If You Knew Her Page 19

  He moves back, as I get up from the chair, creating space between us. It feels awkward, icy.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asks, a little wounded.

  ‘Oh, come on, David, she’s not some juicy bit of gossip. She’s a patient. You know why I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Because you think I’d worry too much?’

  ‘No! Because of patient confidentiality! Look, I don’t have time for this, I’ve got to go to work.’ Before I get to our bedroom I hear David mutter, ‘Bollocks.’

  I don’t bother with a shower and brush my teeth while I try and get ready, which doesn’t save any time. I dribble toothpaste on my clean uniform by accident; it looks like bird poo. My mind whirrs over who could have told the press. It could have been any number of people; the ward is always busy with visitors, student doctors and porters.

  I feel eyes on me. David is staring at me from the door frame, his head perched quizzically to one side, like Bob when a rabbit he’s been chasing disappears down a hole.

  ‘Sorry, Ali, sorry for being a prat.’

  I stand and move towards him. He bends forwards, closer to me so I can wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him quickly on the mouth. He smells slightly musty, someone who was recently fast asleep.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, over his shoulder. ‘You were partly right. I didn’t want you to worry.’

  ‘Are you OK with all this? It’s pretty crazy, pretty close to home.’

  Now would be the time to do it … to tell him. Now, Alice!

  But instead I pull away and start shoving kirby grips in my hair. I’m not going to bother with mascara. I shrug at myself in the mirror.

  ‘She’s a remarkable patient, but to be honest, it’s still just work, that’s all,’ I lie. I kiss David again, tell him not to worry and by 6.15 a.m. I’m in the car and driving too fast down the quiet, still-dark roads towards Cassie.

  Lizzie was on night shift last night with a bank nurse. She hands me a cup of coffee. She’s so young the night doesn’t show on her face at all. I look and feel like the living dead after a night shift.

  ‘Mr Sharma said you’d be in soon, so I thought you’d want one.’

  I thank her. ‘Have you heard, Lizzie?’

  ‘Mr Sharma told me,’ she says, nodding. ‘I’ve just been reading the websites. Other newspapers are starting to pick up on it, the Daily Mail and the Sun …’ The exhaustion might not show on her face, but her voice is clipped; she sounds startled.

  I nod, take a sip of burning coffee.

  ‘You know, there’ll probably be reporters around the hospital for a few days so we’ll need to be extra careful, especially with visitors, OK? If anyone asks you anything you just say—’

  ‘No comment?’ she interrupts me. ‘Just like on telly.’

  I nod. ‘Just like on telly.’

  As I start making my way towards the nurses’ room, Lizzie asks, ‘Has anything like this happened before?’

  I think for a moment. ‘There was a guy, a couple of years ago, an old seventies drummer who gave himself brain damage after a massive drink-and-drug binge. The local press got hold of that one. The poor receptionist actually drew a reporter a map to the ward.’ Lizzie’s eyes widen, as I add, ‘The receptionist was fired.’

  I knock on Sharma’s door and it takes him a moment to answer.

  ‘Intrare!’

  His ear is glued to his desk phone. ‘Incredible.’ He shakes his head at the receiver, holding it towards me.

  I hear a distant, tiny voice from a recorded message.

  He points at the receiver. ‘The Trust’s Head of Communications still clearly has no idea what’s going on.’ Sharma replaces the phone with a sigh and another shake of his head. ‘And I still haven’t got hold of the head of security.’ He looks up at me with a quick smile; a spark, excitement, animates his face.

  ‘How do you think it got out?’

  We’re interrupted by an uncertain, quiet knock at the door.

  Sharma isn’t interested in what I was saying. He calls, ‘Intrare!’, again, and Lizzie’s full, young face appears.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she says to Sharma. She looks at me. ‘But Charlotte Jensen’s just arrived.’

  Charlotte’s back in the ill-fitting jeans and oversized shirt with pockets I recognise from the first few days after Cassie was hit.

