Sam interrupted her chatter. ‘I’ve got a photograph to show you, Sandy,’ he said. ‘We think it might be him.’
She stopped, mouth open. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘You mean, you might have him?’
Sam nodded.
‘Go on, then, show me,’ she said. Her eyes were already searching his clothing, looking at his hands to see if he was carrying anything. If he wasn’t quick about producing the picture, she might frisk him.
He pulled the photograph out of his trouser pocket and passed it to her. She took a quick look, then inspected Sam curiously. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she said.
‘Of course not. It’s not him?’
‘No. Definitely not.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ Guilt swarmed in, clogging Sam’s mind. He should have told her not to get her hopes up. He shouldn’t have brought out the picture so quickly, whatever Sandy thought she wanted. Maybe she wasn’t as tough as she seemed, maybe this would—
‘Sam, I know this man.’
‘What?’ He looked up, shocked. ‘But you said—’
‘I said he wasn’t the man who raped me.’ Sandy Freeguard laughed at his astonished expression. ‘This is Robert Haworth. What on earth made you think it was him?’
17
Friday, April 7
I AM HOLDING your hand. It’s hard to convey the power of this feeling to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. My body glows and crackles as you burn away the darkness inside me with a furious warmth. Something in me has been switched on by your touch and I feel the way I felt on that first day at the service station: alight, safe. I have scrambled back up on to the ledge. I was fading, and now, just in time, I have been plugged back into my source of life. Do you feel this too? I won’t bother to ask the nurses. They would talk about probabilities and statistics. They would say, ‘Studies have shown . . .’
I know you know I’m here. You don’t have to move, or say anything; I can feel the energy of recognition flowing from your hand into mine.
Sergeant Zailer stands in the corner of your room, watching us. On the way here, she warned me that I might find the sight of you distressing, but she saw how wrong she was when we arrived and I ran to your bed, as eager to touch you as I always have been. I see you, Robert, not the bandages, not the tubes. Only you, and the screen that shows that your heart is pumping, alive. I don’t need any doctors to tell me about your firm, steady heart.
Your bed has been adjusted so that the top part is at an angle, to support your back. You look comfortable, as if you’ve fallen asleep on a sunlounger, with a book on your lap. Peaceful.
‘This is the first time,’ I tell Sergeant Zailer. ‘The first and only time he’s managed to escape, in his whole life. That’s why he isn’t ready to wake up yet.’
She looks sceptical. ‘Remember, we haven’t got all day,’ she says.
I grip your hand. ‘Robert?’ I begin tentatively. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. I love you.’ I am determined to talk to you in exactly the way I would if we were alone; I don’t want you to notice a difference in my manner and feel disorientated and scared. I am still me, and you’re still you; the strange situation we’re in hasn’t changed us one bit, has it, Robert? We must think of Sergeant Zailer as part of the furniture, no different from the small black television on the high shelf opposite your bed, the green chair with wooden arms that I’m sitting on, or the small plastic round-edged table with the glass and jug of water on it.
They like round edges in this hospital. There are no right angles between the floor and the walls. Instead, the two are joined by a curved seal of grey rubber that runs all the way round the room. Seeing it makes me think of all the harmful things that must be kept outside, kept away from you.
Behind your bed, on the wall, there’s a big red emergency button. My having to leave soon makes this an emergency.
‘That’s a bit daft,’ I say, stroking your arm. ‘They’ve put out water and a glass on the table, but how are you supposed to drink it? Someone in this hospital’s got a strange sense of humour.’ My tone is light, frivolous. I have always been the one who jollies us both along. I’m not going to sit beside you and wring my hands and weep. You’ve been through enough already and I don’t want to make it worse.
‘Actually, maybe it’s a kind of bribe,’ I say. ‘Same with the telly on the wall. Do the doctors come in and tell you that if you wake up quickly, you can watch
Cash In the Attic
and have a drink of tap water? It’s not great, is it, as incentives go? They should fill that jug with champagne instead.’
