I press the buttons, not once, but five, ten, fifteen times, pressing again and again, as if it will make the lifts come faster.
Then there’s a sudden grating noise and a ping, and the farthest lift doors open. I half-walk, half-run inside, my heart thudding. A porter is in there pushing a woman in a wheelchair and hissing Lady Gaga through his teeth. Please, please let me make it.
The lift bumps to a halt and I stand back to let the porter and the woman out first, and then follow the signs to the main entrance. A bored-looking woman is sitting at the desk flicking through a copy of Hello.
As I draw level with her, her phone starts to ring, and I cannot stop myself walking a little faster. Don’t pick it up. Don’t pick it up.
She picks it up. ‘Hello, reception desk?’
I am walking too fast, I know I am, but I can’t stop myself. I must look like a patient. How can she not notice I’m wearing flip-flops, for Christ’s sake? Normal people, visitors, don’t wear flip-flops in November. Not with grey jogging bottoms and a blue knitted cardigan.
She is going to stop me, I know it. She’s going to say something, ask me if I’m OK. The two ten-pound notes clutched in my fist are damp with sweat.
‘Really?’ the receptionist says sharply as I draw level. She winds the phone cord around one finger. ‘Yes, yes all right. I’ll keep an eye out.’
My heart is in my mouth. She knows. I can’t bear it.
But she doesn’t look up. She’s nodding. Maybe it’s not me they’re talking about.
I’m almost at the door. There’s a sign telling people to use the alcohol rub on entry and exit. Should I stop? Will someone notice more if I stop, or more if I don’t?
I don’t stop.
At the desk the woman is still talking and shaking her head.
I am in the revolving door. For a moment I have a brief, flashing fantasy that it will stop mid-cycle, that I will be trapped in a triangle of air, with maybe just a sliver of a gap to the outside, enough to reach an arm out, but not escape.
But of course it doesn’t happen. The door continues its smooth revolution.
The cold air hits me like a blessing.
I am free.
I am out of the hospital.
I have escaped.
29
THE AIR IS cold in my face and I feel completely lost. This place is totally strange to me – and I realise suddenly and piercingly that I was brought here unconscious and have no idea how I got here or how to get away.
I’m shivering after the heat of the hospital and there are flecks of snow on the breeze. I look up as if searching for a miracle, and one comes, in the form of a sign saying ‘Taxis’ and an arrow.
I walk slowly, shivering, round the corner of the building and there, at the sign saying ‘Taxi queue starts here’, is a single cab, light on. A man is inside, at least I think so, it’s hard to see through the fog on the windows.
I limp closer – the flip-flops are starting to chafe the inner side of my foot – and knock on the window. It rolls down a crack and a cheerful brown face grins at me.
‘What can I do you for, love?’ he asks. He is a Sikh, his turban a smart black, with a pin in the centre with his taxi company’s logo on. His accent is a disconcerting mix of Punjabi and Newcastle that momentarily makes me want to laugh.
‘I … I need to get to …’ I suddenly realise I have no idea where to go. Back to London?
No.
‘I need to get to the Glass House,’ I say. ‘It’s a cottage, a house, just outside Stanebridge. Do you know the village?’
He nods and puts down his paper. ‘Aye, I know it. Hop in, love.’
But I don’t. In spite of the cold, and the fact that I’m shivering hard now, I hesitate, my hand on the door handle.
‘How much will it be, please? I’ve only got twenty pounds.’
‘It’s twenty-five normally,’ he says, taking in my bruises, ‘but for you I’ll say twenty.’
Thank God. I manage a smile, though my face feels like it is frozen, and might crack with the effort.
‘Th-thank you,’ I say, not stammering now, but my teeth chattering with cold.
‘Get in, love,’ he opens the door behind him, ‘or you’ll freeze. Hop in, now.’
I get in.
The car is like a cocoon of warmth that folds around me. It smells of worn plastic and pine air freshener and old cigarettes, the smell of every taxi everywhere, and I want to curl into the soft warmth of its seats and go to sleep and never wake up.
My fingers as I try to buckle my belt are trembling, and I realise how tired I am, how weak my muscles are after my hospital stay.
‘Sorry,’ I say, as he glances back to make sure I’m buckled up. ‘Sorry. I’m nearly there.’
‘No worries, love. No hurry.’
And then the buckle closes with a reassuring click and I sit back, feeling my body ache with tiredness.
The driver starts the engine. I close my eyes. I am away.
‘Eh, love. Wake up, Miss.’
I open my eyes, confused and bleary. Where am I? Not at home. Not in the hospital.