The Heart Whisperer (41 page)

Claire had been awake for most of the night. She woke up groggy and late with barely enough time to make it to Shane's surgery by half twelve.

The receptionist sent her through to the exam room. It was empty but after a moment Shane brought Dog in. He looked bedraggled but more like himself again. When he saw her he gave an excited little whinny and came over and stuck his long snout under her arm, then leaned against her until she had to steady herself against the table. Shane's dark eyes widened in surprise.

‘I kept him,' Claire rubbed Dog's ears, ‘it's a long story.' She was suddenly aware of how awful she must look. She hadn't dried her hair last night, her eyes were puffy. She was wearing a pair of dog-walking jeans and the old Smoke Covered Horses T-shirt she sometimes slept in. But Dog was OK, that was all that mattered.

‘Listen.' Shane folded his arms. His tan had faded. The white ring mark on his left hand had disappeared. ‘I need to be straight with you. Dog's not well, Claire.'

‘But he looks fine.'

‘His white blood cell count is five times what it should be and his spleen is inflamed.'

Claire dug her hands into the wiry fur at the back of Dog's neck. ‘He just got drenched last week and then again last night.'

‘I think he has lymphocytic leukaemia.'

‘
Leukaemia
?' Claire stared at him.

‘I'm sorry. I could do a definitive test but that would mean extracting bone marrow and I don't want to put him through that. I'm pretty sure about this diagnosis, I've seen it before.'

She swallowed. ‘What's the treatment?'

‘Chemotherapy. Blood transfusions.'

‘Well, you can do that, can't you?'

‘It's expensive and invasive and—'

‘I can pay for it.' If she didn't get Richard a new watch or get Mossy fixed, she could.

‘Look,' Shane said, softly, ‘Dog's at least fourteen years old, maybe more. It's a very aggressive therapy and there's only a thirty per cent chance it'll work. The best thing you can do is let him go.'

Claire stared at him. ‘You mean he's going to
die
?'

‘Not today. I think he's got another couple of weeks or so. I can give him some steroids but the best thing you can do is take him home and make him comfortable until he's ready to go.'

‘No! I can't.' She bent her head. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Right.' She felt him looking at her but she couldn't meet his eyes. ‘Well, we can let him go now, if that's easier. I'll just get his file.' He turned away to face the computer and sat down. There was a volley of barking from the next room where the cages were and Dog shrank back against Claire's legs.

‘It's OK,' she whispered. ‘You don't have to go back there.' She thought she had cried out every millilitre of water in her but now a new tear streaked down her face and plopped on to one of Dog's ears. He twitched it and gave her an offended look.

‘Wait!' she said to Shane. ‘I'll take him home.'

Nick made an omelette and carried it on a tray upstairs. The old man was already dressed, leaning on his crutch, when he opened the bedroom door. ‘Can you help me back downstairs?'

Nick blinked at him in disbelief. ‘I don't get it. All you've ever wanted to do since the moment you came home from the hospital is get back up here and now you want to go back down again?'

‘This is where you're sleeping,' the old man mumbled. ‘I don't want you having to carry everything up and down.'

‘Fine!' Nick said through gritted teeth. ‘Whatever.' They were both out of breath by the time they got down to the surgery.

‘Wait!' The old man put his hand on Nick's arm as he turned to go back upstairs for the tray. ‘I want …'

‘What?' Nick was so exhausted that the thought of having to climb the stairs again was almost unbearable.

The old man's face crumpled, as if he was having a spasm of pain. His fingers plucked at Nick's sleeve, pinching the fabric and letting it go. ‘I want to say that I'm sorry.'

Nick and his therapist had role-played this scene at least a dozen times over the years. Nick had listed all the good reasons why he couldn't, wouldn't, forgive the old man. But what was the point in saying them now? What good would they do?

Instead, he covered the old man's hand with his own, just for a moment, then he straightened up. ‘We've got to put the past in the
past,' he said, automatically. ‘We can't change it. All we can do is move forward.' Then he went upstairs to get the tray before the omelette got cold.

