But in my woozy state I didn’t hear the banging at the door, or the frantic voice calling my name. The door must have been open because Jake managed to get in within seconds. There were clattering footsteps and then my door was open. A face blurred before my eyes as he hooked his arms underneath my body, calling my name over and over again. There was pressure on my wrist and I was vaguely aware of the blood oozing between his fingers. I was vaguely aware of him saying ‘no, no, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen’ and then I woke up in a hospital bed.
It took me a long time to find gratitude for what Jake did for me that day. When I first woke up in that hospital room I hated him more than I’ve ever hated anyone. Hate was an emotion I’d never discovered before Aiden was taken from me in the flood. If you get to live your life without ever experiencing hatred, then count yourself lucky. Count your blessings. Hate isn’t something to crave or wish for. Never say you hate someone or something unless you really mean it, because hate is not finding a presenter on the telly annoying, or losing your temper with a sibling—it’s an all-consuming living thing that starts in your bowels and infects your blood until it blackens your heart.
And I hated myself. That’s the worst kind of hate.
I cried for a while. I went through shivers and shakes as the alcohol worked its way out of my body. I scratched at my bandages and refused to talk to Jake as he sat at my bedside reading from his art history books. He came day after day, reading to me as I sat sullenly with my head turned away. He read about the Renaissance, about Caravaggio and his brutish tendencies and murderous temper. He read about Picasso and his painting of Guernica. He read to me every day and soon enough I started to listen.
Instead of picking at my food I began to eat it. I requested water and orange juice rather than sipping on whatever was available when my throat went dry. When it was quiet in the hospital I turned on the television and watched a few daytime soaps. I even started replying to the nurses when they asked me how I was feeling.
When they released me, I found Mum and Dad’s cottage cleaned up and sparkling. Jake had sorted it all. He’d cleaned up my mess, removed all the alcohol from the house, hoovered, swept up the broken items and thrown them away. He’d even fixed up a few photograph frames I’d destroyed in my rage.
On the coffee table was a stack of books about Picasso, Caravaggio, Monet and more. John Singer-Sargent, Rembrandt, Da Vinci. There were brand new DVDs on the same subjects piled up next to the DVD player. I thumbed through the books, flicking past the text to get to the beautiful portraits, some of which I’d never seen before. Then I found a new set of paints on the dining room table with a get-well-soon card standing next to it. On the other side of the paints was an application form for a part time administration job at the school. I sat down and completed it.
I know some people might have been put off by the extraordinary lengths Jake went to, to aid my recovery. There are some women who might have found him creepy or overbearing, but it was everything I needed. Without even a hint of anything more than a platonic relationship, this man had taken his time to see me through the worst possible point of my life. I wasn’t capable of love at that moment—I was too dried out by all the hate that had burned inside me—but I was close to loving him. There was a strong sense of affection blossoming in my blackened shell.
Which is why I allowed myself to become swept up into his life so suddenly. It’s why I failed to see what he really was.
21
It was Friday and there were still no leads about what had happened to Aiden. Marcus, the family liaison officer, informed me that fingerprints and DNA were being collected from various men in the area. Jake and Rob were to be included. I wasn’t sure why they were bothering, since nothing had been found on Aiden the night he was found. Both Jake and Rob were questioned about the day Aiden went missing. Jake had been teaching at the secondary school on the day Aiden was taken. He’d been walking around the school checking the leaking roof. Various members of staff had seen him at that time. Rob had been making his way home from the building site, stuck in traffic outside Bishoptown. I didn’t suspect either of them, but I understood that the men closest to Aiden were likely to be the first suspects.
But watching them go into questioning made me think about the case differently. It had to be someone local. And that meant it might be someone I know.