  ‘Oh, Alice,’ she says, frowning as if she doesn’t understand what she’s saying. ‘I’m afraid Jack’s rather upset about the whole thing. He’s on the phone to his office. Apparently reporters have already started calling. He’s trying to figure out how best to deal with it.’ Her small hand flutters up to her temple.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it? As if we haven’t been through enough.’ I steer Charlotte by the arm into the family room and Jack comes in a moment later like a typhoon. Charlotte motions for him to sit, but he ignores her and stays standing.

  ‘I know who it was,’ he rages. ‘Cassie’s stepdad, Marcus Garrett, I’m absolutely sure of it. He told the papers as a way of putting two fingers up at us. It’s obvious, because we wouldn’t let him see her.’

  Charlotte sits down, her tone balanced. ‘Cassie always said he could be tricky, but she never made him sound vindictive. Do you really think he’d go that far?’

  ‘Oh, come on. Don’t you remember how weird he was with Cas? He is vindictive and he’s delusional and—’ Charlotte raises her palm to Jack for him to stop.

  ‘That’s enough, Jack.’ She doesn’t have to raise her voice as well.

  ‘We can’t just pin this on Marcus without thinking of other plausible solutions. I mean, it’s always so busy here.’ She turns to me. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Alice, but could it have been, I don’t know, not a nurse or a doctor, but a porter or cleaner or someone?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, I had the same thought, to be honest.’

  Jack doesn’t say anything. He’s got his man; this discussion is just to keep his mum happy. A muscle in his jaw jumps with tension. A hospital PR person joins us; they talk about what is likely to happen, advise Charlotte and Jack on how to handle the reporters. Charlotte and Jack spend the rest of the morning with Cassie and I help coordinate a staff meeting. We’re getting our own security person for the next few days and everyone is reminded that visitors who are not related to a patient have to ring ahead and have family permission before they can visit.

  After the meeting I join Carol and Mary in the nurses’ room. Carol fills the kettle from the tap as Mary reads aloud from her phone screen. She pauses to look up briefly as I come in.

  ‘This is the one I was talking about,’ she says. ‘Here in the comments section this guy who calls himself Peckham Tim says that Jonny Parker was a big drinker.’

  Carol nods judiciously, and, forgetting I was there that night, she wrinkles her nose as she says, ‘Paula said she could still smell it on him.’

  ‘Yeah, but here, this is the bit.’ Mary starts to read aloud from her phone. ‘My ex-girlfriend didn’t like him; he always made her uneasy. He groped her one night in the pub and when I confronted him he denied it, which led to a fight, and that was the last time we saw him. He’s a nasty piece of work. Lock him up!’ Mary and Carol look at each other, their faces animated, delighted by their villain.

  ‘Bastard,’ Carol says, shaking her head. The kettle rumbles to a boil. ‘You having tea, love?’ she asks me. I nod, and Mary keeps talking.

  ‘On the Mail website people are saying he was obsessed with her, wouldn’t leave her alone. There are witnesses from the party who saw them in a clinch, just as the clock struck twelve, before they had a row and Cassie got upset.’

  ‘Who were?’ I ask, feeling myself frown. ‘Arguing, I mean.’

  ‘Ali, catch up! Jonny and Cassie; loads of people at the party saw them. They rowed just before she walked home … was in tears and everything. He stayed drinking for another hour before driving towards home absolutely steaming and, more to the point, piss
ed off with Cassie …’

  ‘You don’t think it was an accident?’

  Mary raises her eyebrows in a look that says, in her story, it definitely wasn’t an accident.

  I don’t realise I’m shaking my head until Mary asks, ‘What is it? Why are you looking like that, Ali?’

  ‘I just … I don’t know.’ I think of Jonny. I’ve seen enough to know what real tragedy looks like; I know it can’t be faked. ‘He just seemed so devastated.’

  ‘Of course he was!’ Mary snorts at my ignorance. ‘Devastated because he knew he’d be caught.’ She picks up her tea and takes a sip as she sits down at the table with Carol. I leave them with their eyes glued to their screens, hungry for more details to smear all over Jonny.

  An hour later, both Mary and Carol have left for the day. I go to the nurses’ room to collect my coat and bag when the locker we keep for patient items catches my eye.

