by Dan Malakin
‘What – what…’
‘I was asleep,’ he said, crouching beside her. His skin was clammy, his chin quivering. Scores of tiny cuts covered his legs. ‘I heard a crash, and…’ He shut his eyes and winced. ‘Someone threw a brick through the window.’
She followed him downstairs. The curtain had caught most of the bigger pieces, but shards still covered the sofa.
‘We can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to mine.’
While Spence covered the hole as best he could with cardboard and tape, then stuffed her an overnight bag, Rachel rocked in the armchair, holding her head with her fingertips, as though it were broken down the middle and she had to keep the two sides together until they got help.
They got out just before six. It was still dark, the air chilly, the first edges of dawn worrying the horizon. Ducked low, as if the pavement was being swept with searchlights, they weaved through the back streets, glancing round every few seconds to see if they were being followed, coming out on the Holloway Road in time to see a black cab pulling up by a bus stop. Spence hurried to it, arm out, and they clambered into the back. Spots of blood were coming through his skinny jeans. He leaned forward to talk to the driver through the partition. ‘Head down Seven Sisters to Tottenham. I’ll direct when you’re close.’
Rachel clawed at her throat. It had closed up so tight she couldn’t breathe. Terror after terror after terror, her life a series of jump scares. She doubled over, hands pressed to her chest, sure she could feel a leaden sensation spreading around her ribs. When would it end? Was he not going to stop until she was dead?
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Spence said, rubbing her back. ‘You’re safe. You’re with me now.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nurse
First he called the ward.
‘St Pancras, Oakwood.’
‘Good morning. May I ask to whom I am talking?’
‘Oh, okay. I’m Hannah. I’m the… student nurse. Do you want me to get–?’
‘No, no, it’s okay. It’s nothing bad! My name is Phil Jenkins, and my father, Michael, was recently with you, recovering from a problem with his hip. He’s feeling much better now and has asked me to get in touch so he can send a little something to the kind nurses who cared for him. May I have your full address please?’
‘Sure, of course. Just address it to the ward. We’re at four St Pancras Way, Kings Cross… Hold on a sec… Okay, here we are. NW1 0PE.’
‘Wonderful. Thank you, Hannah. One more thing. My father said one of the nurses there was especially helpful to him. Spence… errr… something.’
‘Spence Borrowman?’
‘Yes, that’s right. How do you spell that?’
‘B-O-R-R-O-W-M-A-N.’
‘And who is actually in charge – I’d like to include them in the thank you.’
‘You mean Linda?’
‘Linda…?’
‘Linda Green. The ward manager.’
‘That’s perfect. Thank you, Hannah. You’ve been a great help.’
Then he called the manager.
‘Linda speaking.’
‘Is that Linda Green, manager of the Oakwood ward at St Pancras Hospital?’
‘Yes. Yes it is. Has something happened?’
‘My name is David Steer, and I’m calling from the Department for Work and Pensions. I have to start by informing you that this call is being recorded. We’re investigating a possible illegal worker, a Spencer Borrowman. That’s B-O-R-R-O-W-M-A-N. Are you able to assist with this?’
‘Oh my word, Spence? But he’s English.’
‘It’s not his nationality we’re concerned about. We have reason to believe his nursing credentials are false.’
‘No, I can’t believe–’
‘If you’d prefer, we can bring you into the office for a formal interview.’
‘Well… I…’
‘Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘Yes, sure, of course. I’m sorry. I want to help. We’re having all sorts of problems at the moment. Another nurse is suspended. Never rains, does it?’
‘Can you confirm how long Mr Borrowman has been with yourself?’
‘Well now, he started as a bank nurse – that’s an agency nurse – to cover Rowena Feldman. She eventually moved–’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Less than a year, maybe eleven months. I can–’
‘And prior to that he worked as a bank nurse, for different hospitals?’
‘I assume so.’
‘And do you have the details of where he trained? According to our records, it was at Lincoln University.’
‘Hold on, please, let me check… Okay, here it is. Coventry, that’s what we have.’
