by Ann Troup
When she had arrived at the house and Frances had been purging the place, there had been no acknowledgement of the albatross around Rachel’s neck. Frances had just greeted her as a feckless younger sister who needed to share the load. Then other things had taken over, had muddied the waters – had led them to this. A point where for anything to change, the truth had to be told.
The door swung open. ‘Look at this. Let’s put the light on, shall we? We don’t want you lying here all on your own in the dark, do we?’ the nurse said, flicking the light switch and forcing Rachel to screw up her eyes against the sudden intrusion of light. ‘Just come to do your checks,’ the nurse added, wrapping a tight cuff around Rachel’s arm and sticking an electronic thermometer into her ear. The cuff on her arm began to inflate, to the point where it was causing her more discomfort than the injuries.
‘That all seems fine.’
‘What happened to the police? Are they still here?’
‘Oh no, love, they’re long gone. Hasn’t anyone been in to tell you?’
Rachel shook her head.
‘Oh, right. Well, never mind. No they went after they’d spoken to Mr Parnell.’
Her neurologist. ‘What did they say to him? What did he tell them?’
‘Well from what I can gather, he seems to think you might have done this to yourself. He spoke to the surgeon who patched up your leg and he seems to agree that it didn’t look like the kind of thing someone else might have done to you. It looked to him like you’d managed to lacerate yourself during one of your seizures.’
Rachel gave a huge sigh of relief. ‘Did the police believe him?’
‘I don’t know, must have done I suppose. They haven’t been back anyway.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘Well, Mr Parnell has completely reviewed your medication, and we are trying you on a new regime. You’ll be allowed home as soon as we know it’s working and you are up and around on that leg. Did yourself quite a bit of damage there.’
‘It must have been the broken plate. When the seizure started I had it in my hand. I must have gone down and managed to ram it into my leg,’ Rachel mused.
The nurse paused what she was doing and looked down at her. ‘Look, I know it’s not my place to say, and I’m not saying that their explanation isn’t possible, but I’ve seen the marks on your back, and you’ve got bruises, old ones and new ones. If you are in a violent relationship, there are ways of getting out. I’ll bring you some leaflets, pop them in your bedside drawer. You can have a read and give it some thought eh?’ she said, patting Rachel’s hand.
Why was it that people thought the cruel ones were always men? The scars on her back had healed a long time ago, as would the one on her leg. The wounds in her mind had never healed, and no man had caused them.
***
There were so many hospitals in London. Amy had almost used up her minutes for that month ringing hospitals to find out where Rachel had been admitted. After she had finally managed to track her down, she felt mildly stupid when realising that St Mary’s was only a stone’s throw away.
Outside Rachel’s room she hesitated, unsure of what she would find when she went inside. She had an ominous sense that she could be about to make a bad day considerably worse. There was hardly a clearly defined etiquette for visiting your injured, estranged mother.
Bracing herself she pushed open the door, walked in, and regarded the woman who was propped up in the bed with her eyes closed. How could everybody manage to sleep through this horrendous situation?
This is my mother.
This hollowed-out, fragile, injured woman is my mother.
There was something about hospital beds, drips, and machines with displays and alarms that had the effect of reducing people to a shadow of their real selves. It was something Amy had noticed during her nurse training – illness and dependency diminished people. The woman in the bed was just that: an older, diminished version of herself.
Looking at Rachel’s careworn face, she realised how few of her father’s features her own face held. People had often said that she must look like her mother, but until now she’d only had a few old photographs for comparison. To be confronted with this faded version of herself was a shock. I am not like you, she told herself. I would never walk away from my child.
***
Rachel was aware of another presence in the room; she could smell perfume, so knew it wasn’t a nurse. Whoever was there wasn’t moving, but she could feel their eyes on her, sense the appraisal. She opened her eyes and turned her head towards her visitor.
‘Amy.’
The girl looked surprised. ‘You know who I am?’
At a disadvantage, Rachel tried to prop herself up further, but her left hand was hampered by the drip. ‘Of course,’ she said breathlessly, finally managing to find purchase on the crisp sheets by using her elbows. She knew that this might happen one day. On good days she had fantasised about it, a wonderful reunion where the past had no meaning. On most days – the bad days – she had dreaded it.
‘They told me you were dead,’ Amy said, still standing, her bag held in front of her like a shield, as if Rachel might leap out of bed and do something untoward.
‘I know.’
‘They arrested my dad today. They thought he attacked you.’
‘Yes, the police came. He didn’t do anything. Is he all right?’
‘Like you care.’
Rachel looked down at her bandaged hands, at the tube that was still slowly dripping blood back into her body. It was hard to imagine why people would go to such lengths to keep her alive. If she were a dog, they would have let her die.
‘They let him go,’ Amy said, finally. ‘I went to your flat. Someone found your bracelet. I found out you were still alive and I went to your flat.’
Rachel closed her eyes, trying to imagine what her home must look like to someone like Amy, an ordinary girl, with a normal life. ‘It was my aunt’s flat.’
‘What kind of person lives like that? Surrounded by all that junk!’ Amy said spitefully.
