A Flash of Blue

by Maria Farrer

  Walking through the entrance of the hospital is like walking into a part of my mind that I prefer to keep closed. Bit by bit, the wall I have built so carefully is crumbling. I try to blank out arriving here with PC Marsh, taking the lift to intensive care, seeing Tyler’s face. Too late. I was too late.

  I need flowers. There’s nothing very pretty except for roses, which are too expensive. I settle for a bunch of something without too much orange. Gran doesn’t like orange flowers. I follow the signs to the ward and rehearse what I’m going to say.

  The ward is divided into a number of rooms, each with six beds. I peer through trying to spot Gran, but a lot of the beds have curtains drawn around them.

  A nurse stops me. “I’m afraid it’s not visiting hours,” she says. “You’ll have to come back at three. Who have you come to see?”

  “My gran. Mrs Turner.”

  I stand clasping my bunch of flowers. I hadn’t even thought about visiting times. It’s only just after 11a.m. and I can hardly sit and wait for four hours. Tears of frustration fill my eyes. “Please,” I say. The nurse seems to calculate the situation and tells me to wait a moment.

  When she comes back, she’s smiling and her voice has softened. “Your gran is with the physio at the moment but they’re nearly through. You can pop in after that. Not for long, though – and don’t tell anyone! Take a seat in here and I’ll come and get you when she’s ready.” She shows me into a room with chairs and a fish tank.

  “Thank you,” I say and I mean it with every bit of my being. “Don’t tell her I’m here,” I say. “I want it to be a surprise.”

  “All right,” she says, and hands me a box of tissues from the side. “Your gran is doing well. She should be home by the end of the week. Cheer up – she’s going to be OK.”

  I wipe away the remainder of my tears.

  So much has happened since I last saw Gran. She’s been cocooned here in hospital while my life spirals out of control.

  A frail old woman comes in, taking unsteady steps behind her walking frame. She’s concentrating hard. A nurse is with her, hands out either side, ready to catch. The old lady stops when she gets to me and admires the flowers. She’s spilt something down the front of her dressing gown. “Learning to walk again,” she says, grinning, as she staggers forward. The nurse dances around behind her. Encouraging.

  “You’re doing well,” I say. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose the ability to walk.

  Can Gran walk? I hadn’t thought about that. How will she look? I don’t want Gran to have spills down her dressing gown. She’s fussy about the way she looks. I wait and wait until I wonder if the nurse has forgotten about me. The old lady comes round for a second time and her movements seem less effortful.

  “You’ll be on the running track soon,” I say and she loves that.

  I flick through a magazine without focusing on anything and finally the nurse comes back and I follow her along the corridor. Gran is in a room at the far corner of the ward, and she’s sitting on a chair between her bed and the window. She does look thinner and very tired, but her hair is brushed. A man in a white top and blue trousers is busy organizing a pile of cushions around her and Gran doesn’t notice me at first. Seeing her, sitting up and alive, makes me want to burst with happiness. I move forward slowly, glancing at the rows of get well cards for my own. It’s behind the jug of orange squash, so at least Mum gave it to her. Gran is still fussing around, trying to get comfortable, and then she sees me.

  “Hello!” There’s question, surprise, but not a hint of anger in her voice. “This is my granddaughter,” she says to the physio. “Amber.”

  “Hi,” he says, smiling. “I’ll leave you to it then. See you tomorrow, Mrs Turner. Don’t forget to do your feet exercises. Three times a day – more if you can.”

  My own feet seem stuck to the floor.

  “Well,” says Gran. “It’s you. I was wondering when you were going to come and see me.”

  “I wanted to come before but…”

  “Don’t just stand there,” she says, her face breaking into a huge smile. “Come and give me a hug.”

  I try to hide my confusion and try to smile back. The upright chair and cushions and flowers make hugging awkward and it’s more of a lean than a hug. She pats my shoulder. It all feels wrong. She doesn’t smell like Gran, she smells like hospital, and it’s a smell I associate with death.

  “I’ve brought you these,” I say and hold out my flowers. “Sorry, they’re not very exciting.”

  She takes them and sniffs them. “Mmmm,” she says, “they’re lovely. We can throw out those old ones and put yours here in instead. You could do that for me if you like. Look, there’s a bin in the corner over there.”

  I do as she says and it gives me a little time to pull myself together. When I’ve finished, I perch on the edge of her bed. It’s hard and uncomfortable and it makes a strange noise every time I move.

  “You were lucky they let you in,” she says. “They’re quite strict about visiting times.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to see me.” I hang my head.

  “Who said I didn’t want to see you?” Gran sounds very put out. I wonder if her memory has gone or something.

  “I don’t blame you,” I say, “I know this was all my fault”

  Gran is frowning now. “Amber, who told you that I didn’t want to see you?”

  “Dad… Mum.” I stare down at my feet.

  “Is that what they said?” She pauses. “Look at me. Did they tell you I didn’t want to see you?”

  I nod, miserably and then I give a small shrug.