  The leather bag Charlotte brought in for Cassie has the earthy smell of animal; it’s wrinkled and old, as though it’s been on many adventures. I move it to the desk and open the zip. Charlotte folded everything beautifully inside. I take out a carefully pressed pair of blue stripy pyjamas, a packet of white cotton briefs, a plain bra, a cashmere jumper, bed socks and a pair of cotton tracksuit bottoms. Everything is so well laundered it all looks brand new. There’s a Kate Atkinson novel and a wash bag with an electric toothbrush and some half-used Clarins products. Charlotte packed thoughtfully for her daughter-in-law. I feel disappointed; pyjamas can’t tell you the truth about a person.

  As I’m repacking the bag my fingers find an internal pocket hidden in the seam, there’s something in there. I slide the zip back and slip my hand inside and pull out a small envelope. There’s nothing written on the front but the back is well sealed. I look up at the door as I slide my thumb under the flap. No one will know. The paper tears easily. Inside, there’s a piece of A4 paper, torn out of a book. The note’s short, written in black biro. Jack, I’m going away for a while. I don’t know how long. I need space. Please don’t call or look for me. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready. C

  I read it three times, turning it over, looking for any other clues. My heart’s beating fast, as though it’s trapped inside my ribcage. There are voices outside on the ward; they sound like they’re getting closer. I shove the clothes, wash bag and book back in the bag, not bothering to fold them again. I put the bag back into the locker just as Lizzie opens the door. She doesn’t see me fold the envelope into my pocket.

  ‘Alice, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. I was hoping to have a quick word?’

  ‘I was just about to go …’ but then I look at her. She looks wired, as much as her round, open face will allow her to look wired, and I know this is important.

  ‘Sorry, Lizzie, of course. What’s up?’

  Her brow furrows. She’s about to crack into tears. I stand, put my arm around her shoulders, guide her into a chair and pass her a tissue.

  ‘Lizzie, what’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, god, sorry, Alice. I’m just …’ She fans her hand in front of her face and dabs her eye with the tissue. ‘Sorry, I know you’re busy so I’ll be quick.’ She breathes out. ‘I’m going to hand in my notice.’

  I frown. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I thought everything was going well. You seemed happy here.’

  She nods emphatically and blows into the tissue. ‘I am, I’m really happy here.’

  ‘Then why, Lizzie?’

  She looks at me, her eyelashes slick with tears. ‘It was me, Alice. It’s my fault the press found out about Cassie.’ I frown harder. ‘What?’

  The tears start again. Lizzie is shaking her head, saying, ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I honestly didn’t.’

  ‘What happened, Lizzie?’

  ‘I was out with Alex, you know, my new boyfriend? We went bowling with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend and, to be honest, Alice, I was really nervous because his brother’s girlfriend is gorgeous. I mean she really looks like a model, and she’s funny and everything. Anyway, I was an idiot. I always thought she looked down on me for only being a nurse, so I told her about Cassie; I wanted to prove I had big things going on. I didn’t know her dad’s a reporter for the Sussex Times.’ Lizzie’s breath comes out in ragged little puffs; it sounds painful.

  ‘Oh, Lizzie,’ I say, and she’s back to shaking her head, making mewling sounds into the tissue. I stand up, put an arm around her, and rub her shoulders. ‘Come on, just breathe.’

  After a couple of minutes she’s calmed down enough to hand me a letter.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘My resignation letter. I thought it best to make it official.’

  ‘Well, I don’t accept it, Lizzie.’

  She looks at me, her face puffing up in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I won’t accept your resignation because there’s no need for you to resign. Look. You’re happy here and you’re a great nurse. You’ve made a mistake. Definitely. A big mistake. You’ve broken patient confidentiality and it’s had terrible consequences, but you’re owning up to it, and I know it won’t happen again, will it?’

  Lizzie doesn’t take her eyes off me. She’s still shaking her head, but this time she’s saying, ‘No, no, it won’t, I promise.’

  ‘So. No one’s been disciplined for talking to the press. If someone is accused, then we’ll need to step in but that’s unlikely to happen. When these kind of things have happened before, it’s blown over quite quickly.’

  Lizzie stands and hugs me, her face damp against my own and says a few more thank yous and sorrys, before she at last walks quietly out of the little room.

