by Tara Lyons
He gets it. He gets me. I can see it in the way he pulls his shoulders taller and clears his throat.
‘Okay, now we need some damage limitation.’ Patrick’s voice pierces through my personal doubts. His heavy head is no more and the colour in his cheeks has returned. ‘Your daughter… Rose… can’t find out about me. And my family can’t find out about her. Maybe if this happened when we had just moved here, if we had all known the truth then there could have been a way to deal with it… to all be in each other’s lives. But it’s been twenty years, Abi, and too many people would get hurt. We have to stay away from one another.’
I nod along, unable to formulate any words. Mental tiredness; it must be that. I shudder at the image of Patrick playing happy families with them… his family who are not me and Rose. He’s saying there’s a chance that things could have been different. If only that were true.
‘Do you agree that’s the best for everyone?’
I continue to nod along like a toy puppy stationed at the back of someone’s car. Patrick is right – deep down I know he is – but it still stings. He’s still a family man: his wife and child come first, just like they did twenty years ago. It’s then I realise that I have to do the same. I, too, need to put my own family first.
I have to continue with this lie. There’s no choice – regardless of the fact that Patrick is sat here in front of me. I have to continue with this lie because I’m not about to ruin my daughter’s life.
Chapter 15
The light attacks my eyes as soon as I step out of the public house, and it takes a minute to focus. The rain has eased to a drizzle on its farewell journey, and the street is still cloaked in a wintery darkness, but the fresh, cold air and general buzz of life which has continued to take place outside is a shock to the system.
Patrick decided not to leave with me. There was no more for me to say. I think we had both said enough, both agreed on a way forward for now. There were no grand goodbyes or swapping of numbers, no promises to keep in touch or see each other again soon. It seemed the right thing to do as I stood from the table and explained I had to leave. Now it feels strange. I feel empty after having made no plans. What plans could we make? Except the most important one of keeping this charade in place. He said he would have another pint before making his way home. I translated that to mean at least ten more pints; that’s definitely what I would do if I just found out I had a secret love child living in the same town as me.
A chilly breeze whips around my face and ears and neck, blowing cold whispers on my skin – it’s welcoming after the stuffiness of the confined space now behind me. As welcoming as it is, I can’t ignore that there’s a decision to be made. Do I continue my search for Rose, or do I return home?
Before I can decide, my mobile pings with what sounds like a hundred notifications. It seems the dinginess of the pub not only clouded my senses, but also my reception. I pull the phone from my pocket and gasp when I see all the messages and missed calls from Adele; I had completely forgotten about her.
My friend is worried, of course she is, and not only about me but Rose too; one message even asks if we’re at the local hospital. My tendency to overreact is becoming infectious. I check the time and realise I’ve been gone for over an hour; amazing how times flies when you’re stuck in the past and confessing your sins. I thumb over the screen in order to form a reply to Adele. My mind’s still not clear on which direction to take. Then I hear Patrick’s words and I can’t shake them away: ‘Don’t deny her that by storming down here and making her feel guilty for not checking in on you.’
Is that really what I’m doing here? Am I so mad at Rose for not checking in with me, not seeing how I am after the ordeal at work, that I’ve somehow turned it all on its head and made it seem like she’s the one in the wrong? In the wrong or missing… I don’t feel so sure now. If Patrick thinks that about me – and Adele and Dave, too; they just weren’t as blunt as my ex-lover – then maybe they’re right.
Rather than dance around the decision any longer, I call Adele – the relief in her voice is deafening – and tell her I’ll meet her at the train station. We’ll get the first train back to London, and I may even treat her to dinner somewhere closer to home to say sorry, or thank you… well, both really. I don’t know if she’s pleased about the thought of a free meal or the fact that I’ve got in touch with her so she can regale me with tales of her student pub quiz experience, but either way, I’m glad she’s here. She’ll take my mind off Patrick on the journey home. Not that she’ll know about that, of course.
