Just What Kind of Mother Are You?

by Paula Daly

  ‘So what’s happened to girl number two?’ Joanne asks. ‘What about Lucinda Riverty? If girls one and three are back, then where is she?’

  ‘Big fat mystery, that,’ Ron says grimly. ‘There’s a meeting with the DI in five minutes, might shed some light on it.’

  ‘And, in the meantime, what do I do with Guy Riverty?’

  ‘Is he still in the interview room?’

  Joanne nods.

  ‘What’s he said about where he was this morning?’

  ‘Told me it wasn’t relevant to our investigation.’

  ‘Not relevant?’ Ron angles his head slightly to the side. ‘Make the fucker wait, then.’

  32

  I PARK IN THE PUBLIC Pay & Display.

  Opposite, they’re unloading a stretcher from the air ambulance. I stay in the car for a moment.

  When patient and crew are safely inside, I make my way towards the hospital building, wondering whether Kate has regained consciousness, wondering whether she can even recollect taking the pills. I’ve heard stories of people unable to remember, people who wake and are genuinely shocked to learn they tried to take their own life. Will that be the case with Kate?

  The sun has melted the ice in patches. It’s now possible to walk in some places without breaking your neck. Or perhaps not, I think, reflecting on the stretcher taken from the air ambulance.

  I decide against fully trusting the ground and take tiny, even steps, my arms stuck out to the side, ready for a fall. The car park’s been gritted but it’s a haphazard attempt. There are great, bare sections devoid of grip, sections where you have to hope for the best.

  I heard on the radio on my way to the infirmary that the emergency services are stretched to the limit after the freezing rain of yesterday. I consoled myself with the knowledge that, had I found Kate any later, the paramedics might not have got to her in time.

  Although I suppose if I’d found her any later, she’d be dead regardless.

  I’m outside the main doors, and there’s a throng of people. Some are in dressing gowns and slippers, having a smoke. There’s a teenager on crutches craning his neck in the direction of the main gates, perhaps waiting for a lift.

  Some poor sod in his early fifties is conducting a survey. With his clipboard raised, he’s trying to put a brave face on things, but looks as if he’s losing the will. He has the haunted appearance of the newly unemployed.

  The automatic double doors open as I approach, and I head over to the main reception desk. A plump lady glances up from her work. ‘Yes, love?’ she says pleasantly. She has thick darts-player forearms and steel-grey, curly hair that’s been cropped close to her head.

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Kate Riverty. She was brought in this morning.’

  The receptionist begins typing and turns her head to view the screen, which is placed at an angle. ‘Ah, yes, she’s just been moved to a general ward.’

  ‘Is that a good thing?’ I ask, nervously. Scared that Kate’s condition has deteriorated.

  ‘Usually means they’re on the mend,’ she says matter-of-factly, before pointing over my shoulder. ‘You want to go back out through those doors, the way you came in, cross the car park … try not to break any bones … and go on over to that brown building. You want ward four. It’s on the second floor.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I tell her, and head over there.

  Ward four has six beds. All occupied.

  I see Alexa sitting by the side of Kate’s bed at the far end of the room and my stomach lurches. I shiver, and a cold sweat springs up in my armpits. Alexa looks at me as I enter but doesn’t alter her expression. Her face is set.

  Kate is sleeping – or else still unconscious. She has a drip in her right wrist and she’s dressed in a white hospital gown. It gives her the look of a psychiatric patient. Or maybe that’s just because everyone else on the ward is dressed in their own night-clothes, and she’s a little out of place.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ I whisper, and Alexa looks away. She’s not yet decided whether she’s going to speak to me or not.

  Then she hisses, ‘Did you have to come?’, and I say, yes, of course I had to come. I found her.

  This seems to soften her a bit. I can see her thawing marginally as she thinks through the situation – what if she hadn’t found her …

  She speaks without looking at me. ‘Physically,’ she says, ‘they say she should recover quite quickly. The pills weren’t in her system long enough to do any real damage. As for psychologically, well, obviously, we’ll have to wait and see about that.’

