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.
Today is a quiet day, a sluggish Sunday, a little heavy. Everyone prays for Sundays to be like this as most senior staff are at home, eating roasts, glugging back the red wine.
Ellen was wheeled away for the last time a few days ago, off to an old peoples’ home, Alice said. It’s a strange, lonely thought to think she could die and even though we’d spent weeks side by side, I’d never know.
George Peters has been moved to another ward. His wife Celia kissed all the nurses before they left. It’s the first time I’ve been on 9B with two beds free – it’s just me and Cassie – and I wonder if patients who would’ve been here have been moved to other wards … if the hospital are trying to protect Cassie from the reporters. Small mercies. The Jensens haven’t been in today yet so there’s less coming and going and Alice is in a quiet mood, moving slowly, which is good because she’ll be more likely to catch me.
She checks Cassie’s curtain is closed before she sits in my chair. She doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t need to. She looks at me, the skin under her eyes the colour of heavy rain clouds. She’s thinking about Cassie, I can tell. She’s always thinking about Cassie. I wish she’d think more about herself, about her own health for once. But maybe, maybe soon I’ll be able to help her. I’ll tell her about the woman, get her to call the police, sort this Cassie mess out and I know this is my moment! This is the moment I tell her she was right to trust her instincts, that I am here, that I’ve been here all along; I blink!
Come on, Alice.
But she doesn’t see because she’s looking down at her hands and telling me about Officer Brooks, about how she took the letter she found to her. Alice kneads her hands as she tells me that Brooks implied the letter doesn’t change anything, she says they knew Cassie and Jack had their troubles. They all think Jonny’s the cause. His alibi still mustn’t have come good for him. Alice’s bottom lip is livid, sore, the colour of raw meat as she pulls it through her teeth. She hasn’t told anyone else about the letter; she thinks no one will listen. I know how that feels, to know and be silent.
See me.
She’s looking up at me now and I know I don’t have long so I call on every cell in my body to rally and join in the effort and I blink!
She stands up like she’s been electrocuted.
‘Frank?’ Her face is above mine and I can see that sweet little gap and her dimple, and I think I’ve got enough in my energy reserves to give it another shot so I do, I blink again. Fireworks explode and a tiny brass band starts marching in my head because she’s grinning down at me. She’s laughing now!
‘You blinked, Frank! You blinked!’, and she’s stroking my face and calling to Mary and it’s like something celestial has awoken in me because for the first time in months I’ve sent a message, a tiny telegram to the world, that I still exist! I’m here!
Mary’s little face appears next to Alice and she asks me to blink again and I do, and Mary says, ‘Oh, Frank, you absolute winner, Frank,’ and she puts her arm around Alice who’s still stroking my cheek and smiling at me in a way that looks like tears are close behind.
‘Can you try one more time, Frank?’
And like the star in the football team I go for a hattrick. My vision goes black but something’s wrong; my eyelids are too heavy. I’ve lost the controls; I can’t open them. They’re frozen shut and I scream around my body, like some crazed insect trapped in a jar because the moment’s gone and I can’t see Alice smile or hear Mary call me a ‘winner’ again. I’m in black, and I can feel their disappointment on my face, like sunburn. It doesn’t last too long, though, because Alice is talking about getting me a scan today, while Sharma’s on leave. They hurry away to call radiography and to find out which registrar is on duty.
I realise I’ve been so focused on someone seeing me blink, I hadn’t thought too much about what would happen immediately after: scans, tests, more prodding and poking. How long will it be before I can tell them about the woman? How long will it be before I can thank Alice for everything? How long before I can hug my Luce again? I know enough now to know it won’t be like the films. If the blinking is anything to go by, my rehabilitation will be slow, painful and appallingly frustrating, and the first step is a scan. I’m not sure I’m ready, but all of a sudden I hear her voice again – ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’ – and it dawns on me that this woman, whoever she is, is in some way my redemption. I’ll work even harder to get better, and won’t rest until I can tell the world about her … about what she did to Cassie and her baby. Perhaps that’ll even the scale, the bad I’ve done finally balanced with this new good. Perhaps I would finally forgive my own fuckups?
Clipped footsteps interrupt my thoughts and suddenly, without warning, my eyelids are peeled back like skin on a lychee and a piercing light is shone straight into my pupil.
I can’t see him but a gentle male voice with a French accent tells me, ‘Mr Ashcroft, I am Matthieu Baret, the registrar on duty today.’
Matthieu releases the eyelid and goes straight on to the left, colours flash within my head like the inside of a kaleidoscope. Then Matthieu asks me to blink, which seems a bit rich after he’d been pulling back my eyelids like he was trying to peel them off my face, but to my astonishment and with relatively little effort, I blink. For a moment I see that Matthieu is a slightly overweight but kindly looking black man, that Alice and Mary are grinning at me from behind him. Matthieu knocks me about a bit to check my reflexes and he’s telling Alice and Mary to book me in for a PET with CAT scan, which sounds reassuringly thorough. Before he leaves he leans in close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my skin.
‘Mr Ashcroft,’ he says in an overly loud voice, as if speaking to a five-year-old, ‘if you can hear me, you should know you are in hospital. You’ve been in a coma. You are safe and we will look after you.’
My fillings rattle as his voice booms around my head, and then I feel him move away towards Alice and Mary.
‘Well, let’s hope some of the 9B magic rubs off on the rest of the hospital.’ He chuckles and Alice laughs with him just so he’s not laughing alone.