All the photographers were gone except one, the bald man in a sheepskin jacket. Every time Nick looked out, he was huddled under the fuchsia, looking frozen. Nick was starting to feel sorry for him. He made a mug of Nescafé, put a few of his father's Jaffa Cakes on a plate and opened the front door a crack.

‘Put the camera down,' he called, ‘and I'll bring you out a coffee.'

The photographer lowered the camera. ‘Any comment on the news?'

‘What news?'

‘We had a tip-off that you and Oonagh Clancy are out of the running for
The Ex-Factor
.'

Poor Oonagh, Nick thought tiredly. ‘No comment.' He handed over the cup and the plate.

‘Jaffa Cakes!' The photographer picked one up. ‘I loved that ad! Full moon.' He took a bite. ‘Half-moon.' He took another bite, then popped the last little crescent of biscuit into his mouth. ‘Total eclipse!'

Nick went back inside and closed the door. He had no diary to check. No coaching sessions booked. The producer of the
OO
show had fired him by email. ‘
Sorry, Nick. Not my decision. Bitchard and Rudie strike again
.' Classy.

Tara from Fish had left a short gleeful message to say that his contract had been ‘terminated'. There were a couple of messages from journalists wanting to interview him to get ‘his side of the story'. But there was only one person he wanted to talk to and there was no point in calling her.

Kelly turned over and a plate slid off the bed on to the floor. It wasn't important, she thought, curling up in the dark beneath the duvet, because any minute now the phone would ring.

Somebody must have seen her, carrying the little boy across the road. Someone driving by or at an upstairs window of the bathroom showroom or in the estate on the other side of the canal.
And if they hadn't, then she must have been caught on a CCTV camera out on the street and leaving the showroom. Someone would review the footage and they'd see her crossing the road with the little boy in her arms. They'd trace her car and come and find her.

So it didn't matter that she hadn't left the house in days or answered the phone, or checked her emails. Or that a bowl of half-eaten pasta was upturned on the green silk Laura Ashley rug on the bedroom floor. Because any minute now, someone would hammer on the door and she'd have to explain what she'd done.

She hugged her knees to her chest. It was Nick's fault. She couldn't have a child of her own. That was why she had done it. If he hadn't walked out on her, it never would have happened.

Ray was supposed to be working on a jingle for a Malaysian brand of dog food. Sounds Familiar wanted a ‘Walk on the Wild Side' soundalike with woofs instead of words. But, instead, he'd spent the morning tweaking ‘Little Stars'. Every time he played it, he thought that the woman in the shop might just be right. He'd written a song. He'd written a good one. And now, he thought, putting his guitar down, he'd better leave it alone, before he screwed it up.

He made himself a pot of coffee and went online. The papers still had the knives out for Claire's brother and a couple of them had now picked up on the story about her mother. Ray had had some pretty nasty stuff written about him during the Horses split. The fact that the tabloids could eat your life up and spit it out wasn't news to him, but it had to be news to Claire. He wished he could help her but she'd made it pretty clear she didn't want his help when he'd told her about that creepy boyfriend of hers.

His phone rang and he picked it up, hoping it might be her, but it was Ash. ‘Are you at home? I was going to drop in.'

‘Have you got Willow? How long can she stay?'

‘It's just me. I want to have a quick chat.'

Ray didn't like the sound of this. ‘When will you get here?'

The doorbell rang. ‘I'm here now.'

‘D'you want coffee? I just made a pot.'

‘No.' Ash was standing at the window, looking nervous, with her hands in the pockets of her brown leather jacket.

‘That's Willow's spot.' Ray smiled. ‘That's where she stands to spy on the neighbours. She'd make a great private detective.'

Ash stared down at the bare patch of earth where the nettles had been. ‘I'm taking her back to live in London.'

Ray blinked at her. ‘Why?'

‘It's not working out here. Living with my parents is a nightmare.'

‘You can move in here for a while!' Why hadn't he thought of this before? ‘I've got a spare bedroom and loads of free time. I can bring Willow to school and pick her up and—'

‘It's not about childcare, Ray. Maurice and I are going to give it another try.'

