Innocent

by Kinsley, Erin

  ‘Hey.’ She puts the phone on video call. ‘How’s it going?’

  Looks like he’s in the White Lion car park, smoking a cigarette on the bonnet of his crazy car, a slammed, souped-up Subaru. There’s a loud crowd in the outdoor smoking area, making it hard to hear what he says.

  ‘OK. I was missing you. Thought you might be done for the day, maybe you could come down for a drink.’

  Bridget spoons in more cheesecake. ‘No way. They’re still dancing the light fantastic at that wedding to which I, of course, was not invited. Could be a late one.’

  ‘Cinderella again.’

  ‘You said it. We’ll have all day tomorrow, though. He promised they wouldn’t be late.’

  ‘Heard that before. The guy’s a prick. What are you doing?’

  ‘Not much. I was thinking I might watch something on Netflix, that new . . .’

  Bridget stops, listens. Through the window, the gravelled drive and front gardens are lit up by the motion-sensitive security lights. ‘Hold on. I think they might be here.’

  Leaving her cheesecake on the sofa, she crosses to the window.

  There’s no sign of the Fiat. Everything is still.

  Returning to the sofa, she picks up her phone. ‘You still there, babe?’

  Manzi grunts that he is, and she hears the crackle of burning paper as he draws on his cigarette. ‘The security lights came on. Must have been a fox or a hedgehog. Izzy says there’s a mum with babies in the garden, so me and Flora left out some cat food.’

  ‘Probably a cat, then,’ says Manzi. ‘What do you want to do tomorrow?’

  The doorbell rings.

  It’s late for callers. Bridget feels uneasy.

  ‘There’s someone at the door.’

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ says Manzi. ‘It’s probably some drunk fan come for an autograph.’

  ‘I’ll have to answer it. They might have come home in a taxi and not got a key.’

  ‘Check who it is before you open the door, then.’

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ says Bridget. ‘Don’t go away. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’

  Six

  The male nurse who shows Izzy to the relatives’ room is kind but sallow with weariness.

  Izzy takes a seat in the windowless room and accepts the offer of tea.

  ‘We’ll come and get you when he’s ready for visitors,’ says the nurse.

  ‘How long do you think it will be?’

  ‘I expect one of the doctors will have a word with you,’ he says obscurely, and closes the door very quietly behind him, as if she’s a child asleep.

  The claustrophobic room is plain grey: grey walls, grey furniture. A scattering of abandoned leaflets lies on the table, and as she reads the titles – Children’s Critical Care, Life After Discharge from Intensive Care, Bereavement Help and Support – she begins to realise they’re not just in the hospital, but in its place of last resort.

  When their father was dying, Izzy and her sister went through many meetings in rooms just like this. They shared a macabre joke, that when their father’s inevitable end was close, the news would be broken with tea in china cups, instead of the usual polystyrene. Relatives of other patients on the ward told them the gravity of news to come can be divined in this way, so she’s praying her tea will be delivered in plastic.

  Nothing feels quite real, and she knows she’s not thinking straight. She wants to call Tris’s parents – their company would be a comfort, and Eamon always knows the right thing to do – but what’s the point in waking them now? It would be kinder to wait till a more reasonable hour, let them have a decent night’s sleep.

  She decides she’ll wait until 6 a.m. before she makes the call.

  Someone taps lightly at the door, and a woman in an orderly’s uniform carries in a porcelain mug of tea.

  When Bridget rings back, Manzi’s already home, sipping a Jack Daniels nightcap as he flips channels on the TV.

  ‘You took your time,’ he says. ‘Who was at the door?’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ says Bridget. ‘You’ll never guess what. Something’s happened to Tristan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some kind of accident. Laura Ridley just phoned me, asked if I could stay overnight.’

  ‘I hope you said no.’

  ‘Course I didn’t. I can’t leave the little one here by herself.’

  ‘You’re leaving me by myself.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re a big boy, aren’t you? Laura says he’s in hospital, that they took him off in an ambulance.’

