A Trick of the Mind

by Penny Hancock

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I stayed with Patrick until the sun outside the window turned a fiery blood red, colouring everything. I would have liked to paint Patrick’s face in this light, half of it in shade, the rest tinted gold.

  Patrick murmured to me as I lay next to him, relating to me more details about what he had been doing that Friday evening when our paths were about to fatefully cross.

  ‘What I do remember,’ he said softly, his face just inches from mine so I could feel his breath on my cheek, surprisingly sweet-smelling, reminding me of the sugared almonds Aunty May sometimes gave us, ‘is that we were on our way down to Southwold and we’d stopped for a drink in that pub in Blythburgh. I do remember that.’

  I didn’t speak. I wasn’t going to lie. I would just let him relate to me what he thought had happened.

  ‘And then there was this git who was insulting me. Wasn’t there? And I was stressed at the end of a long week. I’d been working my arse off. I knew it probably didn’t sound stressful to you, an artist – second-guessing the markets, building the portfolio, keeping my eye on the competitors. But by God it can wear you down. I was so looking forward to our weekend by the sea. Getting away from it all. Sailing. Chilling. A couple of rounds of golf. And those guys, the big bloke with the thick neck and his sidekick Mikey, they were laying into me about something. It was the old drink talking but I decided the sensible thing to do would be to leave. Scott gave me a lift to the road. You were going to come on later. I said I’d walk from there. I don’t know why. It was dumb of course, much further than I realised, in my inebriated haze, but I didn’t want to drive over the limit and thought I’d go back for the car the next day. And then. Smack!’

  ‘What happened? Do you remember anything?’

  ‘I remember an almighty thump, then . . . no, nothing. Lights, yes, that’s right, there were lights that flared up, white, then everything went black. A pain in my knee, spreading to my lower leg, a searing, as if I’d been burnt alive, and the red tail-lights of a blue car disappearing into the night.’

  ‘It was blue?’

  ‘Silvery blue. I remember the colour because it was just light still, and I remember getting a glimpse of it. A small car, like a Corsa, a Micra maybe.’

  My car was blue. Silvery blue. A Nissan Micra.

  ‘How hard was the impact? Did it throw you in the air?’

  ‘Things are a blank, then, until the ambulance came. I remember being lifted into the back but then I must have blacked out again, because the next thing I knew I was in the hospital, tubes coming out all over the place, the hideous smell of nitrous oxide. And this appalling, indescribable pain. I tried to move my leg, Ellie, to wriggle my toes. I remember an intense itch on my shin, and it took me some time to realise there was nothing to scratch. Just . . . a gap. So fucking weird. How can a vacuum itch?’

  I wondered whether he would hear the banging of my heart. I didn’t need to know any more, but I had to, I had to work out where my responsibility began and where it ended.

  ‘Ellie,’ he said. He reached his hand out to me, took mine, and I felt how large his hands were, how much strength there was in them.

  I couldn’t bear to think I’d damaged – maimed – this perfectly healthy man, that I was the one responsible for his losing his lower leg! It was too huge to take in. If I’d done this then I wasn’t safe to drive! I ought to give up my licence – it would be taken from me anyway when the police knew what I’d done, before they did whatever else they did to prosecute a hit-and-runner.

  I couldn’t look at him as I spoke.

  ‘Your life’s been ruined. You won’t be able to work any more, will you? To sail, play golf, all those things you’ve been mentioning.’

  The ward was dissolving now behind a veil of tears.

  He spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Hey, don’t cry! We can get through this together.’

  ‘But I’m . . .’

  ‘Look. I’m not going to let this beat me. Every setback is a challenge, that’s what I’ve always believed. Every problem is really a learning opportunity.’

  When at last the tears began to dry up I looked at him. He’d kept my hand in his and now he squeezed it tightly. His was warm and dry. Comforting. I didn’t want him to let go.