  Alexa’s tone is as cold as it’s possible for a person to be. She’s spitting out her words and it’s clear that, even without the added complication of me having slept with her husband, because of Lucinda’s disappearance, she’s holding me fully responsible for what Kate’s done to herself. If I hadn’t actually found Kate, saved her, Alexa would throw me out of here right this second.

  I fetch a chair from the stack over in the corner and sit down next to Alexa. She shuffles over, put out. I sense she doesn’t want to talk about what’s happened, so I turn my attention to Kate.

  Her wispy blonde hair is fanning out on the pillow, giving her an ethereal quality, the skin on her forehead is a milky-blue, as if she’s been smeared with an emollient. I find it hard to look at her. Dropping my gaze slightly, I notice her lips. They’re thin. They seem not to be her own. There’s a trace of black charcoal in the corner creases, which has the effect of turning her mouth downwards.

  ‘Has she spoken yet?’

  Alexa shakes her head. ‘Opened her eyes a couple of times, but that’s it. They’ve told me she’s going to be sleepy for a good while, so not to panic if she doesn’t communicate.’

  ‘Poor Kate,’ I say, and all at once feel unbearably sad about the whole thing. I’d driven here on automatic pilot. Too dazed about the news of Guy’s arrest really to plan what I’d say to Kate even if she was awake. I say a silent prayer and give thanks for small mercies, grateful she’s still out of it.

  Alexa folds shut the magazine she’s been reading – Vanity Fair – then takes a hanky from her handbag and dabs underneath her lower lashes. Her mascara is as neat as when first applied, not like last night.

  ‘When did you last talk to her?’ Alexa asks me.

  ‘I spoke to Guy last night, but I’m not sure when I—’ I pause. When did I last talk to Kate? Suddenly I can’t even remember what day it is.

  ‘What day is it?’ I ask Alexa, and she looks at me as if I’m losing my mind. ‘I’ve lost track,’ I explain. ‘A lot’s happened.’

  ‘Thursday,’ she mutters.

  ‘Sorry, everything’s just got a bit jumbled.’

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, Alexa stroking Kate’s hand a couple of times. Then I lean in towards Alexa, dropping my voice. ‘Are you going to tell her about Guy when she wakes, or do you think it would be best not to mention it right now?’

  She gives me a sharp look. ‘What about Guy? I tried ringing him, but he’s not picking up.’

  My eyes widen involuntarily. ‘He’s been arrested,’ I mouth. I sit back and bite my lip, not quite sure what to think. Why hasn’t he rung her? Why hasn’t he at least let someone know where he is?

  Alexa turns in her seat. ‘Dear God,’ she says. ‘Arrested for what?’

  I shrug, embarrassed. ‘I’m not really sure.’

  She stares straight ahead, but I can see her mind is electric. The pulse in her temple is racing and that vein on her forehead has risen up; it’s like an earthworm beneath her skin. After an awkward silence she pushes her chair back and stands.

  ‘I have to make a telephone call. Will you stay with Kate?’

  I nod.

  ‘Don’t leave her,’ she warns.

  ‘’Course not.’

  Visibly shaken, Alexa grabs her handbag. ‘I’ll try not to be long,’ she says, striding away. Her heels click across hard resin flooring, her flat, shapeless Mum-bum barely swaying in her designe
r jeans. When she disappears through the ward entrance I exhale.

  What a mess.

  I can’t imagine what Alexa must be feeling.

  Your sister takes an overdose, naturally you are frantic with worry but at the same time relieved beyond measure that she didn’t actually succeed. You’re also filled with questions as to her motivation.

  I imagine Alexa had concluded – as had I, at first – that Kate couldn’t cope with the news of the third girl gone missing. Her disappearance brought with it the near-certainty that Lucinda was not coming back. People have killed themselves for a lot less.

  Now she has to process the news that Kate had possibly tried killing herself because she’d stumbled upon something that links Guy to the missing girls.

  I cast my eyes around the ward for the first time since arriving.

