The nurses don’t knock – at least they do, but with a perfunctory tap and then they come in anyway. Only Lamarr knocks and waits for an answer. And I cannot face Lamarr, with her kind, calm, curiously dogged questions. I don’t remember. I don’t remember, all right? I’m not hiding anything, I just Don’t. Fucking. Remember.
I screw my eyes shut, listening over the sound of The Archers to see if she’s going away, and then I hear the door shush cautiously open, as if someone is putting a head round.
‘Lee?’ I hear, very quietly. ‘I mean, sorry, Nora?’
I sit bolt upright. It’s Nina.
‘Nina!’ I rip off the headphones and try to swing my legs out of bed, but whether it’s my head, or just low blood pressure, the room goes suddenly hollow and distant and I am overcome with a wave of vertigo.
‘Hey!’ Her voice is distant, through the hissing in my ears. ‘Hey, take it easy. They’ve only just sewn your brains back in, by all accounts.’
‘I’m all right,’ I say, though I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure myself, or her. ‘I’m all right. I’m OK.’
And then I am ok. The wave of faintness has passed and I can hug Nina, breathing in her particular scent: Jean Paul Gaultier, and cigarettes.
‘Oh Jesus, I’m so glad to see you.’
‘I’m glad to see you.’ She pulls back, looking at me with critical, worried eyes. ‘I have to say, when they told us you’d been in a car accident I … well. Seeing one school friend bleed out was enough.’
I flinch and she drops her eyes.
‘Shit, sorry. I— it’s not that I—’
‘I know.’ It’s not that Nina doesn’t feel stuff. She just deals with it differently to most people. Sarcasm is her defence against life.
‘Let’s just say, I’m glad you’re here.’ She takes my hand and kisses the back of it, and I’m astonished and kind of touched to see her face is crumpled and soft. ‘Although, not looking your best, I have to say.’ She gives a shaky laugh. ‘Sheesh, I need a fag. Think they’d notice if I had one out the window?’
‘Nina, what the hell happened?’ I ask, still holding onto her hand. ‘The police are here – they’re asking all these questions. James is dead, did you know?’
‘Yes, I knew,’ Nina says quietly. ‘They came to the house early on Sunday. They didn’t tell us straight away but … Well, let’s just say you don’t expend that kind of man-power on a non-fatal shooting. It was pretty obvious after they started printing us and taking gunshot residue tests.’
‘What happened? How could that gun possibly be loaded?’
‘As I see it,’ her voice is grimly steady, ‘there’s two possibilities. One,’ she holds up her forefinger, ‘Flo’s aunt did not in fact keep that gun loaded with blanks. But from their line of questioning, I don’t think they think that’s likely.’
‘And two?’
‘Someone loaded it.’
It’s only what I’ve been thinking. But it’s still a shock, hearing it out loud in the small hermit cell of the hospital room. We both sit there in silence, contemplating this for a long while, thinking about Tom larking around with it the night before, thinking about all the hows and whys and what-ifs.
‘How’s Jess taking it all?’ I ask at last, more to change the subject than anything else. Nina makes a wry face.
‘As you can imagine, she was her usual measured self. Only forty-five minutes of hysteria down the phone. First she was furious they were keeping me up here to make a statement, and then she wanted to come up, but I told her not to.’
‘Why not?’
Nina gives me a look that’s simultaneously sympathetic and disbelieving. ‘Dude, are you kidding me? For whatever fucked-up reason, they think James was murdered. Would you want your nearest and dearest mixed up in that? No. Jess is not part of this, thank Christ, and it’s staying that way. I want her far, far away.’
‘Fair point.’ I scoot back onto the bed and sit, hugging my knees. Nina takes the chair and picks up my chart, flicking through it with bald-faced curiosity.
‘Do you mind?’ I say. ‘I’m not sure I want you knowing details of my last bowel movement and all that.’
‘Sorry, professional nosiness. How’s the head now? Sounds like you had quite a whack.’
‘Yeah, it felt like it. I’m OK though. Just … I’ve been having memory trouble.’ I rub where the dressing sits, as if I can rub the jumbled images back into a semblance of order. ‘It’s just the bit after I left the house.’
‘Hmm. Post-traumatic amnesia. It’s usually only a matter of a few moments though. Yours sounds like … I don’t know. How long do you think?’
‘It’s kind of difficult to be sure since, oh, did I mention, I can’t remember,’ I say. I can hear my voice going snappish and my own peevishness annoys me, but Nina ignores it.
‘It can’t be long though, right?’