  ‘What are you going to do? You should get some kind of compensation, shouldn’t you?’ What kind of coward was I? I should confess. Now. But the words wouldn’t come.

  Patrick was looking at me, his head tilted on the side of the pillow. He licked his dry lips and he said, ‘No. I don’t have to say anything. It’s up to me. It isn’t up to anyone else in the world. I’ve decided to ask the police not to pursue this. My choice.’

  He was gazing as if right into me or even right out the other side, as if he was far away and thinking of something quite distant from here and now.

  ‘Why, Patrick? Surely you should get them to find whoever did this ghastly thing to you?’

  ‘I don’t have faith in the cops,’ he said, dropping my hand, turning his face from me. ‘To be honest I’d rather not have them involved any more. What’s happened, has happened.’

  I wanted to press him. Why wouldn’t he want to find the culprit, claim compensation? And wasn’t there a duty to report it, to prevent whoever did this from doing it to anyone else? If he decided to, I could – would have to – face the consequences even if it meant losing all I’d been working towards. But he went on.

  ‘It’s my decision. The ambulance guys informed the police when I was found, and they must have put it out on the radio, but I told the police when they came here to fire daft questions at me to drop it. How could I remember the colour of the car, I asked them.’

  ‘But you said you saw it, it was blue?’

  ‘Did I? I keep getting so confused. Anyway, how could I explain what had happened when I was only just coming round? I said look, it was an accident, and I choose to leave it at that and concentrate on recovering. What’s done’s done. I want to move forward. Take action and you get results, dwell on negatives and they simply multiply and obliterate your way ahead. I’m not interested in going over and over what might or might not have happened. I want to grasp the future by the short and curlies! I’m going to learn to use a prosthetic. I want to move forward.’

  He sounded so sure, so convinced. Then he spoke again.

  ‘Ellie,’ he said, stroking my cheek with the back of a finger. ‘I would understand if you didn’t want to stay with me now I’m so changed. We haven’t known each other all that long. I would understand if you wanted out.’

  ‘No, Patrick. I wouldn’t just abandon you. But I’m going to have to go now. They won’t let me stay . . .’

  His beguiling blue eyes locked onto mine, the dimples deepened in his cheeks as he smiled gently up at me. His teeth were even and white.

  I had no references, no way of knowing how to deal with this.

  The raw, skinless, floaty feeling came over me. I needed a ritual, I needed a voice to tell me to do something. Look back three times and it’ll be OK. Tap the bed three times and it will turn out to be someone else who did this to him.

  He was speaking again.

  ‘I’ll need help, learning to walk again – if that’s possible, and if it isn’t, I’ll need someone to push the wheelchair for me, just until . . . until I learn to do it myself. I won’t be able to drive again. If it’s too much to ask of you, I’d prefer you just said so. So I know where I stand.’

  I couldn’t help myself, I placed my hand on top of his where it lay on the blanket. He smiled up at me.

  ‘I’m here for you,’ I said. ‘You know I am.’

  ‘How could I ever have forgotten you?’ he said. ‘Remind me what kind of painting you do?’

  I told him they were river paintings, semi abstract, with many different layers.

  ‘I can help you too, of course. I probably already told you that. I’ve got hundreds of clients who are always looking for art for their offices.’
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  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But, don’t you . . . isn’t there anyone else?’

  He pulled his hand from under mine then, his lips turning down, stared away from me and my heart rate sped up again. I was afraid I’d offended him.

  ‘I don’t want to think about anyone else right now. There’s only so much I can cope with at the moment. I only want to think about you, Ellie, your lovely gentle face, your sweet voice, your wild dark hair, like a scruffy angel’s. Your intense – what are they? Black? Brown? Green? No, hazel. Your intense hazel eyes. Your funny crooked smile. I can hardly bear the thought of the night apart from you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, I promise.’

  I pulled back, turned my head.

  ‘I must go.’ I had left Pepper in the car; I could see him from here. My car was out there, Pepper’s little face was in the back. I’d left him far too long.

  ‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’ he said. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Come soon. Bring me fruit, please, something fresh?’

  ‘I’ll bring you anything you like, you only have to ask.’

  He was gazing at me, and I realised I was trembling, though I had no idea whether it was with desire for Patrick, or terror at where I was heading.

  ‘Kiss me goodbye then.’

  I couldn’t – it was, surely, crossing a line.

  But there I was. I was leaning over him and pressing my lips against his cheek, and he was moving his face so our lips were touching and we lingered like this, poised, lips against each other, not moving, just sensing.

  The oddest thing happened as we stayed like this for I don’t know how long.

  It was as if the world just fell away.

  As if there was no one and nothing else, no time passing, no world turning. Just our two mouths, and a kind of buzzing in my ears, and an emptiness that was soft and perfect. A translucent moment, in this treacly light, as if we were trapped in a perfect piece of amber.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On my way out I stopped to ask the health care worker at the desk if anyone else had been in to see Patrick.

  ‘He’s asked me to get in touch with a few relatives and friends,’ I said, ‘but I don’t want to bother those who have already been.’

  Each untruth I let pass led to another. Lying – or at least, glossing over the truth – was an easy thing, after all.

  ‘There were a couple of blokes, mates of his,’ he said. ‘Came in yesterday, brought him some bits and pieces. And the police have been in. But he asked them to drop the investigation, for some reason. It’s up to him of course. None of our business. He’s been mainly asking for you. You’re Ellie, aren’t you? His girlfriend?’

  I nodded.

  ‘No other women?’ I asked.

  He grinned, winked. ‘Don’t worry! No one else. It’s you he’s been asking for. You’re his number one. And if you’re going to be caring for him we’ll have to get the physio to run through some exercises with you, things he’ll need to do once he’s been discharged,’ he said. ‘But you’ll no doubt be in again soon?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I wondered if he watched me sympathetically as I walked back down the corridor.

  I would help Patrick recover. It was absolution of a sort. All I had to do was make amends by helping him in the way he’d asked me to. I couldn’t do more than this if he didn’t want the police to pursue the investigation.

  ‘I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I, Pepper?’ I said as I opened the car door and he looked up at me, his tail wagging ferociously, his tongue hanging out, panting.

  I glanced up at the hospital as I got into the car, wondering which window was Patrick’s.

  There was a figure at the window of a third floor ward. Silhouetted against the lights that had gone on, stretching up. Probably a nurse, releasing the blind which slithered down and hid the room from view.

  I woke up early, in May’s bedroom. I should get back to London, work on my painting, but I had promised to visit Patrick again, and visiting hours weren’t until midday. At least now I had a role to play.

  Patrick’s girlfriend’s role!

  It was obvious the woman he thought I was, was having no more to do with him. Then I would – should – take her place until I could explain the weird truth about how I’d come to visit him.

  I leant on the window and watched a brisk wind send compact clouds racing across a pale blue sky. The sea glittered over the sand dunes in the distance, blond sea grasses against a bleached backdrop of sand. I did my salute to the sun, a yoga ritual that woke me up and put me in a good mood for the day. I had a sudden violent urge to see Patrick again. I’d take him fruit as he’d asked, soothe him, be the woman he believed I was, the one who cared. I could barely wait.

  I pulled on jeans, boots, a jumper and my parka, called Pepper and walked out onto the shore, restraining myself from tapping the gatepost. The horizon was a dark line, the sea softened by the white cotton grass leaning away from the wind. I walked briskly, throwing pieces of driftwood for Pepper, licking the salt spray from my lips, the wind stinging my cheeks. People were out already, walking their dogs and stopping to ask me about Pepper – what breed was he? How old? And I trotted out my answers – a Norfolk terrier, at least fourteen, quite old for a dog, yes, at least ninety in people years.

