by Jane Corry
Either way, I always feel as though I’ve had a long, deep sleep. A bit like when you’ve come out from an anaesthetic.
I hate hospitals. So hot and airless. The heat amazes me, given the cutbacks. Right now I’m sweating, even though I’ve just realized I’m not wearing anything underneath this hospital gown. Only paper pants. What have they done with my clothes?
Places like this (and I’ve seen a few) always leave an unpleasant taste in my mouth of liver and bacon: a meal I always hated as a child and which still comes to me when I have to do something I don’t want to. I simply want to get out. Be normal.
On the other side of the curtain I hear a trolley rattling past. ‘Breakfast!’ says a cheerful voice.
That answers my earlier question, then.
‘What do you want to do about that one?’
‘She’s waiting to see the nurse,’ said someone else. ‘We need to make sure she’s not nil by mouth.’
Are they talking about me? There’s a gnawing feeling of hunger in my stomach. I’m often ravenous after a seizure. I’m about to call out when there’s a high, persistent beep that makes the hairs on my arm stand up. At least it’s not coming from the machines I’m attached to. Although I can’t see anything, I can hear tense voices and movement from across the room. ‘ICU. Now!’
My heart goes out to the patient. I’ve been there a few times myself.
Someone else – I think it’s the occupant on my left – is on the phone. It’s an oldish, wavering voice. ‘So the doctor said I had to take these tablets. Two, he said. Every day. I only did what he told me. And now the consultant says I should have been on something else.’
I’d forgotten how noisy hospital could be, even though it’s only been two months since the last one. That was in Devon, before word got round my clients and I had to move again.
‘Vicki?’
The curtains are being opened now. Why is it that hospital staff always speak as though they know you intimately? It was reassuring in the ambulance, but I’m not too keen on it now.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Fine.’
I ease myself up on my elbows, wincing at the pain. One of them, I notice, has a big blue bruise, presumably from my thrashing around under the bench. ‘Where are my clothes?’
‘They got torn and muddied during the incident. Don’t worry. We’ll sort you out later.’
I feel a sense of panic. ‘But I need something to wear so I can go home.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t allow that unless you have someone who can be with you for at least twenty-four hours after discharge.’
She glances at her notes again. ‘It says here that you don’t have any next of kin. Is there a neighbour or a friend you could call?’
And that’s when I remember. The thing – or rather things – that had upset me. David. The police. And then that girl on the promenade.
‘I’ll be all right on my own. I’ve done it before.’
It’s true. I’ve lied to other hospitals about having someone at home. Too late, I realize I should have lied this time too.
‘It could be dangerous.’ She speaks as if I have never been through this before. Then again, she’s young. Maybe I’m her first. ‘You’ve had … well, quite a traumatic experience.’
I put on my firm voice. ‘I’m better off just getting on with it, taking the medicine and hoping I don’t have another one.’
Superstition makes me stop and touch the wooden table.
‘You shouldn’t be getting many at all if you’re on medication, so we need to check that out. There’s something else, too. I’m afraid you have some visitors.’
Afraid?
Her eyes won’t meet mine. ‘We wouldn’t allow them in until we were sure you were up to it but …’
Her voice trails away as she opens the curtains. Everyone on the ward is looking. And no wonder.
The couple in front of me are all too familiar.
The nurse backs away. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?’
‘Mrs Goudman. Vicki.’ Detective Inspector Gareth Vine’s handshake is as unforgiving as the last time.
I pull my hand back. ‘How did you know I was here?’
He waves away the question as if this isn’t important. ‘Your name came up on the system when you were admitted. Sorry to hear you’re not well.’
‘I don’t see it that way,’ I say defensively. ‘It’s part of me.’
This was a phrase I’d picked up from one of various forums on the net.
‘Is that why you didn’t mention your condition when we spoke before?’