I bury my head, tucking my chin into the fleece tunnel of my coat, and brace myself against the wind. Yes, I’ve said let’s go home, and yes, I’ve told both Patrick and Adele that I’ll leave Rose be until she gets in touch with me… but there’s still a heaviness in my stomach that I can’t shift, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.
A mother just knows, right?
The second decision is made quicker: once I’m alone tonight, I’ll search through Rose’s Facebook page and find her housemate Penny on her friends list – possibly even this Dylan guy too. If my daughter has lost her phone, perhaps one of her friends have posted something. Failing that, I’ll just send Penny a little line on Messenger asking her to tell Rose to contact her worrying mother. I’ll make it light-hearted and innocent sounding. It’ll give me some peace… for now, at least.
The vibration of the van’s engine rumbles beneath me. I switch on the blue lights, and Adele races the ambulance along the high street. As always, our siren’s shrieks have the desired effect and the vehicles in front do their best to part like a theatre’s opening curtains, giving us a clear run of the road. This time, we’re halted at traffic lights.
‘Come on, come on,’ Adele mumbles while trying to mount the kerb.
We both swapped our shifts, so we’re working a Monday afternoon to cover Dave and Laura. It doesn’t matter to me; I barely know my Mondays from my Saturdays. This job is my routine and sometimes I think I would happily work a shift every day. I did find it strange Adele agreed to come in a day earlier than her rota requested. I have a feeling she’s keeping an eye on me. I don’t know why; she needn’t bother. I’m fine.
‘Finally,’ she calls out as the lights switch to green and the traffic opens up for us again. ‘ETA is eight minutes.’
We’ve been requested by the police to attend a domestic abuse scene; from the details received so far, the wife sounds to be in a bit of a state and the husband legged it when he spotted the uniform. Adele powers on along Mansfield Road, towards Gospel Oak, and I take a moment to glance at my mobile.
For the past twelve hours it’s been within grabbing reach the entire time, and even though the phone hasn’t made a pinging sound, I keep checking it. No notifications are coming through. It’s on loud, I’ve turned the volume up to the highest setting, but my eyes continually dart to it and my finger flicks it from ‘silent’ back to ‘ringer on’ a few times each hour. You know, just to be sure my phone isn’t playing tricks on me. I found Penny through Rose’s Facebook contacts and I sent her a message: bright and breezy, like I promised myself. I thought young people were on their phones 24/7, ready to shoot off a reply or emoji or GIF. Not the ones I’m trying to bloody contact. Nothing from my daughter and nothing from Penny regarding Rose. I’ve picked all the skin from around my unmanicured nails.
‘Well, I needn’t ask which house number,’ Adele comments, and I slip my phone into my side trouser pocket – where I can best feel it vibrate – and look up to the flats she’s parking in front of. ‘Two squad cars and a van seems a bit much, no?’
‘Hmm,’ I mumble. ‘Could emphasise the damage this man has done. They’re waving us in. Let’s go find out for ourselves.’
We each grab our response bags and follow a uniformed officer into the main entrance of the flats. The lift is broken, the copper informs us, so we climb the three flights of dark and dingy steps. The stains on the stone ground coul
d be anything, but the stench of warm piss leaves little to the imagination. You see all types of homes in this job; the best thing I’ve learnt is to say nothing and judge no one. It makes life easier when trying to forge a relationship with the patient.
What doesn’t make life easier is walking into a situation and discovering you know the patient.
Entering flat twelve is actually a pleasant surprise, as we find it clean and tidy, and the owner is obviously house-proud. It smells nothing like the rank corridor outside – obviously a citrus fresh Zoflora-loving person lives here – and the three of us walk through a gleaming and uncluttered corridor into a compact, perfectly functional kitchen.
My heart rate quickens to a thumping drum inside my chest; a sound so loud to my ears, I’m convinced everyone else in the room can hear it. It’s not beating double time because the woman cowering at the slim breakfast bar is sobbing and shaking, and it’s certainly not due to the river of blood gushing from her head – which seems unstoppable against the measly tissues she’s holding against the wound – but it’s because the woman is Josie Robertson.
