One Year Later

by Sanjida Kay

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Nick says. ‘But just in case… have you looked round here?’

  ‘I walked up to the terrace cafe in the vineyard,’ she tells him. ‘I saw Carlo and his friends.’

  ‘Yeah, so did I.’

  ‘They were about to head to the festa. She wasn’t with them, and he said he hadn’t seen her.’

  ‘Do you believe him? Do you think he might have had something to do with it?’

  ‘Carlo? Not likely, is it? You both saw him in the bar. I’m going to bed.’ Matt yawns and kisses Amy on the cheek.

  Luca and her dad have already gone to their rooms and the children are finally asleep. She makes a pot of coffee and takes it out to the pool. She lights candles and brings out rugs.

  Nick can’t sit still. He paces round the house and she hears him calling for Bethany, sees the flicker of his torch skittering through the olive trees.

  In spite of her unease and the caffeine, she must have drifted off, because when she looks around, she’s on her own, her shoulders stiff. There are voices coming from the kitchen. She runs in. Nick is talking to a young police officer in the sitting room.

  ‘Agente Marco Martelli,’ he says, shaking her hand. ‘I am sorry about your sister. I hope it is only she is having too much fun.’

  The man looks tired; he’s pale and there are dark shadows under his eyes. They sit at the kitchen table and the officer listens to Nick describing what happened during the day. Martelli checks the details against what he’s already written in his notebook, rubbing his moustache. She notices he has a scar through one eyebrow.

  ‘Is there anything else you can explain me? Anything that is suspicious.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Amy, joining the men. ‘Our iPad was stolen.’

  Nick shakes his head. ‘It was here. I found it.’

  ‘Yes, but we’d searched everywhere for it. I’m sure someone took it.’

  ‘And then he puts it back?’ Martelli asks. He snaps his notepad shut. ‘Your sister is probably having the party. She forget to take her phone. She does not have your number in here,’ he taps his head, ‘so she cannot call to you. But if she does not come here in the morning, you say me, and I telephone to the Carabinieri. It will take them one, two hours to reach here from the mainland, from Grosseto. After she has been missing for the whole day, they will come.’ He shrugs. ‘Probably.’

  Nick is about to protest, but his shoulders sag and he shakes Martelli’s hand. They watch the officer drive away, the headlights flickering as the car bumps over the rough track.

  ‘We should try and get some rest,’ says Amy.

  Nick nods. ‘She’ll be toasting Ruby-May somewhere,’ he says. ‘Grieving in her own way.’ He pats her shoulder.

  Amy stands for a moment, looking into Bethany’s room, her unmade bed, the curtains still open, stirring faintly in the breeze. Bethany’s clothes are strewn around the room, her sports bra hooked over a chair, Lycra leggings trailing like shed snakeskin. Make-up and bottles of suncream and body oil litter her chest of drawers. Next to her bed is a glass of water, a novel and a phial of blue sleeping tablets. It smells of her perfume and suntan oil, as if she’s only stepped out for a moment.

  She’s spent the past year being angry with her sister: if only Bethany hadn’t taken those work calls on a Saturday afternoon; if only she hadn’t asked their father to look after their daughter. But Bethany has finally persuaded her that their father does have dementia and that it wasn’t his fault. As the police had told her after the post-mortem, it was a tragic accident. Amy has also missed her sister, and this holiday has brought them closer again. She thought Bethany felt the same way. Would she really have gone out and got drunk instead of being here, with her, for Ruby-May’s anniversary? Amy finds it hard to believe, and unease and anxiety gnaw at her. She climbs the stairs to their bedroom with an effort. She’s so tired she can hardly keep her eyes open, although she doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep.

  16 AUGUST, ITALY

  31

  NICK

  My heart is hammering in my chest and I only have a moment to wonder what woke me, when the banging on the front door starts up again. I stumble downstairs, stubbing my toe in my haste.

  It’s Martelli. It’s still dark outside and I can’t see his expression. I feel as if my bowels have liquefied. There’s only one reason why a police officer who had been so uninterested would be back here before midday.

