Cold to the Touch

by Cari Hunter

  This time around, Meg’s single-finger salute was a thumbs-up. Through half-lidded eyes, she tracked Sanne fetching a bottle of water from the fridge and emptying the pills from her pockets.

  “Can you sit up?” Sanne asked.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Can you take these without choking on them?”

  “Probably. What’ve we got?”

  Sanne reeled off the names from the packets.

  “Not tramadol,” Meg said. “They make me sick. Co-codamol and Brufen should be okay.”

  “Right.” Sanne set the tablets between Meg’s lips one by one and angled the water for her. “Sip it. We want these to stay down.”

  As if on cue, Meg clamped her mouth shut, her nostrils flaring, but the nausea seemed to pass, and she relaxed visibly when Sanne pulled a cushion from one of the kitchen stools and eased it under her head.

  “Better?”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Those pills should kick in soon.”

  “Hope so.” Meg cast her hand about until Sanne took it. “Did Em send you?”

  Given the circumstances, Sanne decided it was acceptable to hedge the truth. “She phoned me when she couldn’t get hold of you.”

  “She went to Harrogate, didn’t she?” Meg said, apparently not fooled. She chanced a couple of deeper breaths but groaned as the pain folded her in on herself.

  “Shh.” Sanne circled her thumb on Meg’s palm. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I didn’t stand her up.”

  “No, you didn’t.” She dampened the corner of a tea towel with the leftover water and used it to staunch the fresh blood seeping from Meg’s cheek. She knew she should be documenting the scene or asking Meg for more specifics about what had happened, but she couldn’t bring herself to do anything other than sit on the tiles and cling to Meg’s hand.

  “San?”

  “What, love?”

  Meg answered so quietly that Sanne had to lean close to hear her. “I’ve wet myself.”

  Even though Sanne felt like kicking something, or more precisely someone, her only outward reaction was to nod. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you get changed.”

  “Before the cavalry barge in here?”

  Sanne smiled. Meg might be concussed, but she wasn’t stupid. “Just as soon as you get your arse off this floor.”

  “Yep, any minute now.”

  Meg could feel the codeine working its way into her system, blunting the edge of the pain. Sanne’s hand was still wrapped around hers, its warmth like a lifeline after hours spent in agony.

  She had shouted at first, banging a pan against the tiles until her voice and then her strength deserted her. Subsequent attempts to move toward the cord for the phone had induced nausea, and she had lost consciousness at some point, waking up again in the dark. The fear had been bearable. As the hours had passed, it became ever more unlikely that Luke would return. The loss of control and sheer sense of helplessness, however, had been far more difficult to come to terms with. The sole saving grace of a thoroughly shitty day was Sanne rather than Emily being the one who found her, and Meg almost welcomed the headache that stopped her working through the ramifications of that.

  “Okay,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster. “Shall we give it a go?”

  “On three?”

  “No, just—” When she started to push with her feet, Sanne got the message and eased her into a sitting position. Meg groaned as the room began to spin, the kitchen cupboards disappearing and the ceiling dipping in to take their place. The leg she had been lying on felt numb and useless, and pins and needles raced along her right arm. Gagging, she tasted bile and then unceremoniously vomited onto her lap.

  “Shit.” She leaned forward, coming up against something solid and familiar. “Sorry,” she muttered into Sanne’s shoulder. “Did I puke on you?”

  “No, and stop apologising.” Sanne wiped Meg’s mouth with the tea towel. “We’ve got half the job done.”

  “Let’s do the other half before I chicken out.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Meg nodded, spurred on by the imminent prospect of police and paramedics knocking on the door.

  Sanne didn’t argue, despite her obvious misgivings. She simply took most of Meg’s weight and ensured that she wouldn’t fall back down. “You’re not going to manage the stairs,” she said, pulling one of the kitchen chairs closer. “Sit here and I’ll get you some clothes.”

  Meg sat, obedient only because she loathed fainting.

  “Meg?” Sanne tilted Meg’s chin.

  “Mm?”