  I stand in the middle of the room for just a moment, before a bank nurse bundles in to get her belongings before heading home.

  I walk back onto the ward. I think about going straight to Cassie but I decide to let the discovery of the note and my conversation with Lizzie settle in my mind before I go to see her.

  I pull Frank’s curtain carefully behind myself and sit down in his visitor’s chair. Lizzie’s combed Frank’s hair and cut his fingernails. I appreciate these little touches and I bet Frank does too. His eyes are closed but I still gently turn his face towards me. I feel the envelope crinkle in my pocket and I know I can’t ignore it. I promised I’d look after Cassie and her baby. I lean in closer towards Frank so I’m sure he can hear.

  ‘I found something, Frank. A note from Cassie to Jack. It says she needed time away from him, a break from their marriage. It was hidden in her bag, like she was going to give it to him or post it. Everyone is so convinced it was Jonny, but I just don’t believe it.’

  I look at Frank’s pale face. I know him well enough to know he’s not asleep; his face looks focused, concentrated.

  ‘But that’s not all, Frank, I just found out Jack was wrong. It wasn’t Marcus who told the police. I keep wondering what else he could be wrong about. She’d taken off her wedding rings; she was wearing her mum’s ring instead. Remember when Jonny came onto the ward, Frank? Jonny said something to me, Frank. He told me she was scared, that Cassie had been scared.’

  I wonder what Frank’s thinking, what he makes of all this, and then the truth slices, clean and sharp like a knife. I think of the black-and-white photo, how tense her jaw looked, her smile forced and hard and yet the comments below called her ‘beautiful’ when she looked like she was on the brink.

  ‘She was scared.’ I lean in, closer to Frank and whisper because I can’t quite believe I’m going to say the words aloud. ‘Cassie wasn’t looking for her dog, Frank. She was scared. She was running away.’

  17

  Frank

  Sharma, the pompous ass, is calling the episode ‘the media breach’.

  The nurses have started using the phrase and I don’t need to see them to know they punctuate it with quick glances and carefully concealed smiles. Sharma seems oblivious, though; I suppose sarcasm can’t be taught.

  He
was right about the nationals, though. They picked up on the story pronto. By then, print versions of the articles were banned on the ward, but the nurses told me plenty. The papers knew about Juice-C. They were calling Cassie an orphan mum, a modern-day Sleeping Beauty. Cassie has become the new poster girl for the Sussex ‘Twenty’s Plenty’ campaign, and sales of Juice-C have almost doubled.

  Hospital staff talk about reporters now as casually as they talk about the weather. I picture them, these reporters, skulking around the corridors, fiddling with their phones in the waiting areas, hoping to catch a nurse’s eye, someone who might know about Cassie; ideally, someone who even works on the ward. They aggravate the nurses like wasps at a picnic.

  At any other time, the ‘media breach’ would be welcome entertainment, a new soundtrack to accompany the endless hours I stare at the magnolia ceiling, but I can’t enjoy the whispers and the gossip because even though I know she’s gone, that woman seems to hang in the air around the ward, the woman who hit Cassie. It’s as though that woman’s left a charge here, as though her visit has changed the cellular make up of the ward: the air feels squeezed, the oxygen forced into my lungs thinner, less nourishing somehow. Like fearing a virus hanging in the air, I don’t trust 9B any more; it’s not safe enough for Cassie, not safe enough for her baby.

  I think about her constantly, that woman. I don’t know anything about her, didn’t see her face so couldn’t pick her out of a crowd, but I know her voice. How softly she spoke those words she probably hoped would soothe her burning guilt, at least for a moment: ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  I know those type of apologies. I’ve tried to give them myself to Lucy and Ange for the times I abandoned them, all the times I fucked up as a dad, as a husband. I know when someone is sorry from their soul, and I heard it that night. I hear it still now: ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’

  How do you forgive someone for almost killing a pregnant woman? For letting someone else take the blame? If Alice’s theory is right, and Cassie was running away, then this woman hunted them down and I don’t care what she says or where her apology comes from, there can be no forgiveness, not yet, not until everyone knows the truth, and for now, at least, the truth is locked, trapped inside me, pitiful and useless as a butterfly trying to fly through a window pane.