If it were true that buildings and rooms eventually acquired the nature of the task being undertaken within – that funeral parlours and their contents were imbued with morbid pessimism, temples with sacred permeating light – then nowhere said it more effectively than the family room at the Royal Hospital.
Every fibre in the cushions, every thread in the sofa fabric, every hardened spilt coffee granule, every dried used tea bag was infused with a sense of quiet agony. Were you to remove the objects from the room, they would still be carrying pain within them – a dull morose energy that dogs would whimper at.
Steffie took a step into the room, then stopped. There was a hole in the middle of the sofa. White stuffing was shooting up out of the upholstery, like a hot spring.
‘This is awful,’ she said, turning to Greg.
He gazed about him. ‘It’s not great,’ he said. ‘Tea?’ He approached the kitchen counter hesitantly. There was a kettle, a jar of coffee with no lid, a plate of tea bags, a bowl of sugar cubes that were suspiciously off-white.
‘I s’pose,’ she said, perching on the edge of the sofa. The room was grey – grey walls, grey sofas, grey carpet – and it was very large, perhaps unnecessarily so. It reminded her of the stock that arrived at the shop in huge boxes, only to reveal something minuscule within. The room’s size made it feel loose somehow, unstable.
She looked over her shoulder at the chairs beyond – plastic chairs in a circle as though an AA meeting for ghosts were in progress. In the far corner, a television was talking to itself. Above it on the wall was a photograph of men walking through the rain carrying red umbrellas. The red was the only splash of colour on the painting, in the room. It reminded Steffie of the blood on Jemima’s face, and she turned away.
‘Drink this,’ Greg said, handing her a mug. ‘I gave the cup a good wash.’
‘Thank you,’ she said.
They went to a table and chairs by the wall, underneath a book shelf, and pulled back the chairs, flicking crumbs from the seats. There was no one else about, but someone had been here not so long ago. There was a steaming cup of coffee on the table. Someone had been caught unawares, deprived of their break.
Steffie picked up a flyer from the table as they sat down. When she saw that it was about bereavement counselling, she dropped it.
‘Oh, God,’ she said, putting her head in her hands. ‘I don’t know what’s going on …What are we doing here? How did this happen? I just can’t take it in. Can you?’ She gazed at Greg.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’ve been trying to piece it together. But none of it makes sense.’ He glanced around the room. ‘It feels surreal – just being here. Sat here, like this.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the door. ‘And Jemima … like that …’
She ran her finger around the lip of the mug. ‘What’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But you heard the doctor. We’ve got to stay positive.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘She’ll get through this,’ she said.
She could feel his eyes on her. He was battling saying something.
‘Yes,’ she said intuitively. ‘I had a panic attack.’
He continued to gaze at her, then nodded slowly. They would discuss it at some point. But not now.
They drank their tea in silence. It tasted stale, but she couldn’t have cared less. She was picturing Jemima being scanned – picturing X-rays that didn’t have any cracks or grey areas.
This room was the only grey area.
She looked at Greg again. ‘Where did she fall from, do you think?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Or what she was even doing there in the first place. Wherever it was, it wasn’t where she was supposed to be.’ He sipped his tea, his lips pursed white.
‘And why did she go into the rec room?’ she said. ‘It wasn’t like her at all – especially not before the audition. What was she thinking?’
She thought of Jemima standing there in her grey sweater outside the rec room earlier, head hung, contrite.
What had that signified – the shame? Had she been led astray, acting out of character to impress her new friends?
Steffie wished now that they had dug deeper at the time, hadn’t let it go so easily. And yet she had been more focused on the audition than anything else – on Jemima not stuffing it up. The last thing they had needed was an emotional inquest.
‘And what about the others?’ she said. ‘Why would they have wanted to go in there?’
‘God knows,’ Greg said. ‘Something to do? Boredom? Or …’ And then his eyes narrowed and he stared at her.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Please,’ she said, touching his arm briefly. Their touches were light, even in the circumstances: tissue-thin exchanges that couldn’t hold water or hope.