‘Dates?’
‘2005 to 2008.’
‘Hmmm… Just as we thought. Okay, that’s it for now. We’ll be on site in the next few weeks to interview the rest of the staff.’
‘Great. Great.’
‘My name’s David Steer, extension four-three-four. If you need to get in contact.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘No, thank you, Linda.’
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Recovery
Why did they call them reality shows? When, in the real world, were you forced to live with a bunch of loud, fun people, and vote them out week by week? When, in the real world, were you able to compete against a coven of beautiful but catty rivals for the affections of a handsome millionaire who, for unconvincing reasons, couldn’t find a date on his own? They should call them fantasy shows, dream shows. Shows to take reality away.
Rachel’s favourites were the ones with the twist at the end. The millionaire’s a pauper, the model’s a cleaner. That bloke playing the piano was actually, only a month ago, a pig farmer from Uzbekistan. She liked to see the moment the truth was revealed, the surprise growing on the faces of those who’d been duped. Nested in the corner of Spence’s sofa, the duvet pulled up to her chin, still cold despite her layers of clothes – a chill had seeped like winter frost into the foundations of her body – she sipped herbal tea, dipped celery sticks in salt, and waited for the big reveal.
‘I hate Georgie,’ Spence said. ‘That orange bitch. She looks like she exfoliated with Wotsits.’
On the screen, a beauty-pageant brunette in a black cocktail dress was conspiring by the swimming pool with Danielle, the ginger human rights lawyer with the sparkling smile, their dark horse to win the whole thing.
‘Cameron doesn’t like fakers,’ Rachel replied. ‘If Danielle tells him Georgie lied about being a vet, he’ll vote her out.’
‘That’s the problem with Danielle. She won’t betray anyone’s trust, even a scheming bitch like Georgie.’
‘She’s got to get her head in the game.’
Spence leaned over Rachel’s piled-up duvet, ready for a high five. ‘Go Team Danielle!’
She slapped his palm. Oh, Cameron. The perfect man. Six feet of broad muscles and graceful gestures, with the brooding eyes of a soap star and the heart of a Médecins Sans Frontières doctor. His secret: once a tech millionaire, he’d donated his entire fortune to malaria research and now worked as a handyman in a Mexican orphanage. Out of all the sneaks and snakes vying for his attention, Danielle was the only one worthy, the only one who’d stick on dungarees, grab a mop, and follow him to Oaxaca.
At the end of the episode, Rachel and Spence applauded as Cameron dismissed Georgie from the mansion.
‘Saw right through her,’ Spence said.
‘Fake as a pair of silicone tits.’
He pushed off the sofa, laughing. ‘You’re such a grade-A bitch. But I love ya anyway.’ He stretched, pumping one fist in the air then the other. ‘Better get dinner on.’
‘What’s on the menu tonight, chef?’
‘Carbonara?’
‘Mmmm… can’t wait.’
She’d been staying with him for a week, and in that
time he’d shown himself to be as deft at rich Italian food as he was at sharp Asian flavours or dusky Indian spices.
Spence’s apartment was open plan, so from the corner of his grey suede sofa, she could watch him cook. While he poured boiling water into the spaghetti-filled saucepan, humming a jaunty tune that sounded like something from a musical, she flicked through the channels, settling on Good Food+1, where a manicured hand was sliding a silver peeler along the side of an asparagus tip. A voiceover explained about the wonders of spring veg.
At first, repelled by the thought of someone watching her eat, Rachel didn’t want him to make meals, saying she’d rather graze, but he’d insisted.
‘You don’t have to eat any of it,’ he’d said. ‘But it’ll be there if you do.’ He’d been so good to her, insisting she stay for as long as she needed, even giving her his room, with the double bed and the en suite bathroom, that she didn’t want to disappoint him. Besides, by trying to get her to eat at meal times, he was doing the right thing to help her recovery. They’d do the same in a clinic. And she wanted to recover, of course she did – she was on her knees and had to get back up. She just needed more time. A few more days.
