44

Lizzie didn’t know where she was; only that she was in a lot of pain. There was a woman beside her and Lizzie saw her face as if it was in a gallery where everything else was unlit: dark black, sculpted, wide eyes, close-cut hair. The woman had a syringe in her right hand and she crooked Lizzie’s arm and slid the needle in. In an amazingly short time Lizzie felt better, much better. Golden, in fact. She said, ‘Thank you. Everyone’s so lovely here! Where am I?’

The nurse smiled widely. ‘You’re in recovery, and my professional opinion is that you’re off your face.’

She was being wheeled along a corridor. She could see the back of the porter: a short white man with a shaved head. Was it possible that Brannon was doing community service, working in the hospital? The thought was no more than disconcerting. The morphine had bestowed a trusting calm. She said, ‘Mark?’ and he turned, but it wasn’t Brannon, just some old bloke with broken capillaries, in his fifties maybe, and he said, ‘No, darling, I’m Sean.’ She nodded in agreement and concentrated on the speckled ceiling tiles and the round white lights that were passing by evenly overhead. The lift doors opened and shut and opened.

A fat nurse with short, straight orange hair that looked like nylon took charge of her at the door to the ward. She began to wheel her through, to her side room.

‘There’s someone here. He’s been waiting for you.’

Through the doors she saw the outline of Kieran standing, looking out of the window. She shut her eyes immediately. The bed came to a halt and the brakes went on, squeezing the wheels.

The nurse said, ‘She’s had a lot of pain relief. She’ll be in and out of consciousness.’

She sensed him moving to the end of the bed. An oily reservoir of complication and difficulty was spreading across the floor. She opened her eyes and was on the edge of telling him their news but he smiled at seeing her conscious and she was silenced by his enthusiasm. He took her hand.

‘I asked you not to take risks.’

I’m pregnant.

She closed her eyes again and tried to retreat into the haze of morphine, but he kept talking.

‘I love you.’

She opened her eyes. ‘No.’

He misunderstood her, smiled and said, ‘I do love you.’

She wished he wouldn’t talk, not while the precious morphine lasted. It was calm here and pain-free.