Helena had been waiting by the landline all evening. All day, she had checked her mobile for an update from Steffie. She had kept looking at her watch, was barely able to concentrate on serving customers.
Lunchtime came and went with no word. Then teatime. She had shut up the shop with an uncomfortable sensation, pulling down the shutters, checking the lock twice, as though caring for an old friend whom she might not see for some time.
She knew there had to be something wrong. Even if Steffie had lost her phone or her signal had failed, she would have told Greg to phone, or would have found a payphone. She wouldn’t have cut off all communications like this, not on such an important day.
By bedtime, she was nibbling her nails, traipsing up and down the lounge carpet. She couldn’t go to bed, not until she had heard.
And then the phone rang. She plucked it up, heart racing.
What Steffie told her was beyond comprehension. Sat here with her damask curtains, her floral throws, her velveteen upholstered chairs, she couldn’t for the life of her take in what Steffie was saying about a fall through the ceiling, a fractured skull, brain signals, signs of awakening.
Jemima was in a critical state, in a coma. They would update her again in the morning when they knew more.
Helena hung up, stunned. She stood in the lounge for some time without moving, unaware how dark it had grown around her.
Somehow Jemima had suffered a terrible accident.
What if she didn’t make it? It would destroy Steffie. This was Helena’s first thought.
After a camomile tea, she thought some more. Whose fault was this? That was her second thought.
Raised as part of a post-war generation that was fond of conspiracy theories, of being small fry in an unfeeling world that operated at a level beyond your control, Helena felt the desperate need to pin this on someone. It was also because she was too far away to do anything but cogitate.
She paced the carpet again.
Eventually, worn out, head thumping, she went to bed. But in the night, she tossed and turned so fitfully she lost half her bedding and woke stiff with cold, her jaw throbbing from having ground it so hard.
She hadn’t found anyone to blame – didn’t have enough facts to hand, was too much out of the loop. So she chose someone closer to home.
As she walked through to the bathroom and flicked on the light, she gazed at herself in the mirror. Good morning, Madame, she normally said aloud. But today she said nothing.
As she waited for the kettle to boil, she knew there was something bothering her – more than the notion of Jemima being in intensive care.
Worse was the thought that she had somehow helped put her there.
She should have told Steffie her doubts, should have voiced how she was feeling.
She thought back to their conversations in the shop. She had tried to air a few objections, but Steffie had told her off for being pessimistic, unsupportive.
The kettle clicked off, but Helena didn’t move, remained transfixed, her eyes on the garden outside.
It was useless trying to pin this on something or someone. It was an accident – a terrible accident … but one that could have been prevented.
She fixed her eye on a cloud that was passing by. It looked like a headless body running by, legs splayed out.
Jemima had to live. She had to wake up.
Helena turned away from the window, went to the bathroom to clean her teeth.
‘She’ll be all right,’ she told herself in the mirror. And then she went back to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and to sit by the phone.
It was impossible to sleep upright in a hard chair when you were six foot three, at the foot of your child’s bed in intensive care, watching the monitors, listening to the beeps. The staff had turned the volume down on the equipment and had dimmed the lights, but the door was wide open and the corridor outside was brightly lit and noisy, with voices calling, doors slamming and staff scurrying around in Crocs – the footwear of choice here, it seemed.
The night staff had arrived – two nurses who didn’t lower their voices or subdue their movements purely because it was evening. For them, the clock was unchanging – medical needs being what they were, regardless of the hour. Greg wasn’t here to sleep. It wasn’t a hotel. They stepped past his feet neatly enough, but scraped plugs into sockets by his head, talking over him as though he were invisible.
He understood that they were doing their job, that they were seeing to the priority here: the patient. Yet he still felt the basic human need for comfort, the minor disappointment of being disregarded; even though he felt for his daughter so deeply that it might as well have been him lying there.
He gazed at Jemima – at the drip, sensors, wires. There was a thin translucent tube leading from her nose to her stomach, feeding her so surreptitiously it was almost sinister. The equipment made the situation seem ugly, terrifying. Erase it from the scene and she was just a little girl asleep.
