by Paula Daly
‘I don’t want you to do anything,’ she sniffs. ‘I can’t speak to you right now.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
She spins to face me. ‘How could you?’ she whimpers.
I walk towards her. Her mascara is running down her cheeks, her red hair is frizzing at her temples. The muscles in her neck are taut and rigid, two thick straps running along either side of her slim throat. ‘How could you?’ she repeats, with more anger this time.
‘If we hadn’t lied, then your Gran wouldn’t have let us stay together,’ I explain.
‘Why not?’
‘She didn’t want us to be a couple in the first place. She tried to break us up. This would have given her everything she needed to call a halt to it for good. Alice, we fought to stay together and she overruled us. She made us split and go to university promising that we’d stay apart.’
‘And you agreed?’ she asks, truly astonished.
‘We didn’t have a lot of choice.’ I smile weakly. ‘If we didn’t, she wouldn’t fund your dad’s studies . . . and, well, he was set on becoming a lawyer.’
She’s staring down at her shoes. She hasn’t heard the story told this way before. We’ve always made light of it. Always told the girls we were young and reckless, we waved away any disappointment with the way things played out. ‘Don’t repeat our mistakes,’ we laughed, while at the same time trying our best to convey that it wasn’t ever a mistake. Not to us.
Eventually, she says, ‘He really wanted to study law, then?’ keeping her head low.
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘He really did.’
‘Does my . . . does . . . this other person . . . does he know about me? You told him about me, did you?’ Alice looks at me.
‘He knows.’
‘And he’s never tried to find me? He’s not, like, come looking and you’ve stopped his letters, or anything?’
‘No,’ I say sadly.
‘So, he really doesn’t want to know me? That’s what you’re saying?’
‘Love, I can’t speak for him, because’ – and I shrug my shoulders helplessly – ‘I can’t tell you why that is. The only thing I know, and this probably isn’t the time and place to be having this conversation, but he was a nasty, arrogant fool at the age of twenty-one, and in my experience people don’t change that much. People are who they are. You may want to think long and hard before going down the road of looking for him . . . if that’s what you’re thinking of doing.’
She pushes her foot into the carpet, divides the pile with her big toe. ‘But I feel so mad at Dad,’ she says.
I go to speak, but she cuts me off.
‘That’s wrong, isn’t it? I know it’s wrong, but I feel like he’s lied to me, always knowing I don’t belong to him. I feel like he must have hated me for being another man’s daughter.’
‘Have you ever once thought that he doesn’t love you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Well, then,’ and I take a breath. ‘Alice,’ I say to her, ‘he showed up when we needed him. I can’t imagine what life would have been like for us if he hadn’t. And, up until recently, he’s been here for you every single day. He brought you up,’ I whisper. ‘That means he’s your dad.’
She bows her head. ‘What about Eve?’ she asks. ‘Why did he need to do something as stupid as that when—’
There’s a commotion out in the hallway and I realize we need to move.
I hear the clack of equipment, the deep baritone of an unfamiliar voice.
I move towards Alice, cupping her face in my hands. I’m aware something seismic is taking place here; the fear of discovery has had too strong a hold over me for too long. A load is lifting. ‘He really loved us, Alice,’ I say, my eyes fixed on hers to make sure she fully understands what this meant to me back then. ‘He loved us, and I didn’t love him enough back in return. You want to be furious and disappointed with someone, that person should be me.’
I don’t wait for her response. I remove any evidence of the deep relief that’s beginning to bloom inside my chest and stride through to the kitchen.
There, I find a bearded, expansive figure crouched down by Eve’s side. He has the words ‘First Responder’ printed across the back of his shirt. He looks up as I enter.
‘It all just happened so fast,’ I tell him innocently.
40
SEAN AND I SIT side by side, the edge of the moulded plastic chair cutting into my spine. We are in the A & E waiting room of Lancaster Infirmary. Sean rode in the ambulance with Eve, and I followed in Eve’s car once I’d calmed the girls. I’m not insured to drive it, but hell, we’ve got bigger problems right now.
