The nurse’s eyes widen when we show her our badges at reception on the third floor of the hospital. ‘Just a moment,’ she says timidly, and leaves the desk. Clarke and I linger among the other patients in the waiting area who look sleep deprived and anxious. The darkness I felt before has lifted a little – there’s a brightness to the day that makes me believe there might just be something more promising ahead. But Clarke seems preoccupied. He rakes his hand through his hair as he glares at his smartphone. I wonder if it’s the case or something else that’s bothering him.
I see Tim first. He looks smaller than I remember as he walks towards us – sunk down low into his clothes, a well-used plastic supermarket bag in his hand. His long hair is pulled back; grey strands mingle with the dark. I remember what my mother used to say to Roe. ‘You are growing older, Roe,’ she’d tease her sister when she noticed any grey. ‘Silver threads among the gold.’ Her eyes twinkling – both of them laughing.
I tuck my own black hair self-consciously behind my ear and take a step towards Tim, who nods at us politely in greeting. Clarke is uncharacteristically quiet as we step to one side of the small waiting area. Tim begins with the update from the doctors; Nancy remains critical and is scheduled to have a third operation later this afternoon. His eyes well up – tears pooling briefly until he blinks them hastily away. ‘It doesn’t look good,’ he says, pulling out a hanky from the pocket of his jeans and blowing his nose unselfconsciously. A few people glance over at us and away again. Everyone has their own sad story.
‘Would it be okay if we go in and see her, Tim?’ I ask gently.
The lights in the corridor are bile yellow, and the reflective surface slightly tacky underfoot as he leads us to the specialist ward where Nancy lies pale and still. She reminds me of one of the porcelain dolls slumped in the window of a charity shop near my apartment. A kind of solemn beauty to her beneath all those machines, under the fleshy angle of her cheekbones. Her hair has been cut short; half her head is bandaged. There’s a worrying drain coming from somewhere beneath the gauze. Her hand resting against the blue hospital sheet is swollen at the knuckles; the nails bloodied, purple scratch marks along some of her fingers, presumably from the broken glass in the bedroom of the Eastbourne house. Tim hangs back as we take in the extent of how seriously injured Nancy seems to be. I try to tamp down a twinge of uneasiness. I smile weakly at Tim instead, unable to reconcile what has brought me here, to this stillness, next to gurgling tubes and the bleachy stench of fear. It seems so far away from Frank Nolan’s glass office a few days ago when he handed me that call sheet.
‘She’s a fighter,’ I whisper, turning to Tim, because there’s nothing else that seems appropriate to say right now.
He nods, understandably subdued. We both know that no amount of rallying will help him past the pathetic sight of Nancy Wills lying motionless against these pale sheets.
‘How did this happen, Detective Fields?’ he says, his gaze direct. I shake my head in sympathy, but I’ve no answer for him right now. It’s Nancy who has many of the answers we are all seeking. Clarke gives him the signed paperwork for DNA retrieval to look through more out of respect than for any formal permission. Hugh has already okayed it as Nancy’s next of kin. We need to compare Nancy’s DNA against Dexter’s – even if Barrows wants to tie this case up in court for years.
‘I’ll just go grab something to eat quickly while you’re here with her.’ Tim looks uncomfortable leaving but slips away like a shadow. Then it’s just Clarke and me in the small airless room with Nancy’s wisp of a body. Neither of us speak.
I remember the same stillness after Mother was gone. I remember the children at my school when I came back from the funerals, a procession of pleated uniforms passing me by, some looking at me, others looking away. The bustling yard, the frenzied seagulls fighting over discarded sandwich crusts, the irritating bells. Why was everyone acting like things were fine? Surely they knew this terrible grief was coming for all of them too someday. Nobody seemed to care about the inevitable disasters that lurked around every corner. My long-winded warnings about every bad thing weren’t welcomed. Certainly not by my fifteen-year-old peers. But I was only trying to prevent them from being as blindsided as I was. Now I know the names for the look etched on my teenage face, along with my chequered skirt and skinny legs. Trauma. Bereavement. Devastation. People said I was brave – like it was a good thing not to cry or scream. Little by little, I lost the few friends I had left in school, probably at a time when I needed them most.
The rest of the term, I spent lunchtimes eating alone in the calm hush of wind at the back of the third-year prefab building, my back to the rough brown walls. Only Sammy joined me there, when she could. Only she understood the glaring inevitability of what had happened to us. I realised then that I’d been waiting for something like this to happen for too many years. And I’m not sure if that realisation made it all so much worse.
Could we have done more, the grown-ups wondered? And though I didn’t know it then, Mother’s actions were everything I’d feared for so long. I knew this would happen, I wanted to scream at them. I’m just a child and I knew.
