by Ruth Heald
‘I can’t see any record of her here. Sorry.’
‘She’s a baby,’ I say. ‘She’s just a baby.’
‘Claire?’ A nurse appears beside me and places her hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ve been looking for you. You weren’t in your bed.’
‘Where’s my daughter?’
‘Your daughter? I don’t know.’ She takes my arm to lead me away. I try to shrug her off, but she grips me tightly and escorts me to my bed. I see my name in marker on the whiteboard above it.
‘What happened to me?’
‘The doctor will be round later to talk to you.’
‘You won’t tell me what happened?’
She puts a hand on my shoulder and repeats herself calmly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake and she’ll be round later. She’ll answer your questions. You just sit here and relax.’
She points to an easy chair beside the bed.
‘Did my daughter come in with me?’ I ask.
‘No, she didn’t.’
The nurse refuses to say any more and guides me down into the chair before she leaves. ‘Stay here until the doctor comes.’
I spot my handbag underneath the bed. I pull it out, open it up and find the comforting plastic of my phone. I’m desperate to know what’s happened to Olivia.
I dial Matt’s number.
The phone rings and rings. Fear grips my heart. Olivia must be OK. She has to be. Where is she?
Matt finally picks up.
‘Claire.’ He sounds exhausted.
‘Have you got Olivia?’ I ask, my voice cracking.
‘Yes. She’s here. She’s––’
‘Is she hurt?’
‘No, she’s fine. Claire, you don't need to worry about anything. OK?’
‘I’m coming back,’ I say. ‘I want to see her.’
‘You don’t need to. Mum and I have got it under control. Take as long as you need to rest.’
I don’t want Matt and Ruth looking after my daughter. I don’t trust either of them. I need to get home.
‘I don’t need to rest. I’m fine.’
‘Have you seen the doctor yet?’
‘No. I––’
‘You should see her before you leave. And honestly, we’ve got it all covered here.’
‘Matt – what happened? Was I in an accident?’
‘You should speak to the doctor.’
I need to get home. I can’t leave Olivia with Matt and Ruth.
‘I have to go, Matt.’ I need to try and find a way to get out of here. Back to Olivia.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Have you got the suitcase I left?’
‘What suitcase?’
‘It’s under your bed.’
I look and see a battered blue suitcase deep under the end of the bed.
I hang up.
I will leave. I’ll go home. No one can stop me.
I look around for my shoes but can’t find them. Then I pull the suitcase out. There are several changes of clothes, but no shoes. Toiletries. Books. My stomach twists. Why do I have so much stuff? Matt’s packed for at least a week. It must be because he wants me to stay in the hospital. He wants me out of the way.
At the bottom of the case is a framed photo of Olivia, taken from the mantelpiece in the living room at the cottage. I stare at her tiny face and feel a surge of longing to be with her. I must get home.
I don’t want her alone with Matt and Ruth.
I phone Emma.
She picks up on the second ring.
‘Hi, Claire.’ She sounds surprised. ‘I didn’t expect you to call. Are you all right?’
‘I’ve been in an accident. I’m coming home, but Matt and Ruth have Olivia. Can you go round and stay with them until I get back? I don’t trust them with her.’
‘Claire,’ she says, her voice filled with concern. ‘What do you remember?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply, feeling the panic rising. ‘I’ve been in some kind of accident.’
‘Look. Don’t worry about anything. Just get some rest. I can go over to your house, check how things are going. I can even stay overnight if that helps?’
‘What about Lizzie?’
‘She’s with Dan.’
‘I really need to come home. Matt’s dangerous. He hurt Sarah’s sister. I can’t have him looking after Olivia.’
‘Look, I think you need to stay in hospital. Have you seen the doctor?’
‘Why is everyone asking me if I’ve seen the doctor?’
‘Do you know why you’re there, Claire?’
‘No,’ I admit.
‘You took an overdose. Yesterday afternoon Matt found you on the floor of the cottage.’
The police officer comes to see me. She’s neat and tidy with a badge that says her name is ‘Miriam’ and a freshly ironed uniform. Her hands shake as she pulls the curtain around my hospital bed.
‘Do you want to go to a private room?’ she asks, her voice so soft it’s almost as if she doesn’t want to be heard.
I know what she’s going to say. I just need her to say it, to put me out of my misery.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘We don’t need to have this conversation here. We can go somewhere more private.’
I can’t wait. ‘Just tell me what happened.’
In the seconds of silence that follow I send a thousand prayers to a god I’m not sure exists. The hope is painful, fighting against the sense that I already know the answer. That sense of an empty space, deep inside me, where my daughter should be.
She takes my hand and my heart stops. ‘I’m afraid your husband and daughter have passed away,’ she says. She’s calm and polite, but her hand in mine tells me something else; it’s sweaty and clammy. ‘I’m so sorry.’
For a second I don’t believe her, holding on to some desperate fantasy that this is all a mistake. But it’s only a moment’s reprieve and then the truth hits me like a train, smashing through my very being. My body convulses with sobs.
‘What happened?’ I fight to get the words out.
