by Dani Atkins
‘It’s not with Max and me,’ I assured him.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’ I glanced up at Max and caught the sympathy in his eyes and something else. He reached out and took hold of my hand, which did nothing at all to dissolve the doubt on David’s face. Very slowly he turned to my boyfriend.
‘Not that I feel the need to justify myself to you, but I am not going to stand here and let you talk like that to someone I love.’ David’s mouth tightened into an angry line. ‘I am not, never have been and never will be at all interested in Ally in the same way that you are.’
‘No Max, you don’t have to—’
David looked on and even though it should have been patently obvious what Max was telling him, he still didn’t seem to get it.
‘I’m gay, you dick head,’ he said.
That was the moment when I knew they were never going to be friends.
Chapter 5
Ally
The hospital foyer was much busier than it had been earlier. More patients had arrived and were scattered in small clusters, like survivors from a battle. Some held blood-stained bandages to their wounds, several were cradling an arm or a wrist, a few had their feet propped up on the seats beside them. I guessed the slippery pavements had claimed a fresh batch of victims.
I kept my head down as I headed back to the lifts, but before I reached them I heard my name being called out above the soft hubbub of the wounded.
‘Mrs Taylor.’
My head spun in the direction of the summons and I saw a tall shape in a dark uniform detach himself from a group of people seated in the far corner of the room. The voice belonged to the policeman who had come to my house, the bringer of bad news, and suddenly I knew why the expression which urged you not to ‘shoot the messenger’ had been born. My footsteps faltered as he beckoned me to join him. I’d already spent far too long outside on the phone and the urge to return to the ICU, to be close to Joe, compelled me like a spell.
Maybe it was the authority of the uniform he wore, but I changed course and headed towards him and the group of people he had been talking to. His eyes were kind as they watched me approach.
‘How are you doing, Mrs Taylor? I understand there’s been no change yet in your husband’s condition?’
I shook my head fiercely. Don’t be kind to me, I thought desperately. Be professional, be curt, arrest someone, give someone a ticket, just don’t be kind to me. But I guess telepathy isn’t something they teach them at the police academy, because he continued. ‘I’m so very sorry to hear there’s been no improvement yet. But don’t give up hope. You’d be surprised at the miracles we hear about every single day in this job.’
I gave a small watery smile. I knew he meant well, but I’d stopped believing a long time ago that bad things didn’t happen to good people.
‘We’ve been piecing together what happened to Mr Taylor this afternoon, and I thought it might help you to learn what your husband did. On the seats behind me are the Webb family, they’ve been waiting here for several hours hoping they’d be able to speak with you.’ He must have read the confusion and uncertainty on my face. ‘You’re going to want to hear what they have to say,’ he added softly.
I looked beyond him at the family who were staring at me with sad eyes and a whole spectrum of different emotions, ranging from sympathy to gratitude and finally guilt. I didn’t know who they were, or what their connection was to Joe, but if the policeman was right, these strangers held the missing key that would unlock the mystery of why my husband was fighting for his life in an intensive care ward instead of sitting in our front room with our son and me.
The woman got to her feet, her young daughter hanging desperately on to the hem of her jumper. The woman’s eyes were awash with compassion as they met mine. ‘Mrs Taylor, my name is Fiona and this is my husband Paul and these are our children Marty, Ellie and Josh.’ I had pretty much forgotten all of their names even before she had finished speaking. ‘And we just wanted to say that we owe your husband the kind of debt no one can ever repay.’ I looked over at the policeman, hoping he could clarify the woman’s mysterious statement, but he just nodded gently, urging me to listen on. ‘Your husband was walking through the park this afternoon—’
My fault, I thought. I had the car. I should never have taken the car.
‘And he came to the rescue of our oldest son, Marty, who had fallen through the ice on the frozen pond.’
‘And Todd,’ chirped in the little girl, Ella? Ellie? ‘He rescued Todd too.’ Her mother silenced her with a gentle ‘Hush, sweetheart.’
