Twenty-Two
Even though we’d only been away from you for one night, it felt like forever by the time we arrived at lunchtime. We rushed through the hospital’s labyrinthine corridors to the paediatric ICU ward. Washing our hands before we entered your room seemed to take an eternity; I hopped from foot to foot, as if that were going to make me wash faster. I needed to be by your side again, Beth.
Bursting into your room, hope rose. Your cheeks would be pinker. You’d squeeze my hand. You’d open your eyes.
Instead, you simply lay there, head slumped to one side on your plumped pillows.
‘Any change?’ I asked your Uncle John, who was sitting with you.
‘Nothing so far. Although I think her eyes flickered earlier.’
My heart hammered. Jacob and I peered at you. No reaction. No improvement. Disappointment settled as heavy as lead.
‘How are you feeling today, Beans?’ asked Jacob. He used the teasing nickname he had for you, perhaps hoping to get a reaction.
You generally pretended to be furious when he used it, but he meant it with love. You’ve heard the story a hundred times, but I can’t resist telling it again, Beth. The very first time he held you, he was overwhelmed. He’d teared up – and so had I at the sight of his hand dwarfing your head as he cradled it. We were both so exhausted, so proud and so terrified of you and the endless love we already felt, despite you being just minutes old. He’d told you how perfect you were and lifted you to his face to kiss you, and at that moment you had opened your eyes and seemed to look straight into his soul.
Then you had broken wind. The sound was incredible. That such a tiny, gorgeous newborn could produce something like that had had us in stitches. Your dad’d had to put you down in your crib, terrified he was going to drop you, he was laughing so much.
Since then, Jacob has called you Beans. Much to your chagrin.
You didn’t react that day, though. Not so much as a fluctuation in the readings on the machines surrounding you.
‘Well, we’ve brought lots of things from home for you, to cheer this place up,’ I said brightly. ‘The nurses have said we can put some posters up, so we’ve brought that one of the mountain gorillas. Hope you don’t mind me taking it from your room, but I thought you’d like to see it here. Oh, and we’ve got you… Ta-da! A new Justin Bieber poster. Think I preferred him with his old hair and fewer tattoos.’
‘Did you bring her speakers? Yes, we’ve brought your speakers, too, so you can listen to Justin to your heart’s content. Lucky us, eh?’ your dad joked.
‘And because you can’t cuddle up to Justin, here’s Jesus.’
For some odd reason, that was what you called the now tatty teddy Jacob had bought for you when you were born. You’ve never been able to explain why you chose that name; it has been rather embarrassing for us, at times. Now, the blue bear nestled beside you on your pillow.
After putting everything in its place, including throwing a colourful home-made patchwork counterpane over your bed to cheer it up, the room looked a little better. But you looked the same, Beth. Tubes coming out of your nose and throat, your shaved head. Some of the swelling had gone down a little, but the bruising was the deep black and purple of storm clouds. I took hold of your hand, careful to avoid the arterial cannula, which measured your blood pressure, and told myself that at least things couldn’t get any worse.
That night, there was one improvement: the local news covered your attack. It was a quick one-minute segment on the television, with your photo, then footage of the police combing the marsh and DS Devonport asking anyone with information to come forward.
Fingers crossed.
Twenty-Three
‘COMA GIRL’S FATHER QUESTIONED: Doing drugs while his daughter fought for her life.’
I stood in my kitchen and read and reread the headline of Friday’s edition of the Wapentake Investigator. It didn’t change, no matter how much I glared at it.
‘Bloody Finn. I’ll kill him!’
‘Maybe he’s just printing what everyone else has,’ offered Jacob miserably.
Oh, the naive fool.
‘Jacob, Finn’s the one who has sold this story to all the nationals. The story broke with them today – and our local paper came out today too. There is no way that could have happened unless he was the one who flogged it to them.’
My voice had started out quiet and sympathetic, but began to speed up again with the tempo of my heart.
‘Finn’s a small-time reporter who likes to imagine that his weekly rag full of school initiatives, town councillors congratulating one another and the occasional shed break-in or car theft will one day launch him into Fleet Street. He’s seen what’s happened to Beth not as a terrible thing for a colleague’s family, but as a golden opportunity to show the big papers what he is capable of. Look!’
I stabbed my finger randomly at the page, but Jacob knew which paragraph I referred to. ‘He’s even quoted me about Beth’s attack! He called me to offer support, then recorded the conversation and quoted me!’
The betrayal by a colleague of seven years was absolute. Your dad suffered the most at Finn’s hands, though. Beth, Finn had made him sound like a junkie. A contact in the police must have tipped him off about Jacob’s spliff confession. Then he had clearly seized his big opportunity and contacted everyone from The Sun to the Daily Mail. Each had run a variation of the story, with much added background ‘colour’ and even more sensational details of your attack.
I’d wanted what had happened to you to get publicity – but not like that. The article wasn’t about raising awareness and uncovering the attacker; this was about crucifying a struggling family. The implication was clear: we were no-goods, and had let our daughter run riot in the middle of the night. Your injuries were our fault for being bad parents.
Maybe they were right.