‘Your daughter – she drowned. In the river.’ Tears form in the police officer’s eyes. ‘Your husband took her there. Afterwards, he hung himself in your attic.’
Thirty-Nine
I can’t have tried to kill myself. I must have misheard.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, Claire,’ Emma says. ‘I thought you’d remember. I really think you need to stay where you are. Speak to the doctor, get some rest. And don’t worry about anything. I can deal with everything at home.’
I hang up the phone, fear coursing through my veins. Is it really true?
Maybe Emma is right. If I’m so unwell that I don’t remember a suicide attempt, then the hospital is the best place for me.
I search for a memory of what happened, but as hard as I try, my brain is just a foggy emptiness. How could I have done this? I have a daughter.
But then I remember how desperate I felt, how out of control. I remember looking at Pamela’s pills in the kitchen cupboard. How welcoming they seemed. Did I cave in? Why don’t I remember?
All this time I’ve been protecting Olivia from other people. But the biggest threat was me. I was the one who was going to take her mother away from her. Abandon her. Leave her alone with a family I don’t trust.
My breasts are rock hard and leaking. I just want to latch Olivia on and feel her suckle. I want to be close to her. The physical need surprises me. I seem to want Olivia the most when I can’t be with her. A part of me, deep inside, must know how to love her.
I need to self-express so I get up, drawing the blue curtain around me. I sit squeezing my breasts under the covers, forcing my milk out with my hands into tissues. This is not how it’s supposed to be. It reminds me of all I am and all I am not. I should be with my daughter. I should be being a mother to her. Yet again, I have failed her.
The curtain twitches open and a male nurse draws it back angrily.
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‘Curtains open in the day, please,’ he says. He sees me massaging my breasts before I have the chance to pull the covers up further, looks at me with disgust and sighs. I expect him to say something, but somehow it’s worse when he says nothing. As if I’m no longer human.
I try not to make eye contact with the others on the ward as I quickly cover up. I make my way down the corridors to the toilets. In the ladies, I put the lid down and continue to self-express into the toilet paper. My hands and top are sticky, but I don’t care any more.
I know I must rest. But I feel disconnected, unsure what to do with myself. I sit in the bed and look through my phone at photos of Olivia. I feel an unfamiliar surge of love for her as I flick through pictures of when she was first born, sitting in her baby chair, her first smile. And a photo of our first day in our new home. A selfie of the three of us, holding one another. I look so hopeful. The perfect family. Little did I know what would follow.
* * *
‘Hello?’ A woman in a white coat stands over me, clipboard in her hand. She’s all neat straight lines and ironed uniform.
‘Hi.’
‘Claire Hughes?’
‘Yes.’
She talks me through how I’ll be monitored and prescribes me antidepressants. After less than five minutes, she replaces my notes at the foot of my bed and manages a tight smile.
‘Any questions?’ she asks.
‘How long will I be in for?’
‘It’s hard to say. I want to speak to social services before we discharge you.’
‘Social services?’ The blood drains from my face. I’ll never keep custody of Olivia if they find out what’s happened.
‘Yes, I want to check with children’s services about the care of your daughter. It shouldn’t take too long. We need to keep you in for a little while anyway, to monitor you and see how the ketamine has affected your body’s function. We don’t know what dose you took, so we just like to be sure.’
‘Ketamine?’ I say, shocked. I wrack my brains for where I’ve heard of it before. I don’t remember seeing it in Pamela’s cupboard.
‘Yes. It’s a party drug.’
‘A party drug? But I haven’t been––’
‘Its primary use is as a general anaesthetic. We use it in medicine sometimes and vets use it on animals. Of course, it’s safe then. In appropriate doses. But we think you mixed it with alcohol. Which caused your loss of consciousness.’
My mind is spinning. I know I haven’t taken ketamine. Someone must have given it to me. Someone with access to animal anaesthetics.
Matt.
The doctor is still talking, but I’m not listening any more.
The truth is sinking in.
I didn’t overdose.
Matt drugged me.
* * *
By the time I’ve realised what’s happened the doctor has moved on to her next patient.
I need to get home. Now.
I pull a jumper on over my clothes and root through the suitcase, but still can’t find any shoes.
I can’t waste any more time so I walk out of the ward in my socks. I desperately want to break into a run, but I don’t want to attract attention.
Outside, the corridor is empty. I hold my breath as I pass the nurses’ station. They’re huddled over a rota, and they don’t look up. I see the whiteboard behind them with line after line of patients’ names. There’s no way they’ll know who I am.
When I reach the main corridor, I start to run.
Matt has poisoned me. And now he has my daughter. I need to get to her.
I run past patients, doctors and nurses on their break. No one stops me. I reach the stairs and hurry down to the ground floor.
When I come out at the bottom, I follow signs to the exit. I see the winter coats and wet umbrellas and I realise how inappropriately I’m dressed for the weather.
‘Can I help you?’ a man asks, glancing quizzically at my shoeless feet.
‘No,’ I say, barging past him. I don’t look back.
Outside, the cold air hits me. I pick up my phone and order a taxi. It will be five minutes.