  ‘Have you found Bethany?’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  I step back to let him into the sitting room. The shadows under his eyes have darkened to purple and there’s stubble across his jawline. The white scar through his eyebrow seems more pronounced.

  ‘She is still missing?’

  I give a curt nod. Something curdles in my stomach.

  ‘I have a call about a young woman on the beach near to here,’ Martelli says. ‘I go, I see her. She look like how you describe your sister: she has the long dark hair, is around one metre seventy, slim.’

  ‘How old is she? Is she English?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Is she okay? What happened?’

  ‘I think someone has attack her. She is unconscious,’ Martelli says. ‘I find her lying in the sand. I telephone to the paramedics and they take her to the hospital. She is in the critical condition. I go now, but I come here first, to check if your sister has returned or you have the phone call from her.’

  ‘No, I haven’t heard from her. I’ll come with you.’

  I drag on some jeans and grab my wallet and phone. Matt and Amy must be exhausted: they’ve slept through Martelli pounding on the door, and there’s no sign of anyone else, apart from me. Martelli is waiting impatiently, pacing up and down the drive, the stones crunching beneath his feet.

  We drive at breakneck speed along the narrow roads, the wind whistling through the open windows. I feel sick, but I’m not sure if it’s fear of what we’ll find in the hospital, or being hurled round tight bends in the dark. I clutch my phone in one sweating palm, but I decide not to call Amy and Matt until I’ve seen who it is. I don’t want to worry them even more.

  When we reach the town, we pass the supermarket and turn down a small road leading away from the beach and its empty, litter-strewn promenade, to what looks like the start of an industrial estate. Martelli slams on the brakes, leaving the Punto at an angle outside the front of a low, whitewashed building with iron grilles across the windows. It’s hardly what I’d call a hospital, more like a glorified doctor’s surgery. I follow him in. The waiting room is crowded with men who look as if they’ve had too much to drink and got into scraps, scrapes or fallen down a flight of steps. Martelli speaks to a nurse at the reception desk and then gestures to me to follow him. We head down a short corridor and into a small ward on the right-hand side, with a single occupant. She’s lying on her back and she’s very still. With her dark hair spread across the crisp white sheets, she makes me think of Sleeping Beauty.

  And then my stomach drops away with a sickening jolt.

  It’s Bethany.

  I stumble towards her, but stop short. There’s a bandage round her head; one side of her face is swollen and purple.

  ‘It is your sister, Betany?’ Martelli can’t pronounce the ‘th’ in her name.

  ‘Yes.’

  Martelli speaks to a male nurse, who unhooks a clipboard with notes that’s attached to the end of the bed. He says something to the officer, gesticulating expansively.

  I call Amy. Her voice is thick, furred with sleep.

  ‘Nick? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the hospital with Agente Martelli. Bethany is here. She’s – she’s unconscious.’

  I wait for the news to sink in. She’ll be thinking this is my fault, and she’d be right. If I hadn’t lost my temper…

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God. What’s happened? Is she okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.’

  I should rea
ssure her, or something, but I can’t think of what to say. I mean, Martelli said she’s in a critical condition, she’s unconscious. But telling Amy that won’t help.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ I repeat and hang up.

  ‘Va bene,’ says Martelli, turning to me. ‘It is time to call the Carabinieri. They come soon, I hope. The nurse, he cannot speak English. The doctor tell to you what happen. I am sorry, Signor Flowers.’ He puts a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Hang on!’ I say, when I realize he’s leaving.

  ‘The doctor will say to you,’ he repeats, taking out his mobile.

  I go over to Bethany and sit down next to her. I’m ashamed at how hard I find this, how hard it is to look at her face, once so lovely, now so altered. One eye is sealed shut, the lid puffed and puce. Her lips are cracked and the bottom one is split. The bandage is wrapped tightly around her forehead and I don’t want to think of what it conceals. I take her hand. It’s dry and cool. I can’t remember the last time we held hands. Nearly twenty years ago, I suppose. Hers looks so small in mine and I have a feeling of slipping, of dislocation; Bethany has always been my big sister: robust, fiery, fierce, strong. Now she seems small and fragile.

