‘It’s complicated. As I said, wait for the police to explain.’ He puts his hand on my arm. ‘Try to calm down, Mr Baker. We are doing everything we can for your wife.’
Calm down.
I feel like grabbing hold of him and shaking him until he tells me what he thinks happened. But I manage to contain myself and allow him to walk away. I sit watching the lines on your machines, body pumping with anxiety. A nurse arrives to check your vital signs, adding information to the notes at the end of your bed. She doesn’t speak to me, just nods as she passes.
After what seems like for ever a detective inspector marches into the ward.
He holds his hand out in greeting. ‘DI Jones.’ There is a pause. ‘Shall we step away from her bedside?’ he suggests.
He leads me to a small seated area at the side of the ward. He sits opposite me and leans forwards. He is about my age. Dark and swarthy.
‘Do you have any idea what happened?’ I ask.
‘We suspect that Jonah Mathews attempted to murder your wife. He left a suicide note claiming they had a pact to die together, to take a concoction of drugs. But we found evidence to suggest she was restrained. Bound and gagged. Her fingerprints were not on the note.’
His words stab into me.
‘Where?’ I ask.
‘In your home.’ He pauses and takes a deep breath. ‘By the time we arrived he was already dead.’
188
Faye
Phillip, you are here. I feel you, but I cannot see you. Your scent. Your heat. I am running towards you, away from Jonah. Running away from Jonah in my mind, but my legs and my feet won’t move. My body is stuck solid; only my mind is fluid. My mind is tumbling like a waterfall.
189
Erica
Pacing up and down Mouse’s flat. It used to be the other way around, especially when it rained. He’d pace. I’d watch.
‘It’s the not knowing I can’t stand.’
Mouse is sitting in the middle of his trendy IKEA sofa, cradling a cup of tea in a white china mug.
‘If she was dead it would have made the local news,’ he says to try and reassure me.
‘How can you be so sure about that?’ I snap.
He raises his right hand in protestation. ‘Well Jonah’s death did.’
‘I need to know, Mouse. I need to know whether she’s all right.’
Mouse places his tea on the coffee table in front of him and walks across to me. He stops me pacing by standing in front of me and putting his hands on my shoulders. His eyes hold mine.
‘You must be careful, Erica; even though you look so very different now. So much slimmer, so glamorous, completely different hairstyle. You are not supposed to be here. I do not want you to be recognised. I do not want to lose you again.’
My stomach rotates. Mouse thinks I look glamorous. I never thought I would hear anyone say that. ‘I don’t want to lose you either, Mouse.’
‘Come on, Erica. Try to forget about her for a while. Shall we watch TV?’
I sigh inside. ‘OK, Mouse.’
He takes his hands from my shoulders and sits down again. He flicks the remote at the TV and Netflix explodes across the screen. ‘What about the Santa Clarita Diet?’ he suggests.
‘That always makes me feel sick.’
‘The new series of Stranger Things?’
‘Fine with me,’ I say unenthusiastically.
The theme music for Stranger Things blasts around the living room. I try to melt into the moment but I keep seeing him holding your head back with your hair, and ramming liquid down your throat. I keep seeing his hand holding the gun.
‘She must be in the West Mid,’ I shout over the music. ‘They must have taken her there. A woman in a critical condition, the local news reported a few hours ago. I just can’t get it out of my mind. She must be in the critical care ward at the West Mid.’
Mouse pauses Netflix.
‘I’m going to go there and find out,’ I continue. ‘Pretend I’m someone else. No one will recognise me. No one will be able to guess who I am.’
Mouse sidles next to me on the sofa, and takes my hands in his. ‘I beg you not to go, Erica. Please stay here with me.’
190
Faye
Half awake. Half asleep. Lying in a comfortable bed, surrounded by stiff white sheets. A hotel or a hospital. I know I’m not at home. Phillip is here. Sitting at my bedside, leaning towards me. I see his dark hair. His broad cheekbones. So familiar. So comforting. His features are sharpening. Eyes glistening.
