Hush

by Sara Marshall-Ball

‘First of all, she’s in a stable condition, so please don’t panic. We’re not too sure what happened. It seems she’s had a fall and hit her head. If you could come to the hospital –’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ Connie hung up the phone on the middle of his sentence, picked up her bag, and abandoned her trolley in the middle of the aisle, causing an old woman to shoot her a dirty look. Connie, momentarily forgetting that she was now a mother in her thirties who wore sensible shoes and obeyed No Smoking signs, took great pleasure in giving her the finger as she marched past.

  Connie followed the signs for the ICU, and emerged from the lift into a wide corridor lined with individual rooms. The nurses’ station was at the end of the corridor, and bustling with activity. One of the nurses led her to Lily’s room, where an almost unrecognisable shape lay, swathed in blankets and bandages, hooked up to machines which Connie couldn’t identify. A doctor, in his thirties with a pale smattering of ginger hair, came by a short while later.

  ‘She had a nasty fall,’ he explained, ‘but actually she’s been extremely lucky. She’s sprained her wrist, so we’ve bandaged it up for the time being, and there’s some bruising, but we’ve given her a CT scan and there doesn’t seem to be any damage from hitting her head. We’ve not yet seen any signs of her waking up, but that’s nothing to worry about at this stage.’

  ‘And what if she doesn’t wake up?’ Connie asked, her eyes not leaving the unconscious figure in the bed.

  ‘That’s extremely unlikely,’ the doctor said, smiling his most reassuring smile – which Connie found more patronising than reassuring – and moving on to his next patient.

  A welter of bruises darkened Lily’s forehead and left cheekbone. Her left wrist was swathed in bandages and the visible part of her hand was swollen and unrecognisable. Wires connected her to machines that monitored her heart rate and brainwaves, and, whatever the doctor said, this seemed much more serious than any time she had collapsed before. She’d never been unconscious for more than five minutes.

  ‘Hey, Lils,’ Connie murmured, lowering herself into the chair next to her sister, and pushing her fingers inside the curled fist of Lily’s right hand. ‘What are you sleeping for, huh?’ She squeezed her hand, hopefully, but there was no corresponding pressure.

  She wondered where Richard was. Whether she should call him again. She’d left two messages on his answerphone on the way here and it seemed pointless to leave a third, but she couldn’t imagine where he could be that would prevent him from picking up his voicemail. Especially now, so soon after Lily’s last collapse. Wasn’t he on permanent standby? Weren’t they all? She wondered fleetingly if he was ignoring his phone because he’d gone somewhere he shouldn’t have. Was Richard capable of cheating? It seemed unlikely. As far as Connie knew – and she thought she knew better than anyone else – Richard’s entire life revolved around Lily.

  But, if that was the case, then where was he now?

  Connie chewed on her lip, debating what to do. Her instinct was to find Richard and bring him here to her sister. But then there was the chance that Lily would wake up and find neither of them here. That would be unacceptable.

  After a moment’s thought, Connie rang Nathan and asked him to pick the boys up from school. Then she settled more comfortably into the chair, to wait for her sister to wake up.

  It was Richard’s third shift at work, and he was getting used to the rhythms of the place. Rosa seemed to expect very little of him, and so he was generally free to chat to the regulars, do the crossword, ease himself into village life. Rosa kept him entertained with stories of her daughter’s misdemeanours while he picked apart cryptic clues absent-mindedly, his mind tripping over hidden meanings as she talked.

  He’d left his phone at home, something he hadn’t realised until he was halfway to work, and although a vague worry was nagging at him – what if something happened and he couldn’t be reached? – there was also a part of him that was enjoying the relative freedom.

  Ed had been in earlier, to see Tim and Rosa and to check how Richard was getting on. ‘I suppose I could stop for one,’ he’d said with an easy smile, when Richard had waved a pint glass at him. ‘Mine’s an Abbot, thanks.’

  ‘So I thought I’d have seen you around before this?’ Richard had said, hoping he didn’t sound accusatory.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that. I meant to come in and have a word, talk you up, you know. But it’s been a hectic couple of weeks. Haven’t known whether I’m coming or going, really. How are you getting on here? Settling in okay?’

  ‘Yeah, actually. It’s been good. I’ve been making friends.’

  ‘With Rosa, right?’ Ed had laughed easily. ‘She’s the only friend anyone needs in this place. Keeps the whole village going, if you ask me. And how’s that girlfriend of yours getting on?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ Richard had shrugged, smiled halfheartedly. ‘She’s doing okay, I think. Spends most of her time at home.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, when I’m not there. She’s doing a lot of work, I think.’

  Ed’s smile was sympathetic, though Richard hadn’t been trying to invite sympathy. ‘Is she there now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And where’s that sister of hers? Does she come to visit?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m sure she’ll turn up soon enough.’

  Richard was grateful when Rosa came over to talk to them, deflecting the conversation away from his personal life, and Ed had left shortly afterwards. Richard had been scanning the headlines of the paper ever since. He was fascinated by local newspapers, by the things they considered to be news. Man Feeds Pet Chicken to Dogs. Locals Outraged by Trolley Debacle.

