Time Out

by Emma Murray

  ‘And in this case?’ I said, hoping whatever she says next will provide some sort of comfort.

  ‘I don’t know, Saoirse,’ she says, her voice catching. ‘How do you negotiate with a group of people who place no value on human life?’

  And I feel like all the wind has been knocked out of me again.

  ‘Listen to me. No situation is hopeless. This is your time. You will get through it. You will find David. You are NOT going to lose your husband, like I did.’

  The strength in her voice fills me, and I feel the energy flowing back into my body. David is alive and I am damn well going to find him. My mother and I hug for a few quiet moments and then she gets back in the car. I don’t watch her drive away.

  The airport is strangely quiet. I check in and wait at the gate for my flight to be called. Out of curiosity, I bring up Vale Mums on my phone and hope that nobody they know has been injured in the attack. The very first post that flashes up is a request from Rosalind for party-bag ideas for a six-year-old’s birthday. One daring mum has suggested ordering pre-filled party bags online (‘Save yourself the hassle!’) but has been quickly shut down by another who tells the mum to give seeds for the kids to plant in the garden. Yes – seeds instead of sweets. I’d love to see how Anna would react to that party bag. Tania ends the entire discussion with two damning sentences:

  I don’t give out party bags. Instead I tell the parents that the cost of the party bags will be donated to our local children’s hospital.

  The smug cow.

  I scroll down and down, looking for any mention of ‘ONE OF THE WORST ATTACKS IN RECENT HISTORY’ but for ages all I can find is the usual chat about schools. Finally I see a meek post from Rosalind, simply saying that she hopes everybody is OK after the terrible attack in the City. Tania has responded with a curt, ‘Let’s not discuss. That’s exactly what the terrorists want.’

  I think about that for a moment. Why does Tania think she knows what the terrorists want? Does she really think a discussion over a suburban Facebook group is really ‘giving in’ to the terrorists? I wonder what it really means to ‘give in’ and I think about how these attacks make me feel: the places I feel are no longer safe; the countries ‘too dangerous’ to visit; the places too crowded to be considered safe (football stadiums, concert arenas, theatres, cinemas). The world is shrinking. I am afraid. I am afraid because I have a child and a lot more to lose. Living in fear. Is my mother right? Is this ‘our time’? The first time our generation has experienced real fear for our lives? Maybe living in fear is what ‘giving in’ to terrorists means, but I am loath to admit that anything Tania Henderson says is right.

  Minutes go by and then a full hour. I overhear people on phones talking about the attack in London, and how terrible it is. Nobody seems to have any links to the dead or the injured and I feel relieved on their behalf. The flight is clearly delayed but nobody confirms this. Passengers, previously strangers, all start bonding over their mutual hatred of airlines that don’t bother telling you when things go wrong. While everyone seems to agree that passengers should always be kept informed about delays and so on, there is the usual trickle of people who dare to defend the airline: ‘Sure, you get what you pay for!’ and ‘Imagine what this would have cost if you’d flown BA!’ These are the least popular passengers and are soon ignored.

  Eventually, a seventeen-year-old boy who looks as though he has merely shrugged himself into his uniform and left most of it behind (including his top three shirt buttons) appears, holding a clipboard. He looks exactly like the type of ‘youth’ – minus the hoodie – my next-door neighbour Joseph would have tutted at for simply looking at his house. A balding man in his sixties, carrying an old-style black briefcase, marches over to him. He asks the boy impatiently how long the flight is going to be delayed.

  The boy looks skyward, and replies in a thick Dublin accent, ‘Jesus, you’re in an awful hurry to get to a burning city, arnt’cha?’ Then he turns round and goes back the way he came, leaving the man standing stock-still with two bright red spots on his cheeks.

  Ten minutes later, the flight is called. As there is no reason left to grumble, the bonding is forgotten as everybody races onto the plane as if by moving quicker they’ll help the plane somehow make up the time it has lost.