Instead, I withdrew. I curled into the safety of not giving relationships any oxygen. I’d strangle every connection before it properly formed. Grief stilted me. I focused on pluck. Instead of my childish dreams coming true, the dark corners of my nightmares had roared to life. The moment my mother stepped into the cold water of the lake that day, the world drained of colour. Sammy disagrees. ‘It was so grey before that, Ally,’ she whispered sadly beside me. ‘The grown-ups just didn’t want to see.’
Clarke’s voice brings me back to the hospital room. He confirms a meeting with Gerald and his solicitor back in Currolough later today. ‘Would you like to come?’ he asks. ‘It’s a long round trip…’ He nods towards my belly. ‘And I’d prefer not to deliver a baby by the side of the road.’
‘I’ll come. Not like I’ve anywhere else to be, is it? I promise I won’t have her in your car, Casey.’
‘Her?’ he raises his eyebrows, genuine joy written across his face. ‘Congratulations, DS Fields.’
I flush. ‘Jeez, Casey. She’s not even here yet. Calm down.’
He looks away, busying himself with his notes and I squeeze my nails into the palms of my hand. Why can’t I just be nice? But I know I can’t be alone. I’d love to tell him that instead. ‘I need to be around people,’ I should admit to him. ‘No, not just people. I need to be around a friend. And you are the closest thing I’ve got, Clarke.’
But I don’t say a word.
There’s a sudden shush-thunk sound from one of the machines that surrounds Nancy Wills, and we immediately take a step towards where she’s lying motionless. A nurse arrives and bustles around her, adjusting buttons and emptying drains.
‘Oh Nancy,’ I sigh, surveying the pathetic sight of her injuries, her face so frighteningly gaunt against the pillow. On her locker, almost totally obscured by the tangle of thick tubes keeping her alive, are a few keepsakes that Tim has brought into the hospital from their caravan. There is an array of crystals, framed photographs and, in pride of place, a little card with a yellow sailboat at the front. I angle my head so I can read it. It isn’t nosy when you’re a detective. The script inside is childish, curved with the precision of newly taught cursive writing.
‘Happy Birthday, Mum. Let’s Sailibrate, ha ha ha.’ It’s signed from Joey but dated more than a year ago. There are similar cards next to it. Was his dad encouraging him to stay in touch? The answer lies in the keepsake box closer to the back of the small table. It’s full of neatly folded letters from Joey to his mother, Nancy. There are pages of heartbreaking messages. Clarke watches me scan them, keeping an eye out for Tim returning. It isn’t that he’d mind exactly, but the letters are a pretty intimate portrayal of Joey’s love for his mother. The feeling we shouldn’t be looking is hard to avoid. I exhale, bracing myself for the emotions I know reading these might trigger.
Dear Mummy, what is the weather like there? Here it is sunny. There’s a new boy in my class… The letters go on and on, but nothing jumps out at me. Until the last line of each letter. And it cracks my heart wide open. Please write back. I think your letters are getting lost. I’m waiting to hear from you. Then later. Please write back, Mummy.
Please Mummy.
I wipe the tears away with the heel of my hand. It’s the Please Mummy that gets me. The desperation. I can almost hear my brother Brendan’s voice. ‘Please Mummy… don’t.’
‘Fields?’
Clarke leans down and picks up the letters that have slipped from my grasp. It’s now I realise that I’ll never not be haunted by the tragedy of my childhood unless I do something drastic, something I’ve sworn I could never do. Going back to Currolough again would be my last chance. It’s now or never.
‘Why wouldn’t she write back to her son?’ I swivel around to face Clarke.
There are photos next to a jug of water by the bed too. I pick one up and examine a picture of Tim and Nancy standing at a market stall smiling. There’s the one we recently returned – the framed picture of Joey at school that day, proud and scared – as well as one of him with his parents, Hugh and Nancy. She’s pregnant in the picture. There’s another of a young-looking Vee with Nancy standing in a field squinting against the sunlight. It was taken before Nancy’s injuries, and I see just how captivating she was then too. They both are almost unrecognisable.
But there’s something in one of the pictures that makes me catch my breath.
The tiny thing that shifts all the fragments of this case into a little more perspective. I look again. My hand starts to shake.
Jesus Christ, it is so clear to me now.
But I don’t say anything to Clarke – not yet – I want to see how this plays out. If what I believe is true, it means Nancy has been right all along: baby Liam wasn’t in the cot when the fire was started. It’s the ‘why’ of it that I need to figure out.
Clarke turns as Tim comes back into the room. The older man looks completely shattered. He pulls the chair with the sleep-crumpled pillow even closer to his partner – resuming his lonely vigil next to her.
The things we do for love.
‘You’ve known Nancy a long time,’ I say, and he nods. ‘Since she was a girl,’ he says, but he doesn’t take his eyes off her. ‘I’ve always loved her.’
I place my hand on Nancy’s arm as we mutter our goodbyes. Then on impulse, I lean forward and brush my cheek close to hers. Her breaths are even and, I’d like to think, peaceful. But before I pull away, I whisper something to her. Something nobody else can hear.
I know what happened, Nancy, I tell her.
And I know what I have to do.