In a Dark, Dark Wood(61)

He is gone.

Perhaps if I say it often enough, I will start to believe it.





22


I SLEEP THE sleep of the dead that night, in spite of the noise and the beep of machines down the corridor and the intrusive lights. The nurses have stopped coming in to check on me every two hours, and I sleep … and sleep … and sleep.

When I wake it’s with a sense of disorientation – where am I? What day is it? I look for my phone automatically.

It’s not there. There’s a plastic water jug instead.

And then the weight of the present comes crashing down on the back of my skull.

It is Monday.

I am in a hospital.

James is dead.

‘Wakey wakey,’ says a new nurse, coming briskly in and running a professional eye over my charts. ‘Breakfast will be coming round in a few minutes.’

I’m still in the hospital gown, and as she goes to leave, I find myself calling out, ‘Wait!’

She turns, one eyebrow raised, plainly mid-round and in no mood to stop.

‘I’m s-sorry,’ I stammer, ‘I was just wondering, c-could I, can I get any clothes? I’d like my own clothes. And my phone, if possible.’

‘We ask relatives to bring them in,’ she says briskly. ‘We’re not a courier service.’ And then she’s gone, the door flapping shut behind her.

She doesn’t know, then. About me. About what has happened. And it occurs to me, the house is probably a crime scene. There’s no way Nina and Clare and everyone can still be there, tiptoeing around James’s congealing blood. They must have gone home – or been shipped off to a B&B. I’ll have to ask Lamarr when she comes in. If she comes in.

For the first time I realise how very dependent on the police I am. They are my only line to the outside world.

It’s around 11 a.m. when there is a knock on the door. I am lying on my side listening to Radio 4. It’s the Woman’s Hour drama, and if I shut my eyes hard enough, and press my headphones to my ears, I can almost imagine myself back home, a cup of coffee – proper coffee – at my side, the traffic roaring softly outside my window.

When the knock comes it takes me a minute to adjust to Lamarr’s face in the wire-hatched pane. I pull off the headphones and struggle up against the pillows.

‘Come in.’

She holds up a paper cup as she enters. ‘Coffee?’

‘Oh, thank you.’ I try not to sound desperate, try not to snatch the cup from her hands, but it’s amazing how much these small things mean in the goldfish-bowl world of the hospital. I can tell by the feel of the cup that it’s too hot to drink and I nurse it while I think how to phrase what I want to say, and while Lamarr chats about the unseasonably beautiful winter weather, and how the roads are clearing up from the weekend’s snow. At last she grinds to a pause and I take my chance.

‘Sergeant—’

‘Constable.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I’m annoyed with myself for the mistake and try not to get flustered. ‘Listen, I was wondering, how is Clare?’

‘Clare?’ She leans forward. ‘Have you remembered something?’

‘What?’

‘Have you started to remember what happened after you left the house?’

‘What?’

We stare at each other for a moment and then she shakes her head, ruefully.

‘I’m sorry. I thought from what you said …’

‘What do you mean? Has something happened to Clare?’

‘Tell me what you remember,’ she says, but for a minute I say nothing, trying to read her beautiful, closed face. Her eyes meet mine, but I can’t tell anything. There is something she’s not telling me.

‘I remember …’ I speak slowly. ‘I remember running through the woods … and I remember car headlights and glass … and then after the accident, I remember stumbling along, I’d lost a shoe, and there were chunks of glass on the road.’ It’s coming back to me as I speak, the lowering tunnel of bare branches, pale in the headlights, and my limping run as I tried to flag down someone – anyone – to help. There was a van swinging along the road, headlights raking the dark. I stood, waving frantically, the tears streaming down my face, and I thought he wouldn’t stop, I thought for a moment he’d run me down. But he didn’t – he skidded to a halt, his face pale as he wound down the window. What the f*ck? he said, and then, Have you been …? The rest of the sentence hovered unspoken.

‘But that’s it. Between that, it’s so jumbled … it’s like the images get more and more shaken up and then there’s just a blank spot. Listen, has something happened to Clare? She’s not …’

Oh my God.

Oh my God. It cannot be.

I feel my fingers close on the bedsheet, my bitten nails digging in so hard that my fingers hurt.

Is she dead?

‘She’s OK,’ Lamarr says slowly, carefully. ‘But she was in the accident, the same accident as you.’

‘Is she all right? Can I see her?’

‘No, I’m sorry. We’ve not been able to interview her yet. We need to get her version before …’

She trails off. I know what she is saying. She wants my truth, and Clare’s truth – separate, so they can compare our stories.