  It’s been painted in an ugly salmon-pink, the colour of Germolene. Striped turquoise curtains hang by the side of each bed, ready to be pulled around when privacy is needed. It’s an old bloke’s idea of what women like. Reminds me of the decor of a bad wedding-reception venue.

  The visitors at the next bed begin saying their goodbyes, telling the lady they’ll be back tomorrow, with more magazines, more Lucozade. For a moment I’m nostalgic for the Lucozade of old, when it used to come wrapped in that special netting that told the world you were really poorly.

  Short of somewhere to focus my eyes – that’s not on Kate, or on the rest of the patients in the ward – I pick up Alexa’s copy of Vanity Fair. It’s not my usual choice of reading but my mind is racing and I need something to do with my hands. After a quick flick through, I decide Vanity Fair is rubbish. There’s far too much text. I’d rather read Now or OK!

  I begin reading an article on a posh celebrity who lives in Bermuda. She’s someone I’ve never heard of who’s loosely connected to the Royal Family. She’s all blonde hair and legs, late thirties, and has just had her first baby. ‘It’s amazing,’ she beams. ‘It’s the most incredible thing. It’s so beautiful, it’s astonishing. There’s so much love.’

  I shut the magazine with disgust, mentally dusting my hands.

  Just once – once – I’d like to come across a new mother in a magazine who says, ‘I’m finding this really hard. It’s not at all like I thought it would be. I don’t think I’ll be having another … And’ – she says this next part sniffling into a hanky – ‘my husband’s been next to useless. I thought he’d make a wonderful father, but, well, he’s leaving it all to me. He’s being a complete dick, actually.’

  I glance towards Kate distractedly and immediately jolt backwards, almost falling off my chair.

  Her eyes are open and she’s watching me.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask her quickly, trying to gather myself. My voice comes out strangled-sounding and desperate.

  Her eyes are rheumy, the linings raw. She tries to smile. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks.

  ‘Came to see you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I ramble. ‘Alexa’s here too, but she just had to nip out to make a call. She’ll be back in a minute.’ Kate closes her eyes and I reach for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘We’re glad you made it, Kate.’

  I look to the ward entrance, willing Alexa to return, willing her to hurry. I feel a little out of my depth here and I’m not sure I’ll handle this properly.

  No sign.

  With her eyes still closed, Kate whispers, ‘Where am I?’, and this shocks me.

  I’d assumed, moments earlier, that she was lucid. That she knew what happened and was not mentioning the pills, in the first instance, because she was embarrassed. Or perhaps because I was not the right person to talk to.

  Suddenly I feel woefully inept, like I am absolutely not the best person she should be talking to about it. Even if I did find her.

  ‘You’re at the hospital,’ I say tentatively. ‘Lancaster Infirmary.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘That’s okay … just rest for now,’ I say, and her eyelids flicker open a little. She looks like one of those cruel pictures you see of celebrities exiting the clubs in the early hours. The ones with their eyes half closed, looking like they’re totally plastered.

  ‘Lisa,’ she asks me, ‘is Guy here?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Is he coming?’

  Uneasily, I say, ‘I expect so,’ because I can’t come up with anything better to say to her when put on the spot.

  Is he coming?

  Not likely.

  He’s in a police cell, or else he’s being interrogated about your missing daughter.

  As I think about this, it crosses my mind that Kate has not yet asked about Lucinda. Has she come back? Is there any more news? You would expect at least that … wouldn’t you?

  This conspicuous lack of enquiry further cements in my mind the certainty that Kate suspects Guy is responsible. I know it would be the first thing out of my mouth, doped or otherwise: Where is my child? I’d be shouting on waking, Where is my—

  All at once, and as if from nowhere, Kate gives a violent, involuntary shudder. I jump up towards her. ‘Kate? Kate? Are you okay?’

  She nods, seemingly unable to speak, and I’m not sure what to do. Do I press the emergency call button? Do I run and get the nurse?

  I’m about to alert the staff when I see a tear course down Kate’s cheek. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. And it’s only then that I realize she’s too distressed to communicate. The huge shudder she gave was the precursor to this, her now-anguished sobbing.

