Seven Days

by Alex Lake

  A nurse opened the door to the treatment room.

  ‘Mrs Cooper?’

  Sandra stood up.

  ‘Come with me. I’m Jazz. I’ll get you prepped for the procedure. It’s quite straightforward. We’ll pop a line in for the sedative and get you settled to wait for the doctor.’

  Jazz took her into a room and indicated that she should lie on the bed. She took her hand and rubbed the skin until she had found a vein. Then she inserted a needle and taped it down.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘All ready. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  She left the room. Sandra reached for her phone and checked her messages. Maybe Martin had figured out what was going on and was on his way.

  Nothing.

  Jazz came back into the room. ‘We’re ready. I’ll take you down.’ She pulled the bed through the door and pushed it down the corridor. Sandra felt like saying she could walk, but she lay back.

  Maybe this is the future, she thought. If something’s wrong. Being pushed around in hospital beds.

  Which was a charm against it being wrong. If she accepted it was possible then it wouldn’t happen. That was the opposite of what she had done when Maggie disappeared. Then she had thought, This can’t be happening to me, she’ll come back. It had taken days for her to accept that something serious really had happened. Maybe if she’d thought that immediately, Maggie would have been OK.

  Jazz pushed the bed into a room full of screens and monitors. A doctor followed her in. She was in her fifties and had short bottle-blonde hair.

  ‘I’m Dr Green.’ She consulted a computer screen. ‘You’ve had gas and bloating. Some weight loss. Blood in stool.’ She looked at Sandra. ‘Any pain?’

  ‘Not really. Nothing too bad.’

  ‘Not really? Or not too bad?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘OK. Let’s take a look.’

  Jazz put an arm on her shoulder. ‘I’m going to give you some sedative now. You’ll probably feel tired. Go to sleep if you like. Or you can watch the show.’ She pointed at a screen. ‘It’ll all be up there.’

  Sandra looked up.

  ‘I think I’ll try and watch,’ she said.

  7

  She came around in the examining room.

  She’d been planning to watch the procedure, but the voices had gradually faded and her vision had dimmed as the sedative took effect. She still felt a bit woozy; it was no wonder the hospital insisted you take a taxi or get a lift home. There was no way she should be driving.

  The door opened and Jazz came in. She put a cup of tea and a packet of bourbon biscuits on the table next to Sandra.

  ‘There you go. Take your time. Dr Green will be along to talk to you in a few minutes. She wants to discuss the results of the colonoscopy with you.’

  ‘OK. Thank you.’

  ‘Not a problem. Enjoy your tea.’

  Sandra felt a small frisson of anxiety. Did the doctor want to talk to her because something was wrong? Or did she talk to all her patients? Maybe if you managed to stay awake you heard what she had to say during the procedure and it was only the patients who went to sleep who needed a special visit.

  She sipped the tea. She felt its warmth spread through her body. She opened the packet of biscuits and took a large bite. God, it was good to get something inside her stomach.

  There was a knock on the door. It scraped on the floor as it opened. Dr Green came in and sat on the chair opposite her.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m good. Awake now. I didn’t expect to fall asleep.’

  ‘Yes. It’s powerful stuff.’ She put her hands in her lap, fingers intertwined. She caught Sandra’s eye. ‘There are some things we need to discuss, Mrs Cooper.’

  She was unsmiling, her expression serious. Sandra felt her appetite drain away. She put the biscuit down.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘What do we need to discuss?’

  8

  Dr Green pressed her fingers together. ‘I did find something during the procedure, Mrs Cooper. There’s a large tumour in your upper colon. I took a biopsy and we’ll get that to the lab right away.’

  It took a moment for the words to sink in. Sandra had imagined the scene many times, gone through all the possibilities, but it was still a shock when the doctor said it.

  ‘A tumour?’ she said. ‘Is it cancer?’

  ‘We’ll find out exactly what it is when we get the lab results, but that’s a possibility.’