‘Well, it’s just that I had the feeling that the kids were playing a game of some sort.’
‘What do you mean?’ Steffie asked.
‘I dunno,’ Greg said. ‘It sounds stupid saying it out loud. But I just thought they were play-acting, setting a trap almost.’
‘What sort of trap?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, putting his cup down. ‘As I said, it sounds daft.’
Steffie was thinking about this – about whether the children were capable of scheming to such a degree.
It was impossible to say. They were just kids, weren’t they?
Yet what about the parents?
She thought of the odd assortment of people in the café that morning who had held her attention so effectively, ghoulishly even.
And then she laughed drily. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It does sound daft. This is a dance school, for God’s sake.’
She sipped her tea, gazed at the photograph of the men with umbrellas.
Sometimes, though, she thought, children committed murder.
What if Greg were right? What if Jemima had been led into a trap?
She thought of the two boys smirking in the lift on their way back to the café after the rec-room incident. And Zach’s father with his pseudo-Japanese, telling them that these places were full of psychos. Why would he have said that?
Was it true?
‘Have you heard from Noella?’ Greg asked.
‘Noella …’ Steffie said, as though recollecting a name that she hadn’t thought of in years. ‘No.’ She turned in her seat to look at Greg. ‘I’d forgotten about her. Why wasn’t she with Jemima?’
He had that funny look again – narrow eyes, staring at her. ‘Exactly.’ He folded his arms. ‘She was in charge of Jemima. She had responsibility. So something went wrong, didn’t it? And she’s not told us otherwise, so that puts the blame on her, so far as I’m concerned.’
Steffie put her head in her hands again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This isn’t happening.’
‘It is,’ Greg said. ‘And the police will get the truth out of her.’
‘The police?’ she said.
Somehow, in all the chaos, the trauma, she hadn’t thought of that – that the police would be investigating this, even though she had seen them arrive, had seen the dust that their wheels had kicked up on the gravel in the winter sunshine.
The idea of the police poking around the academy – interviewing Noella, the parents, Mr Alexandrov and his esteemed panel – nauseated her, made the whole thing feel darker, less hopeful.
‘Children don’t fall through ceilings every day, Steffie,’ Greg said. ‘The police will be all over this. Who knows – the academy might even be to blame.’
She stared at the television. She had forgotten it was on, had zoned out the quiet drone of voices in the background. A sports programme was on: a women’s cycling race. One of the cyclists had something sparkly on her wrist.
It reminded Steffie of something. She looked back at Greg. ‘Why was Jemima wearing Daisy Kirkpatrick’s hat?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head.
She put her head in her hands again. ‘If only we could ask her,’ she said.
‘And we will,’ he said, pushing his tea mug away. ‘We’ll find out exactly what happened – who or what did this to her.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Not long till teatime, until we get the results … We’ll have a much better picture then.’
She thought of her mother again – of how she would be pacing up and down. Steffie had told her she would ring after the performance. Her mother would be insane with worry by now.
‘I should call Mum,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but not yet. Wait till we’ve got something solid to tell her.’
Solid, Steffie thought. The ceiling at the Phoenix was supposed to be solid, reliable. Yet Jemima had fallen right through it.
Her eye was drawn again to the television. She watched the cyclists racing along the road, wheels glinting, helmets down, legs circling – hailing from a parallel universe alongside this one, where life wouldn’t be beginning or ending at teatime tonight.
‘I don’t know,’ Noella said.
They were sitting in Mikhail Alexandrov’s soon-to-be office – had been there for twenty minutes going backwards and forwards over the same questions.
‘Miss …’ The detective sergeant sat forward to consult his notes. ‘… Chamoulaud,’ he said. ‘Forgive my pronunciation … No one’s on trial. We’re just trying to establish the facts.’
Noella gazed at the mahogany panelling on the door. They were positioned as though she were the one in charge, behind the desk. The two policemen were where visitors to Mikhail’s office would sit.