If you could smile, you would. You once told me that you love champagne, but only drink it in restaurants. I felt wounded, and thought it was tactless of you to mention it, since we have never been to a restaurant together and at the time I feared we never would. I pictured you and Juliet at the Bay Tree—where you went to get my
Magret de Canard aux Poires
—happy to chat endlessly to the chef when he emerged from the kitchen because you knew you’d have plenty of time to talk to one another later—the rest of your lives. I can still see that picture in my mind, and it stings my heart.
‘I didn’t think you’d have your own room,’ I say. ‘It’s nice. Everything’s so clean. Does a cleaner come in every day?’
I leave a pause before speaking again. I want you to know how much I hope you’ll answer me.
‘You’ve got a great view, too. A little square courtyard, covered with crazy paving. With benches around three sides and a knot garden in the middle.’ I look at Sergeant Zailer. ‘Is it called a knot garden?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m the wrong person to ask about gardens. I hate the things. Haven’t got one and don’t want one.’
‘It
is
called a knot garden. And on one side of the courtyard, there’s a row of round bushes. If you turn your head to the right and open your eyes, you’ll be able to see it.’
Sergeant Zailer’s mobile begins to ring. The noise startles me and I drop your hand. I expect her to apologise and switch her phone off, but she takes the call. She says, ‘Yep’, several times, and then, ‘Really?’ I wonder if the call has anything to do with you or Juliet.
‘Do you know what happened to you?’ I whisper, leaning in closer. ‘I don’t, not exactly, but the police think Juliet attacked you. I think that’s what happened. You very nearly died, but you didn’t. Thanks to me, you were found in time. You had an operation—’
There is a knock at the door. I turn and see the nurse who showed us in, a plump young woman with blond hair scraped back into a short, high ponytail. I’m scared she’s going to say I have to leave, but it is Sergeant Zailer she’s glaring at. ‘I’ve told you before, no mobile phones on the ward. It interferes with our machines. Switch it off.’
‘Sorry.’ Sergeant Zailer puts her phone back in her bag. Once the nurse has gone, she tells me, ‘It’s bollocks, that stuff about the machines. The doctors use their mobiles in here all the time. Stupid woman.’
‘She’s just doing her job,’ I say. ‘Like most people’s, it involves the random application of nonsensical rules. You should understand, given what you do for a living.’
‘Two more minutes and we’re going,’ she warns me. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
I turn away from her, back to you. ‘I don’t think you mind being here, do you?’ I say. ‘A lot of people hate hospitals, but I don’t think you do. We’ve never talked about it, but I bet if we did, you’d say you quite like them, for the same reason that you like service stations.’
‘He likes service stations?’ Sergeant Zailer’s voice intrudes. ‘Sorry, but . . . I’ve never heard of that before. Everyone hates service stations.’
I’ve never hated them, and since you and I met I have loved them. Not just Rawndesley East—all motorway service stations. You’re right: they are totally self-contained, places that could be nowhere or anywhere, free of what you once called the tyranny of geography. ‘Each one’s like a world that exists outside real space and real time,’ you said. ‘I like them because I’ve got an overactive imagination.’
‘Do all lorry drivers feel that way about them?’ I teased you. ‘Is it a sort of vocation thing?’
You replied as if my question had been deadly serious: ‘I don’t know. Could be.’
Now, every time I drive past a sign that says ‘Moto’ or ‘Welcome Break’ and see a small picture of a bed, white lines against a blue background, I think of us and of room eleven.
‘I went there last night,’ I tell you. ‘To our room. I thought . . . I couldn’t bear to miss a week.’
‘You were at the Traveltel last night?’ Sergeant Zailer interrupts again.
I nod.
‘But I collected you from home this morning.’
‘I left the Traveltel at five-thirty and was home for six,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not sleeping much at the moment. I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I?’
‘If you really want to.’
Her phone rings again. This time I don’t let go of your hand. ‘Yep,’ she says. ‘What?’ She looks at me in an odd way. ‘Yeah. I’ll ring you back.’
‘What?’ I ask, not caring if I’m overstepping the mark.
‘Wait here,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll be ten seconds.’
Once she’s gone, I walk over to the table and pour myself a glass of water. ‘She’s not allowed to leave us alone,’ I say. ‘She told me on the way here. But she has. Which is good. It means she trusts me more than she did at first. Maybe seeing us together’s made her realise . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Juliet tried to kill you, Robert. You can divorce her. And then we can get married. Will we still go to the Traveltel every Thursday once we’re married? It wouldn’t surprise me if you—’ I stop. My heart springs up into my throat. I blink, to check I’m not hallucinating.
