’s not fair on Ellie,’ Adam counters. ‘She needs you right now.’ Clever one, Adam. He leans past me to look at my sister. ‘You’ve been a fantastic support, Grace, but I’m her husband. She needs to be at home with me.’
I wonder if either of them has even thought to consult me about what I might want.
‘Look Adam, it’s not that I …’
Their voices fade into the background and I watch in amazement as the pattern on the wallpaper in front of me begins spinning and swirling. It becomes an enormous whirlpool, threatening to suck me in.
‘I want to go home,’ I say, extracting myself from the vortex. The thought of travelling all the way to Cambridge feels unbearable. If I can’t go back to my mother’s place, then at least I want to be somewhere familiar. Choose your battles, Katie.
‘Well I guess it’s settled then,’ Adam says. ‘I’ll take you home and either Grace or I will go to your mum’s and pick up your things.’
‘I need to speak to Doris,’ I say, ‘about the cat.’
‘I can do that,’ offers Grace.
‘No!’ I hadn’t meant to yell. ‘I need to speak to her myself.’
‘Okay,’ says Grace, exchanging a look with Adam.
‘I’ll be taking leave for the next week,’ says Adam. ‘So you won’t be on your own. We’ll see how it goes after that; maybe get someone in if we need to.’
All settled then.
I nod, grateful for not having to think too much. Thinking at the moment seems difficult, elusive, like trying to capture a flower p
etal in water.
‘I’ll tell the nurse,’ says Adam, marching off.
I turn to Grace. ‘What about Ryan?’ She looks uncomfortable and even though my brain is foggy, I understand at once. ‘I get that you and Adam agreed not to talk to me about him, but I have a right to know.’
Grace glances towards the nurse’s desk. ‘He was pretty upset. Adam didn’t help by going completely ballistic.’
‘What?’
‘Honestly, Kate, be glad you were unconscious. The pair of them caused such a scene. Ryan was crying and apologising, and Adam was threatening to beat the crap out of him. I thought we were going to have to call the police.’
‘Jesus.’ The next question proves difficult, but I have to ask. ‘And where is he now?’
‘Home, I think,’ says Grace, ‘in the West Midlands. He did ring me to see how you were, but Adam said if he tried to show up at the hospital he’d kill him.’
‘What a mess,’ I mumble.
‘It’s not your fault, Kat.’
I think of the lies, the manipulation, the payoffs; the devastation that I have left in my path. All I want to do now is bury myself under the covers and never come out. My head starts thumping and I’m forced to lean back onto the pillows to stop the vertigo.
‘Is she all right?’ says Adam, now returned to my side. ‘Do we need a consult?’
I wave my hand in reassurance. ‘Just a little dizzy, that’s all.’
Adam strokes my hand. ‘It will be fine, darling; everything will be fine.’ Leaning closer, he whispers, ‘We can start again; forget the past.’
‘Yes,’ I reply, but I wonder to myself whether by forgetting the past, he means Michael.
The first few days are a blur. I sleep most of the time, finding reading and even watching television too tiring for my rattled brain. Adam is attentive, bringing me trays of food and helping me in and out of the shower. By the end of the week, and with Adam needing to return to work, I am allowed to be home alone, although he does enlist the help of the neighbours to check on me throughout the day. Each morning he makes me a packed lunch, downloads a new audio story on my tablet and tapes a list of dos and don’ts on the refrigerator.
Do go for a walk around the block.
Don’t forget to lock the front door when you do.
Do be careful using the kettle.
Don’t forget you like one sugar in your tea.
Most of the time I either sleep or sit in the garden watching the squirrels stealing nuts from the birdfeeder. Even the simplest decisions seem beyond me. When one Saturday Adam convinces me to go to the beachside café for fish and chips, I can’t remember if I like vinegar on my chips. Adam starts laying out clothes for me in the morning as I am often unable to decide what to wear. I feel as if I am slowly shrinking, dissolving into myself, and I imagine ending up as nothing but a tidy pile of dust on the bedroom carpet. It’s a telephone call from Grace that changes all that.
‘I’ve booked us on a spa weekend,’ she announces, a few weeks after my accident. ‘Massage, reflexology, sauna, the whole hog.’
‘I – I’m not sure …’ I stutter. I’m not sure about a lot of things these days.
‘We’ll go at your pace,’ says Grace, ‘no pressure.’ Almost as an offhand comment, she adds, ‘and Adam could probably do with a break too.’
When we arrive, I discover it isn’t just a beauty spa; there are physiotherapists and osteopaths on site as well. I give my sister a searching look.
‘I know, I know,’ says Grace. ‘You’re the expert, but I did a bit of research on recovering from concussion and thought—’
‘Thank you.’ I can say no more.
After checking in and giving a detailed medical history, all I can do is lie on a sun lounger and sleep. When I wake, I feel a tiny bit better. Escaping the stifling atmosphere of home has done me good. We have lunch, a body massage and then an ‘Introduction to Meditation’ session, where it feels as if bits of my brain are slowly beginning to slot back into place.
After lunch, Grace slides a newspaper across the table towards me.
‘You know I don’t read the Daily Mail.’