  Exhausted, I lean my head back and try not to think about David, lying alone somewhere, injured. I glance at my watch and see that it is just after 11 a.m. The attack happened a mere four hours ago. Already it feels like the longest day of my life.

  21

  I dive into a black cab and instruct the driver to take me to St Thomas’s Hospital, half-expecting him to tell me the roads are closed, but he simply nods and puts the car into gear. I ask him about any roads that have been blocked, and he says, ‘Just the ones closest to the attack. This is London, love. We don’t start blocking off half the city because of some fuckwit terrorists.’ I hear the measure of pride in his voice and my eyes fill with tears, because he is right. That’s the thing I love about London. In the face of great adversity, it will always brush itself off, get back on its feet and carry on. And much as I love Ireland, at that moment I feel like I’m home.

  As we get closer to St Thomas’s, I feel sick. My news feed tells me that people are using Twitter in a desperate effort to find missing friends and relatives. It’s hard to fathom how one person can cause this much devastation.

  About five minutes from the hospital, the traffic starts to get bad. Six ambulances block our path. I hand over some money and tell the cab driver I will walk the rest of the way. But panic grips me and I start to run. As I approach the hospital, the pavement becomes crowded with dozens of people. People hugging, people crying, people screaming. People with dazed stares, waving their phones around to nobody in particular, ‘Have you seen this woman?’ and worse, ‘Have you seen my little girl?’

  Tears stream down my face as I weave my way towards the big grey building. People being killed is always dreadful, but there is something even worse about attacks involving children. I think about Anna and what I would do if something happened to her, and I remember the overwhelming feeling of protectiveness when I first saw her battered little face after her birth. Becoming a parent makes potential murderers out of all of us, because I know that if anybody hurt her, I would have no hesitation in putting a bullet in that person’s hateful skull. I feel a terrible ache inside.

  My phone buzzes violently in my pocket. My heart leaps – maybe it’s David. But the name flashing up is not his, and my stomach lurches in disappointment. It’s Maria, Bea’s nanny. ‘Anna wants to talk to you,’ she says, sounding flustered.

  I walk a few steps away from the crowd to hear her better, taking deep breaths to calm down.

  ‘Hi, Mummy!’ she says, her cheerfulness incongruous against the gloom of the day. The thought that she has no idea what’s going on comforts me.

  ‘How are you, sweetheart?’ I say, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible.

  ‘It’s rude to sniff,’ she says.

  ‘Mummy has a bit of a cold,’ I say lightly, deciding that she doesn’t really need to know the reason for Mummy’s tears and stuffy nose.

  ‘Are you behaving yourself for Maria?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t like Maria any more,’ she says in her grumpiest voice.

  When I ask her why, she tells me that Maria is ‘a meanie pants’ for not letting her and Harry have ice cream ‘with sprinkles on’ for breakfast.

  Before I can respond, she suddenly says, ‘When are you coming back, Mummy?’ and suddenly I’m dissolving in tears again.

  I tell her I’m going to pick her up later that day, which is true. Even if I don’t find David today, I will still pick up our daughter.

  She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then comes out with two words that break my heart.

  ‘With Daddy?’

  And I don’t know what to say to that, so I reach deep inside for the courage to tell the biggest lie I can, and I say, �
��Of course! I’ll bring Daddy with me to pick you up too.’

  I tell her I have to go, adding, ‘And make sure you eat your…’ and I pause because a sob has started to push its way up through my throat and I need to stop it from getting out.

  ‘My what?’ Anna says.

  I take a deep breath, and force the word out. ‘Vegetables!’ I say as brightly as I can.

  ‘Oh,’ Anna says, sounding puzzled. ‘I thought you were going to say, eat your fucking vegetables.’

  What was just a sob is now a hysterical guffaw, because dire though the situation is, there are fewer things funnier than a four-year-old swearing like a fishwife. I tell her I love her and I hang up. Talking to Anna has given me renewed energy and a solid deadline. I promised her both her mummy and daddy would pick her up, and that is one promise I will bloody well keep.

