by K. L. Slater
Kat opened the door and I stepped away from Simone.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, and headed for the door.
Thirty-One
The hundred-and-thirty-mile journey home went quite smoothly. No accidents or roadworks to contend with for once, and I was back in Nottingham two and a half hours after leaving the prison.
I’d already called the hospital for an update on Michelle on my way down to the prison.
‘She’s had a comfortable night in that she’s remained stable,’ was all the nurse who answered the phone could tell me. I didn’t expect any great leaps of progress but it was still hard to hear there was basically no change in her condition.
The thought of days, weeks, months passing, waiting for a crumb of improvement in Michelle’s condition… I couldn’t bear to even think about it. Or about how I was going to explain it all to Zachary.
I had to make a real effort to push away my dark thoughts. They were serving no one.
When I’d left the prison, I listened to the recording of my conversation with Simone on the car’s Bluetooth speaker during the journey back – partly to try and force myself to think about something else other than Michelle lying in hospital all alone.
The initial recording was the very first stage of the podcast process. Human speech patterns naturally dragged and lingered, and needed a little nip and tuck to keep the content moving. Simone’s interview was filled with the umms and ahhs of normal conversation, short interruptions, the few times we veered off the subject of Simone’s life with Grant.
I was confident Mo would work his magic. After consulting with me about what we should keep and what we might discard, he would cut and shape the session into something that was smooth, interesting and invisibly spliced. Finally he’d enhance the diction and sound quality so it was more pleasing to the listeners’ ears.
Usually after listening through the recording again, I’d put some music on or perhaps play my current audio book for the remainder of the journey. But this time, I just couldn’t seem get the stuff Simone had talked about out of my head. Grant’s treatment of her was so disturbing, such needless cruelty.
What did people like him get out of controlling another person so callously, keeping them suspended in a constant state of fear and anticipation of punishment?
Later, my first task would be to email the latest audio file to Mo. Secondly, I’d email the FSF group the final file for Simone to review, and, if she was unhappy with any of the material we were using, then we’d obey her wishes and cut it. I felt it was important to stick to my initial promise to do so.
Peter, Simone’s brother, had been on my mind during the journey back, too. Did he really want the best for Simone… was he trying to protect her? Or did he want to control exactly who spoke to her so he was the one with all the power? I’d had the chance to talk to him when he waited for me near the prison car park but we’d got off on the wrong foot.
There weren’t many people who could corroborate or deny Simone’s story about her marriage but he was certainly one of them.
I resolved I’d try and make contact with him on my terms. Hopefully, if I could talk to him for a short time I’d get the measure of him and his intentions. I called Janice from the FSF group. I hadn’t heard from her by phone since leaving my business card with contact details. She didn’t answer but I left a message asking her for Peter’s number.
On the way back home, I called Mo at the office and brought him up to speed with my visit to the prison.
‘I’ve emailed you the audio file over. I’m heading for the hospital again now to see Michelle.’ My voice shook and I swallowed hard.
‘Listen, Esme, do you want me to come over? I can go with you, I—’
‘No, no. Honestly, Mo, the best thing you can do to help is to keep things going at the office. The priority for you and Justine is to get each episode of The Fischer Files out. There’s nothing you can do at the hospital while she’s unconscious. We won’t know anything for another day or two, I’m sure.’
He made a small noise of frustration and I knew then that he felt as helpless as I did.
‘Listen, Mo, there was one thing…’
‘Anything, you only have to say.’ His voice sounded hopeful.
‘Michelle’s laptop. Did you manage to get in?’ I thought maybe I could find some clues on there as to who the man outside the school was and Mo had said he’d have the job done by lunchtime.
But Mo’s voice sounded frustrated. ‘I got in but there was nothing on there, Esme.’
‘I’d still like to look through her files myself.’
‘No, I mean there was literally nothing on there,’ Mo said. ‘For some reason Michelle had wiped it completely clean, taken it right back to factory settings. It’s perplexing that she didn’t keep any of her files on there.’
