I shake my head. ‘They won’t tell us; we’re not family. Will they let you in to see her?’
‘Yes. They’ve managed to do a successful blood transfusion and treat her wounds but the nurse doesn’t think she’ll be conscious for a few hours.’ Bec’s mum dabs at her eyes with a paper tissue. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
Nor can I.
‘We were told you were the one who found her,’ says Bec’s dad. ‘You phoned the ambulance?’
‘Straight away,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’
He takes me by the hand again, but this time he doesn’t let go.
‘You saved my Bec,’ he says. ‘You saved our daughter.’
26
Hayley
I stifle a yawn and peer at the clock on the wall at the end of the corridor, then swear under my breath.
It feels like we’ve been waiting here for ages and, as well as having a numb arse from sitting on the plastic chair, I’m bored.
I don’t understand why anyone would want to work somewhere like this. The pay is supposed to be atrocious, it’s obvious the hours are hell, and from the harassed expressions the two women on the nurses’ desk are wearing as they stab their fingers at computer keyboards and telephones, they’re understaffed as well.
And that smell.
Cloying. Chemical-drenched. Clinical.
It was bad enough having to come here to visit Lisa last week, but this? This is worse.
Why didn’t Bec tell any of us she’d been taken in for questioning by the police? We’ve known each other for over seven years; surely that counts for something.
What the hell did she tell them?
I ignore the thought that creeps up unawares, battening it down.
Now is not the time.
I clear my throat and am about to ask David to buy us another coffee when the double doors at the entrance into the Accident and Emergency wing slide open, and Lisa arrives with her mum in tow.
I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips.
She is pale.
Too pale.
The effort it must’ve taken to haul herself into her mum’s car and then walk from the car park outside to here has been too much for her.
Instantly, I’m on my feet, hurrying towards her.
‘Lisa? You should’ve waited at home.’
The stricken expression on her face says it all. ‘I had to come. Is there any news?’
‘Not yet. The doctors won’t tell us anything because we’re not family, but Bec’s parents turned up—’
‘Where is she? Is she okay?’
I place my hands on her arms and give her a gentle hug. ‘She’s going to be all right. David found her in time.’
She sags against me, and I hold her for a moment.
‘You shouldn’t hang around.’ David’s voice cuts through my thoughts and I release her, stepping to one side.
He’s standing next to Judy, glowering. ‘You need to go home.’
‘But I want to see her.’ Lisa’s voice is irritable, defensive. ‘After everything she’s been through, she needs all of us here to support her. It’s the least we can do.’
‘None of us can see her at the moment. It’s family only.’ He takes a step towards her. ‘Go home. If you catch something here – even a cold or something – it could set back your recovery.’
‘That’s what I said.’ Judy sighs, and places a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘Come on. Before you catch a chill.’
Lisa turns to me, her eyes pleading. ‘I can stay, can’t I?’
‘I promise I’ll phone you the moment we have any news,’ I say. ‘We’re probably going to head off in a moment anyway. I don’t think they’ll be letting any visitors in to see Bec for at least another twenty-four hours. I’d imagine in cases like this they’ll want to do all sorts of assessments, right?’
I turn to David for support, and he nods.
‘Absolutely.’ He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. ‘I don’t think they’re going to tell us much today. Go home, Lisa. Go and rest.’
Her shoulders relax a little, and she nods, her gaze to the floor. ‘I suppose you’re right. I just panicked when I heard. After everything else—’
‘Excuse me? Lisa Ashton?’
I swivel on my heel and come face to face with the man who was sitting opposite me and David. Now he’s thrusting a smartphone at Lisa, a hungry look in his eyes.
‘Who are you?’ she says. She takes a step back. ‘What do you want?’
‘Scott Nash, Daily Post. How do you feel about the woman who killed Simon Granger trying to take her own life after saving yours?’
‘What?’
Judy has a hand to her mouth, the other reaching out to her daughter, hauling her away from the journalist who is side-stepping around her to try to get the soundbite he so desperately needs.
Before I can stop him, David has his hand on the man’s coat collar, dragging him away, a snarl on his lips. What he lacks in brawn, David makes up for in height and he wastes no time in frog-marching Nash away from Lisa.
The journalist shrugs off his grip, then smiles at Lisa. ‘We’ll talk soon.’
With that, he turns and jogs around the corner of the corridor, disappearing from sight.
‘Fuck.’ David turns away and slaps his hand against the wall, his jaw clenched.
Lisa chokes out a sob, and Judy’s mind is made up. She puts an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and steers her towards the doors.
‘We’ll call you,’ she calls, and then the doors swish shut and we’re alone.
‘She should never have come here.’ David’s teeth are clenched, his fists balled at his sides. ‘After everything that’s happened to her, she should’ve known better.’
I rest a hand on his arm, alarmed by his tone and not wanting to cause a scene in the middle of the reception area. ‘Like she said, she panicked. She just wanted to find out what was going on, same as we did.’
