In a Dark, Dark Wood(73)

Before I can process what he’s saying, he’s carrying on. ‘Do you have anyone at home who can give you a hand?’

What? ‘N-no,’ I manage. ‘I live alone.’

‘Well, could you stay with a friend for a few days? Or have a friend come round to yours? You’ve done amazingly well but I’m slightly reluctant to let you go home to an empty house.’

‘I live in London,’ I say irrelevantly. What can I tell him? I don’t have anyone I could foist myself on for a week, and I can’t see myself trekking out to Australia to my mother’s waiting arms.

‘I see. Is there anyone who can give you a lift back?’

I try to think. Nina, maybe. I could ask her to help me get home. But … but surely they can’t be throwing me out so soon? Suddenly I’m not sure I’m ready to leave.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say to the nurse, after the doctor has picked up his notes and gone out. ‘No one ever discussed this.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she says comfortingly. ‘We won’t throw you out with nowhere to go. But we do need the bed and you’re no longer at risk, so …’

So, I am no longer wanted here.

It’s strange what a punch to the gut this news is. I realise that in the few short days I’ve been here, I’ve become institutionalised, in a way. For all this place feels like a cage, now the door is open, I don’t want to leave. I’ve come to rely on the doctors and nurses and the routine of this place to protect me – from the police, from the reality of what happened.

What will I do, if I’m thrown out? Will Lamarr let me go home?

‘You should speak to the police,’ I find myself saying. I feel strangely detached. ‘I don’t know if they’ll want me to leave Northumberland.’

‘Och, yes, I’d forgotten you were the poor lass who was in the accident. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure they know.’

‘DC Lamarr,’ I say. ‘She’s the one who’s been coming here.’ I don’t want her to speak to Roberts, with his thick neck and his frown.

‘I’ll let her know. And don’t worry. It won’t be today anyway.’

After she is gone I try to process what just happened.

I’m going to be thrown out. Maybe as early as tomorrow.

And then what?

Either I will be allowed to go back to London or … or I won’t. And if I’m not, that means arrest. I try to remember what I know about my rights. If I’m arrested I can be questioned for … what is it? Thirty-six hours? I think they can get a warrant to extend it, but I can’t completely remember. Fuck. I’m a crime writer. How can I not know this stuff?

I must phone Nina. But I don’t have my phone. I have a bed phone – but you need a bank card to buy credit, and my wallet and all my belongings are with the police. I could probably call from the nurse’s station – I’m sure they’d lend me a phone if it was for something necessary, like getting a lift out of here – but I don’t know her number. All my contacts are in my mobile.

I try to recall any numbers I know off by heart. I used to know Nina’s parents’ number – but they’ve moved. I know my own home number, but that won’t help, there’s no one there. I used to know our home number off by heart, but that was the old house, where I grew up. I don’t know Mum’s number in Australia. I wish I had someone like Jess – someone I could turn to in any situation and say, without shame, I need you. But I don’t. I always thought that being self-sufficient was a strength, but now I realise it’s a kind of weakness too. What the hell can I do? I guess I could ask the nurses to google my editor – but the thought of facing her like this makes me go cold with shame.

Strangely, the one number I can recall perfectly is James’s parents’ number. I must have dialled it a hundred times. He was always losing his mobile. And they still live there, I know they do. But I can’t call them. Not like this.

When I get back to London I must phone them. I must ask about the funeral. I must … I must …

I shut my eyes. I will not cry, not again. I can cry when I’m out of here, but for the moment I have to be practical. I cannot think about James, or his mother and father.

And then my gaze alights on the paper cup beside my bed. Matt’s number. I rip the cup carefully, and fold the scribbled mobile into my pocket. I can’t phone him. He’ll be on his way back to London. But it’s an odd comfort to think that I have, at least, one person I could call, in a dire emergency.

Two days ago I had no idea he existed. And now, he’s my one link to the outside world.

It will be OK though. Nina will come back, or Lamarr will. I’ll be able to get a message out to them.

I just have to wait.

I am still sitting, staring into space and biting my battered nails, when a nurse puts her head around the door.

‘Call for you, duckie. I’ll put them through on the bed phone.’ She gestures to the white plastic phone suspended on an arm beside my bed and then slips out.

Who can it be? Who knows I’m here? Could it be my mum? I look at the clock. No – it would be the middle of the night in Australia.

Then, like a cold hand on the back of the neck, a thought comes to me. James’s parents. They must know I’m here.