by S. E. Lynes
‘Hold, please.’
Music, if you can call it that, streams down the line. Bridget bites her lip against the scream she fears will escape her at any moment. The non-specific melody goes on and on, absent-minded refrains with no discernible hook, looping endlessly. Bridget swears into the mouthpiece, and, as if in response, the phone goes dead: Fuck you.
Her chair scrapes across the kitchen floor as she stands. It would be quicker to get there in person. Police, hospitals, schools, every single system in this country is clogged to the point of heart attack with meaningless bureaucracy, cutbacks, efficiency drives. All the technology at their fingertips, all this communication, and never has it been so impossible to reach another human being. She grabs the keys to the van, but on second thoughts pulls out her phone and goes to the Uber app. A cab will save time on parking. A cab will stop her driving the van through the main entrance of the hospital.
Her car is a Toyota Prius. Her driver is Rasheed. He is five minutes away.
Five minutes.
She rushes to the bathroom and pees. Four minutes. She’ll grab Rosie’s clothes and shove them in a holdall. On the side of the bath there are screwed-up tissues from when Rosie was crying earlier tonight. She gathers them up and pushes her foot to the pedal bin. The bin lid opens. When she sees what’s inside, her stomach turns over.
‘What the hell…?’
Fifty-Nine
Toni
‘I came as soon as I could, dear.’
‘Emily!’ I burst into tears, turn immediately back to you. ‘Rosie? Rosie? Look who it is. It’s Emily, baby girl, she’s come to see you.’
‘My poor darling,’ Emily says, limping over, folding my head into her bosom. ‘What on earth…? How is she, my poor lamb? What on earth happened?’
‘She’s doing fine, Emily. Bit of boy trouble, a few too many painkillers, suspected bump on the head among other things. Shock. They’re keeping her in overnight in case she has a concussion. Bloody teenagers, eh?’
Emily sits on the plastic chair by your bed and reaches for your hand. She brings it to her lips and kisses it. The sight moves me, and for a moment I can’t speak.
‘She’s been through a lot,’ I manage to say, and Emily nods and smiles and turns to you, as if to give me a private moment to compose myself.
I cannot tell her what’s happened to you, baby girl. I know she’s a good egg, but she’s not family. I need to speak to your auntie Bridget before I say any more. I can’t see us not involving the police, not now, but if there’s any way we can get away without calling them, we won’t. And if I tell Emily the whole truth, there’s the possibility she might take it to the police. I trust her, but not with everything, not like I trust your auntie Bridge. And there’s nothing to place your auntie Bridge at that house, do you see? Her fingerprints aren’t on police records. The only fingerprints on their records are mine, taken when I was arrested for shoplifting, aged seventeen, nearly thirty years ago. And of course my prints are nowhere near the place, thanks to your auntie. I need your auntie Bridget more than that man’s death needs solving, Rosie. He deserved everything he got. The world is better without him in it. I hope you understand, poppet. What can the police do anyway? Start sticking their noses into stuff that has nothing to do with them, that’s all. The man was evil. Who knows what he would have done to you if Auntie Bridge hadn’t found you?
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Emily is looking at me intently now, her eyes huge behind those thick lenses. What big eyes you have, Grandma, I think.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I was miles away. I’m so tired. It’s a long story, Emily…’
Emily’s warm hand lays itself over mine.
‘Call me Em,’ she says, patting my hand, taking hers away.
‘Em,’ I say. ‘Basically, she went on a date with a boy and ended up in a very bad situation. The boy turned out to be a wrong ’un, but it’s all right now. A few bumps and bruises, a fright, I’m sure she’ll be very careful in future.’ From nowhere, I’m crying all over again.
‘Oh there, there.’ Emily hands me a tissue. ‘And you get so anxious, don’t you? I know you worry about her so. Have you… have you called the police, dear?’
‘Not yet, no. We’re just going to see how she is, what she says when she wakes up. She hasn’t told us anything really, she was too upset, and then she took some of my pills, silly girl.’
Emily is silent for a moment. I’ve shocked her, I realise. She must think it’s highly strange, not calling the police, but that’s not my problem, not right now.