  “What I said was that I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she sweeps her hand across her body. “I didn’t want you coming to the hospital and getting all upset. I certainly didn’t want you to see me when I was half dead because no one wants to be seen when they’re blue about the edges. But I never said that I didn’t want to see you.”

  I try to remember Dad’s exact words.

  “I thought you were so angry at me.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because of what happened. Because I made you have a heart attack.”

  “Well, you may be a clever girl, but I can assure you that even you couldn’t make me have a heart attack.”

  “But the party!”

  Gran waves her hand in the air as if wafting away a bad smell. “Oh, well that, yes, it was a bit stressful and it probably didn’t help. But I knew you’d be all right. This old heart of mine had been jangling warning bells for a while. It was going to happen some time.”

  But it didn’t happen some time. It happened when I didn’t turn up to meet her. The same as Liam happened – or stopped happening – after I took his stone. The same as Granddad when I smoked in his shed.

  Gran crosses her arms and gives me her not-serious cross look. “I hope you’re not going to sit there looking miserable. I need cheering up. So do you by the looks of things.”

  All I can think about is explaining to Gran what happened.

  “My phone was stolen,” I say. “And all my money – at the party, I mean. That’s why I couldn’t call you. And the party was awful so I left and spent the night with a friend. But we overslept and…”

  Gran continues to wave the information away. “Let’s forget all that. No good crying over spilt milk. I’ll be out of here by the end of the week and I don’t want you to think any more about it. Everything is fine.”

  The problem is, everything is not fine and that’s what I need to talk to her about.

  “Tell me what you’ve been up to while I’ve been lying around in here,” she says, her voice full of enthusiastic encouragement. “Has the café been busy?”

  I press my hand into a fist in front of my mouth; holding in the words. How can I begin to tell her? I can’t. It�
��ll make her ill again.

  “Amber?” she says. “Are you all right?”

  I nod. I shouldn’t have come.

  Her smile goes. “Is it Mum? Dad?” She leans forward slightly in her chair.

  I drop my hand, but clamp my teeth over my bottom lip. I don’t know where to start – or if to start. The words I’d rehearsed have gone.

  “I can’t help unless you talk to me,” she says gently.

  My fist hammers up and down on my leg, faster and faster. Gran puts her hand over it. “Take a breath,” she says.

  I take three. “I got arrested. Yesterday.”

  Gran goes very still. It’s the only outward sign she gives of surprise.

  “Are you going to tell me what for?” Her voice is calm and measured. I can only imagine what’s going on inside.

  “Burglary – or helping with a burglary – I mean I didn’t actually steal anything myself – I didn’t even go into the house.”

  Gran blinks a lot, as if trying to take in what I’m telling her. “But you were there and you knew.” She nods as she speaks.

  “Yes, I was there. Yes, I suppose I knew. I’d had a bit to drink. They made me ring the doorbell. That’s all I did. Ring the bell. Then I think I was supposed to keep watch and … I don’t know what happened after that. They were ages and then the police came and I tripped and fell when I was trying to run away … I was the only one that got caught.” The unfairness of it rips through me again.

  “Slow down, slow down,” says Gran. “They. You said they made you ring the doorbell. Who are they?”

  I drop my eyes and press my lips together.

  “I see,” she says. “And did you tell the police who they were?”

  “No. I can’t. If I do…” I shift my position on the bed and it squishes uncomfortably. “… I don’t know what will happen if I do – bad things.”

  Gran turns and looks out of the window. She twists her wedding ring round and round – the wedding ring she can’t get over her knuckle any more. “Threats are a sign of weakness, you know.” She turns back to me. “Mostly it’s words – but you’ll have to be the judge of that. I can understand you’re frightened but you need to think about it very carefully.”

  How does Gran know? Has someone talked to her? A mesh of unspoken thoughts hovers in the air between us and her eyes travel over me, making me self-conscious.

  “What happens next?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” My shoulders slump. “I’ll hear from the police within the month. The youth someone or other. Then I have to go back to the police station. I don’t know what will happen to me.” I grip the blanket on the bed and try to stay calm.

  “It’s good you’re scared,” she says. “You should be. You’ve made a bad mistake.”

  “I’ve made lots of bad mistakes. It was a mistake I was born.” I snap it out. It’s anger at myself, not Gran.

  “Sshhh,” she says. “We all make plenty of bad mistakes. I could write a book about mine.” She laughs, then becomes serious again. “I can’t pretend that I’m not upset and disappointed, of course I am, but I have a feeling this situation isn’t entirely of your own making. I’m not just talking about these others who were with you. I’m talking about me and your mum and dad. One thing I know for sure, you’re not a bad girl, not really. I don’t want you to think I’m making excuses for you, because I’m not, but sometimes it’s hard to be perfect in an imperfect world.”

  I cover my eyes with my hands and shake my head.

  “I do understand,” she continues.

  Old people always think they understand. The problem is, they don’t, so whatever they say isn’t quite right.

  “I’m going to tell you a little secret,” she says.

  Here we go, I think. A moral tale, no doubt. She waits until I look at her.