Sean has his head in his hands, and so far we’ve barely spoken. I arrived only a few minutes after him – the forty-minute drive to Lancaster taking closer to an hour in the rush-hour traffic. As far as we know, Eve has not regained consciousness, and though I’ve not yet voiced this to Sean, I’m hoping she never wakes up. My one big fear is Eve remembering what happened in the kitchen: Alice threatening her with a knife, Felicity knocking her backwards, and since we don’t know the extent of her injuries, I’m imagining the worst. I’m imagining, from the twisted, slumped position of Eve’s body, that she sustained a neck fracture and, of course, if she wakes, Felicity will be charged. Every few seconds I close my eyes and see my dad’s face. I pray to him with every fibre of my being for him somehow to strike Eve down dead.
The department is busy. It’s too early yet for the run of drunks who frequent A & E from early evening onwards, so the chairs are instead filled with whimpering children with various limb injuries, overweight men with breathing difficulties and a couple of people who look as if they’ve wandered in for no reason, perhaps simply to rest their legs.
We’ve been here for close to an hour and so far heard nothing. I pick up a magazine from the adjoining chair and thumb through it idly, wondering when I reached the age when I’m no longer able to recognize a celebrity.
As if from nowhere, an apparition almost, a neat, diminutive woman in her early fifties stands before us. ‘You’re with Eve Dalladay?’ she asks.
Sean lifts his head. ‘How is she?’
‘I’m Vanessa Rose, Senior Registrar. The preliminary X-rays show a fracture at C6. I’m afraid there are some early signs of neurological damage.’
Sean turns to me, worried, and I motion with my finger to the base of my neck. I keep my face blank and without emotion.
‘Has she woken up?’ he asks.
‘No,’ answers Dr Rose. ‘There’s some head trauma – we’re not sure of the extent. Sorry, but that’s all I can tell you for the moment. I’ll come back when I have more.’
And, with that, she’s gone.
‘What does that mean, Natty?’ Sean asks, his voice shaking.
I don’t answer.
He closes his eyes, sits back in his chair.
Is he visualizing a life with Eve, a life caring for a woman who will no longer be able to walk? Have limited use of her arms? Is he regretting ever getting involved with her?
Or is he devastated that the future they imagined together is almost certainly not going to happen?
A C6 injury means Eve will be able to breathe for herself, but this is high-intensity care, and twenty-four-hour nursing will be necessary right from the start.
‘I fucked up, didn’t I?’ Sean says quietly.
‘You and me both,’ I reply.
‘The fire?’ he says, unexpectedly. ‘You’re totally sure it was Eve?’
‘I can’t be totally sure it was her, no.’
‘So what makes you think she would do it?’
‘To stop me from disclosing who she really is.’
‘And do you know who she really is?’
I nod.
‘But you’re not going to tell me,’ he says.
‘Would you believe me even if I did?’
‘I would now,’ he says. ‘I would’ve had my reservations before,’ he says, ‘but after wha
t she just did to Alice? Telling her about us? Not sparing Alice’s feelings, and . . .’ His words drift off. He’s still not got his head around what Eve did back there.
After a moment of silence I ask, ‘What about the credit cards, Sean? You must take my word that they were cancelled purposely. She told me herself, said that it was you who orchestrated it.’
He frowns.
‘I just don’t see how she could have gained access to the accounts,’ he explains. ‘I’m not suggesting she didn’t do it, but I can’t see how it’s possible.’
‘Do you still keep your passwords and log-in information stored on that Word document, the one labelled “Passwords” on your laptop?’ I ask.
And he exhales. ‘Yes,’ he confesses, but I don’t push it. He probably doesn’t need another ‘I told you so’ at the moment.
We sit quietly. Observe the comings and goings of the department. I can feel him mulling over events in his mind when he turns to face me. ‘There have been other things,’ he says, his expression serious, fixed. ‘Things that didn’t quite add up. I don’t think I wanted to admit it, but I knew there was a problem.’