She glanced around the room. It was half-complete. There were unopened boxes and files on the floor, pictures on one half of the wall and not the other. She couldn’t see who the photographs were of. They were hazy, black and white. She would have relished a closer inspection, without the policemen’s insatiable eyes on her.
‘Mr Alexandrov’s keen to ensure there’s no hint of wrongdoing on the academy’s part or on his.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Noella said, immediately regretting her words.
The sergeant sat upright, interested. ‘You have some personal feelings towards Mr Alexandrov?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ she replied.
‘Shared history?’
‘No history.’
‘And yet according to him, you were both in school together in Paris.’ The sergeant sat back in his chair.
Noella stared at him coldly. She was tiring of this – was exhausted, thirsty, cold. She wanted to get to the hospital, to see Jemima, to explain to Steffie and Greg what had happened.
What if Jemima died? What if that had already happened?
She bit her lip, felt tears stinging her eyes. She hadn’t cried yet, would not do so in front of these men.
‘Look,’ the sergeant said, ‘it would help if you could stick to the truth. That way, we can all get out of here quicker.’
‘So there’s nothing you’d like to add?’ the other policeman said.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you everything. I was in the studio with Jemima. She left to go to the toilet just minutes before her audition. She was gone a long time. I couldn’t find her. And then I found her lying in studio three. And you know the rest.’
‘And there’s absolutely nothing you can add? Nothing strange or unexpected that you recall?’
Noella thought of the kerfuffle in the café earlier – of returning from the shop to find Jemima crying, and Steffie and Greg looking out of sorts. She hadn’t enquired as to what was going on. She hadn’t wanted to unsettle Jemima any more than she already was, had been intent only on getting her in the flow.
She thought of the hip flask lying secure within the lining of her bag, snuggled at her feet.
‘No,’ she replied.
‘Then we needn’t take up any more of your time,’ the sergeant said, standing.
Teatime wasn’t an accurate prediction. It was gone eight o’clock when Dr Mills came to find them. They had waited in the family room the entire time, sharing a packet of Mini Cheddars, flicking through books entitled Understanding Childhood Illness and Effective Parenting; watching cycling, golf and sumo wrestling on TV.
Steffie wouldn’t have known the doctor’s name, might not even have recognised him. It just went to show how impossible it was to spot criminals in a line-up, she thought, if even the man charged with saving your child’s life was faceless. The doctor reminded her of his name, had evidently dealt with shocked parents so often that he knew to expect little in the way of social niceties, of the details that meant that someone was listening and cared. They cared. Just not about him. He was a white coat giving them news of terrifying importance.
‘We have all the results back,’ Dr Mills said, joining them at the table. He pulled a chair up and turned it round, his legs astride, his arms resting on its back. ‘Jemima has a number of fractures: her ankle joint, her distal radius, her—’
‘Distal radius?’ Greg asked.
‘Sorry. Her wrist,’ Dr Mills said. ‘She’s also fractured her heel bone. And her elbow.’
Steffie gave a little cry and Greg reached for her hand. They linked fingers – a fragile connection that was of some comfort nonetheless.
‘I know this doesn’t sound great. But believe me, she’s a lucky girl. I’m amazed there are no lumbar, thoracic or pelvic injuries.’
‘So that’s good?’ said Steffie, reaching to the floor for her tissue supply, before recalling that she didn’t have her bag with her.
‘It’s very good,’ the doctor said. ‘According to our tests, there are no neurological complications either. There’s no brain swelling or tissue damage … currently.’
He coughed, curling his hand before his mouth whilst doing so. He was a polite man with tightly curled hair and a mole above his mouth that made him looked oddly coquettish. ‘I say “currently” because the situation could change. Sometimes pressure builds as a result of the swelling of injured tissues, or an accumulation of blood … However, all this can be monitored.’
‘But what do you think?’ Greg asked. ‘Can you give us a clearer picture – an idea of what you think Jemima’s outlook is?’
‘Well,’ the doctor said, shuffling his feet. He appeared uncomfortable giving predictions, perhaps for fear that they would hold him to them. ‘What I can tell you is that Jemima has a linear fracture in her skull.’