She looked back at me and her eyes were diamond-bright with tears of gratitude. ‘Our dog had fallen through the ice and Marty was trying to get him out when he got into difficulties and the ice beneath him cracked.’ As did her voice as she spoke.
A strange feeling stirred deep within me. Part of it was anger and the other part was pride. A child in danger. Of course Joe would have gone to save him. Without hesitation, without thought, without any sense of the risks he was taking. I loved and hated him in that single moment for his bravery.
‘My kids say he didn’t hesitate, not even for a second,’ she continued, glancing down at her children for confirmation. Three wide-eyed faces nodded back at her. ‘He went straight onto the ice himself and managed to get Marty out. The kids were so scared, but he was calm and kind and kept reassuring them everything was alright, that they were going to be okay. Then he pulled Marty out of the water and got him back to safety.’
I nodded, my vision of the woman suddenly twisted and distorted behind the tears her story had produced. What she said was so very Joe. He was calming and reassuring. I thought of his hand gripping mine in the depths of labour, his eyes focused on my pain-contorted face, telling me over and over again that he was there, he was with me, together we could do this.
The eldest child – the one who I guessed was Marty – had burrowed his face in his father’s jacket, but the quilting did little to muffle his sobs. ‘It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t tried to rescue Todd, then Mr Taylor wouldn’t have had to rescue me. He’s sick now because of me.’
His father patted the back of his head and I knew Joe would not want me to let him carry this burden. Walking stiffly, like someone much older than my years, I crouched down before the child and gently touched his shoulder.
‘Marty Marty.’ At first I thought he wasn’t going to look at me, but then slowly he lifted his head from his father’s side to meet my eyes. His own were deep pools of blame. ‘Marty, please don’t be sad, and don’t blame yourself. Joe would have come to get you off that ice even if you’d have been screaming at him to stay away. He’s a daddy too, you see,’ I heard the boy’s father draw in his breath sharply at my words, ‘and the most important thing in the world to him is keeping our little boy safe, and I know, I just know that when he saw you in trouble, he would have done everything he could to help you.’
‘He did. He was so brave. He’s like a real life superhero.’
I smiled sadly. ‘Yes, Marty. That’s just what he is.’
The little girl standing beside her mother was tugging even more urgently on the hem of her mum’s jumper, in a way that was probably going to render the garment completely unwearable after today.
‘And Todd,’ she said quietly. ‘He was a superhero because he went back onto the ice a second time to rescue Todd too.’
Fiona Webb looked stricken with guilt. ‘The children adore that dog,’ she said, putting her arm around her young daughter’s shoulders and drawing her to her side as she spoke. ‘After Marty was safe, the children were still frantic about the dog . . .’ The woman sounded beyond apologetic as the picture of what must have happened next became clear. ‘I think maybe Mr Taylor—’
‘Joe,’ I amended.
‘. . . Joe must have realised one of them might still try to go after it . . . so he did instead.’ Her words made sense, but even without the presence of the children, Joe
wouldn’t have been able to stand by and watch an animal suffer. This was the man who picked up birds with broken wings and took them in a shoebox to the RSPCA; who bought humane mouse traps and drove the captured rodents miles away to open fields to release them. There’s no way he would allow a dog to drown in front of the children. I got slowly to my feet, my heart aching. The young girl suddenly left her mother’s side and threw her thin little arms around my legs. ‘Mr Taylor is the bravest, kindest man in the whole world,’ she said.
‘He is,’ I confirmed sadly. ‘He really is.’
I tried to keep the thought that Joe had saved Marty, risked everything, his life, his future, our future, all because of Marty, in the forefront of my mind. Don’t get me wrong, I love animals, I really do, and we’d talked many times about getting a dog or a cat for Jake to grow up with. But I couldn’t let myself think of the pay-off Joe had gambled with. The dog had lived . . . I was truly glad of that, really I was. But still . . . for a dog? Really?