  “Are you going to pass out?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll be two minutes,” Sanne said. Then, in an undertone, “Less if I hear a thud.”

  Forcing her eyes wide, Meg co-opted one of Sanne’s tricks and began to count.

  *

  Sanne put the bowl of water on the kitchen table and rolled up her sleeves. Meg was still brushing her teeth, the scratch of the bristles attesting to the force being used. With the central heating on full, a hint of colour had returned to her cheeks, and she’d loosened her death-grip on the chair.

  “You’ll have no enamel left,” Sanne warned her.

  Toothpaste frothed at Meg’s lips as she answered. “So long as there’s no vomit left either.”

  After another minute of frantic scrubbing, she surrendered the brush into Sanne’s waiting hand. Sanne reluctantly held up her mobile phone.

  “I need to take some pictures before you wash that blood off.” She had been dreading this, hating that she needed to treat Meg like a victim, but Meg merely signalled her consent by raising her head and staring at the far wall.

  “I’d rather you do it than someone I don’t know,” she said.

  She followed Sanne’s instructions to the letter, with the air of shell-shocked acceptance that Sanne had seen so many times in cases of domestic violence. For her own part, Sanne concentrated on the technicalities: the clarity and detail of the composition, the choice of background, the lighting, flash or no flash. Although juries could be swayed by a smart defence lawyer, it was difficult to argue against vivid photographic evidence of a defendant’s brutality, and more than anything, she wanted Luke in prison and away from Meg. With that goal at the forefront of her mind, she steadied the camera and repositioned Meg with the seasoned detachment of a crime scene photographer, a strategy that worked right up to the moment that Meg took off her shirt and displayed the injury to her back. Deep purple bruising spread across half of her torso, flaring out from an obvious point of impact where blood had gathered and darkened to form an ugly, swollen line.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Sanne dropped the phone on the countertop and walked away, her anger an easier refuge than her grief. “If Luke was here, I’d string him up by his fucking bollocks.”

  “Is it that bad?” Meg’s attempt to look over her shoulder was thwarted by the pain. “Damn, yeah, it feels pretty bad.”

  Meg’s curse brought Sanne hurrying back to her side. “Hey, stay still, you pillock.” For want of a better idea, Sanne gritted her teeth and snapped a picture.

  Meg studied the image carefully. “Nice haematoma. If it wasn’t on me, I’d be rather impressed by it.”

  The droll verdict tempered Sanne’s foul mood. She kissed Meg’s forehead and retrieved the flannel soaking in the bowl.

  “How about we get you ready for your guests, eh?”

  *

  Meg’s first “guest” turned out to be Kathy on the rapid response ambulance car, who did a creditable job of disguising her reaction when she recognised her patient. Meg had managed to walk into the living room, where she sat drowsing in front of a blazing fire as Kathy assessed her.

  After scribbling a note on her glove, Kathy pushed her glasses onto her head. “You need to go to the hospital.”

  Meg blinked, and the rest of the room muscled its way back in. “No, I’m fine here. I can—”

  Kathy was ha
ving none of it. Her raised hand cut Meg off. “Your blood pressure is low, you’re dehydrated and still vomiting, and you’re not tolerating oral meds. You have a head injury, so you need neuro obs, and your face needs stitching.” She folded her arms. “Stop being such an awkward sod.”

  Meg turned to Sanne. “I don’t want to go to the Royal.” It came out more like a plea than the demand she’d intended.

  “That’s okay,” Sanne said, perched on the arm of the sofa. “You’re sort of halfway between the Royal and Manchester Central, anyway.”

  Meg hadn’t finished bargaining. “No ambulance,” she said. She trusted Kathy to maintain her confidence, but the more people involved, the more likely it was that tongues would wag.

  “Planning on walking?” Kathy subjected her to the kind of look usually reserved for combative drunks and libidinous old men.

  Sanne intervened before Meg could think of a suitable response. “It’s not a problem, I can take her. We can go as soon as the police arrive to secure the house.” Always the peacemaker, she sounded like she was mediating with a hostile witness.