‘Does it matter how I live?’
‘It explains a lot. Tells me what kind of person you are. It tells me you don’t care.’
Care about what? Who I am, where I live, how I live? I don’t, Rachel thought, but she couldn’t say that. She owed this child, her child, more. ‘I never got around to changing it,’ she said, knowing that it sounded lame.
Amy moved to the end of the bed, braver now that she knew Rachel wasn’t going to fight back. ‘Why did you come back? If you hadn’t come back, none of this would have happened,’ she said, gripping the bed rail, her knuckles white.
‘My mother died. There were things to sort out. I’m sorry, I never meant you to find out about me like this.’
Rachel saw the girl’s emotions shift a little, thrown off by the revelation of a death. ‘Well I’m sorry about your mum.’
‘Don’t be, no one else is. She wasn’t much of a mother. It seems to be a family trait,’ Rachel said with a wry laugh.
Amy looked defeated, as if she had expected something quite different to this. She looked incredibly sad and it tore at Rachel’s already bruised heart.
There was a chair by the bed. Amy dragged herself over to it and flopped down. ‘I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know what I expected to find. I want to hate you, but look at you, lying there looking like you’ve been hit by a truck. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.’
Rachel regarded her daughter, and denied herself the rush of regret that would threaten them both, Amy most of all. ‘You want to know why I left? Well, this is why,’ she said, indicating her battered body. ‘Last night I had a seizure. I had a piece of broken china in my hand. I managed to mutilate my own leg and I didn’t have any control over it. Imagine someone capable of that in charge of a baby? What might have happened to you if I’d stayed?’
Amy shook her head. ‘No, that’s not it. You had help – my gran, Dad – they would
have helped you. No, it’s more than that.’
Rachel plucked at the cotton blanket, ignoring the discomfort in her hand from the big needle that insistently dripped life into her veins. ‘It’s hard to explain, because I don’t know how much you know about your dad’s past.’
‘If you mean that he was in prison for bumping off his first wife, yeah, I know,’ Amy said drily.
‘Right. Well, what you might not know, because he doesn’t talk about it, or didn’t use to, was that I was there when Patsy was found. I saw what happened, and I know your dad didn’t do it.’
‘So why did he go to prison then?’ Amy demanded, looking surprised that the subject had gone in this direction.
Rachel sighed. ‘It’s complicated. I was only ten when it happened. I was a kid who had fits, and no one believed me. See, your dad had the knife in his hand; I was the only one who had witnessed him find Patsy like that. She had been having an affair with my sister’s husband, so he had a motive. Lots of people gave evidence against him, my family included.’
‘Look, I know he was innocent. Anybody who actually knows him would say the same.’
‘I know, but that’s not what I’m trying to say – I’m trying to explain the background. We got together not long after he came out. I suppose we gravitated towards each other, like we were the only friendly faces each other could see. I’d stayed in touch with your gran and she was a good friend. My family weren’t, aren’t, decent people.’
‘Yeah, I gathered. I read the papers.’
‘Quite. Anyway, I was lonely and unhappy, so was your dad, so we just drifted together for the wrong reasons. I doubt it would ever have worked, and for the reasons I’ve given you, I couldn’t take you with me. I thought the only option I had was to leave, for good, and give you all a chance of a decent life.
‘My family would never have left us alone. It’s difficult for me to explain to you what they were like, but they knew I had been left some money, and they would never have left us alone until they got hold of it. I’m not saying I did the right thing, but I did what I thought was right at the time,’ Rachel explained, knowing that elements of it were true, but as an explanation, it was so full of holes it could give a colander a run for its money. At best, it would leave Amy despising her but not asking her to say any more.
‘So, you came into money and buggered off, leaving your family behind, and you want me to believe it was a noble gesture?’ Amy said, already on her feet. ‘I don’t know why I came here. I wish I could just wipe out the last few days and have gone on thinking you were dead! Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed your freedom, because I can tell you now that none of us have. My dad never got over you leaving us – never! He doesn’t trust anyone any more, not even me now because of you. You did that to him!’
She was shouting now. Rachel looked towards the door, afraid that the staff would hear.
‘So, thanks a lot, you selfish cow! Take a good look before I go, because you won’t be setting eyes on any of us again, I promise you that!’ Amy yelled, barging towards the door and pushing past an astonished nurse who had come to see what the problem was.
‘What was all that about? Are you all right?’ the nurse asked, peering down the corridor to observe the girl’s hasty flight.
‘I’m OK; it’s OK. She’s just a bit overwrought that’s all,’ Rachel said, still shaking and desperately trying to hang onto her senses.
The nurse fussed with her bedding and pulled up her pillows. ‘You’re telling me. We could hear the shouting at the other end of the ward. Are you sure you’re all right?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Just tired.’
The nurse frowned. ‘OK. Well, we’ll be round with the medication in a minute. I’ll get someone to bring you a cup of tea too. Then you can get some rest.’
Rachel gave her a weak smile, and sank back onto her pillows. It was all for the best really. Better that Amy despise her than know the truth. Even so, it had been harder to do than she had thought. One of the hardest – other than walking away in the first place.