  ‘Oh, Kate,’ I say, and try to put my arms around her. Again I notice how thin she is. I can feel the ribs in her back. It’s as if they’re sitting directly beneath the fabric of the gown, no flesh at all in between.

  My face is next to hers, and I kiss her hair softly. It smells faintly of sour vomit but it’s not totally unpleasant, more like the acid smell of a well-used Thermos flask. I don’t pull away. Somewhere in the distance I hear the fast, hard clicking of Alexa’s boots, but I don’t register her presence until she speaks.

  ‘Have you told her?’ she demands from the foot of the bed. ‘Have you told her about Guy?’

  I turn around quickly. ‘No,’ I mouth, my eyes wide.

  Kate must have an inkling, though, surely. If Kate suspects her husband of foul play, she must know it won’t be long before the police cotton on to it.

  ‘Told me what about Guy?’ Kate asks, stumbling on her words. ‘Is he … is he injured?’

  Alexa fixes Kate with a steady look. ‘He’s been arrested.’

  Instinctively Kate moves her hand to her mouth in dismay, but gets a stab of pain from the drip cannula. She whimpers softly. Her whole face is contorted and I am now more confused than ever. Again she goes to speak, but cannot. She looks to me, whispering, ‘Why?’, and I’m thinking, I thought you knew why.

  I thought you’d discovered Guy has been lying to you, and that’s why you tried to kill yourself. If it wasn’t for that reason, then … what is it?

  I stop with the speculation when I notice Kate’s pleading eyes are still upon me. ‘Why?’ she says again, silently, but I have no answer.

  I mean, what on earth am I supposed to say?

  33

  I’VE HAD MY PHONE switched off inside the hospital. There are signs all over the place saying mobiles interfere with the defibrillators or ventilators … or something, which I’m sure is probably bollocks, but can understand all the same. The last thing you’d want lying in a hospital bed is some loud-mouthed idiot telling the world how important he is.

  When I reach my car I switch my phone back on and see I have a text. It’s from Lorna, one of the kennel girls at the shelter. It says simply:

  Bluey back.

  I give out a small cry of relief and climb behind the wheel. I get the heat going and immediately ring Lorna. As soon as she ans
wers, I say, ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Tied to the fence at the bottle bank by Booths,’ she says breathlessly. She must be in the middle of mopping up. ‘Mad Jackie Wagstaff found him at seven this morning, when she was recycling her empties. She dropped him off saying he must have been abandoned, because the car park’s empty at that time. She sends her apologies for bringing you another dog, by the way, but said she couldn’t just leave him there.’

  ‘How long do you think he’d been there?’ I ask.

  ‘No idea. She said he was a sorry sight. Poor bugger had his head down as usual, waiting for someone to come and get him. Probably stand there all bloody week if he had to.’

  I feel a sob building in my chest and have to take a couple of breaths to stifle it.

  ‘Lisa,’ Lorna asks, ‘you still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I sniff, ‘just relieved he’s all right … is he all right?’

  ‘He seems okay. He’s not eaten, but that’s not unusual for him. I might mix a bit o’ cat food in with it, see if he’ll have it then. What d’you think that fella wanted with him, anyway? Why run off with him then go and dump him? … I said to Shelley, “What’s the point in that?” ’

  ‘I’ve got a theory – I’ll tell you about it when I get in. I shouldn’t be too long, depends on how bad the roads are.’

  ‘They’re better than yesterday.’ Then her tone changes: ‘Lisa?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Joe told us about your friend in hospital. Is she going to be okay?’

  I’d asked Joe to telephone work for me and let them know the score, told him to tell them about Kate so I could get straight to the hospital to see how she was doing.

  ‘She’ll recover,’ I say to Lorna. ‘I’ve just seen her, and she was sitting up and able to talk. Her sister’s with her, I’ve let them have some time together.’

  ‘Did she, like, have problems or something?’

  ‘She’s the one whose daughter’s missing.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says emphatically. ‘Oh, that’s awful.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, and I tell her I’ll be around in half an hour.