In a Dark, Dark Wood(79)

I take two or three deep breaths, trying to calm myself, and then I turn, ready to apologise to the occupant of the cubicle behind me.

But when I see who is in the bed, my heart almost stops.

It’s Clare.

Clare – lying with her eyes closed, her golden hair spread out across the pillow.

She is very pale, and her face is even more badly cut up than mine. There’s a monitor clipped on to her finger, and more wires leading under the blankets.

Oh my God. Oh, Clare.

For a moment, and I know it’s crazy but I can’t stop myself, my hand strays towards her face, and I brush a strand of hair away from her lips. Her eyes flicker beneath her lids, and I hold my breath, but then she relaxes back into whatever state she’s in – sleep? coma? – and I let out a gasping sigh.

‘Clare,’ I whisper, very soft, so that no one will hear, but perhaps it will filter through into her dreams. ‘Clare, it’s me, Nora. I swear, I’m going to find out the truth. I’m going to find out what happened. I promise.’

She says nothing. Her eyes shift under her lids, and I remember Flo at the seance, blindly searching for something none of us could see.

I think my heart might break.

But I can’t stop. They could be looking for me right now.

Carefully, stealthily, I peer out of the cubicle curtains. The corridor is empty – the nurses’ station is unmanned, they are all dealing with patients, and the matron has disappeared.

I slip out, closing Clare’s curtains behind me, and then I almost run for the doors at the end of the ward, and stumble out into the lift lobby.

I press the buttons, not once, but five, ten, fifteen times, pressing again and again, as if it will make the lifts come faster.

Then there’s a sudden grating noise and a ping, and the farthest lift doors open. I half-walk, half-run inside, my heart thudding. A porter is in there pushing a woman in a wheelchair and hissing Lady Gaga through his teeth. Please, please let me make it.

The lift bumps to a halt and I stand back to let the porter and the woman out first, and then follow the signs to the main entrance. A bored-looking woman is sitting at the desk flicking through a copy of Hello.

As I draw level with her, her phone starts to ring, and I cannot stop myself walking a little faster. Don’t pick it up. Don’t pick it up.

She picks it up. ‘Hello, reception desk?’

I am walking too fast, I know I am, but I can’t stop myself. I must look like a patient. How can she not notice I’m wearing flip-flops, for Christ’s sake? Normal people, visitors, don’t wear flip-flops in November. Not with grey jogging bottoms and a blue knitted cardigan.

She is going to stop me, I know it. She’s going to say something, ask me if I’m OK. The two ten-pound notes clutched in my fist are damp with sweat.

‘Really?’ the receptionist says sharply as I draw level. She winds the phone cord around one finger. ‘Yes, yes all right. I’ll keep an eye out.’

My heart is in my mouth. She knows. I can’t bear it.

But she doesn’t look up. She’s nodding. Maybe it’s not me they’re talking about.

I’m almost at the door. There’s a sign telling people to use the alcohol rub on entry and exit. Should I stop? Will someone notice more if I stop, or more if I don’t?

I don’t stop.

At the desk the woman is still talking and shaking her head.

I am in the revolving door. For a moment I have a brief, flashing fantasy that it will stop mid-cycle, that I will be trapped in a triangle of air, with maybe just a sliver of a gap to the outside, enough to reach an arm out, but not escape.

But of course it doesn’t happen. The door continues its smooth revolution.

The cold air hits me like a blessing.

I am free.

I am out of the hospital.

I have escaped.





29


THE AIR IS cold in my face and I feel completely lost. This place is totally strange to me – and I realise suddenly and piercingly that I was brought here unconscious and have no idea how I got here or how to get away.

I’m shivering after the heat of the hospital and there are flecks of snow on the breeze. I look up as if searching for a miracle, and one comes, in the form of a sign saying ‘Taxis’ and an arrow.

I walk slowly, shivering, round the corner of the building and there, at the sign saying ‘Taxi queue starts here’, is a single cab, light on. A man is inside, at least I think so, it’s hard to see through the fog on the windows.

I limp closer – the flip-flops are starting to chafe the inner side of my foot – and knock on the window. It rolls down a crack and a cheerful brown face grins at me.

‘What can I do you for, love?’ he asks. He is a Sikh, his turban a smart black, with a pin in the centre with his taxi company’s logo on. His accent is a disconcerting mix of Punjabi and Newcastle that momentarily makes me want to laugh.

‘I … I need to get to …’ I suddenly realise I have no idea where to go. Back to London?

No.

‘I need to get to the Glass House,’ I say. ‘It’s a cottage, a house, just outside Stanebridge. Do you know the village?’

He nods and puts down his paper. ‘Aye, I know it. Hop in, love.’

But I don’t. In spite of the cold, and the fact that I’m shivering hard now, I hesitate, my hand on the door handle.