  ‘Maybe he got into a fight.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like Tris to me.’

  ‘Probably he got up someone’s nose. That’s not out of the question, is it?’ Manzi switches from MTV Rocks to Kerrang, where Behemoth are playing, and settles back on the sofa to watch. ‘So you’re not coming back tonight, then?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it, no. If I can, I will, but don’t wait up for me.’

  ‘I wasn’t planning on it,’ says Manzi, draining his glass.

  The last time Izzy and Tris were in a hospital was for Flora’s birth, a day which bloomed from a blur of agony and fear into overwhelming love. All through that ordeal, Tris was there, holding her hand, wiping her brow, tears in his eyes because he couldn’t stop her pain, and at the end, at Flora’s first cry, he covered his face and wept. He is her rock and her best friend; he and Flora are the reasons for her being.

  Now she sits beside her husband’s body, wondering where he’s gone. His lower half is cocooned in white sheets, and pouches of clear liquids are feeding through cannulas in the backs of his hands. The monitors show a regular heartbeat, his vital signs are in the normal ranges, and yet he’s ominously absent, as if he’s been unplugged. When the nurse comes to check his pupils, his eyes are glassy voids.

  Watching, waiting, hoping. She’s no idea how long she’s been sitting when the nurse comes to let her know Tris’s parents have arrived. Squeezing his lifeless hand, she kisses his forehead and strokes his hair, and tells him she won’t be gone long.

  In the relatives’ room, someone has removed her porcelain mug. Steph, Tris’s mother, is far from her usual chicly groomed self. Without make-up, she looks every one of her seventy-two years, and without heels, she’s diminished from the stately woman Izzy’s always taken her to be.

  Izzy’s expecting hugs and tears, but Steph’s lips are thin and tight.

  ‘You should have called us straight away.’ She speaks without preamble – no How is he? or How are you? – and the admonishment is meant. Izzy’s dismayed and hurt. She’s always thought of her and Steph as being close, but in the light of this catastrophe, it seems that was mere illusion.

  ‘I just thought . . .’ she says, and begins to cry.

  Eamon glares at Steph, and gives Izzy a fatherly hug. Dressed in his Higher Education standards of chinos, loafers and a short-sleeved shirt, at first glance he looks no different than usual, but a second look says he hasn’t shaved, and the shadow on his jaw ages him, too.

  Steph softens at Izzy’s tears.

  ‘Let’s sit a minute,’ she says, and Izzy does so with reluctance, anxious to get back to Tris, not wanting him to wake and find her not there. ‘What have the doctors said?’

  Izzy dabs at her eyes with a tissue. ‘I don’t think it’s very good at the moment. He’s got swelling on his brain. They’re saying it’s a case of watch and wait.’

  Steph and Eamon are expecting her to go on, but in the haze of shock that’s all she’s taken in.

  ‘Well,’ says Steph eventually, ‘the first thing is for Eamon to go and track down someone in charge and find out how they’re going to treat him. And I can see we’re going to be here for a while, so we’ll be needing a hotel. While Eamon deals with all that, you and I will go and see him.’

 
‘We’ve been wondering how this happened,’ says Eamon. ‘You weren’t very specific on the phone.’

  ‘The police said he’d been hit with something,’ sniffs Izzy.

  Steph’s hand goes to her mouth.

  ‘Someone hit him?’ She’s looking at Izzy as if she’s withholding information. ‘Who on earth would do such a thing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Izzy, beginning to cry again, upset to be feeling the need to defend herself. ‘It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘No one’s accusing you of anything,’ says Eamon. ‘I expect the police will tell us more today.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’ asks Steph. ‘I very much doubt it. That’s not the priority, anyway. The first thing we need to do is to be sure he’s getting the very best care.’

  ‘They’re keeping him comfortable,’ says Izzy. ‘I’m not sure they can do any more.’

  ‘They can always do more, if they’re pushed,’ says Steph. ‘Eamon, go and see who you can find.’

