by K. L. Slater
He pressed his lips together. ‘As you can see, she’s in a bad way. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.’
The junior doctors watched me with a detached curiosity. I could imagine them writing up their reports later, under the heading: Communicating effectively with relatives of ICU patients.
I felt the nurse’s hand on my arm again. ‘Someone will be monitoring your sister all the time in here. You can rest assured she’s in the best place possible.’
‘It’s such a shock to see her so… broken,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level despite a rising tide of emotion. ‘She was so vibrant, always had so much energy.’
‘She suffered a very violent attack,’ the doctor stated.
‘You said she had internal injuries… they were caused by another person? By a beating?’
‘We were given few details by the police when she was brought in and they’re the people to talk to, really. But our initial thoughts are that her injuries have been caused during a physical attack, yes. She has three broken ribs, a collapsed lung, extensive bruising to her sternum and evidence of broken and fractured bones caused by blunt trauma.’
Someone really did a job on my sister. Someone with a lot of hatred in his heart.
The police told me to ask the doctors and the medics referred me back to the police. But I didn’t think they were hiding anything from me. They just hadn’t a clue what really happened to Michelle and they genuinely didn’t know if she was going to survive.
Twenty-Seven
MONDAY
Zachary was restless during the early hours again, tossing and turning, calling out unfathomable words and phrases. Unsurprisingly, we both had a night of broken sleep.
I watched the digital hours tick past on my bedside clock radio. My body felt like a lead weight as I stared up at the ceiling. I listened to the soothing rhythm of Zachary’s faint but regular breathing, a world away from the sound of my sister’s artificial gasping and expelling of air.
When I left the hospital yesterday, I knew I couldn’t go directly home without trying to process some of what I’d seen and learned at my Michelle’s bedside. I made the twenty-minute drive to Holme Pierrepont Country Park. I walked twice around the large Regatta Lake, relishing the feel of the biting wind on my face and hands.
I felt numb. Helpless. How could I possibly help Michelle now? I’d always been a fixer at heart. If someone I cared about had a problem, then I’d automatically take it on as my own, try and solve it for them or at least offer up some workable solutions. But in this instance, I felt completely powerless. There was literally nothing I could do, and I felt utterly impotent.
I slowed down as a gaggle of geese waddled across the footpath just a few yards away from me, completely unconcerned by my presence or my despair. Michelle loved it here, loved the wildlife. She used to run around this very lake when she was younger but when she started getting knee problems, she ditched the running and adopted the gym instead. Now I wondered if she’d ever be well enough to move again.
I glanced over at the digital clock. Six fifteen, and Zachary was resting peacefully at last, his warm little hand curled around mine. I lay quietly and enjoyed observing him without his usual objections of Mu-um, without him dodging my embrace or taking himself off to watch TV or play a computer game. He was growing up so fast that to watch him breathing next to me, to take in his perfect features, his fluttering eyelashes, his smooth skin… it was a rare treat to do so these days.
My heart clutched when I thought of the physical suffering he’d endured in the last couple of years through no fault of his own, and an overpowering sense of wanting to protect him from the horror of Michelle’s attack flooded through me.
When I’d eventually got home from the hospital yesterday, I’d talked to Owen in the kitchen and told him everything.
‘My God, I can’t believe it,’ he’d said, his face paling. ‘It sounds like whoever attacked her wanted her dead.’
I’d winced at his blunt manner and glanced at the door, nervous of Zachary suddenly appearing and hearing more than he should. ‘Owen, please don’t say things like that.’
‘Sorry. That was insensitive of me,’ he’d said. ‘Do they think… will she recover soon?’
‘They just don’t know at this stage. It’s touch-and-go but if she can get off the ventilator in the next forty-eight hours, then that’s a big milestone. But even if that happens, I think it could be weeks, if not months, before she’s well enough to come home.’
‘And she’s still unconscious?’ he’d said, perplexed. ‘There’s no way she can identify anyone or give the police any information on who might’ve done this to her?’
‘Sadly not. For now, anyway.’
‘Jeez.’ Owen blew out air. ‘I think our priority has got to be getting some normality back for Zachary throughout the upheaval. Agreed?’
‘Definitely,’ I’d said and I saw his shoulders drop an inch. ‘Within reason, though, Owen. It would be unfair to let Zach think we’re back together and everything’s rosy again.’
‘I’ll be sleeping in the spare room, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he’d said, a little sharply. ‘I thought you’d be glad of the extra support to be honest.’
‘I am. Of course I am, it’s just—’
‘You’ve got to admit that me staying here solves a lot of childcare problems for you. Unless you’re planning on closing down the business anytime soon.’
‘I’m not! I can’t do that.’
‘Well then, I suggest I move back in temporarily. I’ll finish the tenancy on the flat, there’s no sense in paying rent when I won’t use the place. I can start bringing my stuff back over tomorrow afternoon when you get back.’
‘Hang on, I need to think about this.’ My head was banging. Everything was moving way too fast. Big decisions being made on the hoof.