  “Bloody doctors. You’ve not got the sense you were born with,” Kathy said. More cars pulled onto the street, and she opened the curtains a crack. “Here are the police now.”

  “They can take a statement at the hospital,” Sanne told Meg. “You’re not in any fit state to be giving one at the moment.”

  “Okay.” Meg felt as if she was sinking, the pull on her heavy and implacable. “Okay. I’m just so tired.”

  “I know you are, love.” There was nothing but raw affection in Sanne’s voice, and her whole face lit up when she smiled. “But you’ll be fine.”

  Meg wanted more than anything to believe her.

  *

  “Oi, take a deep breath.” Sanne prodded Meg’s leg as an alarm sounded on the monitor. Two broken ribs, combined with a dose of morphine, were causing her oxygen levels to dip. She rumpled her nose in objection but succeeded in hitting ninety-five percent, and the noise ceased.

  “Just mute the bloody thing or it’ll go off all night,” she told Sanne.

  Sanne propped her feet on a second chair. “Not if I keep poking you.”

  “Sadist.” Meg yawned, wincing as the stitches in her cheek pulled. “You don’t have to stay, San.”

  “I know, but I think I might all the same.”

  Outside the cubicle, someone shouted for help, and a baby began to wail. The A&E waiting room had been packed with people who appeared neither very ill nor injured, and the triage nurse had prioritised Meg, taking her straight through to Majors.

  “Same shit, different city,” Meg muttered, before heading off on another tangent. “God, what am I going to tell Em?”

  “The truth?” Sanne glanced at her mobile. Emily had replied to her earlier text but not yet phoned. “Your colleagues might believe that you slipped on the ice, but Emily’s going to see your back at some point, and even an idiot would smell a rat with that pattern of injuries.”

  Meg picked at the tape on her IV for a few seconds. “Is it too late to call her?”

  “No, it’s only just midnight, and I doubt she’ll be asleep, anyway.”

  The alarm set off beeping again, and Meg took a breath without prompting, but she must have overdone it because the pain knocked her back into her pillow and left her as white as the bedding.

  Sanne unclawed Meg’s fingers from the sheets, encircling them loosely until Meg was able to look up again. “Do you want me to phone her?” she asked.

  Meg nodded. “I know I need to speak to her, but I can’t think properly.” A certain amount of frustration coloured her words, but she seemed too exhausted to be embarrassed.

  Sanne tapped the screen on her mobile and found its signal wavering at one bar. “Crap. I think I’ll have to go outside. Will you behave yourself for five minutes and keep that monitor happy?”

  “Yep. No more alarms, I promise.”

  “I won’t be long.” Sanne moved the emergency buzzer and a glass of water within easy reach. She knew she was fussing, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Five minutes, San,” Meg reminded her. “The sky will not fall.”

  “I know.” Sanne hesitated by the end of the bed. “Do you want the lights off?”

  “Please.”

  She flipped the switch to leave Meg in the glow of the monitor.

  “Tell Em not to worry,” Meg said, as Sanne opened the cubicle door.

  Sanne had no reply to that. If Emily was so concerned, she thought, why hadn’t she bothered to phone?

  *

  Manchester Central’s ambulance bay was strewn with the detritus of a bleak January night. Students freshly returned to university clustered in groups around intoxicated friends with minor wounds, their shabby-chic designer outfits a contrast to the authentic shabbiness of the city’s less affluent residents. Drunks and addicts dragged IV stands behind them as they smoked in coveted sheltered spots, or threw up or coughed up or did both simultaneously. Ambulances manoeuvred around the bay with their reversal warnings blaring, and people continued to stagger behind them, oblivious to the danger.

  Circumnavigating a man sitting in a puddle and drinking vodka, Sanne headed for the hospital’s main entrance, where the smell of curry from the takeaways around the corner overpowered that of cigarettes. Her phone buzzed as the improved reception delivered multiple texts from Nelson. She had messaged him before leaving Meg’s, and his replies had obviously backed up. Hot on the heels of a kneejerk: Bloody hell, hope she’s okay. Shout if you need me, was a rather more measured: Don’t fret about the briefing, nothing new to report. Full departmental scheduled for 6:30 a.m. See you there?

