A night nurse appears soundlessly by her side.
‘You’re not driving off anywhere, Margaret. You’re in hospital.’
‘Oh, sorry, pet.’ The old lady sounds completely lucid.
‘Not to worry, Margaret. Go back to sleep.’
‘OK, pet.’
The nurse checks my drip, then disappears down the corridor. I fall asleep again.
Twenty-two Days Later
I’m woken up by the metal clatter of a breakfast cart. It’s 7.30 a.m. and a choice of cornflakes or porridge is being served with milk. The nurses are bustling around, distributing drugs. A short queue of mobile patients forms outside the bathrooms. Two nurses tend to my neighbour Margaret, who is being washed in bed, her grey wisps of hair combed gently. A feisty nurse with a strong Eastern European accent checks my blood pressure, pulse and temperature, removes the catheter from my arm and tells me a doctor will come to see me shortly.
I must’ve dozed off again because when I open my eyes a tall man is standing by my bed.
‘Hello, I’m Doctor Duval, you may not remember me from yesterday. I have good news. We are happy to discharge you today.’
‘What was wrong with me?’
‘We have found a concentration of diazepam in your system.’
‘Diazepam?’
‘Valium. You may have overdosed accidentally . . .’
‘I don’t use Valium. I’ve never taken it in my life.’
He purses his lips and exhales in a very French way.
‘Well, we did find a concentration of benzodiazepine and its metabolites in your blood. Mixed with alcohol, it probably made you feel pretty lousy. But it wasn’t a severe case and I’m happy to discharge you. Any questions?’
I can’t think of any, so I purse my lips and exhale, imitating his French mannerism. He obviously gets the message, because he nods and moves on to the next patient. The feisty Eastern European nurse appears by my bed again.
‘OK, dear? You’re going home then? Your things are in there.’ She points at a small locker by my bed. ‘You can change here.’ She draws the curtain around my cubicle. ‘I think there is someone waiting to take you home.’ She gestures towards the corridor.
‘Who?’
She shrugs her shoulders and moves on, letting the curtain drop. I retrieve my clothes from the locker and dress hastily. Standing up proves to be more difficult. I have to hold on to the bed because of a wave of dizziness, but it passes after a few minutes. I open the curtain and tentatively move in the direction of the corridor. There is a man standing by the nurses’ station. When he turns towards me, I recognize him. What the hell?
‘DS Kapoor?’
‘Nav, please. Morning, Anna! I’ve got your discharge letter.’ He smiles at me and waves a piece of paper. ‘All set to go?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ I look at him, perplexed. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I thought you needed a ride home. You looked pretty rough yesterday, I mean, you looked fine, but probably felt awful . . .’ I look at him as he blabs on and I’m pretty sure he’s blushing.
‘Are you here in an official capacity?’ I cringe when I hear myself, but I want to know.
‘Well, it’s my day off officially, but DCI Jones thought it would be good if I checked on you.’
‘Oh, she knows.’
He nods. We proceed slowly through the hospital corridors, then Nav leads me through a modern-looking concourse to a pristine silver Fiesta parked outside. There is someone sitting in the front on the passenger side. When we get a bit closer I recognize her.
‘Wispa!’
‘Yes,’ Nav beams at me, ‘I went back to your place last night and took her home with me. I thought it wouldn’t be fair to leave her on her own. I hope you don’t mind . . .’
‘No, thank you.’ I look at him, overwhelmed with the feeling of gratitude. Anyone who’s good to my dog must be a good person.
‘Here are your keys, by the way.’ He hands me my house keys and opens the car. Wispa jumps out, barking joyfully, and throws herself at me. I have to lean on Nav not to fall. Once the greeting dance is over, we’re off, Wispa sprawled on the back seat of Nav’s Fiesta.
‘Hope she hasn’t made a mess of your pristine car.’
‘No.’ He smiles at me. ‘She’s all right. I used to have a springer spaniel, he left his hair everywhere.’
‘Thank you so much for looking after her.’
‘No worries, Anna, I love dogs.’
When we get to my street Nav asks if he can come in for a minute and I say yes, relieved I won’t have to enter the house on my own. I go straight to the kitchen and offer him a cup of tea, which he accepts.