‘Faye, Faye, can you hear me?’ he keeps asking.
I smile, to tell him I love him and know he is by my side. I feel as if I am in the middle of a kaleidoscope, the world slowly spinning around me, in a fragmented pattern. It slows. A hospital room comes into focus, standing still, surrounding me. A world of white walls, wires and machines.
‘Faye, Faye, talk to me. Can you speak?’ Phillip begs.
He is stroking my arm, my forehead, my cheeks. I feel his touch. The warmth of his breath on my cheeks.
‘Phillip,’ my voice croaks at last. ‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘We’re all waiting for you to tell us that.’
I squeeze his hand and drift back to sleep.
191
Phillip
You are growing stronger every day. Every morning and every evening when I visit you I see differences. You are awake for longer. More able to remember facts. About the children. About life, arrangements, plans.
Today when I arrive you pull yourself as far away from your machines as your wires will allow you and cling to me more tightly than ever.
‘He so nearly killed me,’ you whisper, tears streaming down your face. ‘Who called the ambulance?’ you ask. ‘A passer-by?’ There is a pause. ‘How would a passer-by know what was happening?’
‘Don’t complicate things, Faye. Maybe someone saw him breaking in?’
‘I thought you said he had a key?’
‘Maybe someone saw him opening the front door and realised he shouldn’t have been. Come on, Faye, it’s over. Let’s not worry about every detail.’
Your lips find mine and we kiss. There is a desperation in your kiss that never used to be there.
‘I love you, Phillip, so much.’
Your voice is needy. It clings to my skin. I know what you did. I know I need to forgive you, Faye. I prise your body from mine. I need to get away from your intensity.
Age-old excuse. ‘Off to the bathroom,’ I tell you.
I pad to the communal toilets at the end of the ward, splash my face with cold water, and then lock the door behind me in a private cubicle. I put the toilet lid down and sit on it. I take my laptop from my bag, open it and plug in the memory stick Jonah posted to me the day he died.
I must stop looking at it, or it will send me demented. I watch it for what I promise to myself will be the last time. The most awful sight, every second of it sending pain lacerating through me. You strip off in front of him and pull him towards you. You caress him and tear off his clothes. Then, there is a close-up of him entering you, followed by a close-up of your face. Spaced out. What did he do to you? He must have spiked your drink. Your long silky hair is tousled, wet with sweat. Your lips are slightly parted, your dyed eyelashes long and feathery. And then a close-up of him grinning, like a demonic gargoyle, triumphant and sinister.
My body stiffens. My heart is leaden. To send this to me thinking you would be dead by the time I received it. What kind of a monster was he? I wish I could send him a film of you, still alive in my bed. I would like to torment him in hell.
I know I need to forgive you, Faye. I will try as hard as I can, because I love you. I have always wanted our relationship to work. I should have killed him, long before he tried to kill you. In time I know I can forgive you. But I will never be able to trust you. When you come home, from now on, I will never let you out of my sight.
192
Faye
I am sitting up in be
d, wire-free. Able to move my arms whenever I like. The girls are here. Sitting on the bed, cuddling up to me. Phillip, you are sitting in the armchair opposite. Looking dear. Looking familiar.
I close my eyes and the ghost of Jonah flits across my mind. I feel the heat of his breath as he stands too close to me. At the school gates. In the supermarket. His intensity as he thrusts me against the wall in our dining area.
I remember sitting on the sofa with him at the party, allowing his hand to massage the base of my spine. The feel of my party dress as it slipped across my skin to the floor at his house. The moment I woke up, mouth parched, head throbbing, clamped in his arms. His gun piercing into my windpipe. The pain as he pulled my head back with my hair, forcing the liquid into my gullet. His words: ‘Swallow it or I’ll shoot. If I can’t have you, no one will.’
I open my eyes and look into your solid face, Phillip. Your features contort, and for a second you are staring at me too intensely. For a second I am confused. Are you Phillip or are you Jonah? Then your face softens and you are Phillip again.