Once again, Steffie gave a little cry and Greg strengthened his grip on her, took her whole hand now and held it.
‘The fracture’s straight, thin and there’s no bone displacement, depression or splintering.’
‘So that’s positive?’ asked Greg.
‘Yes,’ the doctor said. ‘However, I’d like to run some further tests in the morning.’
‘And that’s for …?’ Greg said.
The doctor dropped his hands from the chair back, clasped his thighs.
‘I’m afraid that Jemima’s current cerebral cortex activity would indicate that she’s in a coma.’
‘A coma?’ Steffie said, pulling away from Greg and pressing her hands to her face. She could feel her cheeks burning, her head melting.
A coma.
‘Please don’t panic,’ the doctor said, giving a little smile that pulled on the corners of his eyes. The smile then cleared and his expression grew serious once more. ‘We have an arousal system in our brain – a collection of nerve cells called the brainstem.’
‘The brainstem,’ Greg repeated ardently, like a schoolboy revising for biology.
‘When you go to sleep,’ the doctor said, ‘this arousal system shuts down and the cerebral cortex waves slow down. If you disrupt this system – with the kind of trauma to the head that Jemima suffered, for instance – then the result is unconsciousness. When unconscious, the activity waves are slow, just like they are when you’re asleep – except that the patient can’t be woken … And this is what we call a coma.’
‘And why shouldn’t we panic?’ said Steffie, fishing for something encouraging to go away with.
‘Because from what I’ve observed so far,’ the doctor said, ‘I’m expecting Jemima’s brainstem to start reorganising itself fairly quickly.’
‘Which means?’ Greg asked.
‘That she’ll begin to show signs of cognitive recovery: faster EEG waves, opening her eyes, squeezing your hand, watching you move about the room.’
Such small things – tiny movements that anyone could do.
And now they were to watch and hope and wait for their daughter to do them.
Steffie placed her hand flat against her mouth, trying to stop herself from crying.
The doctor was looking at her sympathetically. ‘There’s much cause for hope, Mrs Lee,’ he said. ‘More hope than anything else.’ He tapped the top of his chair and then stood up. ‘The good far outweighs the bad.’
The good outweighs the bad. Only a medic would say that. A mother could never see it that way. It was far too early to do so.
She couldn’t bear to look at him, felt too ashamed to look him in the eye, for he would know then that she was unable to adopt his optimism – was only able to see pain. She put her head down on the table, not caring that there were tea stains and food debris there, and cradled her head in her arms. Her body felt weightless, unattached. The only way to look was down, at her feet, at the grey carpet.
How could this end well? How could they be positive, when Jemima was in a coma, might not wake?
Greg and the doctor were talking over Steffie’s head.
‘Will you be here for the duration?’ Greg was asking him.
Steffie lifted her head then to look at the doctor, hoping to hear an affirmative reply.
Please be here to help us.
Please don’t go anywhere.
‘Yes,’ the doctor said.
Steffie put her head back down on the table.
‘Jemima will remain under my care until I’m satisfied that I’ve done all I can for her.’ The men were shaking hands.
Steffie knew that she had to stand up, couldn’t cower from this man and this situation.
She pulled herself to her feet, straightened her jumper, extending her hand to the doctor. ‘Where is she now?’ she asked.
‘Back in her room. You can see her when you’re ready.’
In her room.
That was her room now: the intensive-care room with the gingerbread curtains; not her little bedroom back in Wimborne.
Steffie welled up, withdrew her hand from him.
‘Try to get some rest,’ the doctor said. ‘It’ll be a long day tomorrow.’ And then he left.
‘We have to believe what he’s saying,’ Greg said. ‘That she’s going to pull through and start to show signs of recovery.’
Steffie nodded. Her head felt heavy.
They were just leaving the room when someone entered it. Steffie automatically looked away, didn’t want to behold someone else’s misery, or have them witness hers.
But then Greg said, ‘Noella.’
Steffie stopped still on seeing her – the figure in black in the doorway – and tried to assess quickly how she felt. It was difficult to determine. There was little room currently within her for anything other than fear. And fear didn’t like to share – was selfish, obsessive, liked to stretch out.