  Sandra put her face in her hands. She rubbed her temples. Her legs felt weak. Was this it? Was this how it ended? Her dead, Maggie gone? It was so unfair to Martin. He was such a wonderful husband. She had loved him since they had first met, had always felt incredibly lucky to have a partner who was so decent. She would never have thought that was what she wanted in a husband – decency – but it turned out that was what mattered. Dependable, calm, loving, decent: not exactly Heathcliff, but exactly what she wanted.

  And now he might be left a widower, father to a kidnapped girl and a damaged boy. What had he done to deserve that?

  She looked up at the doctor.

  ‘Do I—’ she said. ‘Will I – do I have any options?’

  The doctor gave a reassuring smile. ‘Plenty. I know this is unwelcome news, but there’s quite a way to go before we get to that. Let’s wait for the results and we can take it from there.’

  ‘I want to know …’ Sandra paused. ‘You probably get this question from everyone, and you probably can’t answer it, but I’d like you to tell me – honestly – if I’m going to survive. I have – I have a husband. And a son.’

  ‘I know you want certainty,’ the doctor replied. ‘But it’s too early. We’ll get the test results and make a decision then.’

  Sandra picked up her phone.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I need to call my husband.’

  9

  She got the news four days later.

  It was cancer. Treatable, according to the oncologist, a slight man in his fifties with a goatee beard and a bowtie.

  First, surgery to remove it. Then chemotherapy to make sure it didn’t come back.

  Then hope.

  Hope was not a strategy that had worked for Sandra in the past. Hope had not brought Maggie back. Hope was a waste of time.

  But she was going to have to rely on hope once again.

  She put her hand on Martin’s knee. He was driving them home from the appointment, both hands on the wheel, at ten to two, his eyes on the road.

  Observing the speed limit and all posted traffic signals.

  She squeezed his knee.

  ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘You know that, right?’

  He looked at her, his expression one of slight confusion.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I love you too. And we’re going to be OK, Sandy. Whatever happens, we’ll be OK.’

  For a moment she almost believed him.

  Eight Years Earlier: Sunday, 27 June 2010

  1

  Sandra took a mango and strawberry smoothie from the chiller by the supermarket checkout. She twisted the top off and sipped it. She’d been to the gym, and she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten for days. She didn’t have much appetite.

  Her treatment started the next day – Monday – and, despite the fact she wasn’t hungry, she had decided to make a dinner. She finished the smoothie and smiled at the man behind the till.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I promise I’ll pay for it.’

  She put the empty bottle on the belt and began to unload the rest of the groceries.

  ‘Twenty-seven pounds and sixty-two pence,’ the man said. ‘Paying by card?’

  She inserted her credit card into the machine and tapped in the pin. As it processed the payment she loaded the bags into her trolley.

  ‘Can I help you with those?’

  It was a familiar voice. She looked up.

  ‘Mr Best,’ she said. ‘Nice to see you. How are you?’

 
Best smiled at her. His glasses were smudged and he looked to have lost some weight. It had been a while since she’d last seen him and he’d aged.

  ‘I’m well,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Your family?’

  ‘They’re good. James is getting ready to go to university.’

  ‘How lovely! You must be glad to have him home for one last summer.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sandra said. ‘It’s always nice to have him around. Of course, he’ll leave’ – she shrugged – ‘they grow up, in the end.’

  She glanced at his trolley. There were only a handful of bags in it. She glimpsed a box of fish fingers, and some sugary cereal. She pictured him, eating alone in his house, and felt a wave of sympathy. He really should be eating better. And with people.

  ‘You know,’ she said. ‘I’m sure James would love to see you. Your maths tuition helped him get the grades he needed. Why don’t you come over for dinner?’

  Best’s smile widened. ‘Gosh,’ he said. ‘What a kind offer. I’d be delighted.’