‘What? Why would she do that?’ I bit down hard on my back teeth. Michelle did everything for work on there, as well as having her personal email and electronic diary stored on it. It didn’t make sense. ‘Surely there’s a backup in the cloud or something?’
‘Turned off,’ Mo said. ‘She’d turned all the backup facilities and even the automatic save function off. I’ve no idea why she’d do that.’
I suddenly remembered Michelle saying she’d handwritten the notes for the TrueLife meeting. Wouldn’t it have made more sense for her to have them on the computer?
Someone spoke again in the background.
‘Justine’s asking if we can visit Michelle in hospital,’ Mo said.
‘No. Not while she’s in Intensive Care, Mo. She’s unconscious, but tell her I’ll pop in the office tomorrow and speak to you both myself, OK?’
‘Sure, take care, Esme. Remember; anything you need, you only have to say the word.’
‘I will. Thanks.’
On the outskirts of Nottingham, I pulled over into a lay-by, lowered the window a notch and rested my forehead on the top of the steering wheel. After a few seconds, the feeling of nausea passed a little and I carried on to the hospital.
The same nurse I saw yesterday took me through to Michelle. She greeted me warmly then tipped her head to study my expression.
‘I know it’s hard when you’re waiting for progress but you should count the fact she’s had a stable night as a positive. Stability is what we look for at this crucial early stage.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, forcing a small smile. ‘I just want to speak to her. She can tell us exactly what happened and then whichever monster did this can be brought to justice.’
The security pad beeped and we walked into the ICU ward.
‘Can I give you a piece of advice?’
‘Yes… please do,’ I said, looking at her.
‘Keep an open mind about Michelle’s progress. When she is conscious again, she might not remember anything. Or she might have difficulty articulating things.’
I stopped walking and looked at her. ‘Are you saying she might not be able to speak?’
‘I’m not saying that because I don’t know but anything is a possibility right now.’ We started moving again. ‘Just try to keep your expectations in check and protect yourself a little, that’s all.’
I thanked her and she left me at Michelle’s bedside. She didn’t wait like before, instead she attended to another patient on the opposite side of the ward.
I sat down next to my sister and held her hand. The ventilator pulled air in, then forced it out… in, out, in, out… with horrible regularity. And Michelle just lay there, motionless, swollen and bruised.
‘I love you,’ I said, choking back tears. ‘Zachary sends his love. We want you back home. We miss you. Please fight, Michelle. Fight to come back to us.’
I squeezed her hand and stood up. Then I walked away before I broke down completely.
Thirty-Two
On the short journey home from the hospital, I opened the window fully and let the wind blow away the smell of the place from my skin together with the dread that
had settled on my face.
When I pulled on to the drive, I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, I could decompress.
But as soon as I opened the front door, the noise hit me.
Owen was yelling, not in an angry way but in an attempt to make himself heard above Zachary’s wailing. I rushed through to the kitchen, my heart in my mouth. It didn’t seem that long ago that Zachary had one of these meltdowns most days.
I stood in the doorway and, for a few moments, they were both unaware of my presence. Zachary was still wailing and had cunningly wedged himself under the kitchen table, right into the corner where Owen couldn’t reach him. Empty pans and cutlery were strewn across the kitchen floor, the detritus of Zach’s earlier fury. He’d kept hold of a plastic reusable Costa cup and was currently hammering it on the underside of the kitchen table in time with his strident yelling.
‘Zachary, for God’s sake, stop this!’ Owen shouted. ‘It’s not helping you and it sure as hell isn’t helping me.’
‘Hello?’ I called out.
Owen turned to me, raking his hands through his hair. ‘Thank goodness you’re back.’
Zachary scooted out from under the table, dropped the plastic cup and rushed across the room, hurling himself at me.