193
Phillip
The doorbell rings, slicing unexpectedly into my day. I pad to the door to open it. DI Jones is standing on my doorstep, grinning at me. A boyish grin. Dimples on both cheeks.
‘Now that your wife’s recovering so well, do you mind if I come in? I just want to keep you informed.’
‘Of course. Sounds good. Please do.’
He follows me. Into the hallway. Into the sitting room. Stepping over a sea of soft toys and Duplo.
‘Sorry about the mess. Only just got the girls to bed. Bit chaotic when I’m on my own.’
‘Of course. How are you managing?’
‘Well, I’m working from home, most of the time, at the moment.’ I pause. ‘Do sit down.’
DI Jones moves a teddy along the sofa and finds a place to sit.
‘Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?’
‘No thanks I’m fine.’ He leans back and crosses his legs. ‘We’ve had the autopsy results on Jonah Mathews.’
Electricity pulsates through me. ‘And …?’
‘It seems he had taken slightly different drugs to the ones he administered to your wife. Trimipramine, a tricyclic antidepressant, was found in his system as well. That wasn’t detected in your wife’s samples.’ There is a pause. ‘Unlike the rest of the drugs he used, trimipramine wasn’t one he had been prescribed. It is a powerful antidepressant, and interacted with his overdose of sleeping tablets.’
‘So you think the trimipramine finished him off?’
‘Maybe that’s why he died so quickly. If he hadn’t taken that as well by the time we arrived we could have saved both of them.’
His dark eyes pierce into mine. ‘Do you know any reason why anyone would have wanted to harm him?’
‘No, Inspector.’ I shake my head slowly and frown a little.
‘I’ve got to ask you because of what happened between you.’
My body tightens. ‘The fight?’ I ask.
‘Yes. You started it, I believe?’
‘I’m not going to deny it, although I had been friends with him for many years, he had started to annoy me. He had a thing about Faye. Maybe looking back he always had – I just hadn’t noticed. We did have a few arguments about her. He said he had slept with her. She denied it. I believed her not him, but occasionally I allowed his baiting to rile me. That’s what happened the day I lost it and punched him.’ I raise my shoulders and arms in the air. ‘But what would I have gained from poisoning him? How could I possibly have even managed it?’ I pause for breath, and shrug. ‘Anyway you can check up on my movements. I was in a seminar at the Shaftesbury Hotel.’
‘We already have. Your alibi is solid.’
Solid alibi. His words punch into me. Panic rises. Language like that makes their suspicion sound serious, more than just a few idle questions in passing. I watch the inspector’s eyes darken.
‘Do you know who telephoned the emergency services?’ he asks. ‘They hung up without identifying themselves.’
I shake my head. ‘No idea. None of it makes sense to me. I’m a digital marketing manager. You’re the detective.’
The inspector laughs. A short dry laugh. Half a smile. Not showing me his dimple this time. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Baker. We’ll be in touch.’
194
Erica
I stand up.
‘Where are you going?’ Mouse asks.
‘You know where I need to go, Mouse.’
He walks across the room and stands in front of me, blocking my passage to the door. Feet apart. Shoulders wide. ‘No I don’t.’ There is a pause. ‘Or at least I don’t understand it.’
‘Who said we always need to understand one another, as long as we show respect?’ Too much for Mouse. He frowns, and wipes his fringe back from his eyes. ‘I want you to accept me for what I am,’ I continue.
His frown is deepening. ‘I do accept you, Erica. But I like to have you around, and as far as I can see your actions are breaking rules. Breaking rules has consequences. I always stick to rules.’
I put my hand on his arm. ‘I know you do, Mouse. But I am different to you.’
He takes my hand in his. His eyes hold mine. They are shiny and sad. ‘I’m frightened, Erica. I will suffer if you go away again.’
I lean forward and kiss him gently on the cheek. ‘Don’t be frightened, Mouse. This is the last time I am going to consider her, and then I’m going to sort our lives out.’