He smiled to himself, remembering when she used to climb in bed with them. He had loved that – waking of a morning, reaching out for Steffie, smoothing her crazy curly hair flat and then the door crashing open and in would run Jemima with her arms spread like a plane, aiming for their bed. She would wedge herself between them, smelling of milk and almond, and would rub noses with him, Eskimo-style.
Eskimo kiss, he would tell her.
Then they would rub foreheads: buffalo kiss.
Then he would flutter his eyelash on her cheek: butterfly.
His eyes stung with sorrow. He glanced at Steffie. She had finally fallen asleep on the pull-out bed, after hours of restless shifting about.
Poor Steffie. This would be killing her.
He gave a start as the doorway suddenly darkened, cutting off the pool of light from the corridor. Two men were entering the room, after a quick rap on the door.
Greg sat up straight; as did Steffie, who put her hand to her hair, fixing her rumpled clothes.
‘Sorry to disturb you so late,’ said one of the men. ‘We were meant to be here hours ago. It’s been a bit hectic. But we wanted to see you before the day was out.’ He extended his hand in greeting. ‘Detective Sergeant Lamb.’
Greg stood up stiffly, rubbing his face to rouse himself. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Whyte.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Steffie said, shaking hands with both men.
‘Are you OK to talk for a minute?’ the detective sergeant asked, looking about him. ‘Perhaps somewhere we can speak more freely?’
‘There’s a family room …’ Greg said.
The sergeant didn’t reply, was looking at Jemima. ‘So how is she?’ he asked, approaching her bed.
‘She’s stable,’ Greg said. ‘But she’s in a coma. We’ll know more in the morning.’
‘I see,’ the sergeant replied, looking now at Steffie. ‘This must be very tough for you.’
‘Yes,’ Steffie said. She was watching the sergeant warily, the whites of her eyes more apparent than usual.
‘Well, let’s find this room, then,’ the sergeant said.
The family room was more nocturnal than one might have expected. Half a dozen couples were sitting at intervals from each other, watching television, eating microwave meals, talking in hushed tones.
Greg led the detectives to a table. ‘Would you like tea?’ he asked, but they both declined the offer.
The four of them sat down.
Greg gazed at the sergeant, doing a quick audit of him. He was mid-fifties, Greg guessed, with sandy hair that was receding and chubby cheeks that suggested gluttony. His skin was shiny, oily, as though he tanned well, but didn’t often get the chance to sunbathe. There was a speck of food on his shirt, which was untucked on one side. When he spoke, he did so out of the corner of his mouth, lips barely moving.
‘So we’ve launched an investigation to find out why Jemima fell and injured herself so badly … There are obvious things to establish, like was it the academy’s fault in any way. And then there’s the not-so-obvious stuff, like what is she like, what is her home life like – things that we’re hoping you can tell us.’
The sergeant stopped speaking, clasped his hands together and rested them on the table.
‘I uh …’ Greg began.
‘Perhaps you could start by telling us about your daughter, Mrs Lee?’ the sergeant said, turning to Steffie.
Steffie shrugged. ‘She’s a normal child. You know … Does normal things …’
Greg took the opportunity to assess Detective Constable Whyte, the quieter of the two men. He was maybe five years younger than his superior, was shaved bald and evidently worked out. He sat with his legs spread apart and his muscular arms taut. Yet there was something soft about him – his large eyes and big lips lent him a weakness that maybe he was at pains to disguise.
‘And yet she’s here auditioning to be one of these special étoiles, so she’s not that normal,’ said the sergeant. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘Well …’ Steffie said. ‘She’s always wanted to be a ballet dancer. And she’s very determined and ambitious. Coming here was a dream come true for her.’ Her voice wavered.
‘It’s OK,’ the sergeant said. ‘I appreciate how hard this is. Take your time.’
Steffie looked about her for a tissue and found none. Greg went to the kitchen where there was a dispenser with metal teeth. He returned to the table, handing her a blue tissue that was long and twisted, like a discoloured cheese straw.
‘How did she feel about the competition at the academy?’ the constable asked. ‘Sounds pretty intense, by all accounts.’