Your eyelids and lips are twitching. Your eyes are open.
I drop the water, run over to you, grab your hand. ‘Robert?’
‘Naomi.’ It’s more of an exhalation than a word spoken aloud.
‘Oh, God. Robert. I . . .’ I’m afraid to speak.
Your mouth is moving, as if you’re trying to say something else. Your face contorts.
‘Are you in pain?’ I ask. ‘Shall I call a nurse?’
‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ you whisper.
I stare at the dry white ridges of skin on your lips. Shake my head. It’s impossible. There’s no way. You don’t know what you’re saying. ‘It’s me, Robert. Not Juliet.’
‘I know who you are. Leave me alone.’
Something inside me is falling, falling. This cannot be happening. You love me. I know you do. ‘You love me,’ I say aloud. ‘And I love you.’ I’ve felt it once before, this tearing feeling, the sensation of everything good in the world being ripped away from me. I know from experience that it’s only a matter of seconds before it tears off completely and I’m adrift: every last link to safety and happiness has been destroyed and there is nothing to cling on to.
‘Get out,’ you say.
‘Why?’ I am too shocked and cold inside to cry. If you were in your right mind, you would not have said what you said, but I still have to ask for an explanation; what else can I do? I want to pound your chest with my fists and make you be your real self again. This is my worst nightmare. Before the police found you, when my imagination was full of dreaded tragic endings, I never once thought of this.
‘You know why,’ you say, looking straight at me. But I don’t. I am about to say this, to start pleading with you, when suddenly your back arches and you groan. Your eyes roll back and you begin to shake, as if there’s an earthquake inside your body. White foam spills out of your mouth. It’s a few seconds before I remember the emergency button and press it. I hear a faint, repetitive bleep coming from the corridor.
‘Naomi?’ Sergeant Zailer’s voice is behind me. She looks at my finger on the button, at the glass and spilled water on the floor. ‘Jesus Christ!’ She drags me by my arm out into the ward corridor. ‘What the fuck happened?’ she yells. My body feels limp and icy, like a sponge that’s been left in cold water. My mind searches frantically for an emergency exit, a way to undo the last few minutes of my life.
I don’t care what you said. I would happily die if it meant you would live.
The last thing I see before I am pushed out of the intensive care unit is three nurses running into your room.
‘I haven’t told you the truth,’ I confess to Sergeant Zailer. ‘I lied. I’m sorry.’ This morning I didn’t care a damn what she thought. She has no idea how much I need from her now, how the power balance has shifted. For as long as I was sure you loved me, I was all-powerful.
We are nearly in Rawndesley. I don’t want to be dropped off at my house, alone. I can’t let Sergeant Zailer leave me there. I have to keep her talking. As she drives, I fight off vivid memory flashes—like movie stills—from what happened to me before, when I was kidnapped: the bed with acorn posts, the wooden table. The man. Your love for me was a padded layer that kept all that at bay, and now it’s been peeled away. My soul is mangled and exposed.
‘Lied?’ says Sergeant Zailer. I feel as if I might suffocate in her indifference.
‘My rape story was true, all of it. Except it wasn’t Robert. I don’t know who he was. I’m sorry for lying.’ Yvon was right. This is all my fault, everything bad that’s happened. I told a lie that blended the best thing in my life with the worst thing. Sacrilege. Casual vandalism, you would call it. And now I’m being punished.
‘I could and should charge you with obstruction,’ says Sergeant Zailer. ‘What about the panic attack at Robert’s window, last Monday, the terrible thing you claimed you saw but couldn’t remember? Was that a lie too?’
Another bright flash, like a shutter being pulled back, and I can see your living room again. I am there, looking through the glass. I gasp, grabbing the seat, the dashboard. ‘Stop,’ I manage to say. ‘Please!’ I fumble with the catch that will release the door as if my life depends on it, like a person whose car is submerged in water. I can see that room, the glass cabinet. I am zooming in in my mind, speeding towards it. I have to get out.