I think about time a lot since I lost it. The hours here stick together and it’s hard to pull them apart. People talk about time passing but here, in this room, time doesn’t pass at all. It crawls and lingers and smears the walls of your mind with muck-stained memories, so you can’t see what’s in front or behind you. It eats away at those who get washed up on its shores and I need to swim away now, I need to catch up with myself down stream.
‘That should feel better, all the dried blood gone,’ says a kind voice, before wrapping a towel around my head. I imagine blood staining white porcelain and an ever decreasing red orbit until another part of me is washed away.
‘I’ll do that, I imagine you must be very busy, I don’t mind,’ says Claire. She’s been watching, so quiet I didn’t even know she was here. The nurses like her, I can tell. People do tend to like the version of her she lets them see. They put the bed back upright and leave us alone. Claire dries my hair, then plaits it the way we did for each other when we were children. She doesn’t say a word.
‘You’re here early,’ says Paul, coming into my room just as she’s finishing.
‘Still can’t sleep,’ says Claire.
It looks like I’m sleeping all of the time, but I’m not and even when I do sleep, people are always coming and going. Turning me, cleaning me, drugging me. Edward hasn’t come back for a while, at least I don’t remember him being here. I tell myself that he might leave me alone now, then maybe I’ll wake up for real, for good.
‘Something weird happened last night,’ says Paul.
‘Go on,’ replies my sister. I preferred it when they had the rule where he arrived and she left. They’re spending too much time together now and nothing good can come of that.
‘I charged Amber’s phone, but there was no contact number for anyone called Jo.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘I called her boss, thinking he’d be able to give me her number. He was very nice at first, but then got all agitated and said he couldn’t give it to me, because he doesn’t know anyone called Jo.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Claire.
I know that she does.
‘Nobody at Coffee Morning is called Jo. I asked him if maybe it was a nickname or something, told him that she was definitely a friend of Amber’s from work. Then he got all flustered and tried to find a polite way to tell me that Amber didn’t have any friends at work.’
Please stop.
‘How strange.’
‘I’m starting to understand why she quit, the guy sounded like an arse.’
Please stop talking.
‘She quit?’ asks Claire.
Don’t say another word.
‘Sorry, she told me not to tell you; I forgot.’
‘Why?’
‘She just wasn’t happy there any more.’
‘No, I mean why didn’t she want you to tell me?’
‘I don’t know.’
Then
Friday 23rd December 2016 – Evening
I can’t make eye contact with the taxi driver as we pull up outside my home. I could see him repeatedly looking at me in the rear-view mirror as he drove me away from the block of flats, unable to tell whether it was disgust or concern in his eyes. Maybe it was both. I hand over the cash and don’t wait for the change, mumbling my thanks before climbing out and closing the door. The first thing I see as the cab drives away is Paul’s car parked outside. He didn’t tell me he was coming back tonight. He’s hardly been in touch at all.
I search inside my handbag for a mint and spray myself with a spritz of perfume. I find my small compact mirror and examine different parts of my face in the glow from the street light outside the house. It’s the first time I’ve had to look myself in the eye since I woke up in someone else’s bed. Most of my make-up has rubbed off but my mascara has bled down my face. No wonder the cab driver was staring at me. I lick my fingers and rub the skin beneath my eyes before checking my reflection once more. I still look like myself, even though I am not.
I step from the pavement onto our property, crossing an invisible border and closing the gate behind me, cementing the decision to proceed with caution. The air is so cold that the frozen wood needs persuading to shut all the way and burns the tips of my fingers in protest. I force myself to walk towards the house, leaving all the truths we haven’t shared out on the street. I survey the front of our home as I trudge up the gravel path. The place looks tired, unloved, in need of some attention. White paint has flaked in places, peeling away like sunburnt skin. Everything in the garden looks dead or dying. A thick trunk of wisteria ascends and divides into a network of dry brown veins all over the front of the house, as though it will never blossom again. I try to tell myself that maybe I haven’t done anything wrong, but the guilt of what I can’t or won’t remember slows my steps. Madeline has been dealt with but now I fear I’m facing something so much worse.
I search for my keys in my bag, but I can’t find them so I ring the bell. I wait a while, then the cold nudges my impatience and I ring it again. Paul opens the door. He doesn’t say anything and we both just stand there as though I’m waiting to be invited into my own home. It’s cold so I step inside, pushing past him without meaning to.
‘You’re home late,’ he says, closing the front door behind me.
‘Yes, Christmas party. How’s your mum?’ I ask.
‘Mum? Yes, she’s fine. I think we need to talk.’
He knows.
‘OK. Talk.’ I force myself to look up and face him.
‘There’s something I need to tell you. Maybe it’s better if we sit down.’
He doesn’t know but it doesn’t matter. I’m too late.
‘I might get a drink first, do you want one?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and I retreat to the kitchen. I take a bottle of red, doesn’t matter which one. I hesitate as I reach for a glass, then I overrule my apprehension, one glass can’t do any harm. It’s all been for nothing anyway. He wants to tell me that it’s over, all that’s left to do is listen. It doesn’t even matter what I have or haven’t done, he’s already decided for both of us.
I find the bottle opener and hold on to it, trying to steady my hands as I start to twist down into the cork, tearing it from the inside out. As my wrist turns, the irony snakes up around my arm, across my shoulder to my throat, strangling me so that the words can’t get out and the air can’t get in. Her name screams itself over and over inside my head. I need Claire. I need her so badly right now and I hate her at the same time. I thought today was a victory, but now it feels like I’ve been playing the wrong game. The sound of the cork being pulled from the bottle is less satisfying than normal. I hold it in my fingers for a second, from some angles it still looks perfect, you’d never know it was so damaged on the inside.
Paul is sitting on the sofa that is normally for guests. I pause for a moment, then sit down opposite him in the seat that is habitually mine. I feel dirty and damaged but he doesn’t seem to notice.
‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ he says. He looks nervous, childlike. I used to find it endearing, now I just wish he’d grow up, get on with it and spit it out. I don’t say anything, I won’t make this easy for him, regardless of where I have just come from or what I might have done.
‘I’ve been lying to you,’ he says. He still doesn’t look at me, just stares at a spot on the floor.