  At four o’clock the pub closed for a couple of hours – another wonder of village life: the fact that the pubs shut in the middle of the afternoon so everyone could go home and rest up for the evening – and Richard wandered home, pausing to pluck a sprig of holly from someone’s bush. Lily loved holly bushes, especially when it was close to Christmas. She would tie bunches above all their picture frames, attaching tiny red beads if there were no genuine berries.

  The house was quiet when he walked through the door, but that was nothing unusual. It took him several moments to realise that something wasn’t right, and a minute more to work out what it was. It was something in the air that felt wrong, like a scent of something unfamiliar.

  It was when he walked into the kitchen and realised that the patio doors were open that he began to worry. Lily hadn’t been out the back of the house since they’d moved in there. She’d barely even spent any time in the kitchen unless he was there, as far as he could tell. She’d set up camp in the living room.

  He stepped outside, into the rapidly darkening evening, squinting into the trees in the vain hope of seeing something moving. Other than trees stirred by the breeze, there was no sign of movement whatsoever.

  ‘Lily?’ he called, his voice pointlessly quiet, subdued by the shadows and the feeling of wrongness. And then, louder, realising he was being ridiculous, ‘Lils?’

  No response. He felt his insides tighten, as if his stomach was attempting to migrate into his lungs.

  He stepped back inside, pulling the door shut behind him, though he didn’t lock it, in case she was outside and beyond his earshot. He ran up the stairs, darting into all the rooms, trying to tell himself he was being ridiculous. She’d obviously just gone for a walk. She’d been shut in the house for days; it was perfectly reasonable for her to want to go out. Maybe she’d gone round the corner to buy a pint of milk.

  But then, why had the patio doors been open?

  The upstairs of the house was deserted. He made his way back into the kitchen. Spotted his phone lying on the kitchen counter, and felt a jolt of terror as he noted the missed calls. Six from Connie. A couple from an unknown number.

  Heart thumping uncomfortably in his throat, he listened to Connie’s voicemail.

  Then grabbed his car keys and headed for
the door.

  then

  Connie caught the bus back into Farnworth. It was dark outside, and the bus was almost entirely empty – just one middle-aged man who sat near the driver and stared straight ahead. The driver grunted at her as she waved her pass at him, and drove off without waiting for her to sit down, so that she stumbled in the aisle and fell into the nearest seat.

  The darkness meant that she had to press her face right against the glass to see through to the outside. She watched the familiar scenery, as the countryside shifted into lamplit streets, with clusters of large houses set back from the pavement. The houses blended into rows of terraces, nestled tightly together, fighting for space; and finally into shops and public buildings, large and glass-fronted and impressive.

  She got off at the usual stop and set off in the direction of the school, with no clear idea where she was going. The school grounds were dark and tightly locked against intruders; there was no point trying to break in, when the police would be able to get access legally. So she walked around the back of the building, searching the alleyways that she had avoided since her earlier run-ins with Eleanor and her gang.

  The streets were deserted; she was surprised by just how quiet it seemed. She had expected the town to be much busier than the village at night, but, although it was more brightly lit and there was a sense of activity somewhere in the air, the streets themselves were quiet, almost eerie. Her footsteps echoed unnaturally loudly, the sound bouncing off bricks and garage doors.

  Connie knew it was pointless being out here. Lily would have walked from school to the bus stop; she knew better than to hang around outside school, inviting trouble. And so the only places she could possibly be were inside the school grounds, or somewhere unguessable: somewhere she wouldn’t normally go. As Connie couldn’t explore either of those, there was no point in her being out here.

  And yet, she felt so useless sitting at home. Discussing the possibilities while Lily could be lying God-knows-where… Connie forced the thought out of her head, walking with renewed vigour back in the direction of the school.

  Perhaps there would be a gap in the fence. Or maybe she could find a caretaker, or even the police – surely they would be here soon, once they had finished taking statements? Then Connie would be able to help them look – she could point them in the direction of Lily’s classrooms, guide them around the school. She could be helpful, unlike her parents, who sat at home awaiting their daughter’s return.

  Connie walked the perimeter of the school, searching for signs of life, but saw no one. Surely the police should be here by now? It had taken her twenty minutes to get into town; they could have driven here from her parents’ house in half that time. Or was that it? Had they already been and gone?

  Maybe they had found Lily straight away – if she was trapped somewhere she would be making some amount of noise, presumably. Clamouring to be found. If she was conscious, of course. So maybe that was it – they had come here already, found her, and now Connie was wandering around in the dark for no reason?

  She stopped at the gate, peering through the bars in the hope of catching a glimpse of light or movement, but there was nothing.

  That had to be it, then. They had found her. Taken her home.

  Connie turned round and walked back to the bus stop.

  Lily wasn’t sure if she’d fallen asleep or simply stopped thinking. Either way, she found her situation reasserting itself after a while, awareness of where she was slowly pushing its way back to the surface. Her trousers were still damp, and now cold. The hard surface of the floor felt as though it was bruising every inch of skin that rested upon it. Her muscles ached from being bent into awkward positions for too long.

