The Things You Didn't See(88)

‘You’d be amazed how quickly the brain forgets details like that,’ Francis told her. ‘I’ve slept in one of those beds myself, wearing that cap, so I know.’

She’d heard how therapists and doctors often specialised in subjects where they had a personal history, and knew how her own trait had dictated her career. ‘Do you have a sleep disorder, Francis?’

‘Nothing so interesting,’ Francis grinned. ‘But it’s good practice to experience first-hand what we put our patients through.’

On the monitor, Hector could be seen shifting position. He looked towards the camera, his eyes weary, his jaw tense.

‘This bit always takes a while, waiting for patients to fall asleep. Go grab a bite to eat if you like.’

‘I’m happy to wait here,’ said Clive, studying the screen.

But Holly was hungry, and knew it would be a long night. More than that, she wanted to find Cassandra. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting something.’

‘Here – take this beeper. If it buzzes, you’ll know the show’s started.’

Sliding her tray onwards to the cutlery stand, Holly saw Cassandra, hidden in the corner of the café, nursing a chipped mug.

‘Can I join you?’

Cass looked up, and Holly was immediately struck at how different she seemed. Her hair looked freshly styled, and her face was dewy. She looked well rested and healthy, and even her clothes were smarter than the ones Holly had become accustomed to seeing her wear.

‘Oh, Holly!’ She smiled warmly. ‘Of course you can.’

Holly sat beside her. ‘You look well, Cass.’

‘Thank you. I feel it.’ She touched her empty mug lovingly, as though it contained a genie who had just granted her wish. ‘I’ve just sorted a lot of things out today: my head feels much clearer.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Holly. Though she was perplexed too – the last time they’d spoken, Cass was convinced Ash had shot her mum and that Hector was covering for him. She must know Daniel’s car had been seized by the police – how could she be so calm?

‘Do you think this sleep trial will give us the answers we need?’

Cass smiled. ‘The truth has to be the best thing, doesn’t it? Whatever that may be.’

It seemed to Holly that whatever Cass was thinking about, it wasn’t her mother. She was lost in a daydream.

‘Cass,’ she said gently, touching her arm. ‘If your dad’s sleep test doesn’t support his confession, what do you think will happen?’

Holly felt how unwilling Cass was to be pulled away from her happy place. ‘Then it will prove he was covering for Ash.’

‘Or Daniel.’ Holly hesitated, just long enough to acknowledge that she knew she was betraying Leif’s trust. ‘Cass, the police found your mum’s blood in the boot of his car.’

As soon as she said the words, she wanted to snatch them back. She was alerting Cass to the police’s new evidence, she had no right, and Cass could tell Daniel.

But, to her great surprise, Cass didn’t react. She didn’t seem shocked, or even angry at Holly for suggesting that Daniel could be guilty. In fact, her expression was one of pity.

‘Daniel is a good man. He loves me: he’d never do anything to betray me, and whatever the police have found there will be an innocent explanation for. Don’t you recognise true love when you see it, Holly?’





DAY 15

SATURDAY 15 NOVEMBER





42

Cassandra

I fall asleep in the cafeteria, my head on my folded arms, still seated in the chair. It seems like just minutes later that Holly shakes me gently awake.

‘The results are in, Cass,’ she says. ‘Your dad and Clive are waiting for us.’

I lift my head, yawn. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half six,’ she says. I don’t know if she went home to sleep, or if she’s been here all night, but she looks alert, sympathetic too. We both know that whatever we’re about to be told is critical.

I let Holly lead me across the courtyard to Clive’s office. She links her arm through mine and I feel a solidarity between us. When this is all over, I’ll miss her. It’s cold in the courtyard, the early sun is watery and it feels like we’re the only people awake in the world. My breath carries on the air and seagulls watch us from the rooftop. I lean into Holly for her warmth, for her comfort, and I feel her leaning back as if we’re friends. Something we can never truly be, not meeting like this.

I don’t like being here. The Bartlet haunts me, set in a cliff facing the sea, red-brick visage and dark glassy eyes. Rigid and angular and symmetrical, just like the regime inside. The council wanted to turn it into luxury flats, but the locals protested: the hospital was a gift from Dr Bartlet to Felixstowe, in perpetuity. They demanded the town honour this.

I’d like to see it burned to the ground.

Lording over the town like a fortress, its red-brick walls a prison for patients too sick to have rights. Two years ago, I was one of them. This isn’t the convalescent hospital Dr Bartlet imagined when he gave the building his name – gone are the glamorous but ailing women languishing in bath chairs, no shell-shocked gentlemen in panama hats stroll the gardens any more. Those people are ghosts, and now everything that happens here is ugly.