‘I thought that was all over now.'

‘So did I.' She sighed. ‘But he came to Dublin to try to persuade me to go back. I knew if I saw him with Willow I'd cave in so I left her with you. Then you brought her back in that terrible state and she just wanted to hold on to him all evening. He's her dad. I have to give it another try. I owe it to her.'

Ray felt his chest tighten. ‘I'm her dad.'

‘Ray, Maurice has been around for her since she was a few months old.'

‘Really?' Ray said sharply. ‘How can someone be around when they're touring for ten months of the year?'

‘That's all changing. He's leaving In Your Dreams. He's a good man. You should be glad that Willow has someone like that in her life!'

Ray held the cooling cup of coffee in his hands. ‘Someone who's put half of Colombia's GDP up his nose?'

‘He went into rehab when we met. He doesn't even drink nowadays. And, sorry, but you can't talk, you got into a punch-up in broad daylight when you were supposed to be looking after your daughter.'

Ray swallowed. ‘When are you leaving?'

‘A week, maybe two.'

‘I need to see Willow before you go.'

‘I'm not sure that would be a good idea. It'll just upset her more. But we'll be back in Dublin from time to time.'

Ray put his coffee down. A dark wave of it sloshed over the rim of the cup on to the table. ‘So that's it? You keep Willow a secret from me for six years. You use me as a babysitter. And now that you've patched things up with your boyfriend, you want me out of the way again?'

‘It's not about
you
. It's about what's best for
her
. Being a parent isn't just about going to bloody petting zoos and playing word games. She misses London, she misses Maurice. Don't you want her to be happy? Because that's what being a dad means, Ray. That's what it's all about.'

Pete had given Eilish the day off so she'd driven up to Dublin, bringing chicken soup for Dog that he didn't eat and a bottle of wine that sat untouched on the table. She made peppermint tea, instead, and sat beside Claire on the yellow velvet sofa, patting her back and passing her tissues.

‘Your poor mum.' She pressed her lips together. ‘She must have been so lonely.'

‘I know.' Claire was tearing a tissue into tiny shreds. ‘I thought her life was perfect. Now all I can think is how lonely and unhappy she must have been. Why didn't she get help?'

‘It was different back then.' Eilish shook her head. ‘There was still such a stigma about being an alcoholic and she was a woman and a doctor. That would have made it so much harder.'

Dog was lying with his head under the sofa. Claire tucked her bare feet beneath him. He let out a huge shuddering sigh. ‘I thought I knew her, but I didn't.'

‘Of course you did.'

‘Not really.' Everything Claire remembered was changed through the lens of what she knew now. ‘I think I was beginning to realise that something was wrong but I didn't understand what it was.' She put her hands over her face. ‘I was awful to her the day she died. She kept trying to find ways to make me happy because it was my birthday and I was …' She pressed her knuckles hard against her mouth until her teeth bit into the inside of her lip. ‘She went back into the sea because I wouldn't
stop crying. She was trying to get my swimming ring. That's why she drowned. It was my fault.'

Dog turned around three times, trampling the duvet, then lay down with his long, bony back to Claire. Up close, his long, shaggy coat was every shade of grey, from charcoal to smoke, to slate, to silver.

He whimpered as he settled himself and she slipped an arm around him and held on to one his heavy paws. She did it to soothe him but it comforted her. She stroked the rough pads with the little tufts of fur between them.

The last thing she remembered before she went to sleep was what Eilish had said. She had put her hands on Claire's shoulders and pulled her close until they were eye to eye, waiting patiently until Claire had finally looked back at her. ‘It wasn't anyone's fault. It was an accident.'

‘Call me when you think he's ready to go,' Shane had said.

‘How will I know?' Claire asked him.

‘You'll know.'

That first week, she still drove Dog to the park. She would help him out of the car and they would get as far as the bench near the gate, then he'd have to have a lie-down and, after a while, he'd get up and she'd drive him home again. But at the start of the second week, when she put on her coat, he didn't even lift his head up so she put his lead away in a drawer, at the back, where neither of them had to look at it.