‘She didn’t seem to mind,’ Steffie replied. ‘At least, she wasn’t any more nervous than normal. She always gets nervous before performing.’
‘How nervous?’ the sergeant said.
‘The usual sort of thing,’ Steffie said. ‘Nothing she couldn’t handle. We’ve always encouraged her to control it, to keep herself calm … The show must go on.’
‘Except that she didn’t go on,’ the sergeant said.
She looked unsure how to reply.
Greg interjected. ‘Could you tell us how she fell?’ he asked.
The sergeant turned to look at him. ‘She landed on unsafe flooring that gave way. We’re fairly sure she was swinging on a bar in the attic at the time.’
‘A bar?’ Greg said. ‘What kind of bar?’
‘The sort you’d find in an old-school gym. There’s some gymnasium equipment in the attic, left over from its predecessors. The whole lot was due to be cleared out during the renovation work.’
Greg glanced at Steffie, thought of Jemima swinging, like a toddler on monkey bars and not a ten-year-old about to perform for the audition of her life. Steffie seemed to be picturing this too – was looking aghast.
‘Was she on her own?’ Greg asked.
He was trying not to imagine the fall, the moment when she slipped. There would have been a second – several seconds, perhaps – when she would have known for certain that she was done for.
‘Yes,’ the sergeant replied. ‘We’re fairly sure of that.’
‘Oh,’ said Greg.
She had been all alone, falling. And then the impact.
He closed his eyes briefly, folded his arms, clenched his hands into fists.
‘We’ve had experts examine the site,’ Detective Constable Whyte said. ‘And it’s hard to pin any of this on the academy or the construction team. It was made pretty clear that the area was off-limits. Plus all the parents signed to say they were responsible for their kids whilst on the property.’ He held his hands up. ‘What else could the Phoenix do?’
Greg shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘We just don’t understand what she was doing up there … How it happened.’
‘Nor do we,’ said Detective Sergeant Lamb, ‘which is why we need to dig a bit deeper … So tell us about you – your marriage, Jemima’s personality. All we have so far is that she’s a normal kid who likes to dance.’
‘Again, perhaps you’d like to go first, Mrs Lee?’ the constable said.
Steffie sat back in her chair, still holding the string of tissue in her hand, like an unwanted hors d’oeuvre. ‘When I say normal, I mean normal all round,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing much to say. She’s happy, has plenty of friends, loves One Direction, and everything cherry.’
‘And what about her home life? Your marriage?’ Detective Sergeant Lamb said.
Steffie blushed. ‘We’re separated,’ she said. ‘But it’s amicable, as you can see.’ She glanced at Greg. ‘Jemima sees her dad all the time. Doesn’t she, Greg?’
‘That’s nice,’ said the sergeant. ‘So why aren’t you still together?’
Steffie looked again at Greg.
‘Things didn’t work out,’ he said. ‘Like they don’t for a lot of people. But like Steffie says, we keep things friendly, and Jemima has a good life. Thousands of kids live like her and they don’t end up in a coma.’
‘Point taken,’ said the sergeant. ‘No offence meant. Just trying to establish the facts.’
‘Which are?’ Greg said. ‘Because all we know is that our daughter fell from an attic when she was supposed to be on stage dancing. Is there anything else you can tell us?’
He didn’t mean to sound aggressive, probably didn’t, but still he attempted to look placid in case they took him the wrong way. It was hard to decipher and control tone in the circumstances.
‘Well, for starters – we know that Jemima was wearing Daisy Kirkpatrick’s hat at the time of the accident,’ the sergeant said, ‘despite the fact that they weren’t especially friendly. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Greg said. ‘They weren’t friends – hadn’t had anything to do with each other that we know of.’
Detective Sergeant Lamb reached into his breast pocket for a notebook, which he flicked through. ‘Yet you told Daisy Kirkpatrick to go into the rec room – into an off-limits area.’
Steffie’s mouth dropped open. ‘What? That’s not quite—’
The sergeant was moving quickly on. ‘We also know that Noella Chamoulaud was the last person to see Jemima before the accident.’
‘How much do you trust her?’ Detective Constable Whyte said, turning to Steffie.