195
Faye
Sitting in my hospital armchair, by the side of the bed, waiting for Phillip and the children to collect me. All hospital discharge papers signed. Fully dressed. Bag packed. Still a bit weak. Still a bit dizzy. But I didn’t tell the doctor who signed my discharge papers that.
I hear giggling in the corridor. Tamsin. Georgia. They are here. Running into my arms. Well, Tamsin runs, Georgia kangaroo hops.
‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,’ they both shout.
They sit on my knee. They entangle themselves, around my waist, my arms. Phillip appears around the corner, a smile plastered across his face. He bends down to my chair, managing to find a gap between the children, to reach my lips and kiss me. Surrounding me with the familiar scent of his sandalwood aftershave.
‘Ready?’ he asks. I nod my head. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’ He pauses. ‘Come on, girls. Get off your mother for one second, so that she can stand up.’
They slide off my lap and stand watching as Phillip holds my arm and helps to pull me up. As soon as I am upright they nestle against my legs, wrapping themselves around me like ivy. Phillip scoops up my suitcase and my discharge notes and begins to lead the way out. Entangled with my girls, I follow.
The doctors and nurses at the nursing station look up as we pass. Phillip and I have already thanked them so many times, but we beam at them, and thank them again. I will never be able to thank them enough.
Out of the ward. Into the corridor. Down in the lift. Corridor after corridor. Snaking around the hospital. Off-white walls. Off-white floors. The lingering scent of antiseptic and pain assaulting my nostrils. The occasional piece of chunky artwork provided by local schools to brighten the environment. Impressionist mock-ups. Colourful and clumsy.
We wind our way until we are eventually ejected into the hospital lobby, wide like a river mouth. Unlike the corridors we have just meandered along, the lobby is commercial and shiny. Like a mainline railway station or an airport terminal.
The girls are holding my hands, skipping through the lobby as if we are going on holiday. Holiday. Perhaps we should do that to celebrate. Book a fancy holiday.
We walk past Costa Coffee, WHSmith, a hairdresser’s and a florist. Through glass revolving doors. Fresh air hits my face. I inhale it like nectar.
A woman is walking slowly past. A woman with long, dark, shiny hair, a bit like mine. A skinny woman with a strong face carrying a blazing bouquet of flowers. One of the biggest bouquets
of flowers I have ever seen. Purple and orange. Bold and striking. Orchids. Lilies. Daisies. Irises. Bell flowers. Verbena. Freesias. A woman who looks familiar, but I can’t place her.
Our eyes meet. A smile erupts around her face. A smile so bright it competes with the bouquet. She stretches the flowers towards me and for a split second I wonder whether she is about to give them to me. Then I pinch myself. Chastise myself for being silly. Why would she want to give flowers to me? I pinch myself again. Do I know this woman?
‘Good morning,’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘It is.’
Her eyes hold mine for a few seconds too long.
196
Erica
You are being discharged from hospital. My heart sings because I know you are all right now. These flowers, so bright and special, were meant for you. I was going to ask a nurse to pass them to you. But it is too late. You are already leaving the hospital, so I couldn’t give them to you directly. I couldn’t risk you recognising me. I have just walked right past you clinging on to my gift. Someone else will have them now.
I continue through the glass revolving doors into the hospital lobby. Straight to reception.
‘Please could you tell me how to get to the geriatric ward?’ I ask, still feeling light with relief.
‘It’s really simple, follow the yellow line,’ the receptionist tells me.
I frown. ‘Yellow line? Where does it start?’
‘Through the doors at the back of the lobby.’
‘Thanks.’
Through the doors at the back of the lobby, people smiling at me, admiring the flowers. Following the yellow line, past cardiology, radiography, paediatrics, the canteen, the pharmacy. I take a deep breath and enter. I stop at the nurses’ station. A young nurse with Goldilocks curls is sitting inputting notes into a computer screen. I stand in front of her and watch. After a few minutes she looks up, surprised.
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