‘So she hasn’t spoken yet?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘I think she was in shock. I should have brought her straight here. She was all out of sorts and she wouldn’t stop crying.’
‘Did she come home then? What, by herself?’
I shake my head. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t. And when Emily lays her warm hand on mine again, the tears come, the way tears do when you can feel that someone cares about you.
‘It’s OK, dear,’ she says softly. ‘Don’t tell me anything you’re not comfortable with.’
‘I should have known,’ I sob. ‘I should have brought her straight here, but I’m a nurse, you know, well, I used to be, and I thought I could handle it. I thought she’d be OK. She had a bath and went to bed and I gave her something to calm her down and I thought she’d be fine in the morning. But then when I checked on her she wouldn’t wake up so we had to call an ambulance in the end. Maybe he’d given her Rohypnol or something, I don’t know. But don’t mention her going to meet a boy, will you? Not to the doctors, all right? We’d prefer to deal with this in the family. I hope you understand.’
Emily leans over and takes my hand in both of hers. It is like a warm embrace, like a hug, and I think how full of love she is, for you, yes, but for all of us too. She’s grown attached to us as we have to her. I mistrusted her at first; I know I did. I was looking the other way.
‘Whatever you want, dear,’ she says. ‘Sometimes we need to keep things in the family, don’t we?’ She glances over to you and returns her gaze to me.
‘I’m so sorry we’ve been such a mess,’ I say. ‘With Rosie being ill and everything. She will get over it. She just needs time. We’ve all needed more time than any of us thought after what happened, you know, with her dad and the accident and everything…’
‘Nonsense,’ she says. ‘Nothing to apologise for. And now, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you look exhausted. Would you like me to fetch you some tea, something to eat?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s all right. My sister’ll be here soon. She’s going to bring a flask and some sandwiches. I’m not hungry anyway. I don’t think I could face anything. And I know what the vending-machine coffee is like – it’s rank. I work here, remember.’
She chuckles. ‘Of course you do! Silly moo, aren’t I? Brain like the proverbial sieve.’ She glances back at you, baby girl, and bites her lip. Concern etches new lines on her face.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘Me! Oh, I’m fine and dandy, don’t you fret about me. It’s you I’m worried about, dear. Listen, why don’t you take yourself off a moment? Get some air – get out of this miserable place for a minute or two. There’s a couch in the waiting room; you could get forty winks. I can keep an eye on her.’
I squeeze her hand. ‘Thanks, Emily. Em. I could really use some air actually, I’m so stale! Not to mention needing the loo!’ I pull my bag from the floor into my lap and sigh. ‘If you see Bridget, tell her I’ll be right back, OK?’
‘Right you are, dear. Don’t rush. I’ve brought my knitting, so to speak.’ She holds up a book and chuckles.
‘Emily Wood.’ I lean forward and give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘What would we do without you?’
Sixty
Rosie
My head falls back. Wrong angle. Neck weird, like my head is hanging upside down. The pillow has gone. Who has taken my pillow?
‘Now th
en, Rosie my dear,’ someone, a woman, says. ‘I’ve sent your mum out for a break, so it’s just you and me.’
Emily? Emily, is that you?
‘I’m just going to pop the curtain across so we can have some privacy, that’s it.’
It is Emily. It so is. A whooshing sound. The something bad is a deep pain in my gut. The something bad is here. It’s here and it’s Emily. The feeling, the shame… is Emily. It isn’t me. I’m not the something bad. I’m not the shame. It’s her. That house, that kitchen, the wasp in the honey. The scones. The tea. The man from the café, standing in the doorway, the dried splashes on his glasses. Emily’s face looking down at me, blinking, huge pale eyes. The chemical smell. Then nothing. Emily is the smell. Emily is the something bad. Her big eyes, then nothing. She…
‘That’s better.’
I want to kick, but I can’t move. Help! Someone help me! Mummy?
‘Well, I have to say, you fair gave us the slip, didn’t you? As for Owen, well, I can’t leave him alone for five minutes without him making a mess of everything. He really is hopeless, been that way since we were little! I suppose I should feel relieved, or happy, or free or something, but it’s not as simple as that when you’re tied to someone, is it? To family? I know you know what I mean.