  Seven

  Laura’s a firm believer in turning her phone off at night, but with Josh sleeping over at Ollie’s and the previous evening’s events, she left it on. When it rings she’s already awake, feeling terrible and with serious regrets over that last glass of wine – it’s hazy, but there might even have been two – after Tris was taken away.

  The bed beside her is empty, and next to her phone is a cold cup of tea, its surface cloudy with fat from the milk. The thought of drinking it brings on a rush of nausea. Aidan must have brought it, but surely he hasn’t gone out for his bike ride? He and his mates aim to do fifty miles on Sunday mornings, usually up to Shapston and back via Westley, but it’s hard to imagine any of them have much enthusiasm for it this morning. No doubt, though, the male competitive spirit has done its work, since none of them will want to bear the dishonour of being called a lightweight. How lucky she is that women are so much kinder to their friends.

  Aidan’s police training still runs deep, and last night he was insistent she should keep quiet about what’s happened to Tris. Out of loyalty to Izzy, Laura wouldn’t say anything, but she knows as well as Aidan it’ll need more than their silence to keep the incident under wraps. Tris will be a major story, and someone, somewhere, will leak the details the media need to fuel their headlines.

  She picks up her ringing phone and sees Philly’s name. Proof – if any were needed – that the gossip is on the fly.

  ‘Hi, Philly.’

  ‘Laura! How are you? No thick heads chez Ridley this morning, I hope?’

  ‘A very thick head, thank you. I don’t know about Aidan, but he seems to have made his bike club meeting. You sound chirpy, though. No hangover for you?’

  ‘Oh, you know me, darling. I have to take it easy because of the bloody horses. It’s no fun mucking out when all you want to do is throw up. I had a glass or two of fizz, which I didn’t think was of the best quality, to be honest. If they’d asked Jerry, he’d have happily given them some pointers. You don’t have to spend a fortune to get decent wine, but so much of it these days is just plain undrinkable. I had a glass or two, just to get in the spirit, and then I put myself on gin drowned in slimline tonic. That’s pretty foul stuff too with that nasty aftertaste but it fills you up and voilà, no hangover. Oh dear, I hope I don’t sound smug.’

  ‘Maybe just a touch.’

  ‘Jerry wasn’t quite so clever. Rather unwisely he took it upon himself to join some of the gentlemen in their whisky sampling. He’s lying on the sofa pretending to read the papers, though I don’t see how you can read them when they’re covering your face.’ She gives a bark of laughter, and Laura smiles. ‘Anyway, I was making him a cup of coffee when the radio news came on, and they gave it top billing.’

  Laura sits up and dares to take a sip of the cold tea, which turns out to be balm to her dehydrated mouth.

  ‘Did you hear it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Tristan. I know you’re such good friends with Izzy, so I thought you might know.’

  ‘What?’ asks Laura again.

  ‘You’re being so cagey, darling. I just can’t believe you don’t know. Apparently Tristan was taken away from the hotel in an ambulance. How did we miss that? Or maybe you didn’t? They’re saying he’s in a coma, and doctors can’t say how serious it is. What on earth happened, I wonder? A head injury, supposedly, but how would he come by that? Do you think someone bopped him on the head? It’s got all the hallmarks of a jealous husband, if you ask me.’

  Through the window, Laura sees a car pull up at the end of the drive. The rear door opens and Josh jumps out, reaching back inside for his backpack which looks to Laura’s experienced eyes rather light, and despite her concern for Tris and Izzy, the mum in her hopes he’s remembered to bring home everything he took with him to Ollie’s.

  ‘Why would husbands be jealous of Tristan?’ she asks Philly. ‘He and Izzy are devoted to each other. I don’t believe he’d ever look at another woman.’

  ‘Oh Laura, your faith in the opposite sex is so quaint. I suppose it comes from being married to steadfast and true Aidan. Even dear old Jerry wouldn’t be immune to a fling if the right woman batted her eyelashes, and women must be lining up in droves to throw their knickers at Tristan. Mark me, there’ll be another woman involved in this somewhere.’

