The It Girl(130)

She puts her hand on the hard round bump jutting out just below her ribs. Its buttocks, the midwife had said, tracing the long rounded curve of her belly. And there’s its spine.

The lift pings and she heaves herself into action, out of the doors and up the corridor to the right, where Will’s ward is situated.

He is sitting up in bed, talking to a doctor, nodding.

Hannah hangs back for a moment, unsure whether to interrupt, but Will sees her and his face lights up.

“Han, come and sit down. Dr. James, this is my wife, Hannah.”

“Ah, so you’re the lucky woman,” the doctor says. “Fingers crossed we can have him up and about for the big day.” He nods at her stomach.

“Dr. James was just saying I could probably get a discharge tomorrow,” Will says, grinning.

“With conditions,” the doctor says firmly. “And sign-off from occupational therapy. Because obviously your wife isn’t going to be doing any lifting. You need to be able to maneuver yourself on and off the commode and so on.”

Will makes a face and nods, but Hannah can tell he’s taking it as read, and he puts out his hand and squeezes hers as hard as he can.

Afterwards, when the doctor has said his goodbyes and left, Will turns to her and pats the pillow beside him.

“Come on up.”

“Will, are you nuts?” Hannah looks at the narrow sliver of bed, and then down at her own ample width. “There is no way I’ll fit on there.”

“Come on.” He shifts himself across, wincing as he does. “You’ll fit. I’ll hold you in.”

Gingerly, trying not to disturb the dressing on his side, Hannah climbs up and slides into the narrow space beside Will on the bed. She leans back against his arm, feeling him grip her shoulder with a surprising strength. She remembers that long, nightmarish wait for the ambulance in the darkness of the beach, Will’s hand holding hers, slippery with his own blood, his grip faltering as he flickered in and out of consciousness, and her own heart stopping every time his grip slackened, imagining that this time, this time Will was slipping away from her, into the darkness, as Hugh had already done.

She shuts her eyes for a second, giving herself one long moment to acknowledge the horror of that night, and then opens them, firmly pushing the image away.

“Is that okay?” she asks, trying to keep her voice brisk and matter-of-fact. “I’m not hurting you?”

“You’re not hurting me,” he says. He brushes the hair off her face with his free hand, stroking her cheek with such tenderness that her heart clenches with love. “Now, tell me how it went this morning. Was it bad?”

“Oh, Will.” She puts her hand over her face. “It was awful. His poor parents. The vicar was amazing, but what could he say? How can you celebrate a life like that, knowing what everyone knows?”

“I’m still kind of amazed they let you all come,” Will says. “His parents, I mean. In their shoes… I don’t know. I think I would have said no mourners.”

Hannah nods slowly. She had been thinking the same thing in the limousine to the crematorium, wondering why Hugh’s parents had said it was okay, but when she felt Hugh’s mother’s arms come around her, she thought she understood.

“I know. Me too, but in a way…” She stops, looking out the window across the Edinburgh rooftops. “In a way, I think they knew we needed to say goodbye too… Do you know what I mean? Like, it was closure or something. And maybe…” She gropes for the words she’s seeking. “Maybe they needed to see me too. See that the baby and I were both okay, in spite of what he did.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Will says. He shifts, with a little grimace of pain, and Hannah tries to lean away from him, thinking she is hurting him, but then she realizes—he is reaching for his mobile. “Did you see,” he says as he slides it towards himself with his fingertips across the bedside locker, “the police made a statement about Neville?”

Hannah shakes her head.

“No, I’ve not been online much. What did they say?”

“Just… Hang on… let me find it.” He opens up his phone and begins scrolling down Twitter, awkwardly left-handed, because his right arm is holding her, then he stops. “Here it is.” He reads aloud from the linked article: “Thames Valley Police announced today that in light of compelling new evidence recently uncovered, they would be asking the Court of Appeal to begin the process of quashing the conviction of John Neville, sentenced in 2012 for the killing of Pelham College student April Clarke-Cliveden. Mr. Neville died in prison earlier this year, having protested his innocence to the end. His solicitor, Clive Merritt, commented, ‘It is a profound tragedy that John Neville did not live to see his exoneration, but died in prison for a crime which he did not commit. However, his friends and family will take comfort from the fact that his name will finally be cleared of this heinous crime.’ Geraint Williams, spokesperson for the Clarke-Cliveden family, said, ‘The Clarke-Clivedens extend their heartfelt sympathy to the Neville family over this grave miscarriage of justice. There is no joy, but some measure of relief, in the knowledge that justice will finally be done in this matter, allowing the friends and families of both April and Mr. Neville a peace they have been cruelly denied.’ A Thames Valley Police spokesperson expressed their profound regret and condolences to Mr. Neville’s friends and family. It is understood that no further persons are being sought in relation to the crime.”