If You Knew Her Page 26

  ‘When I got home my ex-wife was here. She’s not well, has a habit of making a scene. I was too drunk to cope with her, to keep calm, and I said some stuff, some awful stuff to her. She left saying she never wanted to see me again. She didn’t corroborate my story with the police until now to make me suffer. After Lorna left, Maisie turned up at the back door. Maisie went nuts when she saw me. As soon as I opened the door, Dennis ran outside with Maisie and they wouldn’t come back when I called for them. I thought it was the fireworks freaking them out, but they went racing off down the lane, barking their heads off.’

  ‘They found her?’

  ‘They knew she was there. Maisie must have seen the whole thing. I shouted down at Cassie. I thought it was some fucked-up stunt at first; she looked weirdly peaceful, like she was meant to be just floating there. But then I saw the blood …’ Jonny closes his eyes briefly, as if he wishes he could close his mind, wipe the memory away.

  ‘You didn’t see anyone else?’ I ask, desperate for him to keep talking.

  ‘No, like I told the police, I passed an old estate car, parked on the side of the lane just near where she was hit. I remember it because whoever was driving had their beams on high; they almost blinded me in my rear-view mirror.’ My insides feel eely.

  ‘Could it have been a Volvo, Jonny?’ I think about Marcus heaving himself out of his Volvo when he arrived in the hospital car park. I think about him driving past Bob and me on the lane … how vacant he looked.

  ‘Yeah, it could have been. I’ve been over and over this. I can’t say for certain what make it was, but yeah, something like a Volvo. Why? Do you know—’

  But I cut him off; I want him to keep answering my questions before I answer any of his.

  ‘Did Cassie ever talk about her stepdad, Jonny, about Marcus?’

  ‘Not much. I mean she told me he’d just completely crumbled when her mum died, that he couldn’t handle his grief at all. She said she was a bit worried about him, that he was getting confused. My nan had dementia and from what Cassie said it reminded me of when she first got ill.’ I nod at him; I’ve thought the same. Jonny keeps talking. ‘I think Cas felt guilty for not seeing Marcus more, but whenever she did see him, it kind of screwed with her head. It was obvious as well that Jack and Marcus never got on.’ Jonny pauses. I have the feeling he’s weighing up whether to tell me something or not.

  ‘What is it?’

  He shakes his head, like his memory isn’t worth saying.

  ‘What?’ I repeat.

  ‘I was just remembering this one time when Cas was talking about Marcus, and she kept going on about how differently people cope with the shit things that happen in life. Cassie said Marcus had let his grief destroy him, but Charlotte, whose husband died when Jack was a teenager, had risen above her own grief for Jack’s sake.’ Jonny pauses. ‘She really admired Charlotte.’

  I think of how calmly Charlotte handles her world, as though she isn’t spinning around on it like the rest of us. She’s easy to admire.

  ‘So let’s say she made the decision to leave Jack. When she said she was scared could she have been talking about him or could she have been talking about someone else?’

  Jonny looks at me. He shakes his head, like he knows the terrain of these questions well.

  ‘She was talking about Jack. She told me Jack has a temper. He’s not used to not getting what he wants.’

  ‘You’ve told the police all this?’

  ‘Of course, but they don’t believe me. I’m a drunk driver. I’m scum to them. Me hitting Cassie was such a neat conclusion for them. It’s taken them weeks to finally get the truth out of Lorna, that she was here with me that night, that I couldn’t have hit Cassie.’

  He moves closer towards me across the table, his eyes pressurised and desperate like when he came onto the ward.

  ‘How is she, honestly? How’s the baby? I’m not allowed to know anything apart from whatever bullshit is in the papers.’

  I tell him how well the baby’s growing, how active she is. I tell him that we play music to Cas and the baby, how all the nurses are getting extra training for the arrival, that we’re planning for every possibility. He nods occasionally, even smiles when I tell him it’s a girl and says, ‘good, good’, a few times.