  Sandra felt the warm glow of a good deed lighten her mood. ‘How about later today? I’m making a roast.’

  ‘If you’re sure. I wouldn’t want to impose.’

  She waved his objection aside. ‘Nonsense. It’ll be a pleasure. Two o’clock?’

  Best nodded. ‘Two o’clock it is.’

  2

  Martin Cooper knocked on his son’s bedroom door. ‘You OK in there?’

  There was no reply. He knocked again, but the door stayed closed. He was pretty sure James was home; he’d come back from a run about an hour ago and heard the sound of the shower. If James had left since then he would have told his parents. As a family, they were sensitive about people disappearing without explanation. They’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  He considered trying the door but decided against it. It was probably locked – James had installed a small bolt on the inside the summer before – but if it wasn’t, the last thing Martin needed was to walk in on his son masturbating, headphones on and phone in hand.

  So he knocked again, louder this time.

  He was about to walk away when he heard James’s voice.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Dad. Can I come in?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He opened the door. James was lying on his bed. He had had his headphones on, although they were now lying on his chest.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was listening to music. The Cure.’

  Martin nodded. ‘Great band.’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘Of course I do. They were big in the eighties. I saw them live at the Liverpool Empire.’

  ‘You saw them live?’

  ‘Why so surprised, Jimbo? You don’t think your old man’s cool enough to go to music concerts?’

  ‘Music concerts?’ James said. ‘Try gigs.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten more about gigs than you’ll ever know.’

  ‘Right. I doubt that, Dad.’

  ‘Let’s see. The Cure, The Smiths, Joy Division, New Order.’ Martin paused. ‘UB40, twice. The Housemartins. Depeche Mode. There are others.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. And then there’s Grandpa. He saw the Beatles at the Cavern.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is. More than once.’

  ‘That’s unbelievable.’

  ‘It seems so, now.’ Martin sat on the bed. ‘But they were just another band back then. So make sure you go and see the good bands of your generation. Then when you’re my age you’ll be able to surprise your kids with how cool you used to be.’

  James laughed. ‘You’re still not cool, Dad. It’d take more than a Cure concert to make you cool.’

  ‘You might be right.’ He studied his son. ‘Everything OK?’

  James’s eyes moistened and he looked away. It took a few seconds for him to reply.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Martin said. ’But Mum’ll be OK.’

  Martin’s throat constricted. Tears came to his eyes. He put his arms around James. They hugged for a long time, then Martin leaned back. In some ways James might still be an adult but in others he was still his baby son. He would always be his baby son.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Mr Best is coming for lunch at two, but that gives us a few hours. Want to go for a pint?’

  ‘Best’s coming? Why?’

  ‘Mum bumped into him at the supermarket. She invited him over.’

  James rolled his eyes. ‘Today? The day before she goes for chemo? Why?’

  ‘Because she thought it might be good for him? He’s lonely.’

  ‘But she goes to the hospital tomorrow!’

  ‘I know. But I think she needs something to take her mind off things. And he’s not that bad.’

  ‘He’s weird.’

  ‘He’s not. And he was a good tutor for you.’

  ‘I guess. He used to ask all kinds of questions about you and mum. And Maggie.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘Everything. Your jobs, if you had brothers and sisters, if your parents were still alive, where they lived. All kinds of stuff.’

  ‘He was lonely, James. And it’ll be nice to see him. Come on. Let’s go and have a beer.’

  3

  They went to a pub in Thelwall, the Feathered Egg, where they had gone as a family for Sunday lunches. When they got back a few minutes after two p.m. there was a car – a blue Ford Focus – parked on the road outside the house. James recognized it from the times he had been to Best’s house for maths tutoring.

  ‘He’s here,’ he said. ‘Right on time. I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t make it.’

  His dad nodded. ‘Be kind, James.’