‘Noella?’ she said. ‘Implicitly.’
‘And yet she lies,’ Detective Sergeant Lamb said.
Greg looked at the sergeant in surprise. ‘About what?’ he said.
The sergeant shrugged, tucked his notebook back into his pocket. ‘God knows. I just know she’s hiding something.’
There was a silence.
‘So why did Jemima go into the rec room earlier this morning?’ the sergeant asked.
Steffie paused before replying; as did Greg.
‘We … we’re not sure,’ he said finally. ‘We didn’t really get a chance to ask her.’
‘Was it out of character?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Completely,’ Steffie said. ‘But then she didn’t know any of the other children and might have been trying to save face … After all, it was Zach’s idea for them to go in. She was just tagging along.’
‘Zach?’ said the sergeant in surprise. ‘Well, that’s interesting.’ He was looking at his colleague, smiling.
‘According to the other kids,’ said Detective Constable Whyte, ‘Jemima was the only one who went into the restricted area. No one else broke with protocol.’
‘What?’ said Greg. ‘That’s a total lie! We saw them coming out! I was furious with them … And that other woman was there – what’s her name … Mrs …’
‘Kirkpatrick,’ said Steffie. ‘Her daughter Daisy went into the room. And so did Freddie and Zach.’
The sergeant got his notebook back out and a stubby pencil. ‘So let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘Four of them went into the rec room just before ten o’clock?’
‘That’s right,’ said Greg. ‘On Zach’s instigation.’
Detective Sergeant Lamb chuckled. ‘They were lying to save their asses. Scared stiff they’d get booted out of the academy.’
‘Well, that says it all,’ said Greg. ‘If they’re willing to lie about this, what else are they capable of?’ He glanced at Steffie, but she was looking away – didn’t want him to pursue this ropey line of conversation.
The sergeant was reading his notebook, his bottom lip stuck out in contemplation.
Greg thought of something. ‘How did she get up there?’ he asked. ‘How did she gain access, or even know the attic was there?’
Detective Sergeant Lamb lowered his book. ‘She got in via the rec room. There’s a ladder in the corner of the room, leading up to the unknown. The kids would have spotted it earlier that morning. Pretty tempting, I’d imagine.’
‘Not for Jemima,’ Greg said. ‘She would have looked at it and run a mile. Especially before the audition.’
‘So either someone carried her kicking and screaming and made her hang on to that bar …’
‘Are you serious?’ Greg said.
‘No,’ said the sergeant. ‘But that only leaves one other explanation.’
‘Which is?’
‘That she went up there of her own free will.’
Greg groaned, feeling suddenly drained.
‘Mrs Lee,’ Detective Sergeant Lamb said, turning to Steffie, ‘your daughter sounds like a sensible kid. Why do you suppose she went into that dangerous area – twice?’
Steffie shook her head slowly. ‘I really don’t know.’
‘Think,’ the sergeant said. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’
She sniffed, unwound the tissue, pressed it to her nose. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘OK,’ the sergeant said. ‘We should call it a day.’ He pushed back his seat and stood, hitching his trousers up. ‘I appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.’
‘I’m not sure that we’ve been that much help,’ Steffie said.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ the sergeant replied.
Something about the way he said this made Greg look sharply at him. But the words and their meaning had gone and the sergeant was shaking hands amicably with them both.
‘We’ll be in touch,’ Detective Sergeant Lamb said. ‘And in the meantime, we’ll keep our fingers crossed for Jemima.’
They made their way to the door. The room was empty of parents now, everyone having left the hospital or returned to sit vigil by their child’s bed. The place was even sadder without anyone there – just abandoned coffee cups and saggy cushions.
‘By the way,’ said the sergeant, stopping by the door, ‘sorry if I come across as abrupt. It’s my manner of speaking. But I do care about your daughter, about all my cases. And I’m good at what I do.’
‘Thank you,’ Steffie said, unsure whether he was looking for gratitude exactly.
The sergeant gazed at them both. ‘I always get hold of the truth,’ he said, ‘no matter how slippery it is.’
‘Well, that’s reassuring,’ Greg said.
And then the two men left, hands in pockets, heads bent in thought.