‘And so here you are. And by an absolute miracle, no one’s called the police yet. I know why I haven’t, dear, but I’m rather fascinated, I must say, by why your mother hasn’t. Or your marvellous auntie Bridget, who I’m guessing is also responsible for shooting my poor Owen.’
Fingers on my cheek, stroking. Help. Help me, Mummy! Auntie Bridge, help!
‘You’ll be my last girl. I want you to know I’ve been fond of you. You’re sweet in your way, and you don’t have everything on a plate the way a lot of these girls do. I thought you did, you see. The theatre types usually do, or they did in my day. And you oozed privilege, up on that stage, with your nice voice and, later, your lovely manners. I must say I was taken aback when I saw your circumstances, your poor mother.
‘Now this won’t take long, dear, and it shouldn’t hurt. I’ll say goodbye then.
‘Goodbye, Little Red.’
Sixty-One
Bridget
Bridget is running. Through the main entrance of the hospital, the iron taste of blood in her mouth. She reaches reception.
‘Rosie,’ she pants, ‘Rosie Flint. Can you tell me which ward she’s in? Or she might still be in A&E.’
The receptionist taps on the keyboard. She does not meet Bridget’s eye, nor does she smile.
‘She’s in Jupiter. Level 4.’ The receptionist gives a contemplative hmm. ‘But it’s after seven, I’m afraid. Visiting time finishes at seven.’
‘This is an emergency.’
‘I’m sure it is. Is it the police you need? Hey! Excuse me? Hey!’
Bridget is running. She can’t stop, won’t stop. Up ahead, the lift doors are opening.
‘Hold the lift,’ she calls. ‘Hold the lift!’
She makes it and smiles at the nurse who has held the door for her.
‘Visiting time is over,’ the nurse says with an apologetic frown.
Bridget presses the number 4. ‘I know. I’m just dropping her… her inhaler – they said to bring it.’ She puts her hands behind her back. She has no inhaler, no bag, nothing in her hands. Only her keys in her jacket pocket, her cash card and phone in the back pocket of her jeans.
With a ping, the lift stops at the fourth floor. It seems to take ages for the doors to slide open.
‘Sorry.’ Bridget runs out of the lift first. She scans the ward names, trying not to let panic jumble the letters. A nurse pushing a trolley full of drugs passes her and frowns.
‘Slow down, madam,’ she calls after her. ‘No running.’
‘Sorry,’ Bridget calls breathlessly, but she does not slow down – she does not stop running.
At the entrance to the ward, she pauses. Her senses cloud. She half walks, half runs, scanning the rooms, the beds, their occupants. Sweat pours down her face, down the back of her neck. In perhaps the fourth or fifth room, there are four beds, two empty, one with a privacy curtain around it, one containing a teenager with a grey tinge to her skin. Bridget takes a step inside.
‘Who are you looking for?’ the grey girl asks, something aggressive in her manner. There are bandages on her wrists.
‘My niece. Rosie Flint. She’s fifteen.’
‘What’s she in for?’
‘She’s—’
There’s a voice coming from behind the curtain. Bridget can’t hear what it’s saying. But she recognises the tone, the pitch, the jaunty cadences. Emily.
She swipes at the thin fabric, pushes it back on its runners with a loud whoosh. Emily is bent over the bed. She is pressing a pillow to Rosie’s face. The back of her neck is stiff with the effort – her elbows are out, her knuckles white.
‘Oh my God!’ the girl in the bed opposite shouts. ‘Police! Help! That woman’s trying to kill that girl!’
Bridget throws herself forward, grabs Emily’s shoulders. Emily falls, they both fall to the floor, Emily on top, the two of them struggling like overturned crabs.
‘Oh my God!’ the girl shouts again. ‘She was trying to suffocate her! That lady! She’s fucking mental! Call the police!’
Bridget rolls Emily off her, then onto her back, sits on her belly and pins her arms to the floor.
‘Murderer,’ Emily hisses, her eyes huge glassy circles of pale blue. The same eyes as that man. Her brother, of course – why didn’t Bridget see?
