Half an hour after being sick for the second time I was speaking with two police officers. I had thought that police officers were supposed to be young and tall. The one asking the questions looked fairly short, not much taller than me, and was quite round with a light covering of grey hair on his head. His female colleague was petite and very pretty, her dark hair pulled back tight against her head. I wondered why she was in the police force when she looked like she could have been a model.
They were both sitting on plastic chairs next to my bed and they both smelled of damp. I guessed that maybe it was raining outside. Grey hair asked me another question.
‘So what time would you say the person on the skateboard came past you?’
‘He didn’t go past me. He stopped and attacked me.’
‘And what time would you say that was?’
If I’d had to bet on it, I would have said that his tone was condescending. I felt like telling him to “fuck off and find the bastard”.
‘I think it was about 7:15.’
‘And why do you think that?’
‘Because I left the school at 7:00 and it takes about ten minutes to get to the cash machine from the school. I was only at the cash machine for a minute or so, so it must have been around 7:15.’
He wrote something in his notebook, tapped his pen against the page and glanced at petite beauty. She nodded back at him. I wished I hadn’t been sick on the nurse and instead saved it for these two.
My throat felt dry and bloody. My teeth tasted like metal when I ran my tongue over them. A drink would have helped. Something strong. Something with bite. Perhaps Neil might turn up with a bottle of something. Where the hell was Neil?
‘Is my husband coming?’
Grey hair looked at petite again. And, despite my weakened state, I wanted to punch him.
‘We have sent someone to speak to him,’ he said. ‘I would imagine he’ll sort something out.’
What the hell kind of answer was that? I’d imagine — ? I wanted to know — not imagine.
‘Is he on his way or not? And what’s happened to my car? Did the mugger get away with my handbag?’
I told myself that if he looked at petite again I would rip the needle out of the back of my hand and stick it in his eye.
He looked at her.
For the first time, she spoke. ‘I can chase it up for you and find out what’s happening. I understand you have children. He might be trying to sort something out for them. I don’t think it would be a good idea for them to see you like this. Not so soon after the … you know.’
How bad did I look? And why couldn’t she say the word attack or mugging? I was still reeling, literally, from being assaulted and she couldn’t even find the right word to use. Or any word.
The green polyester swished and a nurse poked her head through.
‘Your husband is here, Mrs Marsden. Would you like to see him?’
I felt the tears welling up before she had even finished speaking. My chest heaved and huge sobs poured out of me. The tube in the back of my hand swung all over the place as I cried. I couldn’t stop it — the tube or the tears. For a moment, in front of two police officers, my whole life had turned to tears and was flooding out of my stinging, puffy eyes. Neil moved through the curtains and reached for my hand. I wanted him to hug me, to hold me so tight it hurt. But he sat down in an empty plastic chair, held my hand and spoke softly to me.
‘Don’t worry. You’re going to be OK. What an experience you’ve had. Michael and Rose are fine. They’re with Oliver and Abi.’
Through my bleary eyes I could see grey hair looking at petite. I turned to Neil.
‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so sorry.’
Grey hair stood up, petite followed suit.
‘We’ll leave you alone for a while,’ he said. ‘But we will need to come back and finish asking you questions later.’
Neil stood up and nodded a thank you to them. I turned my head away and shut my eyes. They swished through the curtains and disappeared. Neil sat down again.
‘I need a hug,’ I said.
He hesitated and looked at the tube hanging from my hand. He looked at the scar on my forehead. And I know that he looked at my mouth. I had forgotten that I’d been sick. Nevertheless, he hesitated a little too long in my mind.
‘Poor you,’ he said as he leaned forward and, rather awkwardly, put his hands on my shoulders.
He tried, but failed to get his arms all the way round me. I was wrapped in a hospital blanket, on a bed, with a tube hanging from me. His failure was understandable. But inside I still scolded him for it.
‘Poor you,’ he said, again.
I had been expecting I love you, are you OK?.
My eyes hurt like hell as I closed them. I kept them shut and swallowed. A rush of cold flowed into the back of my hand from the tube and, for a moment, I saw a grey space. Empty, cool and soft.
It was in that brief moment that I realised something was not quite right. The clarity that came with the empty space enabled my mind to catch up with reality.
I was not myself.
Something within me was different. I opened my eyes again. Neil stared down at me, his face creased and concerned. I stared back up at him and thought about how I had wanted to stab the police officer in the eye. I was a primary school teacher. A wife. A mother. I had never in my life wanted to stab anyone in the eye. Or anywhere else.
Neil had come as quickly as he could. He had dealt with the police coming to see him. Dealt with Michael and Rose. Oliver and Abi. And I was angry as hell because he hadn’t cuddled me straight away. Because he’d said “poor you” instead of “I love you”. Because he had hesitated for half a second before getting close to me.
I had wanted to be sick on the police officers. In my mind I’d told grey hair to “fuck off”.
From nowhere, an anger had appeared in me like I’d never felt before. I knew it was because of what had happened. Knocked down by a skateboard smashing against my skull. Almost killed when I hit the pavement with the back of my head. Deep wounds front and back. I must have lost a fair amount of blood. My teeth must have split my lip or the inside of my mouth from the impact.
No wonder I was moody.
It made sense to be angry. All these feelings, powerful and physical, would pass, I was sure. Once I had slept, drunk something, eaten something. Once the pain had subsided and the scars healed — then I’d be fine. Then I’d be the same Christine I always was.
I wondered how long these things took. How long before I would be back to normal? How long before the anger was gone? The hate gone? There was no room for these things in my life. Primary school teacher, mother, wife. No room for anger or hatred. No room for physical violence. I taught little children.
‘Neil, I’m scared. I don’t like feeling like this.’
‘I know. The pain will pass. They’ll get you better before you know it. You’ll be fine.’
I wanted to tell him that wasn’t what I’d meant. It wasn’t the feeling of pain I didn’t like, although that was bad enough, it was all the other feelings. All the not me feelings of aggression and anger. I was scared of those feelings. Of what they might mean.
And what if they didn’t pass?
But they would. I pushed the fear down inside me. Forced it down with my mind and all the strength I had.
But that was when the madness started.
04
Inheritance Page 3