That lovely feeling of having woken from a deep sleep is beginning to evaporate. Instead, my skin is prickling with discomfort. The woman in the bed opposite is staring. She has a drip at her side and a bald head. Cancer maybe?
‘May we close the curtains, please?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’
Just the three of us in an enclosed space. Two against one.
I put my hand over my eyes to shield them from the fluorescent strip above.
‘Does light make it worse?’ he asks curiously.
‘Only strobe flashes,’ I retort. ‘And stress. Your previous visit didn’t help. Or the news about David.’
His eyes flicker. I can see he doesn’t want to be held responsible for another attack. He’s out of his comfort zone. Good. The sergeant says nothing, but she’s writing everything down. I need to be careful.
‘Then maybe,’ says the inspector, looking hard at me, ‘you should have been honest with us at the beginning.’
‘I was.’
My mouth is dry. I know exactly what he’s going to say next. I’ve been waiting for this ever since I told him why I was near her house.
‘Have you found my husband?’
‘Your ex-husband? No.’ His voice is emotionless, but he is watching me carefully as he speaks. I feel a flash of fear followed by the certainty that it has to be OK really. David is always all right. It’s other people who aren’t, thanks to the devastation he creates in his wake. Before me, there had been further deceits, such as his ‘charity interests’. He’d told me this as if this was a credit to him. But by then, it had been too late. I’d been hooked.
The detective takes a seat close to my bed. ‘You told us two days ago that you were near Mr Goudman’s home because you were visiting your old doctor.’
His formal use of my ex-husband’s name suggests a distance I find disturbing. This is the man I once loved. Still do, perhaps.
‘Yes. I gave you his number.’
‘You did. And that was very helpful. But it might have been even more useful if you’d told us you had epilepsy.’
There. At last someone has had the guts to say it. The E word.
I shrug. ‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’
‘Not relevant?’
Is it my imagination or is he repeating my words on purpose to trip me up?
‘You’re on medication, aren’t you?’
He’s right, of course, but there are days when I choose not to take it because of the side-effects, which include ‘possible regression of the brain’ although this might be due to the condition itself. Besides, the stuff doesn’t always help. I’m one of those unfortunate people for whom nothing really works.
I don’t usually lie, but this feels necessary. ‘So what?’
‘I gather that both the fits and the meds can affect your memory.’
‘Actually, we call them seizures. My doctor had no right to give you personal information.’
‘Actually, medical knowledge like this is available online. We haven’t approached your doctor yet, although we may well go through the official channels to do so.’
There’s the sound of a gasp from the other side of the curtain. Next door must be having a field day.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do, Vicki.’ Clearly the detective had been to the same school as the medical staff. Repeat
someone’s name often enough, and they’ll see you as a best mate.
‘It’s beginning to fall into place now,’ he continues. ‘Now I see why you don’t have a television in your home. Flickering lights can affect you. No bath either. Bright colours,’ he continues, ‘like your red anorak, are good because they make you stand out if you get into a dangerous situation. Looked that one up on Google too.’
He seems almost proud of it. He’s right. Red isn’t really right for my dark auburn curls, but I wear it for practical reasons.
‘As far as I know, it’s not illegal to have seizures.’
‘Vicki.’ He is standing up now. Bending over me so his square chin is close. Suddenly I’m aware of how vulnerable I am with almost no clothes on. Maybe that’s why the woman is here. For protocol’s sake.
‘You’re intimidating me,’ I want to say. But I’m too scared of what’s coming next.
‘Vicki,’ he repeats, ‘let me put this another way. When we first paid you a visit, I asked where you were on the night your ex-husband was last seen. You said you were at home.’
There are black curly hairs growing inside his nose. Why do we notice irrelevant things like that when more important stuff is happening? ‘Are you sure of that, Vicki?’
He pauses. His sidekick’s pen is poised. There’s no getting out of it now.
‘Or is it possible,’ he says softly, ‘that, because of your condition, you genuinely don’t remember?’