There was a strange, glowing aura of light shining through the glass porthole in the door to the Relatives’ Room. As I slowly released the handle and walked in I saw it was coming from an open laptop which was on the seat beside Charlotte. I don’t think Charlotte was initially even aware that I’d entered the room, because she was absorbed in what appeared to be a fairly intense telephone conversation. I felt my shoulders tightening in annoyance at her cavalier use of a mobile phone. How typical of her not to care. But as I glanced back into the corridor, fast disappearing from sight by the closing door, I could hear no warning klaxons sounding, so perhaps the use of a mobile didn’t actually cause everything in a hospital to shut down. I slowly lowered myself onto one of the chairs, which happened to give me a clear view of the webpage Charlotte must have been reading before her phone call.
My eye was initially caught by the familiar NHS logo on one corner and then, when I saw the heading, it would have been impossible to look away. Viral Cardiomyopathy. I thought I’d heard of the condition before and although I could remember very little about it, I knew it was serious. Potentially even more serious than a heart attack. So she’d lied to me before. Well, it wasn’t the first time. I craned forward in my seat, trying to read the scattered sections of text that Charlotte had highlighted in yellow. I’ve got pretty good night vision – you need it when reading musical scores in dimly lit auditoriums and theatres. So with a little squinting I managed to distinguish several words and phrases from the internet page, and was then instantly sorry that I’d done so. ‘Attacks the heart’, ‘Permanent damage’, ‘Severe and life-threatening heart failure’. I must have made some small sound, because Charlotte pivoted sharply in her seat, saw the direction of my gaze and slammed down the lid on her laptop.
‘Sorry Veronica, what were you saying?’
Despite all the years that had passed, I was almost ashamed at the way my insides curled and tightened as I realised Charlotte was talking to the woman who was her mother-in-law. The woman who had done practically everything within her power to make sure she was never mine. I started to rise from my chair and pointed at the door, not wanting her to think I was deliberately eavesdropping on what I’m sure was a very difficult conversation. I could hardly imagine Veronica had mellowed much in the intervening years. Surprisingly Charlotte shook her head, indicating there was no need to leave. So I didn’t.
I tried not to listen, but it was virtually impossible not to do so, and besides there was part of me that was curious to know how she had tamed the tigress enough to be allowed entry into that preciously guarded family.
‘No, Veronica. I completely agree. Yes, you’re right. Absolutely. Yes, definitely.’ So that was how it was done, was it? Total compliance. No wonder Veronica and I had never got along. But then, there had only been that one meeting.
‘Unbelievable,’ muttered Charlotte, staring with numbed incredulity at the mobile in her hand for a long moment after the call was completed.
I looked up and saw her shaking her head at the small device, as though some lingering trace or essence of the woman she had just been talking to was capable of seeping from within it.
‘My mother-in-law is like an unstoppable force of nature.’
‘I remember,’ I said bitterly, the taste of the past still capable of stinging like lemon juice in a cut. For a moment Charlotte looked startled, as though she hadn’t realised she’d spoken her thoughts out loud . . . and to me, of all people.
‘Oh, sorry. I forgot, you know her . . . of course you do.’
‘Not really,’ I replied, uncomfortable at the mention of anything that tied me to her husband. ‘Certainly not well.’
‘I don’t think anyone knows Veronica well,’ Charlotte said in a revealing moment. She dropped the mobile back into her designer bag, with a humourless laugh. ‘She’s on her way right now to persuade the captain of her cruise ship to divert to the nearest port so she can fly back home.’
‘Well . . . if anyone can do it . . .’
‘Yes, I know . . . it’s her.’
For just a second Charlotte’s eyes met mine and there was a moment of shared understanding. We both jerked back from it, as though from a live current.
‘I need to stretch my legs,’ Charlotte declared, jumping suddenly to her feet. She strode to the door, her gait jerky. Agitation followed her like a visible shadow; she couldn’t outwalk or outrun it, but perhaps she didn’t know that yet. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, torn and uncomfortable by the need to ask even the smallest of favours from me.
‘If they come looking for me . . . the doctors . . . will you tell them I’ll just be five minutes or so?’
I nodded my agreement. The least we actually said to each other, the better. Charlotte clearly thought so too, because she left the Relatives’ Room without another word.