I nod to let him know I understand. ‘Do you love her?’ I ask.
‘I thought I did.’
‘And now?’
He hesitates.
‘This is going to sound arrogant,’ he says, ‘but I always saw myself as someone above having an affair. I never thought I’d succumb to the flattery.’ He pauses, embarrassed by his admission, checks around to make sure no one can hear before continuing. ‘I never thought I’d become some clichéd bloke who caved because it felt good to be wanted again, to be desired, to be virile. And when Eve came along and I felt all those things, I assumed it was love. The genuine thing.’ He scoffs now at the memory. ‘Didn’t think I was just as fallible as the next man.
‘I’m sorry, Natty,’ he adds quietly, before I have time to respond. ‘That wasn’t meant to be a proper explanation. You deserve better than that.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, reaching out my hand. ‘I find myself wondering the same kind of thing. How did I become the nagging, buttoned-up wife? How would it have turned out if I’d focused on you? On us? Instead of stressing about all the irrelevant stuff that gets in the way?’
His eyes fill up. He blinks and looks down as if I’ve just offered him a glimpse of a life that can now never be.
‘What am I going to do, Natty?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do I walk away? Or do I take care of her?’
‘Depends on what your conscience will allow you to do. You could walk out of this hospital now if you wanted to but, knowing you, I can’t imagine you’re willing to do that.’
He shakes his head like he can’t imagine doing that either.
‘It might help to know she did a real number on you,’ I tell him. ‘On all of us, in fact.’
He lifts his eyebrows in a gesture of Go on.
‘She’s got a whole past that she never revealed, that she’s kept hidden. I don’t think I even know the half of it.’
‘I suppose we all have our secrets, though, don’t we?’ he says reasonably.
I turn towards him. ‘Sean, she has a son.’
‘What?’
‘A son,’ I repeat. ‘No one knows about him,’ I warn, ‘and I promised it would stay that way. Her mother takes care of him. He’s around nineteen.’
Sean stares at me, the gravity of Eve’s deception perhaps only now beginning to hit home fully. ‘Jesus,’ he whispers.
I watch as he swallows repeatedly, his face losing colour. He appears stricken, as though his life is unravelling at too fast a rate. A second later he puts his head between his knees in an attempt to remain lucid. I’m about to go and fetch a sick bowl, or call for help when:
‘Mr Wainwright? Are you okay down there?’
It’s Detective Constable Aspinall.
‘Is he ill?’ she asks me.
‘Worried about Eve,’ I reply quickly, trying to mask my horror at her sudden presence here in A & E.
‘What happened?’ she asks casually, removing her jacket, slinging it over her left arm. She turns and glances towards the front desk, where I see her partner – the rotund, sweating detective who visited after the fire – making enquiries of the admissions clerk.
‘She . . . she fell,’ I stammer.
I grimace madly as if to suggest how unfortunate this all is, but DC Aspinall’s face remains fixed.
‘How did she fall exactly?’
‘Backwards. She hit her head on the granite worktop.’
DC Aspinall nods thoughtfully.
Sean lifts his head. ‘I think I need some air,’ he says, standing unsteadily. ‘I need to get out of here for a minute, is that okay?’
He is deathly white.
‘Fine by me,’ DC Aspinall tells him. ‘I’ll send my colleague along to check on you. If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Wainwright, you look as though you may be liable to pass out.’
Sean tries to smile. It’s a brave smile. He walks towards the sliding doors, shoulders hunched, head hanging, and I watch him go before turning back and staring straight ahead.
What is she doing here?
Has she been to the house and interviewed the girls?
Christ, what if they’ve said the wrong thing? I hadn’t had time to prep them properly for this eventuality. What if this detective is here to trick us? To see if our stories match? What if they’ve already told her the truth?
‘Mind if I sit?’ she asks brightly.
‘Not at all.’
The walls of the room begin to close in. I start to sweat. My hands shake, so I sit on them quickly to keep them from jumping around.