For crying out loud, what’s happening this week? I feel like Scrooge being visited by the ghosts of Christmas past… It’s just my rotten luck to be visited by all the Scottish ones.
Twenty years is a long time. Unfortunately for me, I have one of those faces that doesn’t change. If you saw photos of me from nursery through to university you would understand – you can just tell it’s me from child to woman.
‘Ab-Abi Quinn,’ Josie stutters through the tears. ‘Is that you? My God, I knew you’d make it.’
For the second time in as many days, the thick Scottish accent does something to my insides; my stomach lurches and a charged shiver runs through my body like an electric current.
Adele and the copper turn to me and frown.
‘Josie and I studied Paramedic Science at university together.’ I don’t want to say too much. Thankfully it’s never really been a subject Adele was interested in prying into, and it would be better for all those involved if that doesn’t change.
Josie lets out a gurgle of a laugh. It’s such a sad noise, as if she’s mocking herself. ‘Yeah, we did, didn’t we, Abi? And look at me now…’ She raises her arms in the air, the open cut to her head still oozing blood, the purple bruising to her left eye visible – as is the dry crust of blood in the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m the one needing to call the fucking paramedics instead of turning up to help poor souls like… like me.’
As I thought, she is mocking herself. Who can blame her? Adele says nothing and moves closer to Josie, addressing the deep wound on our patient’s head and face. Despite the fiery-red hair matted together by the blood, it’s clear to see that the cut will need gluing together and a trip to the hospital will be called for.
The other two police officers in the kitchen ask Josie a few more questions about her husband and where he might have gone. She mumbles and grunts her replies, explaining this isn’t the first time he’s hurt her and that she knows it won’t be the last. I feel sorry for the female officer who’s trying to reassure Josie that her husband will be arrested for what he’s done to her today.
‘Whatever,’ Josie replies, and her gaze settles on me; they resemble two dark pebbles you’d collect at the beach – stained and wet from the sea but cold and emotionless. ‘Bet you never expected to walk in and find me sitting here.’
‘Always expect the unexpected in this job, eh?’ I reply with a smile, hating myself; I don’t want to get into a conversation with Josie.
‘I wouldn’t know, Abi. I never made it. Not like you obviously did.’
Her comment sounds mean and sarcastic, and from the look of her glass-pebble eyes it’d be easy to think it was. But there’s a sadness in her voice that I can’t ignore, and my heart goes out to the crumbling woman I see before me. The woman who, in her early twenties, slipped her arm through mine and promised to show me a good time in her city, which she did to the fullest. Josie was the first at any party – and the last to leave, as the saying goes – but she was also the first to hand in her assignments, to check in on her friends and make sure they were doing okay. She radiated warmth. Not like this woman. I don’t know this woman.
‘Well, I never expected you to move to London, Josie, that’s for sure.’
‘Followed the scumbag of a man that I now call my husband,’ she replies, and tries to smile, but the wince on her face shows it isn’t an action she should be doing.
‘I’m sorry.’ How pathetic. I’m sorry… really? That’s all I have to say.
Adele finishes cleaning Josie’s face and has gauzed the cut as best she can. The police are bustling around us, talking in hushed voices.
‘I did think of looking you up, you know,’ Josie says, bringing my attention back to her. ‘But it was a few years after you left Scotland, and I didn’t really know how to go about it. You never said where you lived exactly.’
I offer a shrug and nod my head. ‘London is a big place, Josie. I understand. We all moved on.’
‘Yeah, but you just up and left. I always wondered what became of you, Abi. I should have known you would have been in this role. The rising star at uni, the paramedic by nature. What about Patrick?’
Josie’s question throws me. The officers are waiting to escort us from the flat to the ambulance and Adele’s staring at me too. Why are they all waiting for my answer? Let’s just leave, we all have jobs to do. What possessed her to ask me that? I was never up front with any of my friends about Patrick. I guess if anyone had cottoned on to the affair, it would have been Josie. Shit, does she know?