  He would be. The beer – they’d had two pints – had taken his mind off lunch with Best. It was amazing how it did that, how it put a veil between you and the world. It was also good to be able to go out with his dad for a beer. He was interested to see how many people knew him, and how they all seemed pleased to see him; when his dad had gone to the loo, one guy had leaned over to James and muttered that his dad was a great bloke. James had swelled with pride.

  Best was in the living room, sitting on the couch. He had a small glass of white wine. Sandra was opposite him; she had a large glass of water.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said. ‘Mr Best was asking how James got on with his A levels.’ She looked at James expectantly. ‘So?’ she said. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Had a really good time. Results come soon.’

  Best smiled. ‘How were your studies? Went well?’

  ‘Really well. It’s very interesting.’

  ‘Do you still enjoy maths?’

  Had he ever enojoyed maths? He was going to study engineering; it was kind of required.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I really love it. How about you? Are you well?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Best sipped his wine. ‘I’m fine. Nothing much new since I last saw you.’

  ‘Do you still live near the school?’

  ‘I do. I doubt I’ll ever move,’ Best said. ‘You get used to a house and it grows up around you. I have certain things I like to do and if I moved I don’t think any other house would meet those needs.’

  ‘Like gardening?’ James said.

  ‘Exactly.’ Best nodded. ‘And my darkroom. I still take film photos, even though digital is so much easier. And then there’s all the stuff I’ve accumulated over the years. It all has a place. If I moved I don’t know what I’d do with it all. Not that I need it all. There are things in that house that I acquired years ago and which have never seen the light of day since.’ He shook his head. ‘But we hold on to things, don’t we? Even when we no longer need them, or they’re taking up space we could use for something else, we don’t want to let go.’

  James glanced at his dad. He caught his eye.

  See, he is weird.

 
His dad gave a little shake of his head.

  ‘Another glass of wine?’ he said.

  ‘Are you having one?’ Best replied.

  ‘No. James and I went for a walk and ended up in the Feathered Egg, so I think I’ll have a cup of tea for now.’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ Best said. ‘Tea would be wonderful.’

  ‘James?’ his dad said. ‘You want tea?’

  James nodded. ‘I’ll make it. Milk and sugar, Mr Best?’

  ‘Milk. No sugar, thank you.’

  James walked towards the kitchen. When he reached the door he glanced back into the room. Best was watching him, a wistful, almost longing expression on his face.

  He didn’t care what his dad said. Lonely or not, Best was weird.

  Eight Years Earlier: Thursday, 1 July 2010

  1

  Detective Inspector Wynne did not drink much. She was aware of the cliché of the troubled, alcoholic detective, and she was also aware that, like most clichés, it was a cliché because it was, in part, true. She’d known plenty of detectives who had no problem with alcohol, but also she’d known plenty that did, and she had no intention of following in their footsteps.

  Still, she could see why you would. Sometimes it would make life easier.

  Make it easier to forget the girl who was still missing. Anna Crowne, five years old, taken from outside her school. Gone. Her parents were distraught, obviously, but Wynne had no answers. They had no idea where the girl was. It reminded her of the last time this had happened.

  It wasn’t the only thing that day that reminded her of Maggie. A letter had come that morning, posted the day before in Wigan.

  DEAR DETECTIVE INSPECTOR WYNNE:

  JUST ABOUT FOUR YEARS NOW. I MEANT TO POST THIS NEARER THE ANNIVERSARY, BUT I DECIDED THERE WAS A MORE IMPORTANT DAY FOR ME TO RECOGNIZE. THE FIRST OF JULY – THE DAY YOU WILL RECEIVE THIS – IS A BIG DAY FOR ME. FOR US.

  I SEE YOU HAVE ANOTHER MISSING PERSON ON YOUR BEAT. GETTING A LITTLE CARELESS, AREN’T YOU?

  ANYWAY, HERE’S TO ANOTHER YEAR! I’LL RAISE A GLASS TONIGHT.

  YOURS SINCERELY,