  I want to ask him more questions, about Jack and his temper and about Marcus, but we’re interrupted by a phone in another room, the volume turned up loud, and Jonny excuses himself to answer it, his tone changing, becoming professional, with whoever it is on the other end of the line. He lets them talk for a minute and says, ‘Good.’ He breathes out, the relief in his voice palpable as he says, ‘that’s good news’, before telling them that he’s actually in the middle of something and asks to call them back in a few minutes.

  When he comes back to the table, I can see the phone call has changed him. He grasps his upper arm, releases it and moves the same hand to his hip.

  ‘That was my solicitor. He says they’re taking Lorna’s statement. He thinks the charges will be dropped any day.’ He starts to rub his thumbs into his temple as he speaks, and his eyes glisten.

  I don’t know what to say.

  He raises his head as he says, ‘She says the police are looking at early statements again. I bet they’ll be talking to Jack. I have to call my solicitor back so …’

  ‘You must be so relived, Jonny,’ I say, and stand so he knows I’ll leave.

  He shakes his head, like he doesn’t understand what’s happening, and I think he needs to be alone to let his mind work around the news, to believe it.

  I want to hug him, but instead we shake hands. I hold his upper arm briefly; he’s thin and his muscles leap in surprise, as though no one’s touched him for a while.

  ‘Look after yourself, won’t you, Jonny?’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  It’s a good question; I wasn’t expecting it. ‘I’m going to take my dog for a walk,’ I say dumbly, as though this is just a normal, pleasant day off for me, as though we haven’t just been talking about manslaughter, before I add, ‘but then I’m going to call Brooks, tell her she needs to speak to Jack again.’

  Jonny’s eyes widen and he nods quietly and as soon as the door closes behind me I hear Jonny gasp, a big chesty sob of relief that he’s going to have his life back.

  Pebbles crunch under my feet as I walk slowly back to my car. Bob is fast asleep in the back seat, only waking when I pull the door shut. I drive us slowly back to the place where Cassie was hit. It’s so different today, the light shining through the new leaves like stained glass, the water in the stream tripping and gurgling. The small shrine is still there. I bend to place my plump tulips at the front, obscenely healthy and alive next to the brittle, brown remnants of the older flowers. They totter in their place and, as I try and make them sturdier, I notice a photo at the back. I didn’t see it before; someone must have left it in the last week. I recognise it from Cassie’s Facebook page; it’s the one from the hospice, the day Marcus and April married, April withered but smiling in her bed, Cassie on one side of her and Marcus on the other, proudly holding April’s left hand in his own to show off their new wedding rings.

  I pick up the photo; it isn’t at all weathered. I turn it over, and on the back in black ink, someone’s written just two words, filling the whole of the space with their regret: ‘I’m sorry.’

  I fold the photo in half, put it in my pocket and stand still for a moment to let my breath settle. She was scared of Jack. He thought she was having an affair with Jonny and he went after her that night. I bow my head and close my eyes, listen to the wind ripple through the trees, like a slow steady breath. I believed him. I thought his trauma couldn’t be faked. I was wrong. The wind picks up. I feel it like a guiding palm at my back; it gently pushes me towards my car and for the first time in a long while I feel clear, because I don’t have to choose what to do any more. My promise to Cassie has made my decision for me and the wheels of my car bounce on the uneven
surface of the lane as I drive away as fast as I can.

  23

  Frank

  The colour alphabet board floats before me; the colours blur with Lucy looking worried behind it. She watches my face for every flicker, almost as desperate as me for every painful letter. I only manage to get to ‘J-A’ before my head starts to fizz and whirr again with the effort and my eyelids clamp shut. Still, it’s progress and much better than before with Alice. I feel Lucy lower the board. I wish they’d turn my breathing machine up again, the oxygen doesn’t feel strong enough to get through the mess in my lungs. That reg last night told me I have an infection from overexertion. He didn’t see me blink twice for ‘no’ when he said the nurses would give me strong antibiotics directly into my IV to see the infection off.

  I don’t want the fucking antibiotics!