  The nurse returns with a doctor. He introduces himself as Roberto Virgili. He’s in his mid-forties, his hair is threaded with silver and his eyes are light grey. He gestures to me to follow him.

  ‘Allora,’ he says, once we’re in his office. He sits behind his desk, and indicates a chair for me. ‘Your sister is found on a beach, near il cavalluccio marino. She is unconscious. She has been hit on the side of the head with a rock. We bring her into the hospital this morning and we examine her. We do not know who attack her. Agente Martelli has called to the Carabinieri, and a Maggiore will come here soon from Grosseto.’ He puts his notes back down on the desk and says, ‘Your sister may bleed to her brain from this injury.’ He taps the side of his own head. ‘We have to keep the close look to her, and she may need to go for the CT scan on the mainland. As you can see, Signor Flowers, this is the small hospital. We do not have the equipment we want.’

  ‘What does that mean? If she has blood in her brain?’

  ‘It mean she could have the seizure. Is serious. She can die. Can happen fast, like that.’ He clicks his fingers and I wince. ‘We hope that her head does not bleed inside from the trauma of the blow, or that the bleed is small. We hope she will recover in a few days.’ He spreads his hands and shrugs. ‘We cannot tell at this precise moment. Even the CT scan will not help yet; it is too early to say what happen. So we wait and we look. She go to Grosseto tomorrow, if she need the scan. Or she stay here one more day, two days maybe, go home with you, have the scan in England. We must watch, because she could have the seizure at any moment.’

  The palms of my hands are clammy and I wipe them on my jeans. I need Amy here, I’m not the right person for this. I don’t know what I should be asking. Amy ought to bring Luca with her. He could speak to Dr Virgili in Italian and maybe we’d have a better understanding of what he’s trying to say. I’m jiggling my foot up and down; the laces of my Converse are ragged and dirty at the ends and there’s a sticky stain on one toe, where Lotte spilt ice cream on me. I push my knee down to stop myself.

  ‘There is something else, Signor Flowers.’

  I shrivel inside. I want to tell him to stop, to wait for my sister, because I don’t want to hear whatever he has to say.

  ‘When she arrive to the hospital we ask if she has been sexually assaulted,’ he says.

  I close my eyes and grip the armrests of the chair.

  ‘She is completely dressed.’

  I let go and release the tension from my shoulders. I realize I was holding my breath.

  ‘Who found her?’

  He shrugs as if this is not important. ‘A holidaymaker out for the walk. But,’ he continues, ‘when we examine her later, we find she has anal fissures. This injury is consistent with the rape.’

  I don’t want to hear this about my sister. I can’t sit still any more. I get up and go and stand by the window. My pasty-white reflection stares back at me.

  ‘I don’t understand. You said she wasn’t sexually assaulted.’

  Dr Virgili inclines his head. ‘I cannot say for sure. Because she had the clothes on, we do not check exactly when she arrive to the hospital. It can be she was rape last night, or it was another time, very recent. Maybe she say yes, or yes at first, but it is extremely forceful sexual intercourse. You understand?’

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  ‘For now, your sister needs rest. You can see her later.’

  I burst out of his office, dragging lungfuls of chilled air. I stand in the corridor and look through the window of the ward at my sister, lying motionless in the bed, her head bound in bandages.

  My mobile rings and I fumble to answer it, in case it’s Amy.

  ‘Mr Flowers?’

  It’s a man, with a cultured English accent.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m calling from The Castle. I’m one of the consultants – Simon Golding – and I picked up your message this morning. Is this a convenient time to talk?’

  I can’t think fast enough. There’s probably some rule about not using your mobile in a hospital unless it’s an emergency, and now is hardly the time to discuss my father’s next appointment at the Memory Clinic. Golding takes my silence for assent.

  ‘You phoned regarding your father, Professor David Flowers.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘But—’

  ‘The receptionist is not here, so I thought I’d call straight away, save you worrying over the weekend.’