If she could get out of the damned bed she would do that now – walk away. Make her way down to the embankment, stand on a bridge, and contemplate throwing herself into the Thames. It had been a favourite pastime over the years, Blackfriars Bridge at five a.m. always being the favourite.
But the fact that Amy already thought she was dead had always stopped her. That and the thought of the poor person who would find her body. The same with the underground, an overdose, hanging – all of it. She had weighed the options so many times. Someone would always have to suffer for her actions; there had never been an easy way out.
Chapter 20
Charlie was roused from a deep, deep sleep by the screeching insistence of an alarm he hadn’t set. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, the sight of the unfamiliar surroundings catching him off guard and bringing him instantly upright on the bed and instinctively alert. Irritated, he fumbled with the alarm in a vain attempt to switch it off, eventually resorting to pulling the plug out of the wall.
Though his brain told him he was awake, his body didn’t seem to want to follow suit. Still exhausted, he rubbed his face and looked around the room. His mind was telling him that something important was missing. He fumbled in his thoughts for what it could be. Amy!
Energised by an abrupt shot of anger, he leapt to his feet, looking for his shoes. Only when he went to retrieve his jacket did he see her note. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ he said out loud, dropping back down onto the bed, then: ‘Fuck! The bloody van!’ What was it with kids that they could never just do what they were told? Why did they always think that they could go one better with their insatiable need for instant gratification?
He was still champing on his temper when he reached the van, figuring he had better move it before it was clamped or towed away. While fumbling for his keys he realised that he was being watched. Someone was peering at him from behind a net curtain in the flat below Rachel’s. He could hear a dog frantically barking from somewhere inside.
He gave the voyeur a wan smile and a half-hearted wave. Immediately the curtain was dropped and the face disappeared. Shrugging he got into the van and drove it around the block until he found an empty parking space. Then he went back to the flats and rang the doorbell.
Anyone else who owned a building in London would have had some kind of security system fitted, but not Rachel. The front door was solid, but anyone could have got in if they’d had half a mind to. Besides, both he and Amy had been able to walk into the flat that morning. Not even the police had thought to release the latch on Rachel’s front door. He rang the bell again, and saw a dim light through the glass. Someone was coming, but they didn’t open the door.
‘If you do not leave immediately, I will have no choice but to telephone the police,’ came a tremulous yet imperious voice from behind the door.
‘Please, I need to speak with you about happened. I need to explain,’ he called loudly, both to penetrate the glass of the door and to rise above the persistent yapping of the dog.
‘Please leave immediately!’ the woman shrieked.
‘Dad? What are you doing?’ Amy was at the bottom of the steps peering up at him.
He gave up on trying to persuade the woman to let him in. He was getting nowhere. ‘I was trying to get her to let me in; someone needs to clear up that mess upstairs.’
Amy looked aghast. ‘You’re what? I don’t believe you. After all that woman’s done, you want to go in and clean her kitchen?’
Charlie reached the bottom of the steps and sighed. ‘You don’t understand. There isn’t anyone else to do it, and I can’t let her come back to that,’ he said.
‘Oh. My. God. You’re honestly telling me that after everything, you still care about her? Are you mad?’ Amy said, incredulity written all over her face.
Charlie felt his anger flare again. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that! You don’t have a clue about what’s going on, so don’t even pretend to ha
ve a valid opinion on my actions!’
Amy blinked in surprise. He hardly ever raised his voice to her. ‘She pretended to be dead. You lied to me. And now you don’t think I have a right to be upset?’
Charlie’s anger fizzled out like a cheap indoor firework. ‘OK, OK. I think we both need to calm down a bit. I know you need an explanation; we need to talk, but I need some food first. I’m absolutely bloody starving and it’s making me irritable.’
‘There’s a Burger King round the corner. We could get a takeaway. Go back to the room?’
‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. Come on, but you’ll have to pay. I put the last of my money in the parking meter,’ he said, finally relenting and putting his arm around her shoulder.
‘No problem. I’m loaded. I nicked your stash from under the sink.’
‘I know. You’re not supposed to know about that. Anyway, what the hell are you doing wandering around London with that kind of money on you? Anything could have happened!’
‘Christ, Dad, look at the state of me? Any would-be mugger would probably take pity on me, not rob me.’ They were at the door of the burger bar. ‘What’re you having – the usual?’
They took their food back to the room, past the suspicious gaze of the hotel receptionist, and ate it sitting on the bed – Charlie propped against the headboard, Amy sitting cross-legged at his feet. ‘Why does crap food always taste so nice?’ she asked, cramming the last mouthful of burger into her mouth, mayonnaise dribbling down her chin.
‘Because you’ve had to survive my cooking for twenty years.’ It was true – at best his culinary style could be described as ‘rustic’.
‘Was she a good cook?’ Amy asked.
It was a good ‘in’, he thought. They needed to get to the subject of Rachel sooner or later. He laughed. ‘Rachel? Cook? She was abysmal; she could burn water.’