  She thought she could hear noises outside.

  How long had she been here now? Three hours? Four? Not long enough for it to be morning. Would anyone be wandering around the school in the middle of the night?

  Maybe, if they knew she was here.

  She raised her first, banged on the door a few times, paused. Listened intently for any hint of movement on the other side of the door.

  Nothing.

  She banged again, but without really meaning it, then slumped back against the wall.

  The house looked the same as it had when Connie left, still half-lit behind the drawn curtains. She crept around the side, not wanting to announce her presence just yet. There was no police car parked outside, so they had obviously left, but her parents’ car was still there. So Lily must be home, then, because if not then surely they would have taken the car to look for her? Or maybe they were both still sitting at home, leaving the job of searching up to the police. Or would one of them have gone with the police in their car?

  Connie peered in through the window at the side of the kitchen. The glass was blurred and impossible to see through, but she didn’t want go and look through the patio doors; she would be too visible, and she wanted to see them before they saw her.

  She could see two shapes at the kitchen table. Both looked adult-sized, so no Lily: maybe she was upstairs in bed? Surely not, though. It had barely been an hour since Connie had left; Lily couldn’t have returned home and been put to bed in that space of time.

  So she was still missing. And her parents sat at the table, sharing a coffee, doing absolutely nothing to find her. She saw them lean into each other, exchange a kiss, and she felt her anger flare again. How could they be so uncaring? Did they perhaps believe that there was no real danger? That Connie had exaggerated her own experience, made it seem worse than it was? Or did they truly think they could help matters by sitting around doing nothing?

  She peered through the glass again, and felt the first twinge of unease, the feeling that something was not quite right. When was the last time her mother had looked that relaxed, that carefree? When was the last time her parents had shared any physical contact? They had their backs to her, but they were sitting much closer together than they usually would be, and there was a relaxedness to their posture which seemed all wrong, especially now. What was going on? Had it all been an act – the fighting, the unhappiness? What would be the purpose of such an act?

  She crept around to the patio doors, trying to get a closer look, through glass that wasn’t blurred. She crouched down so that her face would appear at foot-level, hoping they wouldn’t notice it.

  It took a moment to work out what was wrong. Then she realised: the bulk of the man’s back, the T-shirt he was wearing, the broadness of his shoulders: this was not her father.

  While he was out looking for his youngest daughter, her mother was kissing another man in their kitchen.

  The man turned his head slightly, and with a jolt of shock which was almost painful, Connie realised who he was. Why this scene held a disturbing note of familiarity.

  Not pausing to think it through, fighting against a flurry of half-remembered images, she turned and fled.

  The sounds outside were growing closer. Lily banged on the door, but the noises outside were too loud. Footsteps. Whistling. Doors swinging open and closed. It was definitely methodical. They were checking for something.

  Someone.

  They had to be looking for her. She banged again, her arms weak and useless.

  When they opened the door at last, she almost didn’t have the energy to react. It was a man, she noted dimly. Maybe the caretaker. She couldn’t tell. He shone his torch inside, caught sight of her in the back, crouched down. Shone the light into her eyes, searching, making sure. Then lowered it, realising he was hurting her eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ was all that he said.

  And behind him, just visible, another man, his outline much more familiar.

  Her father, come to bring her home.

  now

  Connie was still perched by Lily’s bedside when Richard arrived. She barely looked up as he came into the room: the slightest inclination of her head, to confirm that it was Richard and not a doctor. Then she went back to studying her sister’s sleeping face, still cli
nging to her undamaged hand, as if she could drag her back into consciousness.

  ‘Took your time,’ was all she said, but it was an expression of exhaustion rather than a reprimand.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I was at work.’

  He took a step forward, hesitated, then sat down in the only other chair, on the opposite side of Lily’s bed.

  ‘You can’t take your phone to work?’

  ‘I forgot it. Please don’t make me feel worse than I already do.’ He reached out a hand to touch Lily’s face; she was cool to the touch, pale and still, shrouded in avocado-coloured wool. ‘Has she woken up at all?’

  ‘No. The doctors say they don’t know when she will.’ Connie looked at him then, and he realised she’d been crying, a rare enough sight.

  ‘But she definitely will?’

  Connie turned away, looking back at Lily. ‘They think so.’

  ‘Think so?’

  ‘They –’ Her voice caught in her throat, and she took a breath, visibly steadying herself. ‘They said it’s impossible to tell, with head injuries, but they aren’t worried at the moment.’

  Richard stared at Lily’s expressionless face. She had been fine less than four hours ago. He’d heard her pottering around in her old room, shifting paperwork about. She’d even been humming to herself. Watching her now, he felt cold and numb, as though the blood was flowing more slowly in his veins, not quite reaching his extremities.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ he asked eventually.

  Connie shook her head. ‘She fell, apparently. I don’t know how they found her, or… well, anything, really.’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t you who found her?’

  Connie looked at him blankly. ‘How would I have found her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just assumed…’ Richard trailed off, confused. ‘How did she get here, if it wasn’t one of us?’