  ‘Worrying?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid you have the wrong number. Your father has not been to visit the Memory Clinic at The Castle. Perhaps it was another facility near Bristol? There’s a BUPA hospital in Henleaze – the Spire?’

  ‘Are you sure? It was about a year ago. He has a note of it in his diary.’

  ‘Well, you’re right, he did visit The Castle,’ Simon Golding says.

  ‘Oh. Then…’ I’m confused. I glance back at Bethany, but my sister is still unconscious.

  ‘His appointment was not at the Memory Clinic. He had, let me see—’ I can hear the click of keys as he types – ‘yes, there we go, a routine medical examination, and he was pronounced in the best of health for a man of his age. However, if you are concerned about his mental health or his memory in any way, then I’d be happy to book an appointment for him. Or you could call back on Monday to arrange a follow-up medical.’

  ‘I see. What date was the medical?’

  ‘Our records show it was the twenty-eighth of August, just over a year ago.’

  ‘Mr Golding, can I call you back?’

  ‘Certainly. You have our number. We’ll be happy to hear from you or your father.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I hang up and look back through the window at Bee. The one person who can explain why my father had a medical and not a mental-health check, and then lied about it, is unconscious in a foreign hospital and may die, because someone hit her on the head with a rock.

  32

  NICK

  The men in the waiting room sit, their faces and hands caked with dried blood, legs outstretched or knees splayed apart. I trip over feet, and a guy curses me; the room smells of alcohol and sweat. I yank open the front door and even though it’s still early, the heat hits me like it’s solid. I crouch in the shadow of the building, but there’s little respite. The temperature and smell, the lack of food and sleep are making me nauseous. I’ve had five missed calls and several texts from Amy.

  ‘How is she?’ Amy asks as soon as she answers the phone.

  I explain as briefly as I can what Dr Virgili told me, minus the bit about the sexual assault. ‘Can you bring Luca with you? We need someone who can speak Italian.’

  ‘He left this morning to see his family. He said he’d postpone his trip, when he heard what had happened to Bethany, but I to
ld him to go. I didn’t want him to miss seeing them – he only has a few more days free before he has to be back for a meeting with his supervisor. He said to say goodbye and he’ll see you in Bristol.’

  We’re both silent for a moment and I can hear Lotte and Theo’s high-pitched voices in the background.

  ‘I’ll come now. I’ll leave the children with Matt,’ she says. She’s slurring her words, she’s so tired. ‘It would be too upsetting for them to see her in hospital.’

  The blinds are half-open and I can see the glories of the hospital car park: bleached concrete and dusty cars, the sun blinding where it razors off wing mirrors, a metal waste bin piled with Peroni cans. I continue to pace up and down the waiting room, falling over injured men’s outstretched loafers, as I drink a warm can of Coke from a vending machine in the corner. It doesn’t make me feel any better; my stomach churns. Every time a nurse approaches the reception desk, I hope it’s going to be news that Bethany has regained consciousness, but so far no one has called me over.

  Our dusty hire car screeches to a halt on the road outside the hospital. A Lamborghini hybrid purrs behind it and stops smoothly in the car park. Two men get out. They’re wearing navy trousers with a red stripe down the side, knee-high boots, dark caps and they have a white strap over their pale-blue shirts, which I realize, with a start, is what holds their guns. They arrive at the door to the hospital at the same time as Amy and courteously gesture for her to enter first.

  I hug Amy and then step in front of the Carabinieri.

  ‘Are you here to see Bethany Flowers?’

  ‘Si. Who are you?’

  I introduce myself and Amy.

  The man shakes our hands. ‘Maggiore Gianni Ruggieri, and this is my colleague, Capitano Antonio Biondi.’

  Ruggieri has a crew cut, greying at the sides and slightly longer on top, pale-brown eyes and heavy brows.

  When we try and go to the ward where Bethany is, the male nurse stops us. There’s a heated discussion, with much arm-waving. Amy catches sight of our sister through the window and puts her hand over her mouth. Dr Virgili appears and listens for a moment, then gestures to the Carabinieri to go into his office. He takes one of Amy’s hands in both of his.