  But, of course, that’s not my choice to make. My body doesn’t belong to me any more; it belongs to the people in white coats. Mary injected a second round of drugs directly into my IV soon after Alice left this morning. I can feel the drugs tickling my veins and no matter how I fight against it, everything starts to soften and slow, as though the world is made of cotton wool. My lungs feel heavy and useless; they’ve turned into two hanging pieces of well-chewed gum. I feel them, slimy and dripping. But that doesn’t matter, I can’t rest – mustn’t rest – until I tell someone about Charlotte, what she said to Cassie. I may not know what Cassie’s laugh sounds like, whether her eyes are green or blue, how she takes her tea, I may not know anything about her, but I do know she’s not safe. She’s not safe and I’m the only one who can help.

  I force my eyes open and feel my lungs bubble with the effort. Lucy’s lovely face looks worried in front of me; she tucks some strands of dark hair behind her ear before she dabs my eyes with saline pads like Mary showed her.

  She smiles once she’s finished and says, ‘Hi, Dad, how’re you feeling?’

  I blink once to try and fool her, reassure her I’m fine. She fiddles with her nose ring for a moment, her forehead crinkling in thought.

  ‘Alice told me you don’t want me to tell Mum or Granny Ashcroft or anyone that you’re getting better, that you’re blinking, Dad. Are you sure? Don’t you think it would be …’

  But I interrupt her with two hard blinks – No!

  ‘But, Dad, I think Mum might …’

  Blink, blink – No!

  Lucy looks down at her lap for a moment, disappointment rippling across her face, and I feel my heart crumple like balled paper.

  ‘Alice said it’s because you want to wait until you can communicate a bit more, say more words before we tell anyone else. Is that right, Dad?’

  Blink!

  Yes, my sweet one, I need to be better to tell the world about the night visitor, about Charlotte trying to warn Cassie, to tell the world it was Jack who tried to kill his wife. If we start telling people, they could find out I know the truth about Jack. So far, neither Charlotte nor Jack have asked about the extra attention I’m getting on the ward. Maybe they’re so focused on Cassie and the baby that they haven’t even noticed.

  My eyelids feel weighted again and I hear Lucy say, ‘That’s it, try and rest please, Dad.’

  But as soon as my eyes are closed, the night visitor sweeps into my thoughts like bad weather, begging forgiveness from Cassie again and again, for what? The question sparks my adrenal system; adrenalin pushes through the drugs, forcing my eyes open again. Is it something to do with Jack? Were they together that night? And I know I can’t rest, not now.

  I blink for the board. Lucy shakes her head at first.

  ‘No, Dad. You have to rest.’

  I blink again, good steady, determined blinks.

  Lucy looks down at me, her brow troubled.

  I’m sorry, my love, but I need you to do this for me.

  I blink a third time for the board.

  Lucy turns to look down the ward, seeking advice, but we’re all alone; Mary’s busy talking to a white coat just by the new patient’s bed. I don’t know their name – they were wheeled in this morning just after Alice left – but it sounds like, whoever they are, Mary isn’t happy about them being here. I hear catches of their conversation – ‘multiple organ failure’; ‘nurse shortages’ – and it’s clear to me that Mary’s worried about having another patient with very high care needs with only two nurses here on 9B.

  Lucy turns back to me and picks up the blinking board.

  ‘OK, Dad, but only for five minutes. Then I’m going to leave you to have a proper rest. Deal?’

  Lucy asks, knowing I won’t waste a blink to confirm that it’s a deal.

  ‘So from last time we have J, A so we’ll keep them and get going.’ She fixes her eyes on me so she doesn’t miss a precious blink, and traces a finger down the board, as she recites, ‘Red …’

  Blink.

  ‘OK, Red … A, B, C …’

  Blink.

  ‘C, OK, so we’ve got J, A, C … I could go on, Dad, but are you trying to spell Jack, like Cassie’s husband?’

  Blink!

  You did it, Luce!

  Lucy beams at me and calls out down the ward, ‘Mary, Mary! Dad just did another one!’

  Mary hurries over; she’s out of breath when she arrives at my bedside.

  ‘I don’t call this resting!’ Mary tuts at Lucy, and then winks at her, before she turns to me. ‘Come on, Frank, I could use some good news. Tell me you finally spelled out my name?’

  The excitement has given me another rush of energy. I manage to blink twice. ‘No’.