‘What do you remember about yesterday?’
‘Not much,’ I answer honestly, taking a sip of tea. ‘I had a run on the Heath, changed the front-door mortice lock, had a visit from your boss who told me about Tom’s arrest, went for a walk in Brick Lane, had a bagel . . .’
‘Brick Lane?’
‘I love the vibe of the place.’
Nav nods. ‘My uncle has a restaurant there. I used to spend a lot of time in the area when I was a kid. Anything else you remember?’
‘No . . .’ I hesitate and then the memory of the encounter with Samantha hits me. ‘Oh God . . .’
Nav listens patiently as I tell him about it.
‘It must’ve been pretty stressful.’
‘I meant to call DCI Jones and tell her about it, but I fell asleep.’
‘Did you take anything to help you relax?’
‘I did not!’ I’m suddenly annoyed by his questioning. ‘As I’ve already told the obnoxious French doctor at the hospital, I don’t use Valium, I’ve never taken it and I don’t keep it in my house!’
‘I’m sorry, Anna,’ Nav tries to placate me. ‘We have to ask these questions.’
‘Is this an official interrogation then?’
‘No, no, no, it’s not. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to you yesterday.’
I realize he has every right to be concerned. We sip our teas in silence.
‘You didn’t stop anywhere after bumping into Tom’s wife?’
‘No, I came straight home and curled up on the sofa with a nice glass of whisky—’
‘Whisky? Do you still have the bottle?’
I shrug. ‘It should be by the sofa. Aberlour, Speyside’s finest.’
‘Do you mind if I have a look at it?’
Nav is already on his feet when I shrug again. He comes back to the kitchen holding the bottle of Aberlour and my glass, using tissues he must’ve had with him.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take these away with me.’ He suddenly sounds serious.
‘Surely you don’t think someone spiked my drink?’ When he doesn’t answer I add, ‘In my own house? How?’
‘You had some diazepam in your blood. We need to find out how it got there if you say you hadn’t taken it yourself.’ He’s all business now.
‘I drank from this bottle before and I was fine.’
‘Exactly. Do you mind if I take this?’ He picks up an empty Waitrose carrier bag and gently wraps the bottle and the glass in it.
‘Go ahead.’ I stop myself from shrugging again.
‘I have to go now, Anna. Thanks for the tea.’ He takes a business card out of his breast pocket. ‘Here’s my phone number, just in case. Do call if there’s anything bothering you.’ He goes to the door and stops. ‘Oh, and do me a favour, take Wispa with you when you go out.’
‘I won’t leave her alone at home, I promise.’
‘No, I mean, don’t go out without her.’
‘She’s hardly a guard dog, Nav.’
‘I know, but still.’
‘OK, if you insist.’ I smile. ‘Thank you so much for everything, Nav, I do appreciate it.’
His smile is back for a moment and then he’s gone. What a funny man, I think. I have a slight inkling his interest in me goes beyond professional. He seems to be always the
re when I need him. God, I hope it’s not some kind of weird Munchausen by proxy syndrome . . . No, I don’t think there is anything sinister in it. And, to be honest, I don’t mind him going beyond the call of duty, I actually welcome it. Especially after he’s been so nice to Wispa. Wispa my guard dog, bless him . . .
I put the empty mugs in the sink, go to the hallway and put the security chain on, then go to the bathroom. A hot bath is exactly what I need after the night in hospital, and it feels heavenly. I luxuriate in the hot water full of I Coloniali Bath Cream for so long my fingers and toes begin to wrinkle. I’m in the mood for pampering myself. I smother myself with a body lotion enriched with Japanese yuzu fruit. As it says on the bottle, its aroma is supposed to chase away bad spirits. All the help I can get . . . I open the bathroom cabinet, looking for a face cream, and freeze. On the shelf right in front of my eyes sits a small rectangular box with the Roche logo on the side. Neat navy letters announce its contents: Valium, Diazepam, 10mg, 25 tablets. I hesitate, then reach for the packet and open it. The blister pack of baby-blue tablets inside is half-empty. I look closely at the pack: there is no sign of a chemist’s sticker with the patient’s name on it, just a white box, coated with my fingerprints by now, I realize belatedly as I put it back on the shelf. I’m covered with cold sweat, even though it’s boiling hot in the bathroom. I wrap myself in a thick towelling robe and go down to the kitchen. I need to think and sitting at the kitchen table seems to be the best place for it. Someone’s put a half-full pack of Valium in my bathroom cabinet, having spiked my favourite tipple with it. Was it an attempt to kill me or just a threat? Was I to stay unconscious while someone roamed my house, getting ready to do God only knows what with my helpless body? I pick up Nav’s business card, then put it down again. Calling him now would feel like crying wolf once too often. Who could’ve done it? My thoughts go back to Friday night. Tom. Perhaps he wasn’t trying to climb up the back wall, but was actually coming down, having left the Valium packet in my bathroom, which has a window facing the garden. Yes, but when would he have had the time and opportunity to spike my drink? Guilty or not, he’s locked up and not a threat any more.
