by Caron Allan
“What lady? Mavis?”
“No not Mavis, a new lady. She told us to stay here until Mummy and Daddy came to get us. She said it was a game and when you winned to give you the prize.”
In the dark he held something out to me, something small and thin and pointy and cold. I couldn’t see it clearly, but I knew what it was.
It was a photo.
Monica had stolen my children.
I waited until the police had gone and the children were home safely and tucked up in bed in their fluffy PJs and with their teddies next to them before coming downstairs and falling apart.
The photo was from one of those old instant cameras, like the other photos I had been sent. It showed Paddy and Billy sitting on the step of the broken down old roundabout, side by side, in their cute little costumes, looking blatantly terrified, and Billy was sucking her forefinger, which she hasn’t done for weeks now.
That was when I threw up.
Lill made me some cocoa but I couldn’t drink it. I couldn’t calm down. Lill looked at me.
“We’ve got to get the bitch that did this.” She said. We all agreed with that.
A little while ago, at half past ten, just as we were all just beginning to calm down, the phone rang. I think I’d assumed it would be Monica finally calling to enjoy the fall-out of her little prank, and I grabbed the receiver, ready to scream a stream of invective down the wire to her crazed brain. But it was Henrietta.
She sounded so broken, so defeated, so frail, I felt awful. She apologised over and over again. I spoke to her for a few minutes but it was clear I needed to speak to her face to face – her and Mavis. I knew I’d been too harsh on them, and they were too old to be left to stew in their own juices with that much guilt.
So I’m just getting dressed again to pop back out. Hopefully I’ll only be half an hour or so as I’m absolutely shattered. Matt is coming with me, I think he wants to see them too, and in any case, he doesn’t want me going out on my own after what happened this evening.
Wed 12 Nov – 2.25am
I am sitting here beside Cressida’s bed. She’s got a private room in the hospital – a bit too bloody private, if you ask me, it’s like a morgue in here.
I brought this diary thing, journal, whatever the hell she calls it, in to leave on the shelf by her bed. I thought she might suddenly wake up one night and see it there, and she’d be pleased to see it, a familiar thing from home.
But now it’s been twelve days.
The doctors say she is “making satisfactory progress”. That means fuck all to me. All I know is, my wife – the woman I love – is lying in bed in a coma. I want her to be okay, of course I do, but mainly all I want is for her to be at home with us, reading to the kids, talking to her friends, doing things, just – fucking – being – there.
They keep telling me it’s going to take time, but they can’t tell me how long. They tell me she’s lucky to be alive and that I should be encouraged that she’s held on this long. But I’m scared. What if she never wakes up? What will we all do without her?
I know she’s killed people, I’m not saying she’s perfect. But none of us are, are we? And she’s been wonderful to my kids – treats them like her own, loves them like her own. And not just them – even me. When I first came out of prison, and ever since then, everything she’s done, it’s just been wonderful. She’s the glue that holds my whole life together, and without her it’s all just a total waste of time.
The nurse just came in, wants to do a few things, so I’m taking this upstairs to the hospital café.
It’s funny. I’ve never thought I was much of a bloke for writing things down. I can spell reasonably well, but that’s about it. I failed GCSE English, failed all of them except maths and IT. Never made much of myself, never had to; I found that when I told lies, people believed me. You can make a lot of money that way.
Had to give most of it back, like, but there was over a million they never found. Never will either. That’s safe.
But writing is new to me. Think I can see why she does it though, why she likes it. It’s a bit like when people go to confession and sit in the dark and talk to someone they can’t see – they confess to the priest, get it all off their chest. Only this is better because you can get it off your chest, whatever’s worrying you, but it’s still a secret. I do actually feel a bit better now, less hopeless.
That night. We just came out of the house, on our way to Henrietta’s. Cressida just felt she had to go down and see them and let them know the children was all right and make sure Mavis and Henrietta weren’t too upset, and I think she wanted to say sorry for being so angry too. And I knew I ought to say something too, because if Cressida hadn’t been there I could of hit Mavis, I was that bloody furious.
There was a car coming along the lane, slowly. I didn’t think anything of it. There wasn’t anything weird about it, or nothing. And we was just walking along in the road – you’ve got to, the roads round our way are too narrow for pavements – but we were keeping in, there was room for the car to get by, so I wasn’t worried or anything.
Then suddenly – I didn’t even have time to call out or do anything – suddenly the car just came at us, the engine was roaring and before I had a chance to say anything or to grab her, she was flying through the air, there was a massive bang as she bounced off the bumper and onto the car roof then she was there lying in a ditch at the side of the road and the car was gone. People say things like that happen in slow-motion, but that’s not true, they happen so quick your mind can’t figure out what’s going on.
It was too dark to see more than that it was a small white car, and a woman with longish hair driving it. I think it was that Clio that woman said she saw. And last time we saw her, Monica had long hair. I think it was Monica, in fact I’m sure it was. I told the police it was her.
But none of that mattered. As soon as I realised what had happened, as soon as I kind of came to life again, I ran to Cressida. I had my phone in my pocket and I was scrambling down into the ditch and can remember I was almost crying and I was practically praying, just saying please God, please God, over and over again, and yet I was sure, I was so sure she would be dead when I got there, and none of it seemed like it was really happening and I just couldn’t believe it.
I was too scared to move her in case I might hurt her worse and I was trying to explain to the emergency operator and I was trying to find a pulse. The operator was telling me what to do and I had to keep wiping my eyes because I couldn’t see what I was doing, and she kept saying, ‘they’re on their way, they’ll be there soon, just hang on.’
It seemed to take hours for the ambulance to arrive, and then there were problems with them trying to get her out of the ditch so that took a while.
Then she was taken straight into theatre.
By the time they let me see her it was almost four in the morning and she was in a coma. They knew the damage by then. Smashed kneecap, broken pelvis, broken arm and wrist, grazes, cuts, bruises, broken jaw, fractured skull, brain swelling.
But the baby – I couldn’t believe it – he’s all right! They say he’s fine. Because she was hit from behind, all the injuries are on the back and right side of the body, or on her knees and hands as she fell, that’s what took all the impact.
I thought for sure we’d lost the baby. I rang my Mum – she was crying, I was crying. It was a good thing Leanne was at the house – first time ever she’s been useful – but it meant Dad could bring Mum to the hospital and leave Leanne to look after the children.
The three of us sat in the room with Cressida the last few hours of the night, hoping she’d wake up. She didn’t. But we’re still hoping.
Now, I come in two or three times a day, to talk to Cressida, talk to the baby, tell them it’s all going to be all right, and I cross my fingers that I’m not lying to them.
There’s cards and flowers all around the room, from me, and the family and all her friends. And there’s some funny little p
urse thing the vicar gave me to put by her bed.
I’ve got a couple of the kids’ books from home that I read to her and the baby – he needs to hear the voice of one of his parents at least.
Mum and Dad come in every day, Henrietta and Mavis come in a couple of times a week, and so does the vicar. Madison comes in about every other day. Then three or four times a week I bring Paddy and Billy in and they sit next to her on the bed and hold her hand, which makes me feel like crying. At first they were too scared to go near the bed because of all the bandages and machines and tubes and wires, but they’re beginning to get used to it now.
I tell them she’ll be home soon and everything will be back to normal. I just hope I’m not lying to them, too.
Please wake up, Cressida, I can’t do this without you. I love you.
Sincerely
Matthew Hopkins.
THE END