Spence’s apartment was perfect for hiding out. On the fourth floor of a windswept new development near the North Circular, towards the back of a gated complex, it was buried in the London hinterlands. Griffin would never find her here. It helped that it was such a great place to hang out – she didn’t know why Spence talked it down so much. In the past, whenever she’d suggested coming over, he’d waved her away, as though it would be embarrassing for her to see where he lived.
Yes, it was small, only the kitchen/lounge and two bedrooms, and the local area was never going to be featured in the Evening Standard as a cool new hipster neighbourhood, not unless someone opened a line of beard-shaping salons by the Esso garage, but the decor was so elegantly stylish. The white feather lampshade, the monochrome Parisian prints, each in their own box frame, spaced along the back wall, the inset shelves lined with interesting books, wide candles, and polished wooden stickmen sculptures that looked like they might come from Africa. It was so different from the jumbled clutter she spent half her time rooting through at home.
On the television, the asparagus was being fried on a griddle pan, one side already scored with thick char lines. The manicured hand tossed on rock salt. Rachel stretched her leg, massaging the growing ache in her thigh. The warm feeling in her head was fading too. The Demerol wearing off. Damn it. She shivered and pulled the duvet over her mouth, hoping her breath would rebound and heat the top of her face. Was it getting colder? That last dose hadn’t lasted long, maybe a couple of hours. They were strong too. Opioids. Maybe they were old, out of date. She hoped so. With resistance came physical dependence, and that was one thing she didn’t need, not on top of everything else.
When they’d first arrived at Spence’s a week ago, she’d panicked. She’d forgotten to tell him about the money box, and as awful and addicted as it sounded, she didn’t think she’d cope without it. She was swaying on the edge, could feel her toes hanging over the abyss, and feared the next shame spiral might send her all the way to the bottom. In the end, it wasn’t an issue.
When she’d broached the subject with him, thinking maybe they could make an emergency appointment with a GP, he rather guiltily admitted to a sizeable pharmaceutical stash of his own, pilfered over the years, mostly from dead patients. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for hospital workers to do – doctors, orderlies, and cleaners alike all did it – and it wasn’t something she condoned, but neither was she going to be a prig about it, especially as she helped herself to his hoard as soon as it was offered.
The first few days, Rachel had stayed in bed. Lights off, door closed, duvet pulled up, she’d focused on the hunger; it was like the tide, sometimes high, sometimes low, but always there, going round and round her world. She ate nothing in that time, sipping only water when her throat became too raw from crying, refusing Spence’s pleas to have a glass of warm milk, a bowl of vegetable soup, half a banana, something. She didn’t deserve to eat.
She didn’t want to talk about what to do next, how to deal with Griffin, or what new piece of her life he was feeding through the shredder while she wasn’t there. The only blessing was that the brick through the window at least proved she wasn’t some deranged schizophrenic trying to sabotage her own sanity, not unless shimmying up a drainpipe was one of her subconscious’s superpowers. As far as comforts went, it was about as useful as a blanket on a bed of knives. Her world was still in tatters.
Meanwhile the anorexic voice, constant as tinnitus, had set up decks in the shadows of her mind and was playing horror noises – rending metal, women screaming, demonic laughter – behind worried sound-bites. You can’t eat. You won’t eat. You’ll never eat again. The painkillers had helped, softening the sounds to a whisper, and sometimes she tried confronting the voice, shouting it down with I know you! and I won’t let you win! But most of the time she had to listen. And the more she listened, the more the voice made sense, especially when it talked about Lily.
There were many arguments to be made for Lily being better off without her. Looking at it objectively, as an outsider from the situation, no-one could be blamed for coming to that conclusion. Where would Lily be safer? Where would she be happier? Where would she get the chance for the best possible life? On the one side, there was Mark, stable, with money, and a new girlfriend he was serious about, who loved his daughter as much as she did, and on the other there was Rachel: a jinx, a liability, an anxious depressed anorexic whose very gravity seemed to attract bad things. Maybe years from now, while being wheeled back to the psych ward after another round of electroshock therapy, she’d look back at what Griffin was doing to her as the best thing that could have happened. It got Lily away before she soaked up any more of her mother’s madness.