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ she says to me, in her mock West Country accent. I love that she takes the piss out of me.

  Lucy laughs, impatient to share our news.

  ‘No, he spelt Jack! I think he’s trying to tell us that he knows even more than we think, that he’s aware of what happens here on the ward to other patients, to Cassie. Am I right, Dad?’

  I manage one blink before my eyelids fall and darkness billows around me again.

  Yes, my clever girl, you are. You’re right. But there’s more I need to tell you.

  I’ve nudged a little closer to saying what I know. It’s my most important word yet. Now I need to think how to link it to another word, and what should that word be? Bad? How can I tell them ‘bad’ refers to ‘Jack’? Maybe if I try ‘Police’ …?

  But Lucy kisses me and says, ‘I’m going to leave you to rest now, Dad.’ She ignores me blinking for her to stay. Mary’s already disappeared, so I’m on my own and feel my mind soften again into the drugs; like melting ice-cream, my thoughts drip from my brain. At least my lungs feel less sticky now. In, out, in, out. I count along with my breathing machine and I find myself imagining where Alice is now, on her sunny day off. Perhaps she’s gone to the coast, throwing sticks for Bob, the wind making her hair dance around her face. Soon someone will tell her that I blinked Jack’s name and then she’ll know what I was trying to tell her earlier; she’ll understand that Jack has fooled us all and she’ll go to the police and this whole sorry mess will be wiped clean. Is that an expression? I’m not sure. My mind slops and sloshes back to safety again; it finds Alice’s face. I imagine Alice smiling, the gap in her teeth, how proud she’ll be of me for helping. How much better she’ll feel about everything. In, out, in, out and, at last, I give in, and slide into the endless black.

  I wake to a wet sucking sound, like boots walking through wet mud. It takes me a moment to realise it’s coming from my lungs. I feel like I’ve been asleep for a long time; someone’s cleaned me while I was out, but my lungs must be filling quickly. I feel the darkness tugging me towards it again before I remember her hands, brittle above Cassie, and a bolt passes through me, making my heart patter and, over the noise of my organs, I hear some unfamiliar footsteps approach. I’m sure Mary said they’d cancelled my physiotherapy because of my infection, so I tell myself to calm down, ignore them, assume they must be for Cassie, when I hear my curtain pull back and Lizzie saying, ‘Frank, g
ood news: your niece is here to see you.’

  Niece?

  ‘So bear in mind, he’s a little woozy because of the infection …’

  I know Paul’s got boys, I know I’ve got nephews, but I don’t remember a niece.

  More than one alarm starts ringing over the new patient’s bed, and feet immediately start pounding down the ward, drawn to the noise.

  ‘Oh, god,’ Lizzie says. ‘Sorry, we’re a bit run off our feet today. I’ll be back soon as I can …’ and Lizzie scurries off, joining the stampede to save whoever it is.

  Perhaps the little brain coil with my niece in my memory died in the stroke, or melted with the drugs.

  I’m still turned towards the window, on my right, so depending on where she’s standing, I can’t see this niece of mine, but I feel her come closer. Her footsteps are heavy; it sounds like she could be wearing leather boots. She smells smokey but sweet like joss sticks. She smells like a hippy.

  God, don’t let my niece be a hippy.

  She moves around my area, coming to standstill to where I’m turned at the right side of the foot of my bed. She’s wearing jeans. Her legs are long and slim but she stands solidly through them. She’s wrapped in a green coat, which she peels off and leaves to rest on my visitor’s chair. Her long red plait bounces down her back like a snake, but it’s hard to make out any more details from my position; my eyes are gummy and ache with exhaustion. I hear her pick up the well-thumbed folder the nurses use for my notes before slotting it back into place at the foot of my bed. Then she comes close, studies me like bacteria through a microscope. She breathes through her nose, long and deliberate, and, placing a cool hand on my forehead, she bends low and just an inch from my ear, says, ‘Hi, Uncle Frank.’

  My organs squeeze. Recognition slices through me clean and quick as a razor.

  She’s back.

  I remember her bending over Cassie, how she shook with remorse.