‘You worry too much,’ Owen had said dismissively, heading for the kitchen door. ‘You can’t manage Zachary on your own, you’ve admitted that. As his father, I need to be here as a stable influence if nothing else. You’re pulling yourself in far too many different directions and you can’t possibly care for Zach in the way he needs. Now, why don’t I pour you a gin and you can go up and have a nice bath?’
I’d opened my mouth to counter some of the things he’d stated but Owen was already in the hallway, humming a merry little tune to himself. I’d felt so tired, so washed out, I just let him go. Now, I felt renewed irritation that Owen had plans to install himself in the house again. Just like Michelle had said he was after doing.
I left Zachary sleeping and soundlessly slid out of bed.
I wrapped my dressing gown around me and padded past the spare room, where I caught Owen’s faint snores, and downstairs to the kitchen where I made myself some tea.
An hour and a half later I kiss Zachary, leaving the problem of getting him to school for Owen to sort out.
I entered the postcode for Bronzefield Prison into Google maps and with the image of Michelle covered in breathing apparatus seared into my mind’s eye, I set off to record the next episode of The Fischer Files.
It was going to be a long day.
Twenty-Eight
JUSTINE
It was early. Just before seven. Just as she’d anticipated, the office car park was reassuringly empty, and that suited her requirements perfectly.
She let herself into the building using her key fob – they all had 24/7 access to the office as sometimes it was necessary to work odd hours to meet publishing deadlines – and pressed the lift button.
There was a list of things she was here to do which she hoped she’d be able to complete without anyone else popping in and forcing her to pretend to work on something else.
She’d received a generic office email from Mo last night, telling everyone the police had contacted Esme yesterday morning. Michelle had been attacked and found in the woods. She was currently in hospital but Mo hadn’t mentioned the extent of her injuries.
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Justine had called him back right away but he hadn’t answered. She’d wanted to gauge his reaction, his thoughts as to what might have happened, but it would have to wait now.
She stepped out on the second floor and the Speaking Fox door faced her. There was a large sign on it with the company name and a crass cartoon drawing of a female fox dressed as a human in a tweed suit, taking notes. Justine had suggested getting the company name designed professionally: a smart icon that could be used across emails, letters, the website and social media.
But of course, Michelle had known better and had come up with this ‘friendly and accessible’ graphic that she and Esme believed would appeal to listeners and business contacts across the board.
Justine locked the door behind her, flicking the Yale switch so it couldn’t be opened from the outside.
She headed over to Mo’s desktop computer. She knew his password, had watched him type it in on several occasions. She sat down in his chair and turned on the monitor and then she saw it. Sitting on the desk right in front of her was a bonus she’d never expected to find today.
A Post-it note stuck on the screen, Mo’s scrawl marking it clearly as ‘Michelle’s laptop’. Even better, it looked as if the access software he’d obviously been running overnight had bypassed the security blocks and the machine was wide open for browsing.
What a stroke of luck.
Twenty-Nine
THE FISCHER FILES
EPISODE FOUR: DO YOUR BEST
You’re listening to Episode Four of The Fischer Files. I’m speaking to you from outside HMP Bronzefield women’s prison. Today I’m going to be speaking to Simone Fischer and you’re going to hear, in Simone’s own words for the first time, what she remembers about the day she killed her husband.
For the first time in the ten years she has been imprisoned, Simone is telling the story only she knows.
This is a Speaking Fox podcast and I… am Esme Fox.
So, I’ve just locked the car and I’m walking up to the prison and reflecting a little. I’ve done this a few times now and I actually feel like I’m getting to know Simone quite well. I’ve covered a lot of stories over my journalistic career. Believe me, I’ve had a varied taste of the terrible things some people can do to others, some very close to home.
The time has come for me to talk to Simone about the day she finally snapped and killed her husband. Sure, we’ve talked around it plenty, but the subject of exactly how he died has felt like the elephant in the room to me since the first time I met her.
Good news, I’m through security and on my way to see Simone in our interview room, escorted by Officer Donna. Donna doesn’t say much… but she’s smiling at me now, that’s a good sign! Here we are outside the room. Donna’s gone in to check everything’s OK for my visit. Simone is giving me a little wave.
She’s got a dress on today, hair down and looking fresh. I’d like to think it’s a sign she’s feeling positive about today. It can’t be easy for her, reliving the horror of what happened.
Esme: We’ve got a really good sense now of what it was like to be married to Grant. But November 13th, 2009… there must have been something different about that day?
Simone: Not to start with. At first, it was the same as any other day apart from the fact I felt unwell. I woke up, slipped out of bed very carefully so as not to disturb Grant. If I woke him I knew it was certain to rapidly turn into a bad day, so I learned to be very good at being silent. Silent without even thinking about it.
See, the quality of my life hinged on lots of small decisions: making the bed correctly, cleaning the house up to standard, producing a decent meal when he got home from work. His reactions were at the centre of my world and I was completely absorbed in just getting through the day on that basis.