  She replied in the affirmative, even though he was probably in bed by now, and then found Emily’s number. Nerves skittered through her belly, but she reminded herself that she was doing this for Meg and took the plunge. Emily answered within the first few rings, an accompanying tinkle of crystal and laughter quickly silenced by the closing of a door.

  “Sanne? Where’s Meg? What the hell is going on?”

  It was difficult to tell whether she was afraid or indignant, and Sanne, suspecting a combination of the two, decided to come straight to the point. “She’s in the A&E at Manchester Central. We got here about three hours ago.”

  “Jesus.” All the fight left Emily’s tone, while the scrape of furniture and a soft thud suggested she had abruptly sat down. “What happened? Did she have an accident?”

  “No. The same man who broke into her house attacked her this morning.” Sanne relayed the information she had mentally rehearsed, sticking to the facts but omitting the finer points. Meg could fill in the gaps later. “She has a couple of broken ribs, eight stitches in her cheek, and a concussion. They’re admitting her overnight for observation.”

  “Oh my God, who was he? Why would he do that?” Emily paused as another detail hit home. “You said it happened this morning?”

  “Yes. She’d been trying to reach the phone all day.” Sanne raised her head, watching a cloud swallow the brightness of the moon, and ignoring the muffled sob at the end of the line. She found it hard to sympathise with Emily’s distress. Meg would have been found hours earlier, had Emily not assumed the worst of her.

  “I didn’t know,” Emily said. “How could I have known that?”

  “You couldn’t have.” Sanne scuffed her heel against the wall, cross with herself for capitulating, but suspecting she had made her point nevertheless. “It’s no one’s fault, Emily.”

  Emily snuffled and then blew her nose. “Did you tell Meg what I said about her coming here?”

  “No.” The question rankled. Sanne had had better things to do in the last few hours than try to cause trouble. She checked her watch. “Look, I’ve got to get back to her. Are you driving over?”

  “I can’t. I’ve had a drink.” Emily let the confession hang for a moment as if in penance. “Will you tell her I’ll see her first thing in the morning?”
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  Surprise blunted Sanne’s answer. “Yep, will do.”

  “Give her my love.”

  Sanne made a perfunctory farewell, hung up, and dialled another number.

  “Hiya,” she said as the call connected. “Sorry it’s so late, Mum, but I need a really big favour.”

  *

  The light from a well-aimed pen torch almost blinded Meg. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and she decided to cooperate in an effort to hurry the process along.

  “It’s Tuesday. My friend here is Detective Sanne Jensen, who should be at home in bed, and that idiot Cameron is still running the country.” It was only when she surveyed her surroundings that her bravado wavered. “Huh. Did I get moved?”

  Curtains had been drawn around her bed, and she could no longer hear the ubiquitous white noise of the A&E, only the fizz of a nebuliser and the soft snore of a nearby patient.

  “You’re on the A&E ward.” The nurse slid her torch back into the pocket of her tunic. “Behave yourself and I’ll get you both a cup of tea.”

  Meg waited for her footsteps to fade before squeezing Sanne’s hand.

  “Hey.”

  Sanne returned the gentle pressure. “Hey yourself. How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad. Have you managed any sleep?”

  “Probably more than you.” Sanne indicated her reclining chair and the blankets covering it. “I’ve slept on worse.” She had an ability to nod off no matter the circumstances, a talent that Meg had always envied.

  “What time is it?” Meg asked. A second chair sat by her bed, but there was no indication that anyone had used it.

  “Just gone three.” Sanne must have followed Meg’s train of thought, because she suddenly seemed to find something interesting on the overbed table. “She said she’ll be here first thing, that she couldn’t drive because she’d had a drink.”

  “Oh. Right.” Meg chewed on that one for a while, unsure why she was so disappointed. Harrogate was miles away, and it was unreasonable to have expected Emily to drop everything and rush to her side in the middle of the night. But still… “I suppose a taxi was out of the question. I mean, it would’ve cost a small fortune.”