A sudden noise in the hallway makes me jump. My heart is instantly pounding as I get up, looking for something I can use as a weapon. Wispa lets out a single bark and trots to the hallway. I follow her, brandishing an empty wine bottle I grabbed from the recycling bin. There is someone at the door, trying to get in.
‘Who’s there?’ I shout, hoping I sound in control.
‘Hello, Anna? It’s Pia. I can’t get in.’
‘Pia!’ A wave of relief washes over me. I put the bottle down and unlock the door. ‘So sorry. I had to change the lock again and haven’t had time to make the spares.’
‘No, worries.’ She beams at me and I’m instantly wrapped in her positive energy. ‘You all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Had a bit of a rough time lately . . .’
‘I can see that.’ She looks at the empty wine bottle by the door. ‘Let’s see how your garden’s doing.’
For the next few hours I take on the role of Pia’s assistant. I fill garden refuse sacks with dry leaves while Pia tidies the perennials, removes dead stems and tends to shrubs and trees. We work great in tandem. The garden transforms under her touch and her vibrant energy seems to push out all the bad vibes that have been hanging around in it since Friday. I feel I’ll be able to enjoy it again. I go to the kitchen to make us a well-deserved cup of tea. As I take out a carton of milk from the fridge it occurs to me I have to get rid of all the opened bottles of drinks. The fridge is easy: the milk, apple juice and mineral water go into the sink. I hesitate for a moment in front of my drinks cabinet, but then a nearly full bottle of decent French cognac, half a bottle of Patron Silver Tequila, some Polish vodka and a splash of sherry end up in the sink as well. What a waste, but better safe than sorry. Thankfully, the rest of the bottles seem unopened. When I take a cup of tea for her, Pia shows me some loose panels in the fence at the back of the garden. The gap is big enough for a grown-up person to squeeze through. I fetch a drill and some screws and Pia fixes the fence with fastidiousness bordering on OCD, which I find reassuringly pleasing. Once she’s finished, the garden seems safer than Fort Knox.
When I lock the door behind Pia I feel calm and in control. The bout of gardening has made me tired, but it’s a good kind of tiredness. I heat and devour a pizza I’ve found in the freezer and wash it down with apple juice from a newly opened carton. I drag a heavy chair from the dining-room set to the front door and wedge it against the lock, the way they always do it in films. It may not be effective in practice, but it makes me feel better. I drag another chair to the kitchen door and barricade it as well, check all the windows are locked, draw the curtains and turn on the lights in the lounge and the hallway. Then I go upstairs, brush my teeth and climb into bed. It’s not even four o’clock, but it’s a dark, cloudy afternoon and it makes going to bed less of a crime. I fall asleep almost instantly, dreaming of nothing.
Twenty-three Days Later
I’m woken up by the buzzing of my iPhone. It’s 9.15 a.m. and it’s Gillian calling.
‘Anna, darling, I’m just about to fire off our response to their redundancy offer.’ I feel instantly awake. ‘They want to avoid the unpleasantness of it dragging on as much as we do, so I’ve offered to strike a bargain for you to leave as soon as possible and with a minimum amount of fuss for a higher payout. One last detail I need to check with you: shall I include an offer of you signing a non-compete clause? Twelve or even six months would do.’
‘Let’s leave it out, Gillian.’ I surprise myself by rejecting her suggestion. Even though I’m still adamant I’ll never work in the media circus again, my gut instinct tells me not to limit my options.