  I grab my suitcase and haul it up to the hospital entrance. A man in a neon jacket waves an arm around, pleading for quiet. In his hand is a clipboard. Cupping his other hand over his mouth he announces that some of the injured have been moved to another hospital, due to the number already admitted to the burns unit here. People still looking for their loved ones must report to him immediately. In spite of the panic, people form an orderly line, with me third from the top. I bring a photo of David up on my phone and ask the people in the queue if they’ve seen him. Some of them shake their heads and others show me the pictures of their loved ones. Then it’s my turn, and with shaking voice I give David’s name to the man in the neon coat, and watch him as he taps his pencil down the page. His shoulders drop and before he raises his head I know he has bad news.

  ‘He’s not on the list, ma’am,’ he says, his voice heavy with sympathy.

  That means he’s not on the list of people who are alive. I don’t want to ask for the list of the dead. Not yet.

  I show him the photo of David on my phone, and he shakes his head again.

  ‘But he’s here!’ I say, in a pleading voice I don’t recognise. ‘His phone is here.’

  The man gives me a helpless shrug and I turn to the people in the queue, who give me sympathetic looks mixed with impatience because they too are waiting to hear news about the people they love, so I just turn and walk away.

  David is somewhere in this building. I know it. Spying a fire exit, I race up the stairs two at a time – adrenalin pumping now. Fuck the man in the neon. I will find my husband. I forget how big hospitals are, and it takes me long minutes of running through corridors and trying to make sense of signs, before I come to a desk with a real-live human behind it. The sign behind her says, ‘Burns Unit’.

  Breathless, I wave a photo of David at her, and clutch my stomach when her face frowns a little. She knows him.

  ‘I have seen him,’ she says, taking my phone for a closer look. ‘He’s been here all day.’

  ‘Where?’ I say, relief flooding through my core.

  ‘Are you a relative?’ she says with a frown.

  ‘I’m his wife!’ I say.

  She looks at me as if I’ve just told her a very complex riddle.

  ‘But I thought…’ she starts, but she sees the murderous expression on my face and just sighs.

  ‘He’s in Ward B,’ she says, pointing to a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. Grabbing my phone back, I push through the double doors and find myself in a room crowded with beds.

  Forcing myself to slow down, I make a big effort to look at the patients, but they all seem to be covered in bandages. I see glimpses of nurses and doctors working behind closed curtains, changing dressings and calling instructions, and they don’t see me when I walk past. My stomach plummets: everyone seems to be covered in bandages. How will I be able to recognise David? I reach the end of the row of beds and peep in the final curtain. There I see the long brown hair of a girl with her face turned towards the wall, with someone’s hand holding hers, and I start to withdraw, embarrassed to intrude on this couple’s privacy.

  Then I hear my name. The curtain whips back.

  It’s David.

  I feel my hands fly to my mouth but no sound comes out. My mind works at an inexorably slow pace. David. In hospital. Not hurt. I feel his arms around me, and I try and hug him back, but every muscle in my body feels tired and weak.

  He loosens his grip on me and says, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK. I’m OK.’

  And I look at him, and try to take him in.

  He tells me how he’d been running late for work and had missed the whole attack. He’d found out about the explosion the same way I had, through his news feed.

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you call me to tell me you were OK?’ I say, teary now. Now that I know he’s not dead, suddenly I’m really pissed off.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I must have dropped my phone somewhere. I was trying to help her.’ His eyes move in the direction of the bed, where the brunette lays prostrate.

  Now I take another look at the figure and I notice half her face is covered in a white bandage, and I start feeling a bit ashamed of myself. Maybe David hadn’t called but he had good reason. You know – like saving someone else’s life.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ I ask.

  ‘The force of the explosion knocked her backwards,’ he says. ‘She has a nasty burn on her right cheek, but the doctors tell me she will make a good recovery. There won’t be too much scarring.’

  I look at her again and feel an icy chill start to form in the pit of my stomach. Because suddenly I think I know who this wounded girl is. It’s Jordan. The slut. Weeks of pent-up rage and hours of terrible anxiety and fear roll themselves into one gigantic ball of fury.