‘Not the paper, silly.’ Grace opens the page to the crossword section. ‘I read somewhere that doing crosswords and sudoku helps the neurons start firing again.’
I smile and take the newspaper gratefully. As a nurse, I know that the most successful recovery takes place within two months of a concussion. I haven’t been doing much to aid my recovery except to stare at the begonias in my garden. Maybe Grace was right. Maybe it is time to put in a little effort.
We sit in the solarium doing the crossword together until I grow tired. Then there is a gentle yoga session where I am thrilled to discover some renewed strength in my body.
‘You’ve finally got colour in your cheeks,’ Grace says at dinner that night.
‘I don’t quite know how to explain it,’ I reply. ‘Except to say that I feel a bit like my body is rebuilding itself.’
‘Hallelujah!’ Grace cries, lifting her glass of sparkling water in celebration.
I do the same, and then reach across the table to squeeze my sister’s hand.
‘Thank you.’
Grace’s smile seems to falter. ‘It’s nothing more than you deserve, Kat.’
‘Shame we have to leave tomorrow.’
‘Not we.’ Grace’s smile has returned. ‘Just me.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve booked you in for the rest of the week.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding!’
‘Look at the progress you’ve made in three days. Imagine what a week will do?’
‘But the cost!’
‘I’ve put it on my card,’ says Grace, and then almost sheepishly adds, ‘It may have to come out of the sale of Mum’s house though.’
‘Agreed!’ I wish there were no table between us so that I could reach out and give her a hug.
By the end of the week I’m not cured, but better. My mind is clearer, my motor functions more precise. There’s still more work to do, but with a list of therapeutic exercises and a stack of completed crosswords I feel as if I have come a long way. It’s only when Adam comes to collect me, and I decline his hand to help me into the car, that I realise just how far I have come.
Back at home I begin to integrate myself back into my pre-concussion routine.
Thank you for the sandwiches, darling, but I don’t really like pastrami.
I’ve got plenty to wear in the wardrobe, sweetheart. No need for you to choose.
I never had sugar in my tea in the first place!
I observe his reluctant acceptance of my newly regained independence and wonder if he preferred me as I was.
The one thing we don’t address is the diary. I imagine both he and Grace had a good look through my mother’s house for it when they were collecting my things. Clearly they haven’t twigged that my call to Doris while in hospital wasn’t about the cat, but about the diary and laptop; I asked her to keep them somewhere safe, and under no circumstances to give them to anyone.
I try not to think about it all too much – the diary and everything I have discovered. I just don’t have the energy, courage or ability to go there at the moment. I can’t even remember that much about the month leading up to my injury. How can I possibly resume my research? I have decided that I will try and put everything to do with Lisa and Susan O’Neill in the background for a little while, while I recover.
There is one person, however, that I do need to see.
I wait until Adam has left for work, and knowing full well that he’ll be tied up in meetings all day, I make the call. When the doorbell rings a few hours later, I flick on the kettle and lay a plate of biscuits on the kitchen table.
‘Doris!’ I say, waiting until she’s inside before enveloping her in a huge hug. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’
‘It’s lovely to see you, Katie,’ she says, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. ‘My, you look well. How
are you feeling?’
I tell her about the hospital, my recovery at the spa, and my commitment to moving forward. I also tell her about Lisa. There’s something I have to ask her before I can really start to put this all behind me.
‘Do you think it’s my fault, that she killed herself?’
Doris looks at me sternly. ‘I thought you said you were having a break from all that?’
‘I wish I could,’ I reply, ‘but having all this time to think, well … I just can’t escape it.’
Doris sips her tea, clearly considering how to respond. ‘From what you’ve told me, that poor girl was clearly disturbed. Her personal situation with her house, her marriage …’ she shakes her head sadly. ‘And with losing her job and all – well, to be honest, you seemed like the least of her worries.’ She puts her cup down. ‘Are you really going to give it up, Katie? The investigation I mean?’
That woman knows me almost better than I know myself.
I tell Doris my suspicions about Susan O’Neill, but it still seems so unlikely. Michael having an affair with his twenty-something swimming coach.
Doris raises an eyebrow. ‘I hate to jump to conclusions, just because she was his teacher;’ she absent-mindedly toys with the silver crucifix that dangles from a chain around her neck, ‘but let’s be honest, Katie; it’s not unheard of.’ She Googles something on her phone and within minutes comes back with a story of a thirty-five-year-old Maths teacher in Sussex having an affair with one of her fifteen-year-old pupils. ‘This only happened a few months ago.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I say. ‘Michael would never be interested in someone my age.’
There is a moment of telling silence from Doris. ‘Are you sure there was no mention of Diving Fish being a fellow student in the diary? A sixth former perhaps?’
‘I’m sure.’
Doris reaches into her Cath Kidston tote and removes Michael’s diary, which she lays on the table in front of us. ‘And the sketch? Do you think there could be a clue there?’
I turn to Michael’s drawing of the nude woman on the bed. In pencil, with rough, undefined features, and feet that look like paddles, it’s hard to distinguish anything about the figure other than the fact that it is female.
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