‘Mum!’ He grabbed me around the middle and looked past me out into the hall. ‘Is Aunt Miche with you?’
‘Hey, what’s all the drama about?’ I said softly. ‘Aunt Miche isn’t home yet, but I’ve seen her in the hospital.’
‘What did she say?’ He looked up at me, his face red and swollen, his eyes bloodshot but hopeful. ‘Did she have an accident?’
‘She was still sleeping when I got there.’ I looked at Owen, who I could see was trying to read me. ‘She’s had an accident but we’re not sure exactly what happened yet. We’re just waiting for her to wake up and tell us, Zachary.’
‘Do they think that might be soon?’ Owen said, biting his lip. ‘She was asleep last time you went, too.’
‘Reading between the lines, no,’ I said quietly. ‘It might be a while until she wakes up.’
‘What a nightmare,’ Owen shook his head.
‘Maybe I should have stopped her getting in that car,’ Zachary said in a small voice, before tightening his arms around me and burying his head into my stomach.
‘It wasn’t your job to do that, sweetie.’ I squeezed him and kissed the top of his head. ‘Aunt Miche is a grown-up and she did what she did.’
I raised an eyebrow at Owen.
‘Zachary’s been a bit upset,’ Owen said, his words loaded with innuendo. ‘He wanted to go with you to the hospital and see if Aunt Michelle is OK.’
‘Remember all our chats about this, Zachary?’ I hugged him closer to me. ‘We decided there are so many better ways of talking about stuff, telling us when you’re upset. Acting up like this just makes you feel ten times worse. You know that, right?’
No response. I was trying to gently encourage him to move away from me slightly, but his head remained buried in my stomach and his grip felt pincer-like around my middle.
‘Come on, champ. Give Mum a break, eh?’ Owen moved towards us as if to prise Zachary off me and I shook my head. A few more minutes stood immobile like this wouldn’t kill me, especially if it helped calm Zachary.
After the accident, he used to get like this all the time on school mornings. After loving school in the years before the hit and run, he’d start to get dressed and then suddenly stop, sit on his bed and announce calmly, ‘I’ve decided I don’t want to go to school now.’ If we tried to press him, he’d throw himself on the floor and scream the place down. His injured leg would often get bashed about – he seemed oblivious to this in the throes of his meltdown, but he’d pay for it later when it throbbed even through the prescription painkillers.
The stropping, as Owen labelled it, became his preferred method of protest in many places: at the supermarket if he got told ‘no’ to stuff he wanted to put in the trolley, at the park when it was time to come home. Although to all intents and purposes he looked like a regular spoiled brat to passers-by, the doctors explained that the head injury he’d sustained in the accident had affected his reasoning. The way he now coped and behaved was no longer in a socially acceptable manner, but there was little anyone could do about it. Least of all us.
During the months immediately following the accident – the toughest time – I learned just how inflexible and judgemental some strangers could be, and how others could show kindness and understanding.
Seeing him like this again chilled me to the bone. The thought that Zachary’s old behaviour might have returned, brought on by the worry of his missing aunt, made my chest ache.
I looked at Owen and he gave me a discreet nod and mouthed, ‘He’s fine,’ over Zach’s head. Typical! Glossing over the facts because he didn’t want to think about it. Owen was totally out of control when I’d first got back. Shouting over Zachary was never going to calm him down and he should know better by now. He’d seemed so stressed himself when he didn’t know I was watching from the doorway.
‘Can I go and see Aunt Miche in the hospital later, Mum? We can take a chocolate orange, her favourite.’
I took Zachary’s hand and led him into the living room. We sat on the sofa together and Owen followed us and perched on the arm of the chair.
‘I’m going to level with you, Zachary, because I think you’re old enough and you have a right to know. Aunt Miche is really poorly at the moment and she’s sleeping lots.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘Why is she sleeping lots? What’s wrong with her?’