  ‘You let me think you were dead when all the time you’re with that slut!’ I hiss, clenching my fists in an effort to avoid lashing out.

  Somewhere beyond the red mist, the woman starts to stir, but I ignore her. She may have been caught up in an explosion but she’s going to be fine. My marriage, however, has been destroyed forever because of her and my stupid weak husband.

  David opens his mouth to an ‘O’ shape and holds up his hands in surrender.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Saoirse!’ he says.

  ‘Don’t come over all innocent!’ I say. ‘You’ve probably been fucking that slut Jordan since we’ve been married.’

  ‘What? Jordan?’

  He says it with such disbelief that doubt flashes through me.

  ‘Saoirse!’ he says, turning me by the shoulders. ‘That’s not Jordan! Jordan’s in Mauritius, on her honeymoon.’

  As if on cue, the figure in the bed sighs before turning over. And David’s right. It’s not Jordan at all.

  It’s my old flatmate, Joss.

  Before I can say anything else, David leads me out of the ward and downstairs to the hospital canteen. We sit opposite each other at a plastic table. I try to make sense of what I have just seen. Joss – whom I haven’t laid eyes on since I moved out of the flat five years ago.

  ‘There is something you should know,’ he says, looking down at his hands. ‘For the past few months—’

  And I finish the sentence for him. ‘You’ve been having sex with Joss.’

  He whips his head up. ‘Joss?’ he says, as if I have just accused him of having sex with a goat.

  I nod, lips pursed, but even as I’m nodding I’m thinking that something about the two of them together doesn’t add up. But what else could it be?

  ‘What are you talking about? Are you insane?’

  His response is so utterly indignant that I instantly believe him. But I still need to get to the bottom of whatever it is he is trying to hide.

  ‘I can’t believe you think I’m shagging Joss,’ he says, running his hand impatiently through his hair. ‘In fact, I can’t believe you think I’ve been shagging anyone.’

  ‘OK, fine, you’re not shagging Joss, but you’ve been hiding something from me all the same,’ I snap back.

  And then he tells me everything and I am right – he has been hiding stuff from me but
it’s not what I suspected.

  By the time he stops talking, I’m not sure what to think any more.

  ‘MUMMEEEEEEE,’ Anna cries, and throws her little arms around my neck, smothering me in kisses.

  In reality that doesn’t happen at all. When I knock on Bea’s door at 6 p.m., Maria actually has to go and forcibly extricate my daughter from Harry’s iPad in order for her to greet the woman who gave birth to her, whom she hasn’t seen in a week. Anna walks sulkily to the entrance of the front door where I am crouching low with open arms and burning thighs.

  Despite the dangerous look in her eyes, I am so happy to see her.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart!’ I gush, and move to put my arms around her.

  She pushes me away and says two words that she has only ever uttered around three times in her life, and only then when she wants something, like sweets.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ she says.

  ‘I’m here, Anna,’ David says, behind me and with astonishing role reversal, Anna races straight past me and into her daddy’s arms.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Daddy!’ she cries, burying her head into his shoulder, as I straighten up.

  What? Anna only saw him this morning! Not to mention every single day since I’ve been gone.

  She raises her head, looks David directly in the eye and says in the world’s most angelic voice, ‘Did you bring my sweeties, Daddy?’

  David gives me a furtive look. He knows that I disapprove of giving Anna any kind of sugar before bedtime because it sends her into a lethal hyperactive state. God knows what time she has been getting to bed.

  Balancing Anna with one arm, he uses his free hand to reach into his pocket and stops as soon as he sees my death stare. He looks desperately from me to Anna, presumably wondering which one of us is less hassle to piss off. I don’t know who he’s kidding.

  Moments later, Anna has a packet of chewy sweets in her hand (an adult packet – the ones I usually tell her have wine in them to put her off) and a big smile on her face. She wriggles out of David’s grip and tells us it’s time to go home.