Eventually, Rachel realised she couldn’t hide in Spence’s bedroom forever. Whether she wanted to or not, she had to kick off the process of recovery. So she crawled out of bed, sat on his sofa instead, and tried to eat – although perhaps not as much as she made out to Spence, who always looked a little too much like a proud parent watching their kid go potty whenever Rachel took chocolates from the offered box of Cadbury’s Celebrations. She felt guilty and a little pathetic unwrapping them, pretending to put them in her mouth, then hiding them in her pocket – and later, unsure whether they’d flush down the toilet, beneath her mattress, rewrapped so they didn’t melt and make a mess – but the shame and the secrecy, the whole exhausting palaver, were as much a part of it as the illicit thrill of pride at her powers of denial. She took great and constant comfort in the fact that she was stronger than anyone would ever know.
Rachel yawned and opened her arms wide until the joints cracked along her spine. Without daily exercise, her muscles had stiffened and her bones felt brittle as thin ice. That wasn’t all. She had pain in her kidneys and chest, and a permanent dull throb deep in her pelvis, just above her uterus. Her period, which was due to come on days ago, showed no signs of starting. She dug the amber plastic tub of Demerol from between the sofa cushions and fingered the screw cap. Normal people didn’t live this way. But what else could she do? She was here. This was happening. She could no more change her immediate situation than she could turn herself into someone else simply by looking at her reflection and willing it so. Recovery was a process, as much as the starvation itself, and couldn’t be rushed.
The cookery programme cut to a commercial break. She clicked off the television and rubbed her eyes. From the kitchen came a deep-meat aroma of sizzling pancetta that made her mouth water and her stomach pulse. What was her calorie count? The lower it was, the more she could eat tonight. She’d set herself a target of five hundred, big enough to be a ledge to four digits, but not so big as to be intimidating. A nice round number that she could achieve over the day. She worked through it from the morning – glass of semi-skimmed milk, a hundred mill
ilitres exact, forty-seven calories. Seven carrot sticks, six calories each, more or less, another forty-two. Forty-nine total. No, eighty-nine. She rubbed her eyes. Her head was too swampy, so she called to Spence in the kitchen to throw her his phone. In the rush to get away, she’d left hers at home. At first, she’d freaked out, not having it, but now it felt like more of a relief, not being lured to look at the screen every few minutes.
He turned off the extractor fan above the cooker, stopped stirring and put his hand to his ear.
Rachel made her hands into a cup and mimed a catch. ‘Phone?’
‘Not if you’re going to zombie out looking at Insta pics of cakes again.’ He slacked his jaw and lolled his tongue. ‘Just creepy.’
‘Gotta add something up.’
He shrugged, slid it from the counter, ran his finger along the screen to unlock it, and tossed it to land on the cushion beside her. When she reached for it, the muscle covering her ribs went into spasm. Fortunately Spence had turned the fan back on, so he didn’t hear her whimpering. She wasn’t supposed to have the next Demerol until after dinner, a double bedtime dose to get her through the night, but she didn’t think she could wait that long. Besides, why did it matter? How was it any better to be in pain?
She found the calculator and started to input the calories, but a wave of sadness swept through her and she pressed her fingers to her eyes, trying to stop the tears. What was she doing? She closed the calculator and went to his texts, opening the one from Mark last night, a close-up photo of Lily’s grinning face with the words: don’t worry about me, Mummy. You just get better soon x.
Rachel thought about her high sweet voice, her beautiful little smile, the way she clung to her as she carried her downstairs for breakfast. Even now, when Lily could run up and down the steps without touching the banister, she insisted on the morning Mummy Train. The best part of the day was the feel of her daughter’s arms wrapped tight around her. In those moments it all made sense, her being a mother.