There are voices, footsteps running. Emily wrenches one arm free but it is caught by a male porter, who seems to have skidded across the floor on his knees.
‘This woman is assaulting me,’ Emily shouts.
‘Stay calm, madam,’ he says.
‘She was trying to suffocate my niece,’ Bridget says, breathless. ‘With her pillow.’
‘That’s right, she was,’ the girl in the bed chimes in. ‘She fucking was!’
Please God someone shut that girl up.
Emily kicks, bucks, her ribcage solid, fraught between Bridget’s knees.
‘Get off me,’ she shouts. ‘Murderer! This woman is a murderer!’
The girl has begun to shriek. ‘She was trying to suffocate her! That old lady there with the glasses! She was trying to kill ’er. I don’t feel safe, I’m not safe, I’m not fucking safe here.’
A nurse bustles over to the girl, her hands two stop signs: calm down. Another follows, walks briskly to Rosie’s bed.
‘Bridge!’ Toni’s face looms above Bridget. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Get this assassin off me,’ Emily hisses. ‘Assassin! Assassin!’
There are two men now, both dressed in hospital garb, though Bridget is not sure what their uniforms mean. Each has one of Emily’s arms.
Somewhere a walkie-talkie crackles. Somewhere a voice calls out: ‘Police, call 999.’
‘It’s over, Emily,’ Bridget says. ‘It’s over.’
Emily meets her eye. And like that, without a word, something in her appears to die. She stops thrashing. Her eyes hold Bridget’s for another second before she closes them, inhales deeply through her nose. Her chest sinks, she lies perfectly still. A smile spreads across her face, as if she has entered a state of karmic peace.
Unnerved, Bridget climbs off Emily’s stomach. The ward hushes; the men too become still. No one speaks. Even the shrieking girl in the bed is quiet.
Toni glances back and forth from Bridget to Emily, her eyes round, wild, her mouth open with shock and incomprehension.
‘What’s happening?’ she says after a moment. ‘What the hell is going on?’
The ward is suspended, slowed, the air thick. The porters or nurses, or whatever the two men are, have Emily locked down, but she is motionless, her face impassive, vacant, her eyes still closed as if in prayer.
‘She had the pillow to her face,’ Bridget says. ‘Emily. She was trying
to kill Rosie. She had the pillow over her face, she…’
The men hoist Emily to her feet. Slowly they walk her out of the ward, their faces stern, bewildered. Somewhere another walkie-talkie sparks into life. The nurse is talking to the grey girl, quietly, quietly. The only word Bridget catches is police.
Toni looks at Bridget. Their eyes lock. After a second, Toni heads over to Rosie’s bed. Bridget follows, stands on the other side.
‘Is she all right?’ Toni asks the nurse.
‘She’s fine.’ The nurse puts the pillow back under Rosie’s head, straightens her covers before turning to Toni. ‘The police will be here shortly. They’ll need to talk to you both.’ She looks from Toni to Bridget. ‘Are you all right, madam? Are you both all right?’
‘We’re fine,’ Bridget says over the thump of her own heart. ‘Nasty shock, that’s all. As long as Rosie’s OK.’
‘She’s breathing normally,’ the nurse says. ‘Her heart rate is regular. Try not to worry. Stay here for now and I’ll give you a shout when the police arrive.’
‘Yeah. Cheers.’
The nurse walks away. Bridget stares after her a moment before returning her gaze to Toni.
‘What the hell…?’ Toni says.
‘Emily was Ollie’s accomplice,’ Bridget whispers. ‘Ollie, online Ollie, was Owen, Emily’s brother. They were working together.’
‘What? How?’ Toni’s brow furrows.
‘We need to keep our voices down. The guy at the house, the guy I… you know. That was Emily’s brother. I’m guessing it was Emily who picked Rosie up and took her there.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me…’
‘I didn’t know. Emily wasn’t at the house when I— I didn’t know, Tones.’
Bridget watches realisation dawn on Toni’s face.
‘You saved her again,’ Toni says quietly, and then, after a moment, ‘And now the police are coming. And Emily…’
