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!’