‘Fair enough. One never knows what awaits around the corner. I shall be in touch once we hear back from them. We shouldn’t have to wait long.’
Gillian’s positive energy is contagious and by the time I put the phone down I’m ready to face the world. The side effects of the Valium seem to have disappeared without a trace; I feel rejuvenated and alert. Wispa greets me excitedly, rushing to the front door and back, anticipating a run. I drink a glass of tap water, throw my running clothes on and am ready to accept her challenge. I drag the chair away from the front door and open it. It’s a grey day, but at least it’s not raining and it’s quite mild. We tumble down Fitzroy Park, passing an elderly lady surrounded by a gaggle of small dogs in various knitted outfits. They all bark at Wispa, who ignores them magnanimously. The Heath is wrapped in fog, pierced here and there by bare tree branches. I inhale the damp air, ready to reclaim the park. It’s as if Tom’s arrest has dissipated the heavy negativity that hung over it, purifying the atmosphere and getting rid of menacing shadows. It’s a beautiful open space again, nothing more and nothing less.
We run up the hill, Wispa keeping up with me bravely, her pink tongue lolloping about. It feels good to be out, to be active and unafraid. I pass a lone jogger going in the opposite direction and we exchange a little insider smile, sharing the joy of being Heath runners. At the top of the hill I turn right, following my old route. Even though the trees are almost bare now, it’s much darker here, the lazy winter light not stretching this far into the woods. I slow down as flashes of images from the past start flooding in. The Dior Man, his wet T-shirt clinging to his chest, his hands on my breasts, our swim in the Ladies’ Pond. Then another image muscles in, produced not by memory but my imagination. His body tangled in the bushes, surrounded by broken branches and trampled mud, lifeless and cold. I stop and bend over, trying to catch my breath. I’ve survived, but I’ll always carry this awful image with me. A shiver runs through me; the damp air in the woods feels freezing. I hear a sudden noise behind me and I turn, instantly on guard. The elderly couple in matching green anoraks are making their way along the slippery path. They both stop, nod and smile at me, then continue their slow march. As they disappear down t
he murky path I shake off the feeling of inertia. I have to keep running, keep being alive. Wispa has stopped and is watching me expectantly, slowly wagging her tail. I force my body into a trot, then gather speed as my breathing returns to normal. I negotiate muddy puddles by the gate to Kenwood Estate, watching Wispa steam through them like a tug boat. We reach the open space of the West Meadow and my spirit lifts instantly. This is what I love about the Heath, the green expanse of freedom – peaceful, welcoming, relaxing. I turn right and run down a grass path along the edge of the meadow as Wispa overtakes me in a surprising burst of youthful energy, chasing a rabbit. Go for it, Miss Roly-Poly, I think, safe in the knowledge she’ll never be able to catch it.
We run across the meadow, over a dilapidated wooden bridge and through the gate leading to Kenwood House. The scaffolding wraps the whole house now, neat, shiny and symmetrical, like a huge dental brace. I run up the steps and turn right, towards the cafe. I’m hoping it’ll still be open and I can pick up a cone of strawberry ice cream. The gate at the top of the stone steps leading by the old bathhouse to the cafe is ajar and I trot down, debating whether I should go for a scoop of chocolate ice cream as well. But the cafe is closed and the whole place seems deserted. I’m just about to turn and run back up the steps when a sudden push from behind sends me flying forward. I stumble down the steep side steps that lead to the bathhouse, instinctively stretching my arms in front of me to soften the fall. Still, I land hard on the stone surface, the skin on my hands and my knees burning. I’m trying to get up when someone pushes my head down. My face hits the ground, my mouth filling with dirt and blood. Then I’m grabbed by the hair and lifted off the ground, dazed, semi-conscious. Someone kicks the wooden doors to the bathhouse open and pushes me in. It’s dark inside and I stumble on the stone threshold, take a step forward, then gasp and move back. The deep hollow of the bath is right in front of me, its stagnant water covered in green scum. The door slams shut behind me and it gets even darker.
‘Thank you for making it so easy for me,’ a hoarse voice echoes in the cavernous space. I know this voice.
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