  “I was in trouble once. A long time ago.” Her gaze shifts back to outside the window. “I got involved with the wrong people – bad people. They were using fraud to get money from the company we worked for. I was just an office junior. But I was easily influenced and I thought I was in love. And then it all fell apart and when I threatened to expose them, they blackmailed me. I know what it’s like to feel threatened. In my case, it was so bad, I had to get away. That’s how I ended up in France. I know what’s happening to you is different and I know a lot of things have changed since I was young. But when I say I understand, I mean it.”

  It takes time to process what Gran is telling me. I’d heard rumours, but I’d never imagined that it was anything serious.

  “Mum never told me.”

  “That’s because your mum doesn’t know. No one does. Except your granddad – and now you. My secret is safe with him and I trust it’ll be safe with you too. It’s not something I’m proud of.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I say. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  She smiles. “I’d rather you didn’t hope to die. You’ve got a big life ahead of you.”

  I try to think about what might be asked, but only bad things come to mind.

  “I wish I could go to France.”

  She squeezes my hand in hers and turns it over as if reading my palm. “One day maybe you can. But it’s not the answer. You can’t run away from guilt and responsibility.”

  I know I won’t be able to stop the tears. I try to choke them back but they escape. What did I think? That Gran could wave a magic wand and make everything go away?

  Gran pulls me towards her. I kneel on the floor and rest my head on her lap. For a few minutes, sandwiched between a bed and a window in the corner of a hospital ward, I feel totally safe with the only person in the world who still cares about me. She strokes my hair gently.

  “You see, you need to find a way to make peace with yourself. It’s not good enough to be sorry – you have to do something to prove it to yourself and to others. That’s the only way to move forward.”

  My tears drop on to Gran’s dressing gown. I feel them trickling over the bridge of my nose and across my cheek.

  “But what can I do?”

  “You’ll find a way. Or, most likely, a way will find you. That’s what usually happens.”

  “Not in my case.”

  “We’ll see,” she says soothingly. “We’ll see.” Her hand makes small circles on my back.

  I hope she’s right, but the trouble is she only knows the half of it. How can I make peace with myself when I’m so angry, so resentful, so confused? How can I do anything when Declan, Joel and Tyler are still out there? There’s too much stuff that’s unresolved. I want to be safe; I want to be normal again.

  “Do you ever think about Liam?” I ask Gran.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Do you think we could’ve saved him, if we’d known in time?” I say. “Or do you believe in fate?”

  At once she goes very still and I look up to make sure she’s OK. She’s frowning. She doesn’t speak for a while. I want her to give me an answer.

  “That’s a big question and one I’m sure we’ve all asked ourselves a thousand times. And I don’t know. Liam might have survived if it had been diagnosed. He would have had a lifetime of drugs and there would have been limits on what he was allowed to do. Ultimately, he might have needed a new heart. On the other hand, it may have made no difference.”

  “Do you think other things could have played a part – like stress maybe – or fear?”

  “Of course things like that can make a difference. He pushed his body to the limit. It was amazing there weren’t more warning signs. But he certainly never struck me as very stressed. And what did he have to fear?”

  I give the smallest shrug.

  “You have to let Liam go. We all take secrets to the grave. I agree that it feels like a mistake in the master plan when a young person dies – but ours is not to reason why. If you
r time is up, your time is up.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “Yes, Amber. I do.”

  I leave the hospital and turn my face to the sun. I hold on to everything Gran said. I use it as my crutch to get through each day.

  I’m expected to carry on life as normal: to go to work, come home, be the same. How can I be the same? I’m not the same. The one thing Gran can’t do is take away the threats or the uncertainty. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, what the police are going to do with me. I don’t trust days any more – or times, or places, or people. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not expecting sympathy, but nothing in my life could have prepared me for this and I don’t know how to deal with it.

  Dad told me we could keep it all quiet, but news travels fast and everyone likes a bit of gossip. First Liam, now me. We’ve given the neighbours plenty to talk about. It’s easier to avoid seeing people I know so I keep my head down and try not to be noticed. Oddly enough, working at the café isn’t too bad. There are a few regulars – but no one who knows me well.

  Simon’s mum has been on the phone to Dad, ranting on about me giving Simon’s name to the police and getting him into trouble. Apparently, I’m to stay away from Simon. Evidently Simon doesn’t talk to his mum or she’d know we’re not seeing each other anyway.

  So when the café door opens on Friday morning, and Simon walks in, I’m more than surprised.

  “Hi,” he says, casual as anything. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

  I feel like we’re strangers. I don’t know what to say to him. Simon who I know so well.

  “Can I get you something?” I ask.

  “Water would be good. I’ll get it.”

  There are jugs on the side nearby and he pours himself a large glass and gulps it down.

  “Your mum says I have to stay away from you. Did you know that?” I try to make a joke of it.

  Simon laughs drily. “Yep. Mum’s reputation has been damaged for ever since the police turned up at our door. She doesn’t seem so worried about my reputation.”