“I know. But Daisy, is she okay? Have you seen her?” I don’t know if it’s my persistence, or if my genuine concern shines through, but I notice her expression thaw a little.
“She hasn’t been out for days. Not since her boyfriend left.”
“Darren’s gone?”
“Yeah, and good fucking riddance if you ask me. Coming and going at all hours, bringing bad people back. Fucker.”
I try to smile sympathetically, but my stomach lurches. If this woman is describing Darren’s friends as ‘bad people’, they have to be truly awful. “Are you sure she’s in there?” I incline my head to Daisy’s flat.
The woman shrugs. “I’m not a nosy neighbour or anything, but I haven’t seen her leave. And she isn’t exactly quiet, if you know what I mean.”
Then she’s in there. I can tell the woman is definitely a nosy neighbour, and she’d know for sure if Daisy had left. I feel panic start to rise in my chest. If Daisy is alone—and has been for days, not answering her phone—then what sort of state is she in?
I pummel on her door, calling out her name. Feeling stupid and alone—except for the neighbour and her dog—I swallow down my panicked tears.
“She won’t answer.”
“What?”
“She’ll think you’re from the council.”
“But I need to check on her.”
Cool as a cucumber, the woman walks out of her doorway and over to where I’m standing. Gently pushing me out of the way, she does something to the lock I can’t quite see. A moment later, the door swings open. A waft of warm, dank air hits my nostrils. My gag reflex comes back stronger than ever.
The neighbour goes back to her flat without a word, pulling her dog with her, closing her door with a click. Leaving me alone in Daisy’s flat. I start to feel really anxious. What if Darren hasn’t really gone? I’ve only seen him once, when he met Daisy outside the clinic, but there was an air of malevolence in his stare that scared me stupid. I take a deep breath and walk into the living room, trying to ignore the taste of stale air.
The floor and table are littered with takeaway cartons and beer cans, and there are ashtrays over-spilling with butts of both cigarettes and joints. DVD cases are strewn across the TV stand, and there is a big pile of clothes in the corner.
But no Daisy. Where is she?
I pull my mobile phone out of my bag and clutch it in my sweaty fingers, holding it like a talisman to ward off evil. Then I walk out of the lounge and into the next room. One glance tells me it’s empty—from the pink walls and pile of toys I’m guessing this is Allegra’s room. I step back out and head for the third door. When I get closer I start to hear something—more than heavy breath, less than moaning. A couple of coughs that sound way too full of liquid.
“Daisy?” I push the door tentatively. My whole body is alive with adrenaline. I’m half a sensible thought away from getting the hell out of here. Just when I think there’s going to be no reply, there’s another almost-groan.
Right away, I can tell it’s her bedroom. Though the curtains are drawn, they’re thin enough to let in the light. She’s lying curled up on the bed, her hands clutching at her stomach. Her right eye is black and swollen—illuminated with a greeny-yellow sheen where the bruise has matured. Right below it, the side of her cheek is enlarged and puffy, almost certainly broken again. A stench of urine and vomit permeates the air. I have to cover my mouth and nose with my free hand, trying not to be sick.
With the other, I dial 999.
* * *
Simon doesn’t get angry very often. I’m used to his softly spoken, gentle way of communicating. Of course, I’ve seen him in adversarial mode—being a lawyer it’s almost obligatory—though with me he’s always been a man carefully handling a fragile china doll. But ever since he picked me up from the hospital an hour ago, he’s been holding his body like a lion about to pounce.
So many times he’s told me that working at the clinic is dangerous. He’s asked me to leave before, and I’ve held out, telling him I’m not in harm’s way. Today, we both know that’s a lie.
Maybe that’s why I’m finding this so hard. Perched on the edge of our leather couch, my fingers clutching the seat cushion, my heart rattles in my chest like an animal in a cage. He paces in front of me, one hand pulling at his white-blond hair, the other balled into a fist.
“What the hell were you thinking?” He stops in front of me. “Jesus Christ, have you no brain cell
s in that pretty head of yours?”
“I’m so sorry. I...”
He continues as if I haven’t spoken, “When we got married you promised this wouldn’t affect us. You said you’d give up the clinic before it did.”
Did I say that? It does sound like something I might have said. But my heart falls at his words. I don’t know if he’s being passive aggressive and trying to make me leave the clinic, or if he’s simply thinking things through out loud.
I remain silent.