He exhales. ‘I worry about her health, that’s all. And as for that fucking reporter—’
‘Wait here,’ I say, and then wander over to the nurses’ station. ‘Excuse me, but we’re going to leave. I wondered whether there was someone we could phone later on, or in the morning, to find out how Bec is doing?’
The nurse scribbles a phone number on a page from a complimentary notepad with a pharmaceutical company’s name in the top right hand corner, and hands it over.
‘Thanks. Will you let her parents know we’ll call them?’
‘I will if I see them to speak to,’ she says noncommittedly, and then lowers her head and goes back to her work.
I wander back to David, a little lost at what to do next.
‘Come on. I’ll give you a lift back to Bec’s so you can pick up your car,’ I say after a moment.
I don’t wait, I keep walking.
I don’t want to stay here any longer.
27
Lisa
I nibble at the broken skin around my thumbnail, and eye the woman who is rustling paperwork at her desk.
Dr Heather Bryant is a picture of professionalism; the desk is wide, her laptop open and set to one side while she shoves a stapled document into a manila folder.
I haven’t heard from Hayley or David since I saw them at the hospital on Saturday. It’s like we’ve retreated from each other, the shock of Bec’s suicide attempt driving a wedge between us because none of us has answers.
Bryant doesn’t notice my reticence. She taps the cap of her fountain pen on the lined page of a clean notepad.
‘They’ll be here any minute,’ she says.
I’m not convinced the assurance is for my benefit.
Simon’s parents were meant to be here fifteen minutes ago, and I reckon they’re going to be a no-show.
I wouldn’t blame them, not now. Not now that our lives have been wrung inside out and laid bare for all and sundry to read about.
The story of Simon’s death and my
life-saving operation made the local TV news last night.
Notwithstanding my new kidney, I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.
It’s the sense that I’ve been betrayed. We’ve been betrayed. All of us.
The bastard who accosted me in the hospital yesterday printed another article online about it all, too – and somehow managed to get a photo of me without any of us realising it, despite David’s valiant efforts.
I look scared in the photo, and I can see something else in my eyes, too.
Guilt.
The phone on the psychiatrist’s desk rings, and she answers it before murmuring, ‘Tell them I’ll be right there.’
She replaces the receiver and manages a tight smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Granger are here. I’ll go and get them. Won’t be long.’
I watch the door close behind her, then think back to what happened last night, and David’s reaction.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him like that in a long time, and I can’t get it out of my head. Twice now, in the space of a few hours, he’s come to the rescue.
First Bec, then me.
He’s always been the quietest out of the five of us, so it’s reassuring to see him emerge from the brittle exterior he’d built around himself, and I’m thankful that something good has come out of all this.
The door opens, and Dr Bryant peers around it. She smiles, then pushes it wider.
‘Take a seat; Lisa’s here already.’
I shuffle to my feet as Simon’s mum, Cassandra, appears, her face wan.
Somewhere under the stress lines that crease her forehead is the woman who used to bake brownies on Saturday afternoons when she knew Simon and I would be studying together at his house. Somewhere under the pained gaze she aims at me is a mother who has lost her son, who has no answers, who doesn’t know what to believe anymore.
I hold out my hand, and she grasps it between hers. They are warm.
‘Oh, Lisa,’ she says.
We embrace; and all the pent-up emotions I’ve tried to bury for the past week threaten to spill. I rub her back as she buries her face in my shoulder, and peer over her head.
Simon’s dad, Frank, is watching me with red-rimmed eyes. He nods.
‘Let her be, Cass. She must be sore as hell.’
‘Oh, bloody hell. Of course.’
Cassandra breaks away, gives me an apologetic smile, and reaches out for Frank’s hand.
‘We might be more comfortable in the soft chairs,’ says Dr Bryant.
She leads the way over to four armchairs that have been arranged in a semi-circle next to the window. A green plant of some sort sits in the middle of a low glass-topped table that I have to shuffle around because it’s too close to the chair I’ve been directed to, and I can’t risk moving either the chair or the table in case my wound opens.
Dr Bryant may be one of the hospital’s leading psychiatrists, but she’s certainly not au fait with recovery procedures.
I sink into the chair with my back to the window and try to ignore the draught that’s filtering down my neck from the air conditioning vent above my head.
Bryant turns to each of us to make sure she has our attention, and then speaks.
‘We’re here today as you find yourselves in very unusual and traumatic circumstances. It’s extremely rare for transplant patients to know their donor’s name, and for that I must apologise on behalf of my colleagues. I can assure you that there is a full investigation underway. I’d like to start off by thanking you all to agreeing to this meeting.’
I say nothing, but nod politely.
Frank leans forward. ‘We’ve discussed this, and given how things have worked out, we’ve told the representative from the NHS Trust that we’re not going to pursue it. We may have lost our son, but Lisa is alive because of him.’
Dr Bryant’s shoulders relax. ‘That’s very good of you, thank you. Lisa, would you like to start us off by telling us a little about what you remember about Simon? Your happiest memories?’
I swallow. I didn’t expect her to put me on the spot like this, and, after what Simon put me through in the days and weeks before he died, I’m struggling to think of something.