  Laura shakes her head.

  ‘For God’s sake, Philly, don’t go spreading rumours like that! Poor Izzy has enough on her plate without the whole town thinking her husband’s being unfaithful. Let’s just wait for the facts, shall we?’ Josh is saying his goodbyes, slamming the car door. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. I might drop in the café for coffee.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  By the time Laura’s climbed reluctantly from the bed and found her dressing gown, the doorbell’s already chiming, and Josh impatiently rings it again when she hasn’t reached the door within five seconds.

  When she opens it, he rushes in, dropping his bag on the hall floor and heading for the kitchen, saying, ‘Hi Mum,’ in passing. By the time she’s caught up with him, the fridge is open and he’s already found a plate.

  ‘Can I make a sandwich? I didn’t have breakfast because I didn’t want porridge. That’s what Ollie always has for breakfast, every single day of every single year. His mum doesn’t let them have normal stuff like cornflakes. I asked for toast but they only had that brown granary so I said I wasn’t hungry. Have we got any Branston pickle?’ He looks across at her from his scavenging of the fridge. ‘How come you’re not dressed yet? Have you got a hangover?’

  Laura ducks the question by filling the kettle.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Ollie’s got Shenmue 3 so we played that until we were told to stop, then we watched a DVD. We got takeaway for dinner, pizza from that new place next to the Co-op.’

  ‘Was it good?’

  ‘It was OK. I asked for pepperoni but Ollie’s family have all gone vegetarian so it wasn’t allowed, only tuna and veggies. Isn’t tuna a kind of meat? Hey, guess what, on the way over here we saw a BBC film crew.’

  Laura turns round from the sink where she’s rinsing a mug.

  ‘A film crew? Where?’

  ‘Outside Izzy’s house. There was a man with one of those big shoulder cameras and another one with one of those fluffy things they use for sound. And a woman all dressed up Ollie’s mum said is a BBC news reporter. And Ollie’s dad says the police were called to the wedding last night. Did you and Dad see them? Has somebody been murdered?’

  Laura pours hot water on to a tea bag and pokes it with a teaspoon. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely, sweetie. Don’t cut that cheese so thick, you can’t possibly eat all that.’

  ‘Where is Dad, anyway? When he comes back, we can ask him what’s goin
g on.’

  ‘I don’t see how Dad would know any better than you or I. You’re putting two and two together and coming up with eight. I really don’t think it’s very likely to be murder. And sit down properly to eat your sandwich.’

  ‘Can I have some crisps?’

  ‘Just one packet. When you’ve finished, do me a favour, go up and ask your sister if she wants any breakfast.’

  ‘It’s way too late for breakfast, Mum. You have got a hangover, haven’t you?’

  ‘Maybe a little, tiny bit. I just need a few minutes to come round. I’ll be absolutely fine when I’ve had this cup of tea.’

  Josh chooses prawn cocktail crisps and climbs on to a stool at the breakfast bar, making a case while he eats for why he should be allowed to have his own copy of Shenmue 3 weeks before his birthday. Laura leans against the counter, cautiously sipping the sugary tea, thinking the glucose might give her a much-needed lift. As Josh goes into far too much detail on game strategy, Laura loses focus, and listens over his chatter for signs Gemma’s surfacing, but upstairs remains silent.

  Josh finishes what he wants of his sandwich, leaving the crusts parked at the side of the plate.

  ‘I could do chores to pay for it,’ he’s saying. ‘I could clean my room and take out the rubbish.’

  ‘Those are things you ought to do anyway.’

  ‘Please, Mum.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ As soon as she’s said the words, she knows they’ll be taken as a promise, but that’s a problem to be faced another day. ‘Please, Josh, go and knock on Gemma’s door and tell her to come and get something to eat.’

  ‘OK.’ He climbs down from his stool and almost skips, child-like, up the stairs, making Laura smile at his youthful vivacity. Not much in life troubles Josh; he was a carefree baby who’s grown into a happy-go-lucky child. He and his sister have so little in common.