6
Scarlet
‘Where are we going?’
Scarlet’s sobs made the words come out all fuzzy and mushy.
Shaggy-Fringe Camilla glanced across from the driver’s seat and patted her hand. ‘I’ve told you, love. To a nice family who’ll look after you until the courts sort everything out.’
Scarlet knew about courts. That’s where the judges lived. They were the bastards who put people in prison when they hadn’t done nothing wrong.
‘What if they won’t let my mum come back?’
There was a second’s hesitation. Her eyes softened as though she was sorry for Scarlet. ‘Let’s see, shall we? Now why don’t you have a bit of a nap, love? It’s a longish drive, and you must be very tired after everything that’s happened today.’
‘But I need to go back home to get my stuff for school tomorrow.’
Her voice was really kind and gentle. ‘We won’t worry about that now.’
Supposing this was a trick? What if she was being kidnapped? Scarlet began to panic. She should never have got in this car in the first place. ‘Mum said I wasn’t to go off with strangers. I don’t know you. Let me go home.’
‘STOP THAT!’
They swerved into a lay-by, brakes screeching. ‘You can’t grab the wheel like that, Scarlet. It’s dangerous!’ Then she burst into tears and Camilla’s face softened. ‘I know how you feel, dear. I really do. But I’m a social worker, like I said before. Here’s my identity pass. See? All we want to do is help you.’
‘If I can’t go back home,’ she said quietly, ‘could I go back to your place?’
‘Just now you said I was a stranger.’
‘You are.’ Scarlet tried to explain what she was feeling inside. ‘But I don’t want to have to stay with another stranger.’
‘Sorry, love. But if I took in every kid I tried to help, there wouldn’t be any room. Cheer up. You’ll like the Walters. They’ve been fostering children like you for years and they’ve got a son of their own too. I think he’s fifteen. Or maybe sixteen.’
‘What does “fostering” mean?’
‘It’s when someone looks after children who aren’t their own until they can go back to their mum and dad or …’
She stopped.
‘Or what?’
‘It doesn’t matter, love. We must get going again. Just sit back and enjoy the scenery. We’re leaving London now, and on our way to Kent. That’s where the Walters live.’
‘Can I get to my school from there?’
‘No. But there’ll be a new one that’s just as nice.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do. Let’s have some music on to help you doze. I’ll turn up the heating too. Is that better?’
Scarlet found her eyes closing. It wasn’t a deep sleep like the ones Mum had when she’d been smoking and Scarlet couldn’t wake her the next morning. It was a sort of drifting in and out like she was on the swings again, except that this time, no cop came up. She just gave the tube of crisps to a strange man, and he gave her one back. Then she and Mum got on a plane and sat on a beach, just like she had promised before they’d taken her away.
When she woke up the sky was dark, and there were buildings everywhere with lights on. Scarlet felt scared again. ‘Where are we?’
The social worker’s voice sounded tired. ‘In Kent.’
‘Will Mum be here?’
‘I’ve told you before, love. You can’t see her for a bit. I know it’s hard, but we’re nearly at the Walters’. With any luck, we’ll be in time for tea. Are you hungry?’
Scarlet’s stomach was rumbling as though she ought to be starving but she felt sick at the same time. If she was at home, she’d be getting Mum her dinner.
‘What do you like to eat, Scarlet?’
‘Pizza. Burgers. Whatever we can …’
Scarlet stopped. She’d been going to say ‘nick’. Ages ago, Mum had taught her to put one thing in her supermarket basket and then slip some other stuff under her sweatshirt or in her bag at the same time. But then she remembered that this had to be their secret.
Luckily, Shaggy-Fringe had slowed down now and was too busy looking at the houses to notice that she hadn’t finished her sentence.
‘I’m sure it’s here. On the corner. Ah yes. They’ve built an extension since I was here last. That’s why I didn’t recognize it. Out we get.’
