Martin – 5.45 a.m.
Martin tries calling Frank back, voice-dialling him, over and over as the car drops down into the valley on its final descent into Westhaven, but each time he calls, a robotic voice answers, telling him they are sorry, but his call cannot be connected at this time, and with each failed attempt to get through, the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach grows.
What if he’s too late? What if, by the time he gets there, Freya has already taken her last breath?
It could happen. Asthma is so common, a lot of people think it’s no big deal, but people die from it all the time. Martin knows this, has done the research. Thousands of people every year suffer fatal asthma attacks, their airways narrowing until they can’t breathe enough oxygen in, or enough carbon dioxide out. If it gets bad, their skin can become cyanotic, taking on a bluish tinge. If it gets really bad, and treatment isn’t administered in time, vital organs begin to fail.
How stupid of him, he thinks. Instead of driving halfway across the country with Freya’s spare inhalers on the passenger seat, he should have stayed in London and put all his efforts into calling people – doctors, chemists, hospitals – anybody who could get a supply of asthma medication to someone who needs it. But he didn’t do that, because in the panic of the moment, it felt too risky putting her safety in somebody else’s hands.
Martin is not a praying man. But right now, as he speeds through Westhaven’s empty, rain-soaked streets as fast as he dares, he mutters under his breath – Please God, let her be all right. Please God, let her be all right. He only hopes Frank has the good sense to call an ambulance if Freya’s attack gets any worse.
The final mile to Frank’s house seems to take forever, as if new streets have sprung up out of nowhere since he was last here, but eventually, he turns into Frank’s driveway and parks up, the car skewed across the gravel. He grabs the medication off the passenger seat. The second he steps out into the open he is drenched from head to toe by the rain, but he barely notices as he runs the few steps to the front door, not wanting to lose a single second, and hammers on it with his fist.
Come on, come on …
A moment, then he hears the sound of the door being unlocked from the inside. It opens and Frank steps back so Martin can come in out of the rain.
‘Everything’s OK,’ Frank tells him, as he closes the door. ‘She’s fine. Don’t worry.’
Fine? She didn’t sound fine over the phone. She sounded like she could barely breathe, but Frank doesn’t look in the slightest bit worried. He looks almost relaxed, as if Freya having an asthma attack isn’t something to be overly concerned about.
‘Where is she?’ Martin is breathless with panic, can feel his heart thumping hard behind his ribcage. He’s been sat in car for the last four hours, but it feels like he’s just run a marathon.
‘She’s up in Jessie’s old room,’ says Frank. ‘But, Martin, before you go up there, there’s something you should know …’
Frank steps in front of Martin, partly blocking his path to the stairs.
Something he should know? What is this? One minute he’s saying Freya’s fine, the next he’s acting like Martin needs to brace himself before seeing his own daughter.
‘I just … I don’t want you to be upset,’ Frank says.
Martin pushes Frank aside, takes the stairs two at a time and rushes down the hallway to Jessie’s old bedroom.
As he pushes open the door, he can’t help picturing what he’ll find on the other side; his little girl in distress, struggling to pull in the breath she so desperately needs. Or worse, his little girl no longer struggling, her lips tinged blue, her chest horrifyingly still, having already taken her last breath.
He doesn’t find either of these things, but what he does find is terrible in its own way, because Connor Starling is sitting on the edge of his daughter’s bed.