‘Well, she’s been hurt quite badly but she can’t tell anyone how it happened at the moment. The doctors are helping her breathe and to do that properly, they’ve had to put her to sleep for a while.’
‘Why? Why can’t she breathe?’ Zachary’s eyebrows drew together.
‘Because she’s hurt herself somehow. They found her in a wood and she was in a pretty bad way.’ I squeezed his hand, hoping I hadn’t overstepped the mark and gone too far. The last thing I wanted was to risk an influx of traumatic memories for him. ‘I know it’s very upsetting but I think you’re sensible enough to know the truth about what’s happened.’
‘I bet she tripped over a tree trunk,’ Zachary remarked. ‘Jack Hart at school fell over one in a wood and broke his arm.’
I nodded. ‘Well, we should know more in a few days. I think it’s a bit more than a broken arm with Aunt Miche but the doctors are watching her very carefully and she’s in the best possible place.’
Seeing him struggle to make sense of it all pulled on my heartstrings. Andrew Fischer hadn’t been that much older when his father was killed. It must have been so terrifying and confusing for a young boy. His whole life changing beyond recognition in an instant as it did.
Owen came over and ruffled Zachary’s hair. ‘Sounds like the hospital are doing their very best to get Aunt Miche back home soon, right, buddy?’
Zachary nodded. ‘That man I saw with her outside school… he didn’t hurt her, did he, Dad?’
There was a sudden, loud knock at the door.
‘Who’s that?’ Zachary looked alarmed.
‘I’ll go,’ Owen said, shooting me a look. He closed the living room door behind him.
Zachary ran over to the window, craning to see. ‘It’s those detectives again, Mum. The same two that came to talk to you yesterday.’
Thirty-Three
I held my breath and my chest tightened with every second that passed.
I heard Owen speak out confidently in the hall. ‘Sure, no problem,’ he said. ‘Come through.’
I walked out into the hallway, Zachary pinned to my side.
‘Hello again, Ms Fox,’ DI Sharpe said. ‘It’s just your husband – ex-husband – we need a word with for now.’
My instinct was to ask them to come back later. After all, we’d only just got Zachary calmed down again. It was interesting that they’d guessed Owen m
ight be here – I supposed his violet Smart car parked outside gave the game away.
‘They’re just here to ask me a few questions, Esme.’ Owen swallowed, glancing at our son.
‘I see.’ I took Zachary’s hand. ‘Come on, let’s go upstairs a little while.’ My head felt so full of awful possibilities, it was fit to burst.
‘No, I don’t want to go!’ Zachary stood rigid, his nostrils flaring. The detectives glanced at each other.
‘Zachary, we need to give Dad some space to talk to the detectives, OK? It won’t be for long,’ I said gently.
‘I want to hear what they’re saying,’ he cried out as I half guided, half pushed him gently toward the bottom of the stairs. If he threw himself on the floor I knew I’d never get him up there. The detectives looked slightly alarmed but Owen quickly led them into the living room. From behind the closed door, I strained to hear him explaining about Zachary’s accident and the effect it often had on his mood and behaviour.
Upstairs in his bedroom, Zachary stalked from the window and back again to his bed half a dozen times, his breathing erratic.
‘Come on, sweetie, sit down and we can watch something together.’ I kept my voice as calm as I could but inside, I felt like screaming.
‘It’s not fair,’ he raged, his voice growing louder. ‘Nobody ever tells kids anything!’
He had a point but what choice did we have? What was happening was way beyond what a boy of nine years old could handle.
‘It’s best we give Dad a little privacy to talk to the detectives, that’s all. Come and sit here next to me.’ I patted the bed.
Suddenly, Zachary stopped striding and cocked his head to one side, listening. Then I heard it, too. Owen was raising his voice. ‘Why do I have to come down to the station? Surely you don’t think I’ve got anything to do with it!’
Zachary turned to face me, horror-struck.
‘They don’t think Dad hurt Aunt Michelle in the woods, do they? Mum?’