Charlotte
‘One coffee to go, please,’ I said, watching as the steaming liquid jetted like a black waterfall into the waiting cup. I could feel a jarring, jangling sensation thrumming deep within every part of me, making caffeine possibly the very last thing I needed right now. It would be all too easy to blame my frayed nerve endings entirely on David’s mother, because God knows, she could get under someone’s skin more effectively than anyone I’d ever met – including my own mother – which was quite an achievement. But this time Veronica wasn’t solely to blame for the pulse rate that wouldn’t settle, nor the acid indigestion which felt as though it was corrosively burning me up from the inside out.
This was what fear, laced with total and unbridled panic felt like. This was the mother anxiously watching the clock when her child was late home; this was the relative waiting when the plane went down; or the earthquake shook the town, or the tornado struck. This was the helplessness you felt when the life of someone you loved was in hands other than your own. This is what made you broker that deal with God, and made you promise you’d never ask for anything else, ever again. God and I hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms recently, but here in the quiet deserted hospital cafeteria I asked, no pleaded with Him to make everything right for David. I could let everything else go – if I had to – but not David, never him. I’d strike any bargain that I could to save him, just as he’d saved me, twice from danger and then every single day since we’d been together.
I delved into my wallet for a handful of coins to pay for my drink, and then hesitated before reaching for a note instead. ‘Actually, could you make that two coffees, please.’
I didn’t know if Ally would accept anything from me. Had the fast-flowing current of water beneath the bridge washed away the bad blood between us? Or was it still lurking beneath the surface: a billowing red cloud of animosity that had drowned the fledging friendship we had once known?
Charlotte – Six Years Earlier
The coffee was strong and hot, exactly the way I liked it, but I couldn’t enjoy it. Nor the view of the city slowly coming awake through the glass wall of windows in David’s dockside flat. I sat at the wh
ite marble breakfast bar, staring with unseeing eyes as vibrant orange streaks splashed through the grey early morning sky, like a canvas where the artist had suddenly changed his mind. I watched the scene change from night to day. Change. It was an inevitable part of life. You couldn’t stop it, or fight it. People changed all the time, friendships came and went (I certainly had reason to know that), and relationships changed, evolved and moved on. But what about feelings – did they ever really change? I wanted so much to believe that they do. I wanted to be as sure as it was possible to be, that the love my fiancé felt for his former girlfriend was gone, that no lingering trace remained. I wanted her bleached from his mind, his heart and his soul, and for a time I thought this had happened. But had I just been fooling myself?
‘There you are,’ said David, emerging from the bedroom, looking immaculate and handsome in a charcoal grey suit and dazzling white shirt. My breath caught in my throat as he slid his arms around my waist and burrowed through my long blonde hair, until his lips found the side of my neck.
‘Hmm . . . you smell good. Or maybe it’s the coffee,’ he said teasingly reaching out to pour himself a cup. I smiled, but it felt forced.
‘Are you feeling alright? You seem a little quiet.’
He said her name. ‘I’m fine,’ I assured. ‘Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep very well.’
His brilliant blue eyes clouded in concern as they closely studied my face. ‘You were restless last night. The sheets on your side of the bed look like they’ve been caught in a tornado.’
‘I think you might have been responsible for that,’ I said, my voice becoming a little husky. Like an arc of electricity, the memory of the passion we had shared crackled between us.
‘I think we both were,’ he corrected.
He said her name.
I should say something, I should tell him. He’d been dreaming. I’d known that from the fluttering movement of his eyelids, and the small murmuring sounds from deep in his throat. He lay upon the tangled sheets, illuminated in a beam of milky white moonlight lasering through the window. Even in sleep he was handsome: his dishevelled dark hair called out for me to touch it; the shadow bristling his chin beckoned my cheek to graze it; the soft curve of his sleeping mouth whispered to my lips. I couldn’t resist. Propped on one elbow, I slowly lowered my face and gently kissed his sleeping mouth. His lips curled at the touch of mine, and parted slightly. He was still asleep, of that I am certain.
