‘Don’t tell him I was upset, will you? I don’t want him to worry. If you see Charlotte or Jack, just say I went home to check on Maisie, that I was worried about her with the fireworks and everything.’
Jonny searches Cassie’s face for reassurance, but his gaze is blunted by alcohol, his eyes unseeing.
‘Have fun,’ she says, squeezing his arm, ‘and I’ll come over tomorrow, OK?’
‘Happy New Year, Cas,’ he says, kissing her cheek before she starts walking down the path, towards the gate that leads directly onto Steeple Lane. Eventually the noise from the party fades and she can hear the stream, swollen from all the rain, alive ahead of her. Her phone buzzes with a message. She thinks it’ll be Jack, already wondering where she is. She looks at the screen. But it’s not Jack, and it’s not Nicky. It’s Marcus.
Happy New Year, Cas. I’m just having a quiet one at home but just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you, Marcus x.
She feels her eyes swell again, and her tears fall, landing like water bombs on her screen, distorting Marcus’s message. She pictures Marcus in his silent sitting room, balancing a whisky on the arm of his favourite old chair, with only his failing memory for company. She realises, with a jolt of surprise, that she wishes she was there with him. She wants to be in the house her mum called home and she wants to be with the man who was her mum’s husband, the man who loved her and knew April almost as well as Cassie knew her. Marcus needs her and she needs him.
Of course. She almost laughs as she drops her phone back in her pocket; it’s so obvious. She can’t decide her future, her child’s future here. She needs a break, some time and space away from her suffocating life and she’ll be able to finally get Marcus to a doctor. She starts walking, invigorated with the energy of her decision. At last she’s going to honour her mum’s wishes; she’ll look after Marcus and she’ll let Marcus look after her. She’ll call Marcus first thing in the morning, and tell him she’s going to come and stay for a while; he’ll be delighted. Then she’ll go over to Jonny’s, before Jack’s even awake, and get him to take her to the train station. If she’s lucky and his hangover isn’t too bad, he might even drive her all the way to Portsmouth. The Isle of Wight will be peaceful. She’ll have space and time to think and paint if she wants. It’s where her mum found solace after all.
She lets her hand drop to her lower belly; she pictures her mum, travelling back from Mexico all on her own, her belly already swollen with Cassie. Maybe she’ll pick up on some of her mum’s courage if she’s by the sea, walking those high cliffs they both loved so much.
She’s at the gate now that leads to the lane. She’s about to open it when she hears a branch crack. She stops. She feels a slightly itchy sensation prickle her back, as though she’s being watched.
‘Hello?’ Her voice is small, lonely in the night, but there’s no reply, just the creak of the trees and the distant hum of drunk party laughter. Another firework explodes, gaudy in the sky. It lights up the space around her in an unnatural pool of brief light.
She’s on her own after all, Steeple Lane directly ahead of her, the stream hissing by its side. The fireworks die in the sky and the darkness settles around her again. She turns left onto the lane, towards the cottage. It feels right to be walking on her own, away from the crowd, into the first night of the New Year, towards a future she realises with a surge is entirely her own. The wind picks up and Cassie shivers. She pulls her jacket tighter, freezing against her skin. Her breath coils around her in dense white clouds, each icy inhale electrocutes her lungs. Her mouth fills with an unusual taste. It reminds her of something, something metallic, and as she walks deeper into the night, she knows what her mouth tastes like. It tastes like blood.
22
Alice
‘Alice, what are you doing here?’ Paula is looking up from where she sits at the reception desk, yesterday’s papers spread before her. If she’s pleased to see me, she doesn’t show it; her pale face folds in on itself like cake mix in confusion. ‘I thought you were off today?’
I try and ignore the flicker of amusement I see shadowing her wide-set features; I’m probably getting a reputation for always being on the ward, not having a life outside my shifts.
I shrug and lie. ‘I left something in my locker so thought I’d just pop in for it.’
‘For god’s sake, it’s seven in the morning, Alice!’
‘Paula, I got an early night, woke up early, OK?’
Now it’s her turn to shrug, before I ask, ‘How’s Cassie’s night been?’
Paula folds away her newspaper.
‘Oh, she’s quiet as a lamb,’ she says with a sigh. ‘It’s Frank who’s taken a turn, I’m afraid. The registrar was with him for a while earlier.’ Paula wrinkles her nose. ‘I’ve never heard his lungs like this, I would have sworn it was pneumonia but the reg said it was most likely an infection brought on by overexertion over the last few days, not enough sleep and all that. I’ve just cleaned his trach, given him his antibiotics and made him comfortable.’ She pauses, before adding as an afterthought, defensive perhaps that I caught her slacking, ‘I just finished his notes, before you arrived. They’re all up to date.’ Then she licks her thumb and forefinger and opens her newspaper again.
Paula’s left Frank slightly turned towards the left. His eyes are open, as though he was expecting me, or someone else. He blinks as soon as he sees me. Paula was right, his lungs are congested; they rattle with every breath. I drop my bag on his visitor’s chair and move him to a more central position. Veins wriggle across the whites of his eyes like tiny red rivers. He’s exhausted.
‘Frank, what’s going on?’ He stares at me and I kick myself – idiot – for not asking yes or no questions.
‘Is something wrong?’
Frank blinks yes.
‘You want the board, Frank?’
Blink.
‘All right, we can try for a little while, but after you must promise me you’ll try and rest, deal?’
Blink. I have the feeling he’s only saying yes to get me to shut up and get the board. I pick it up from its place behind the frame of his bed.
He starts blinking as soon as I’ve raised the board in front of him. He moves too quickly. I don’t know the board well enough and have to keep looking at it and back at Frank so I miss his blinks. I don’t know what he’s trying to say. I feel a rip in my chest, and I’m worried I might cry suddenly: he needs me and I don’t understand.
‘I’m sorry, Frank, I …’ I look at him; there’s a ferocity behind his eyes I haven’t seen before.
‘Shall we start again, Frank?’
He blinks, weaker this time. Each blink draining a little more energy.