Esme: You’d fully accepted this was your life by now?
Simone: Pretty much. When I met Grant I was an independent working woman who managed my own life perfectly well. As the years rolled by, I never thought about how and why I’d come to accept so little in life. I never thought about my childhood, about seeing my own mum controlled by my father. I just tried to get through every day. Do my best, please my husband and everything would be OK. Annoy him and I’d only have myself to blame.
Esme: I hear you. Simone, can you take us through the day it happened… from the beginning?
Simone: As I said, it started off just an ordinary day apart from the fact I had an upset stomach. Before Grant went to work, as usual, he told me what he wanted for dinner. Salmon en croûte and not shop-bought. He wanted me to make my own puff pastry, everything from scratch, he said.
Andrew had a stomach-ache too, so I said he could stay home from school. He spent the morning in his bedroom and didn’t come downstairs until lunchtime.
Esme: And Grant surprised you by arriving home early?
Simone: Yes… and I panicked. I’d spent all morning preparing the meal for later, making the pastry twice because it went wrong the first time, but I hadn’t had time to put the dish together yet.
I’d had to keep dashing to the bathroom, feeling more and more unwell as the day went on. But none of that mattered. If Grant did something out of the blue and I wasn’t prepared, then that was my fault. I was woefully unprepared to cook and serve his meal mid-afternoon rather than evening and he was predictably furious.
He trampled the pastry underfoot and tossed the fresh salmon fillets in the bin. He told me to walk to the supermarket to buy the ingredients again.
Esme: You’d already told him you were feeling unwell?
Simone: Yes, and he was amused. The supermarket was a mile away and I didn’t think I’d make it. I asked if I could take the car and he refused. By this time I had the mother of all headaches and I nearly collapsed at the thought of all that walking and then having to make the pastry again. It’s so fiddly, puff pastry. I just sat down at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands.
I heard him rustling about but I felt too ill to even look up and then something was pushed into my mouth. Raw pastry from the bin. I spat it out but he pushed in more, grabbed my hair and pulled my head back and filled my mouth with it. Ramming more and more in. I was retching, I couldn’t breathe… I was terrified I’d choke and he’d just watch me die. Then I vomited all over the table. He sat down opposite me and laughed. I mean, he really laughed.
Esme: What did you do?
Simone: It’s very hard to remember the detail, it feels like recalling a dream now – or a nightmare – trying to grasp the slipperiest of details. I remember his head, tilted right back, his teeth on show when he laughed so heartily. I saw the glint of metal on the side and I felt myself standing up and then… then I had a newly sharpened knife in my hand.
Esme: What recollection do you have of actually attacking your husband, Simone?
Simone: Sorry, I… my mind’s gone blank…
Esme: Take your time, there’s no rush. There’s no pressure.
Simone: I remember…
Esme: Yes?
Simone: I remember seeing his blood… so much blood. All over my hands.
END OF EXTRACT
Thirty
HMP BRONZEFIELD
ESME
I sat in the seating area in the foyer, relieved I was the only person there. I stared out of the window and unscrewed the cap on the small bottle of water I brought with me.
When I’d stood up to leave Simone after our interview, she’d reached across the table to touch my hand.
‘I can tell something is troubling you, Esme,’ she said gently. ‘Are you OK?’
The words spilled from my mouth before I could choke them back.
‘It’s my sister. She’s been attacked.’ The relief in sharing the burden of Michelle’s hospitalisation with someone else made my body slump slightly. I’d sat back down again. ‘She’s… she’s in intensive care.’
Donna, the prison officer, who was under strict instructions to monitor my visits and keep me to the agreed
thirty minutes, stepped outside the door and looked the other way.
‘They don’t know what happened yet,’ I explained. ‘Michelle is unconscious, on a ventilator. I’m out of my mind with worry. You should see the state of her, what he did…’ My voice faltered as Simone pushed her chair back, the legs scraping on the hard floor. She stood up and walked around the table to me, laying a hand on my arm. I felt the warmth of her fingers pressing gently into my flesh, the faint scent of vanilla as she moved a little closer.
She said, ‘Who attacked her? When you say “he,” who is it that attacked her? Do you know what happened?’
When she stepped back to look at me, her expression was strangely vacant. It seemed as if she was only half-focused on me, that her mind was elsewhere.
I shook my head. ‘The police know nothing at the moment and of course, Michelle can’t tell us anything.’
‘Come and see me again soon,’ she whispered, squeezing my forearm. ‘I’ll tell Janice to schedule in a few more visits… if you’d like, that is. I don’t want to add to your burden.’
I felt a light relief roll over me.
‘I would, like that, I mean.’ I nodded. ‘If you’re sure…’
‘I am sure. Certain, in fact.’ She pressed her face so close to mine her cheek grazed mine. In contrast to her hand, her face felt cool and smooth like marble. ‘Janice will be in touch.’
