Come Back to Me

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘Shall I put the TV on?’

‘If you want.’

He switched it on and flicked through the channels.

‘Any preference?’

‘You choose something.’

The news? Too gloomy, he thought. Sport? Not Amy’s thing. So he left it on The Simpsons and they listened to inane squeaky chatter that usually made them giggle, as Amy continued to stare out of the window. Alex felt silly and selfish, as though in the middle of this crisis all he could think to do was to put the telly on. When the nurse came in to help Amy to the toilet, he left, embarrassed, even though when Amy had been ill in Thailand he hadn’t even blinked at keeping her company in the bathroom.

Detective Thompson called in twice to see how Amy was doing. Finding her awake in the afternoon, Alex watched as he asked her questions, quizzing her relentlessly, reminding Alex that speedy progress was essential, when he tried to jump in upon seeing Amy’s distress. Every word the policeman uttered, each question he posed, repeatedly slammed the reality of all this into Alex’s mind, that it was not just some horrible twilight nightmare they could escape from.

Finally, the detective left them alone, and before long the day receded into evening. Alex spent another uncomfortable night in the chair, still unwilling to leave, but less sure of his purpose in being there, unnerved by how ineffective his actions and presence had been in the past twenty-four hours. He resolved to talk to Isla in the morning, to ask her more about what he should do, and how he should be.

At nine o’clock the next morning, Amy’s parents arrived, dishevelled and tired-looking, cases in hand, having come straight from the flight. When Amy first saw them she broke down, howling her pain to them, a rag doll in her mother’s arms, sagging against her. Alex’s intense awkwardness returned. He hardly looked at Amy’s father as he rose to shake hands, but when he did he realised that Ray hadn’t even registered Alex’s presence yet, staring horrified at his distressed and injured daughter.

When Ray finally saw him, Alex imagined for a moment that Amy’s father was going to hit him. This slightly stooped old man with watery eyes, half a foot smaller than Alex, sprang forward as though possessed, and Alex instinctively backed away. Just in time, Ray seemed to rein himself in and gave a curt nod instead, just saying, ‘Alex.’

Tess looked round when she heard Alex’s name, her daughter still buried in the cradle of her arms, and put a hand out briefly to rub Alex’s arm. The gesture made him think of his own mother, and for a moment he longed for that familiar comfort. But after Jamie’s troubles had begun Alex had stopped leaning on her, not wanting to cause her any additional worries. Now, he reminded himself that since there was little she could really do, it would be unfair to burden her with this. And the thought of his dad’s unease in the presence of others’ emotions was enough to put a stop to any notion of confidences there.

Amy drifted in and out of sleep over the following excruciating hours. Her mum and dad had taken the seats so Alex was propped against the wall staring out of the window, or offering to fetch them drinks, which they declined.

Detective Thompson returned around lunchtime. He asked them all to leave, as he thought Amy would find it easier without an audience. As they made their way out, Alex saw the policeman sit on Amy’s bed and speak softly and solemnly to her, and that she nodded in understanding.

Ray wandered off without a backwards glance, his shoulders hunched, while Tess walked over to Alex. ‘Ray just needs some space,’ she said. ‘He’s taken it very hard. Do you want to get some air?’

Alex nodded and they walked outside and stood in the shade of a large melaleuca tree.

Tess took Alex’s arm and rubbed his forearm with her other hand. ‘Alex,’ she said, ‘it’s okay -’

She hesitated. Alex was silent, unsure what she meant.

‘- I don’t know if… if you are thinking along these lines, but it’s not… it’s not your fault, what happened. There was nothing…’

Even though he had berated himself a million times in the past forty-eight hours – if only, if only – he was shocked to hear her say this, and turned to look at her, searching her face to see if she meant it. He wanted to shake her off, to tell her of course it wasn’t his fault, he had done everything he could to keep Amy safe.

‘Thanks,’ he said instead, standing stiffly, looking at the floor.

‘It’s okay,’ she replied sadly, dropping his arm.

43

When Mark had woken up the morning after the law ball he had had that blissful momentary void as he moved between states of consciousness before his memory kicked in, along with a particularly aggressive hangover.

With rising indignation he remembered Chloe supporting him up the stairs to her flat, and rolled over, realising he was in Chloe’s room, with Chloe next to him, snoring softly. He reached over to the floor and grabbed his jacket, pulling out his mobile and seeing that it was only six forty-five. The movement made his head groan with pain, so he rolled back and lay staring at the ceiling for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.

There was no avoiding it. He kept replaying the moment he’d overbalanced; the crash of the drum kit behind him; Chloe’s surprised, shocked face as she almost came with him but managed to right herself, as he’d used both his hands to try to break his fall and keep any percussion from falling on top of him.

Then the walk of shame to the entrance, the replay now accompanied by the slow clapping of his throbbing head. Seeing Risto Kiesi, the new guy, smirking at them both, and passing David and Neil, who both had heavy scowls on their faces. Being glad he hadn’t spotted his father as Chloe dragged him outside, then hearing Henry’s voice, the rage in it, the humiliation.

He pulled himself up again. His mouth was dry and disgusting, he needed water. He made his way slowly down the poky hallway of Chloe’s flat, body aching, to the kitchen, ran the tap and pushed his mouth straight under the flow, not even bothering to look for a glass.

He wiped his mouth and sighed, looking out of the kitchen window, straight at someone else’s curtains on the opposite side of the road. What should he do?

Wearily, he made his way back down the hallway, grabbed his clothes from the floor and started putting them on. Chloe didn’t stir. Her arms were flung out from her sides like she had fallen onto the bed and straight into a deep sleep. Her long brown hair fanned out across her pillow, a section of it across her face, the rest of it framing her neck and graceful shoulders. His gaze continued down over the soft mounds of her breasts under her T-shirt, the rest of her enveloped in a duvet.

He had an urge to ease himself down onto her, hug her tightly into the softness of her covers, kiss her lips, her neck and that sweet button nose. But he was dressed now, a dishevelled version of the previous night, bow tie in his pocket, and ready to leave.

He moved towards the door, then turned back to look at Chloe once more, so peaceful and still; hesitating, feeling that somehow this one decision of leaving was a defining moment in his life.

He walked back over to the bed, sat on the edge of it, and kissed Chloe lightly on the lips.

She didn’t stir, even though he willed her to. He needed her to wake up and see him there with his mussed-up hair and his stinking breath and his bloodshot eyes, even though he wasn’t quite sure why.

‘Chloe,’ he whispered.

She murmured something unintelligible, and he began to smile, anticipating her eyes opening, but she rolled away from him and half-buried her head under the pillow he’d used.

Mark remained where he was for a moment. He ran a hand lightly down her arm. He tried to think, though his sore head made it difficult. He pushed away the edginess that jostled with his hangover for attention, and slowly got up, turned away from Chloe, and made for the door.