‘Traffic’s bad out there,’ she comments.
‘Hmm?’
‘I said, the traffic is bad through the centre of Lancaster.’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Yes, it is.’
I keep my eyes fixed ahead, on a huge poster depicting the various complications of morbid obesity, squinting as I pretend to read the text.
‘What is the news on Eve Dalladay?’ she asks. ‘Have you been told anything specific?’
DC Aspinall is very relaxed, as though we’re sitting side by side in the pub. My heart hammers wildly inside my chest and my instinct is to put my hand to it, try to mask the sound in case she can hear.
I shake my head. ‘They’re not able to tell us much. She fractured her spine, but they need to do more tests.’ I glance her way briefly so as to appear normal, and she nods once again, seemingly unfazed by Eve’s condition.
After a moment, she asks, ‘You’re not wondering what I’m doing here?’, a quizzical look on her face.
‘Sorry?’
‘You haven’t asked me why I’m here, Mrs Wainwright. I find that a little strange, to say the least.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes,’ she says firmly. ‘I do.’
She waits for me to respond. I swallow. Close my eyes briefly. ‘Why are you here, then?’ I ask quietly.
‘There have been some developments. An old case popped up on the database and I’m here to arrest—’
We’re interrupted by Dr Rose. She clears her throat, gives a cursory glance at Detective Aspinall before asking me to follow her immediately. DC Aspinall doesn’t protest, so I stand, unsure of what to do.
Do I find Sean?
I look towards the entrance, but I can’t see him and Dr Rose is already marching away.
Running a little to catch up, I pursue Dr Rose into a small waiting room, a private space away from the masses. ‘We can talk in here,’ she says. ‘There’s been a problem with accessing Eve Dalladay’s records,’ she says brusquely. ‘Is she a resident in the UK?’
‘Oh,’ I reply, flustered. ‘No, she’s not. She hasn’t lived here for quite a while.’
She looks down at her notes. ‘It’s not a major problem,’ she says absently, ‘but you will need to fill out a few forms. Anyway, we’ll
get to that later. The thing that we must do right now is a scan.’
My breathing stops.
I stare at her.
‘A scan, you say?’ I repeat carefully.
‘Yes, we need to ascertain the reason for Eve’s unconsciousness, to see if there’s any bleeding into the brain and, if there is, to what extent it’s causing it. We may possibly need to move her to Preston, where they’re more set up to deal with head injuries.’
‘So you want to do an MRI scan?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it? It’s nothing to be concerned about. The faster we know what’s going on in there, the faster we can . . .’
I’ve stopped listening.
Whatever she says next doesn’t register. It’s as if I’ve entered an altered state of awareness. All sound has been shut off, and my immediate environment is eclipsed by an overriding memory, a memory from sixteen years ago.
I’m back at Hope Hospital. I’m a student. I wear maroon trousers and a plain white tunic. The radiographer in the chair next to me wears a similar uniform, but her collar has a stripe, indicating she is qualified to operate the MRI scanner.
She speaks into the microphone. ‘Mr Burgess,’ she says to the patient lying beyond the glass, ‘it will get a bit noisy now, okay? It’s perfectly normal and I need you to stay very still.’
Then she turns to me. ‘Natasha,’ she says brightly, ‘why don’t you list the contraindications, while we wait for this one to finish?’
I sit tall in my seat, because I know this off by heart. It was the first thing we learned. ‘Do not scan if the patient has any electronically, magnetically and mechanically activated implants. Do not scan if the patient has a cardiac pacemaker . . . Do not scan if the patient has surgical clips, wire sutures, screws or mesh—’
‘And why is that?’ she interrupts.
‘Because anything ferromagnetic can interact with the magnetic field. It can cause movement of the device and lead to trauma.’
‘And what else?’
‘Thermal injury,’ I answer firmly, pleased with myself.
‘That’s right,’ she says, and pulls a face. ‘You absolutely don’t want to fry the patient from the inside, do you?’ and I laugh.
