I Am Watching You(11)
‘Physically?’
‘She wasn’t herself.’
‘Did she hurt you, Ella? I mean, if she hurt you, if she’s volatile, then you really ought to go to the police with this. They should know this.’
‘She didn’t mean to. A tussle on the steps outside – an accident more than anything. Just a bit of bruising. On my arm.’
Matthew is now shaking his head.
‘Oh, for goodness sake; it was my own fault. She’s not a violent woman. It wasn’t deliberate and I should never have gone there. Provoked her. But the point is, it shook me up a bit. I mean – I knew that she blamed me and I wanted to try to redress that. But the extent of her hatred. Her eyes.’
‘Which is why you think the postcards are from her.’
‘Don’t you?’
He shrugs, tilting his head from side to side.
‘I wish you had kept them all.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t want my husband to worry. He’s going for a promotion at work and has enough on his plate. Look, Mr Hill. Sorry – Matthew. If you won’t take this on for me, I will burn them. I’m not handing them in to the police, I can tell you that.’
Matthew examines my face very closely and shifts position.
‘I would like you to visit her, Matthew. You’re neutral and experienced at this kind of thing. I am hoping that you can put a stop to this without upsetting her further. Gently warn her off, but without involving the police and making it all worse for her.’
‘And what if you have this all wrong and it isn’t her? This mother who seems to have a bit of a temper on her.’
‘Well, then I will reconsider. And listen to your advice.’
‘Good. So we have a deal here, Ella? I try one visit to Mrs Ballard to see what I make of the situation, and if I’m still uneasy, you consider passing all this on to the police?’
‘You don’t seriously think this has anything to do with the investigation?’
‘In all honesty – probably not. If it’s not the mother, it’s most likely some saddo. But the team ought to be told.’
‘But my call?’
‘OK. We regroup after I’ve been to Cornwall.’ And now he is frowning, narrowing his eyes as he stands.
‘I take it you’ve heard the new development, Ella? This morning.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘On the local radio this morning. After the anniversary appeal.’
‘No. What development? Has someone come forward? I missed it. What’s happened?’
Matthew winces. ‘They haven’t released a name, of course. But I’m assuming it’s the other girl. On the train. The friend.’
‘Sarah. Her name is Sarah. What do you mean? What’s happened to Sarah?’
CHAPTER 7
THE FRIEND
Again Sarah is pretending to be asleep, but this time it is more difficult. There are nurses to deal with, not just her mother.
‘Come on, Sarah. We need you to try to have a little drink. Yes?’ The nurse is gently tapping her hand.
Go away. Go away.
‘Why can’t you just keep her on a drip?’ Her mother has been clucking and fussing and crying alongside the bed for most of the night. ‘She looks terrible. She can’t sit up.’
‘Trust me. It’s better for Sarah if we can get her to stay alert and take a little drink herself.’
They are on a unit called HDU, which Sarah learns stands for ‘high dependency unit’. She has been conscious of the goings-on around her for several hours but has been feeling woozy and playing dumb.
They want to know precisely how many tablets she took. They keep asking this. She has listened in on conversations between the medical staff and her mother. Tests are apparently under way to determine how many tablets, but they take time and it would be much easier, everyone explains, if Sarah would just tell them.
The nurses have been trying to get her mother to take a nap in the family room and Sarah wishes so badly she would agree.
She feels too tired and dazed and wretched to feel guilty. She is sick to her stomach of feeling guilty; she just wants everyone to leave her alone.
Her mother is now telling the nurses that the last time they were in hospital was over an asthma attack when Sarah was in primary school. All the parents were allowed to bed down in the playroom next to the children’s ward. They slept on mattresses on the floor, though some got the luxury of proper fold-up beds.
This time there is no mattress or bed. Margaret spent the night like some ghost, wandering here and there to stretch her legs every few hours, alternating between the green plastic armchair alongside Sarah’s bed on the unit and the closed cafeteria that offered filthy coffee and snacks from machines.
Sarah is now vomiting less. Still determined to say nothing.
How many tablets, Sarah. We need to know how many.
‘I don’t have many in the house. Paracetamol. Two packets tops.’ Sarah’s mother repeats this to the staff for the umpteenth time.
The truth? Sarah doesn’t remember how many tablets she took. She bought some at the corner shop and some at the supermarket. They have stupid rules about how many you can buy in each place.
It was the thought of the TV reconstruction. The push for new witnesses. That stupid bitch on the train.