‘I… err… What do you mean?’
A real smile – albeit small and weak – graces Josie’s face for the first time. ‘Oh please, Abi, like I didn’t know. Don’t worry, I think you hid it well; but I could see how much you loved him. Then when I found out he had left Scotland not long after you, I put two and two together and assumed you left because you were–’
‘Patrick died,’ I blurt out, the consequences of my words catching up moments too late. What if Josie knows he didn’t die? What if she knows he’s actually only living in Brighton?
Fuck!
‘Oh, Abi, I’m so sorry. I had no idea,’ she says, and finally stands to leave the kitchen. ‘I hadn’t heard… haven’t really kept in contact with anyone or kept abreast of life after university. Ray never would have allowed me to. He doesn’t like me talking to people he doesn’t know.’ Josie points to her face, as if to explain what she means.
‘No, don’t apologise,’ I continue. ‘Well, I mean, the decision to leave Scotland was for me. And my parents. It was the right thing to do because they needed me. I heard on the grapevine about Patrick. Don’t know the details or anything. It was a long time ago.’ I lose count of the number of lies and obviously feel like I need to add some truth to it because my mouth won’t stop moving. ‘My dad had cancer and my mother still suffers with dementia now.’
Josie raises her eyebrows. ‘Wow, Abi, that’s a lot to deal with. I’m glad you still managed to follow your dream and become a paramedic though.’
‘Thanks. Me too.’ I smile and walk out of the kitchen in a daze.
What is wrong with me? The last job I was at, the woman called me a hero. I’m no one’s bloody hero. A bare-faced liar, that’s truly what I am.
The sound of voices around me diminishes as I leave the flat; the dank smell of outside isn’t even enough to wake my senses. My body is on autopilot, my feet carrying me down the stairs and towards the ambulance through some kind of robotic command. I don’t even turn around to see if Adele and Josie are following me, or if the officers are still with us.
I don’t care.
I just need to get away from Josie before I feel the need to tell any more lies. Christ, what did I say that to her for? What if she decides to find out? I don’t know, perhaps she’ll do a Google search for Patrick or contact another friend from university to find out. Though
it doesn’t sound like her husband gives her the freedom to run off onto social media. Yet, with what he’s just done to her, the officers will have him in cuffs soon enough. Then Josie will have time on her hands; time she’s never had before. She might decide to set up a Facebook alumni group and ask them if they know what happened to our ex-paramedic trainer.
My insides are screaming at me and I want to tear my hair clean out of my scalp as I walk back to the ambulance, outwardly a figure of composure and calmness.
I jump in the driver’s seat. Despite Adele having had that duty on the way here, I’m hoping she’ll get in the back with Josie without argument.
The back door of the ambulance opens and, thankfully, my partner is in the process of giving me exactly what I need: time on my own. My mind blocks their voices out. I’ve lied. I’ve lied again. This time to someone who could potentially find out quite easily.
Crashing through all my worries and fears, a harder and deeper voice takes over my thoughts: So what? Who cares if Josie bloody Robertson finds out? Once you leave her at the hospital, you’ll never have to see each other again. You did what you had to do.
I did what I had to do.
Chapter 16
The wine is flowing tonight. Not usually something I do after work, mainly because I’m always so knackered and the thought of another heavy shift the following day sends me straight to bed. But this evening, it’s called for. The two sides of my consciousness are battling with each other. The regret of lying versus the need to keep my secret safe, keep Rose safe.
I always intended on telling Rose the truth eventually, of course I did, so you mustn’t think bad of me. You must understand it’s hard to backtrack on a lie as huge as that. I could have said her father was a one-night stand, and I knew nothing about him and, when she was old enough to understand, I could have explained why I had said what I did, why I had lied to the crying face of my four-year-old daughter. To say the man was dead… that’s something you can’t come back from, whether she was thirteen, eighteen or twenty-one. I know it’s something Rose would never understand. You can’t just resurrect the dead – even the fictional dead. It doesn’t work like that.