‘Steffie …’ Noella began nervously.
‘Thank you for bringing our stuff,’ Greg said.
Steffie realised then that Noella was holding their coats and bags. ‘It was the least I could do,’ Noella said, dropping her cargo and beginning to cry, face crumpled with grief.
Steffie remained motionless, unable to make a move because that would prove how she felt. A hug would suggest sympathy, when Steffie felt no such thing – felt nothing.
‘What happened?’ she said.
Noella fumbled in her coat pocket, produced a crumpled tissue, dabbed her nose. ‘I don’t know, Steffie,’ she said. ‘Jemima went to the toilet before the audition. I couldn’t find her. And then I discovered her—’ She broke off.
‘Oh,’ was all Steffie said.
She tried to remember the last time she had seen Jemima and Noella together. It had been outside the studio. Jemima, in her leotard and tights; Noella, hovering in the doorway, eager to get started.
She thought of sitting on the sofa with Jemima, eating cereal on the night they had heard about the étoiles – just over a week ago; of the almond fragrance of Jemima’s shampoo; of how she had wanted to freeze those morsels of alone time with her daughter – of how she wished now that she somehow had managed to.
‘It’s chaos at the academy,’ Noella was telling Greg. ‘Parents shouting, children crying. And the police … They have interviewed everyone under the sun. Have they been here?’
‘Not yet,’ Greg said, pushing his hands into his jean pockets.
‘Then they’re on their way …’ She turned to Steffie. ‘How is she?’
Steffie sniffed. ‘She’s in a coma.’
‘A coma?’ Noella said, her voice full of fear.
‘We’ll know more tomorrow.’
Noella blew her nose. ‘I cannot understand it,’ she said. ‘She was in the attic, you know.’
‘The attic?’ Steffie said, looking at Greg.
‘What was she doing up there?’ he said.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Noella. ‘Perhaps the police will tell you more.’
Steffie nodded, then turned away, signalling an end to the conversation. She wanted to see her daughter, to no longer be in this dismal room talking to Noella.
‘We were just going to see Jemima …’ she said.
‘Of course,’ Noella said, withdrawing. ‘I’ll wait for news.’
‘Where will you go?’ Steffie asked.
Noella shrugged. ‘Probably a local B & B. In case you need me.’
Steffie nodded. She wouldn’t need Noella. At least, she didn’t think so. But Jemima might, if she woke.
The thought of Jemima waking made Steffie want to be nicer to Noella.
‘Thank you for bringing our things,’ she called after Noella.
‘Goodnight and God bless,’ Noella replied hurriedly as she left, as though removing herself from view before breaking down.
As they made their way back down the corridor, through the children’s ward, clutching their coats and bags, Steffie glanced up at Greg – at the man by her side.
He looked forlorn, shattered.
She could remember a time, long ago, when she had wanted to freeze her moments with him too – precious moments on honeymoon; on their first wedding anniversary; whilst pregnant with Jemima.
She had always been a hoarder – not of possessions, but of emotions. She had always fancied creating something like a dream catcher to hang near her, about her being – a key ring or necklace, perhaps – something to trap all the good feelings.
He had loved her so much.
And now …
She just didn’t know; didn’t know anything.
They arrived at Jemima’s room. Jemima was lying in bed, the machines beeping, the sheets smooth on her bumpy form. The lights had been dimmed. There was a lamp above the bed – a strobe light built into the wall unit that gave her face an unearthly glow.
Steffie dropped her coat and bag down, and went to Jemima’s side, reached for her hand then recalled that she could not hold it – that her left hand was in a cast, the right bearing a catheter.
She sat despondently in the nearby chair, oblivious to everything else, eyes only on Jemima, watching for signs of recovery, such as the doctor had described.
Brainwaves, transmissions, signals, perception, emotions – all things the eye couldn’t see and that were deemed less substantial as a result. Until something tragic happened to teach you otherwise.
And by then it was too late.