Phil Brennan was out of surgery and resting in a private room. He still hadn’t regained consciousness and Anni hadn’t been allowed in to see him. No need, the doctor had said. He won’t be saying anything for a while.
‘What’re his chances of a full recovery?’
The doctor had shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean. He’s been burnt and may need some grafts, if it comes to that. But we’re hoping it won’t. His head injury wasn’t as serious as we first thought. We’ve relieved the swelling and we’ll keep him under observation in case there’s any sign of embolism or thrombosis. But on the whole, I’m optimistic. We’re keeping him sedated for now. We’ll look at him again in the morning.’
She thanked him and went back to the fold-out bed they had provided for her. But she didn’t get far. At the end of the corridor she heard the squeak of rubber tyres. A wheelchair came round the corner, the occupant pushing it slowly towards her.
It took a while, but Anni recognised who it was. Eileen Brennan.
The woman looked dreadful. All bandages and bruises. Pale skin and deep, dark eyes. She pushed the chair level with Anni.
‘Where is he?’ she said, looking round. ‘They said he was down here.’
‘Eileen? Eileen Brennan?’
Eileen looked up. Anni caught the wildness in her eyes. She wondered what was holding the woman together, what kind of spirit she had.
‘Who are you?’
‘Anni Hepburn. I work with Phil.’
‘Oh.’ Her head dropped as she processed the information. Then back up at her. ‘Is he here?’
Anni gestured to the room, the closed door. ‘He’s in there. But we’re not allowed to go in.’
‘Why not?’
‘They say he needs rest. That he’ll get better without interruptions.’
‘Interruptions.’ Eileen nodded to herself, then looked up and down the corridor, disorientated, as if she had suddenly come round and was surprised to find herself in this place. Didn’t know where she was.
Anni was used to dealing with people. She found a smile. ‘Did they tell you to come down here? Did they give you the chair?’
Eileen looked at her.
‘Bet they didn’t.’ Another smile. ‘But good for you.’
Eileen made a noise that started out as a laugh but mutated into a strangled gasp. ‘They said I could see him tomorrow. That I should get some rest. But he’s my son … ’ Her voice became a shallow, brittle thing. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, trembling. ‘I had to see him. He’s … all … ’ Her body began to shake as the tears welled up and out. Her head dropped as if she couldn’t bear to be seen.
Anni knelt down next to her. ‘Come on, Eileen, let’s get you back to the ward.’ She repeated what the doctor had told her. Eileen looked up, a desperate hope trying to shine through her wet and wounded eyes. ‘You can see him tomorrow.’
‘Really? They … they think he’ll be … ’
‘They’re hopeful. Come on, let’s get you back.’
Eileen allowed herself to be pushed. They talked on the way. Anni felt the measure of Eileen’s loss, her grief.
‘Don’s gone …
‘I know. Well let’s hope we won’t. He’s my boss. One of the few I’ve liked.’
Eileen wasn’t listening. Her grief had overtaken her.
Anni left her at the ward, where a nurse took over, and went back to her own bed. Hoping she would sleep and that tomorrow would be better.
Somehow she doubted either.
PART TWO
SILENT SATURDAY
25
Marina woke up feeling terrible. She could never normally sleep the first night away from home in a strange bed and would find herself waking up every hour at every unfamiliar noise, constantly wondering where she was and why her room had been changed round. And this situation was far from normal. This was extreme.
She had lain there, staring at the wall, the ceiling. Wondering if someone or something was hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack her. Watching the blade of light under the locked door for anyone trying to enter the room. Or even slipping a message underneath. Seeing the faces of her husband, her daughter, every time she closed her eyes.
At some point her body had been too exhausted to stay awake any longer and she had slept. But even then she couldn’t rest. Her dreams were shallow and anxious, her subconscious screaming at her not to relax or give in, and her body had responded, jolting itself awake throughout the night.
And the phone hadn’t rung.
She had picked it up from the bedside table whenever her eyes were open, checking without hope to see whether there was a missed call, as if somehow the noise wouldn’t have woken her up. A text, even. There were no missed calls. No texts.
Sometimes she had curled herself up foetally, given in and cried. Other times she had screamed and kicked, rage surging round her body like electricity, angry words spat from a spittle-flecked mouth. Or she had just lain there, trying not to think about herself or her family, not to feel anything. Willing herself to numbness.
In this way, the night had passed.
She dragged herself out of bed and hauled herself into the bathroom. The light was as harsh and unforgiving as a convention centre. She checked her body, found she was externalising what she felt internally. One side of her displayed bruises and gravel rash from the explosion and was sore to the touch. The face in the mirror belonged to a woman at least ten years older than the previous day’s. Eyes haunted and dark-rimmed.
She splashed water on her face, tried to bring herself back to life. Then decided to have a shower. Before she did that, she went back into the bedroom, fetched the phone, checking for calls. None. She got into the shower, and immediately began to worry whether steam or water would render the phone useless and she would miss the call.
She closed her eyes. Tried not to think of anything. Felt the warm water on her skin. Caressing her, relaxing her. And immediately felt guilty for almost enjoying it.
Out of the shower, she checked the phone again. It still worked, but there had been no call or text. The action of checking, although nothing in itself, was becoming physically wearying.
She walked back into the bedroom, towelling herself off. Her heart sank even further as she looked at the pile of clothes on the floor. She wanted to never see them again, to burn them, forget them. They were dirty, torn from the explosion, sweaty from her exertions. But she had no other clothes, so she had to wear them.
Once she was dressed, her tangled curly hair finger-combed, she sat on the bed and waited. With nothing to do, she flicked on the TV. The news was on, local. Not much happening. A car accident on the A12. Cuts to public services in Braintree. A convicted murderer released on licence had failed to show up at his hostel. Marina, preoccupied, not listening, barely took it in.
And then the phone rang.
She grabbed for it, held it to her ear. Heart pounding.