  As I walked, feeling the wind blow away all the anxiety of the last few days, I gave rein to the feeling that I’d been trying to fight since I’d visited Patrick last night. A yearning to have his blue eyes looking into mine again. A longing to feel his lips. I thought of the way they had rested against mine. His almondy smell. His strong hands. In my fantasy I obliterated the fact he might never walk again, ignored the fact it might all be because of me. He was fully recovered, tall and strong. When he was better he would come and stay with me here, in May’s cottage. Or, as seemed likely, in his own flashier place somewhere along this coast.

  I let the fantasy develop. We would drive down here in a convertible – he was bound to have a nice car – and he would take me out on his yacht – he’d said he’d been on his way to a weekend of sailing – and we would make delicious meals of fresh seafood and drink the best wine. I would paint, and he would sell my paintings to up-market businesses all over the world. New York was just the start of it!

  In this fantasy, everything was changing. Not in the way I had planned as I drove down to the seaside the night before my Private View. But an even more exciting and unexpected phase was unfolding. I was going to change more dramatically than anyone had ever expected.

  Patrick was probably richer than anyone I’d ever met! I thought of the pictures of him on yachts on his phone. He had mentioned he had contacts who bought art, expensive art. I craved a new life, new experiences. And he had the capacity to provide them. I thought of the green dress I’d bought for the Private View, knowing Finn would never have wanted me to wear such a thing. Well I was going further than that – putting on new clothes wasn’t the half of it! I was peeling off an old self and on the brink of putting on a new one.

  At some point I would have to tell Patrick that we had never actually met before I came to the hospital. That I now believed I was the one to have bumped into him on the road that night. How I had meant to tell him, but that it was too much to dump on him while he was coming to terms with his atrocious injury. That since he didn’t want the police to pursue it, I had realised the best thing I could do to atone for the appalling thing I had done was to help him recover.

  He would see how hard it had been for me to carry this burden of guilt, but seeing how willing I was to stand by him when no one else would, he would forgive me.

  I wondered about the woman he thought I was, the one who had decided to get out before the relationship had even begun.

  How hard-hearted of her, to abandon Patrick when she realised he’d lost a leg. But then it was also underst
andable. They had by all accounts only met recently, there had been a fight in the pub, he had suffered this life-changing trauma. How many women would be prepared to stick around to deal with the repercussions of such a dramatic turn of events, unless they were as entangled in them as I was?

  And then I was racing ahead, imagining what people would say when they saw me with this handsome new man, so different from Finn. Finn had been stopping me from moving forward, but Patrick, with his positive philosophy, would enable me to face the fears that had held me back over the years. I’d become ambitious and successful.

  I would no longer be controlled by the compulsions that made me touch things or look back, to prevent something dreadful happening to someone I was responsible for – Timothy, Ben, Aunty May.

  Pepper ran up to me then, jolting me out of my daydream. One or two hardy people were making their way over the shingle to the sea for an early morning swim, their flesh glowing white in the sunlight, their costumes drooping off their shrinking elderly bodies.

  Perhaps – and the idea was like a whirlwind rushing through my mind – perhaps this was meant. You did hear of such things, elderly couples describing the extraordinary way they met, all those years ago, as if fate decreed they should be together. Perhaps the hit-and-run had happened that night for a reason.

  Patrick and I were meant to be together!

  I got to the beach café – a hut on the promenade, with windmills and buckets and spades piled outside. I ordered a fried egg and bacon bun from the girl serving up tea from an urn, and asked for a dish to put some water in for Pepper. Then I sat at a white plastic table sheltered from the wind between the café and the beach huts and drank my tea and shut my eyes and let the sun beat down on my eyelids, listening to the gentle sigh and sizzle of the waves on the shore.

  Bliss.

  When I’d drained my tea I got up and walked up the steps to the town past the brewery and the lighthouse, the Sailor’s reading room, and the pub. I bought oranges, a punnet of early strawberries, and kiwis at the greengrocer’s on the square.