It was cold. Scarlet’s jumper was thin. And it was the wrong kind of green for school so she’d got into trouble.
‘What colour will I wear at the new school?’ she asked, shivering, as a man walked past, talking loudly to himself and kicking a tin can along like a football. Shaggy-Fringe put a protective arm around her until he disappeared round the corner.
‘I don’t know, love. You’ll find out soon enough. Now let’s go in, shall we?’
Wow! The house actually had a garden in front. There was a bicycle lying on its side, and the wheels were still spinning like someone had just got off it. Scarlet had always wanted a bike, but they were really, really expensive.
There was a doorbell, too, which made a pretty, tinkly noise. (Mum had got rid of theirs because the kids in the block kept pressing it and making a bloody racket.) A woman opened the door. She had eyes that looked like someone had dug them into her face. Her lips were a straight pink line. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’m so sorry but the traffic was bad and I got a bit lost towards the end.’ The social worker seemed nervous, rather like Mum before a game. ‘This is Scarlet. Scarlet, this is Mrs Walters, who’s going to be looking after you. It’s very kind of her at such short notice.’
‘Bring the money, did you?’
‘It will be paid into your bank account tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s not what we agreed.’
‘I’m afraid this was all rather last-minute.’
‘Always is, isn’t it? Well, you’d better come in, then.’
Scarlet’s eyes widened. There was proper carpet – with a red swirly pattern – instead of floorboards! It went all the way up those stairs. Was this really one house? She could hear a telly somewhere and children shouting.
‘I want to watch my programme.’
‘Piss off, it’s my turn.’
The woman with the dug-in eyes gave a laugh, but it wasn’t a nice one like Mum’s. ‘Kids,’ she said shortly. ‘You know what they’re like.’
‘Sure. I expect you’re about to have tea, are you?’
‘All finished now. Had it early tonight, we did.
’
‘Ah. The thing is that Scarlet hasn’t eaten much. She’s had a bit of a traumatic day.’
‘Tall, isn’t she?’
Scarlet felt the woman’s eyes measure her up and down.
‘Well, yes. I’m afraid Scarlet’s only got the clothes she’s standing in and she doesn’t have a toothbrush either.’
‘Now why aren’t I surprised? Come along then. Let’s see what we can find.’
‘Bye, love. You might see me again or you could have one of my colleagues next time.’
Suddenly Scarlet didn’t want the shaggy-fringed social worker to go. ‘Will you tell Mum where I am?’
Mum had always been really firm about that. She couldn’t go off on her own. Not in their neighbourhood.
‘Of course I will.’
‘I’m worried about her.’ Scarlet’s chest grew tighter. ‘Mum sometimes forgets to eat unless I remind her.’
‘I’m sure they’ll give her food. Now you go and have your own. In the morning, you’ll be off to your new school with the other children here. Won’t she, Mrs Walters?’
‘Well, she’s not staying in the house during the day.’
The front door closed. Scarlet’s stomach rumbled loudly as Mrs Walters led the way into the kitchen. What a huge oven!
Maybe that’s where she kept her stash, like Mum. Or perhaps it was in that massive fridge.
‘Don’t touch! That one over there is for you lot.’
‘You’ve got two fridges? You must be very rich!’
Mrs Walters’ dug-in eyes stared at her. ‘You taking the mickey? Let me tell you, Scarlet. I get pin money for looking after kids like you, considering the amount of trouble you lot give me. Now choose something – just one, mind – and go and eat it in front of the telly.’
There was only an egg and something green at the back with black bits on it. The smell made her sick.
‘Little bastards must have cleaned it out earlier. You can’t have that. There’s no way I’m cooking at this time of the evening. Here, take this.’
‘Wow! Thanks!’
‘You taking the piss again? It’s Pot Noodle – not bleeding caviar.’
‘They’re my favourite.’
There was another stare. ‘Funny little thing, aren’t you?’