I ring Emma.
She picks up immediately.
‘Hello?’
‘Emma, I’m coming home.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t take an overdose. Matt’s poisoned me. I need to get back.’
‘What are you talking about? Are you OK?’
‘It’s Matt. He’s dangerous. He’s drugged me. That’s why I’m in hospital.’
‘Claire, you’re not making any sense. You need to stay in the hospital. Get some rest. Please. You have to listen to me.’
‘Emma, honestly. Matt isn’t who we think he is. I don’t know what he’s capable of. Are you still at the house?’
‘Yeah, I’m here,’ she says softly.
‘Well, don’t let him out of your sight. Olivia can’t stay with him. I’m coming back to get her.’
‘OK, if you’re sure. I’m worried about you though.’
‘Just promise me you’ll keep an eye on him.’
‘I promise. You’re coming back now?’
‘Yeah. I’m just getting into a taxi.’
‘OK. See you in a bit. And Claire?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t panic. I’ll look after Olivia.’
* * *
In the back of the taxi, I google the effects of ketamine. Hallucinations. Confusion. Agitation. Panic attacks. Memory loss. I thought I was going mad, but the truth is far more terrifying. Matt has been poisoning me. All the time he was telling me I was just paranoid, he must have been slipping drugs into my drinks, watching me slowly unravel.
He could have killed me.
I’m completely on my own. I have no one.
I pull out my phone and ring the only person I know who might care.
It’s 4 p.m. I pray she’s on her shift.
I listen to the phone ringing and ringing and ringing. I imagine her in a room somewhere, on the line to another caller. Or maybe she’s popped out to get a cup of tea or to go to the toilet.
Eventually the phone cuts to voicemail. Just a standard phone provider’s voicemail, with no personalised message for the helpline.
I try again. I need to speak to her. She’s the only one who will understand.
My daughter is dead and it’s all my fault. I should have left him earlier. I should have been braver.
The phone rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.
I press redial again.
Again and again and again.
Voicemail. Every time.
She’s not there.
I have no one.
Forty
The taxi grinds to a halt on the outskirts of Oxford and I fiddle impatiently with my phone, checking it over and over for messages. There are no updates from Emma or Matt. I wish I was home already with Olivia, protecting her. I can’t help feeling something awful is about to happen.
Outside the car, people go about their day-to-day lives, oblivious to my rising anxiety. Mums with buggies carry bags of supermarket shopping balanced precariously on the handles. Pensioners stop to chat on the pavement. Their unhurried lives irritate me. Don’t they know my daughter’s in danger?
The car eases forward a few inches. A young man presses the button at the crossing and I feel an irrational sense of rage as the lights change from green to red. I watch the people amble across the road, waving their hands in thanks when they cross after our light has already turned to green.
‘Can we go any faster?’ I ask the driver.
‘There’s traffic, love. Can’t do anything about that.’
Eventually we start moving and the rows of identical semi-detached houses turn into new blocks of flats by the ring road, followed by miles and miles of brown fields.
A tractor slows our journey and our car peers out to look for a spot to overtake. But the roads are too busy and we crawl along behind it until it pulls in to let us pass.
When the taxi finally pulls up in front of the cottage, I thrust some crumpled notes into the driver’s hands, jumping out before he’s turned the engine off. My feet hit the gravel and the stones dig through my socks as I run to the front door. My keys are in my hand and yet I fumble with the lock, fingers trembling.
Olivia. I must get to Olivia.
I open the door and dash through the house.
Emma’s in the kitchen. Matt stands beside her.
‘Claire,’ Matt says, his eyebrows raised in surprise. He takes in my rumpled hair, my dirty clothes.
‘Where’s Olivia?’ I ask. ‘Where is she?’
Emma glances at Matt and then at me. ‘She’s upstairs,’ she says. ‘In her cot.’
I run. I take the stairs two at a time until I reach her.
She’s asleep. I put my hand over her chest and feel it rise and fall. I hover my hand a little above her mouth and feel her breath. I’m overwhelmed with relief.
‘She’s OK,’ Emma says from behind me. ‘I’ve been here the whole time.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply. Emma puts her arms round me, strokes my back.
‘I need to get Matt out of this house,’ I whisper.
‘I can stay out of your way,’ Emma says, ‘with Olivia.’
‘No. I need you. I don’t know how dangerous he is. He’s been poisoning me, Emma.’
Emma’s eyes widen. ‘Are you sure? That’s awful. How could he?’
The full horror of it hits me once more. ‘He could have killed me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Emma says. ‘I’ll be here as long as you need me.’
We go downstairs. Matt’s in the kitchen, a pint of beer beside him. How can he be so casual? Clearly he didn’t expect me to come back.
Anger rises within me. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him. He put me in hospital. He poisoned me. He made me believe I was going mad. He’s trying to steal my daughter.
He sips his beer.
My hand sweeps across the counter and pushes the glass onto the floor. It shatters, and the liquid paints the walls.
‘Claire!’
I don’t care about this cottage any more. I don’t care about Ruth or Matt, or Pamela’s antique furniture.