Cassandra seems to mistake my failure to speak for distress and leans forward to pat my knee. A sad smile crosses her lips.
‘You two always used to enjoy doing your homework together, didn’t you?’
I nod, silently thanking her. ‘Yes. We met in art class and just clicked, really. He was different to the other boys at school – quieter, more reticent. I think that’s why we gravitated towards each other.’ I take a breath, desperately trying to think of something to add.
‘And you used to like the same bands,’ Cassandra adds.
The conversation goes on like this – Bryant gives us a question, and we do our best to offer stilted answers, remembering Simon as he could be, not how he actually was.
The bastard who refused to give me one of his kidneys to save my life when all other options were gone.
Finally, after forty minutes, Bryant deems the meeting over and we breathe a collective sigh of relief, sharing shy smiles as we move towards the door.
Frank turns on the threshold, opens his mouth to speak and then frowns.
‘Did you want to say something else to Lisa?’ says Dr Bryant.
Oh hell. I hold my breath, waiting for him to unleash all the anger and grief he must be feeling, all the frustration that despite the psychiatrist’s attempts, none of us has an answer to the questions going around in our heads.
‘I saw Simon, the day before he died,’ he says, his voice full of wonder. ‘I was making a delivery in town to a firm of solicitors.’
‘Oh?’ I hadn’t realised Frank was still working as a courier driver. I’d assumed he’d retired a couple of years ago, like my dad had.
‘Yeah.’ He scratched his earlobe, his brow knotted. ‘He was outside that posh Italian café, sitting at a table with Hayley. I was surprised – it was bloody cold. I hadn’t seen her in years, although I know you lot still keep in touch.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Hayley?’
‘Mmm. Looked like they were arguing about something. She got up at one point and was jabbing her finger at him.’
‘Do you know what it was about?’ I ask.
‘No. I was running late, so I went into the solicitors to drop off the parcel before I got a parking ticket. I thought I’d nip over the road and have a quick word with them to see if everything was okay, but when I got back outside they’d both gone.’
And of course, the next day Simon had died.
‘I never got the chance to speak to him again,’ says Frank.
Cassandra puts her hand on his arm, and then looks at Dr Bryant and me. ‘Thank you for today. It isn’t easy, but it’s good to see you, Lisa. It’s good to know something good came out of all this mess.’
I nod, unable to form the words that my mind is screaming.
Why didn’t Hayley tell me she and Simon had argued?
What had they been arguing about?
28
Hayley
The Common is surprisingly busy for a Monday morning.
I scowl at a cyclist as she speeds past, her bright colours quickly fading into the light mist that lifts from the surface of the lake and clings to the trees on the other side of the dirt and gravel path.
Green algae covers the dark water, broken in places by a scrunched up soft drink can, a discarded cigarette packet, a nappy.
I raise my eyes to the left. There is a black plastic bin nailed to a post sunk into a concrete base less than three feet away from the water’s edge.
Inhaling, trying to calm my nerves, I shift my gaze back to the lake. Damp fills the air, and with it the sweet aroma of rotting undergrowth and—
Stop it.
I turn my attention to a pair of swans who are gliding past the bench seat before I unbutton my coat and stretch out my legs in front of me. The ankle boots are old, but comfortable,
as are the skinny jeans.
I smile; I’m careful with my weight and am pleased I haven’t yet been tempted to stuff my face with comfort food over the colder months.
Beyond the lake, the Common stretches away on either side, a green undulating landscape that belies its urban setting.
A siren wails on the breeze that flicks my hair, then falters before being replaced with a loud honk.
A fire engine; nothing to worry about.
A mother shoving a pushchair at the far end of the water leaves the lake shore via a spur in the path, and I lose sight of her between the trees as she heads off in the direction of Hill Lane. The crowds have dispersed now, and I’m alone.
The wind picks up, rustling the reeds and bulrushes to the right of where I sit, sending a waterhen scuttling from within the stalks, her wake rippling across the water before she slows near the middle. The mist recedes, and an azure sky, cloudless for a change, dapples sunlight through the branches of the willow tree above my head.
I close my eyes for a moment, and snuggle into the cashmere scarf around my neck.
The Common was our playground while we were at university. After orientation week, we met up at one of the pubs on the perimeter of the park one Saturday, only to be kicked out two hours later when the elderly landlord decided we were becoming too raucous in his beer garden for his regular clientele.
We purchased bottles of cheap booze and packets of additive-laden snacks from the supermarket at the far end of the Common, and then stumbled our way across the park to a copse of trees on the far side of the lake.
Simon carried a three-quarter size acoustic guitar with him that day, and played it badly – it was what drove the pub patrons up the wall – but here, we’d sat down under the trees with our hastily thrown together picnic and sang and laughed until the stars came out.
As the autumn progressed, our weekend sojourns to the Common became less frequent, shortening with the hours of daylight left to us, rugged up in thick overcoats and the snacks replaced with thermos flasks of hot soup.
The Friend Who Lied Page 10
