‘Jemima’s arousal system has been damaged. So the brainstem and forebrain are reorganising their activity. Unfortunately there are no changes yet, but I’m hoping to see faster EEG waves as Jemima begins to recover her wake–sleep cycles.’
‘But should we be worried that nothing’s happening?’ Greg asked. ‘Does that mean there’s a chance that she might stay in a coma?’
‘There’s always a chance of that, I’m afraid, which is why I told you yesterday to prepare yourselves for anything. Some coma patients take years to wake up. Others have been known to suddenly sit up and get back on with their lives as if nothing’s happened. We now think that perhaps this is because the brain was processing information even during an unresponsive period …’
Steffie was watching the space behind the doctor’s head, the fiercely white sky through the window beyond. It had stopped snowing. The sun was out – a late afternoon sunshine that tinged the snow and clouds with a line of berry-red on the horizon, as though it were the crisp topping of a crème brÛlée that she could crack with a spoon.
She was hungry. And dejected. And so tired.
She realised that both men were looking at her.
‘Questions,’ Dr Mills said. ‘Do you have any?’
‘No, thank you,’ Steffie said.
‘Well, that’s it for today. I’ll see you in the morning. Try to get some rest. I know it’s tempting to sit up with Jemima, but there’s no knowing how long this could go on for. There’s an onsite hotel if—’
‘We’re fine here,’ said Greg, holding up his hand.
As the doctor left the room, Steffie looked at Greg. He was almost bearded now. She had never seen him with an almost beard.
‘Maybe you should spend tonight at the hotel,’ she said. ‘We could take it in turns, if that makes you feel any better.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But not yet.’
She understood. Sleeping elsewhere would feel like a betrayal, like abandoning Jemima. But soon they would be forced by necessity to leave in search of sleep.
‘Maybe we should get some fresh air, stretch our legs,’ Greg said, joining her at the window. ‘If our feet get wet, we can always put them on the radiators.’ He tapped the radiator nearest them.
‘OK,’ she said.
They got their coats, their movements typically clumsy, slow; and were leaving the room when Steffie said, ‘Wait.’
She went to Jemima’s side, stood looking over her. She and the nurses had just bathed her using warm damp towels. It wasn’t a great success because of the wires and casts, but it was something and Jemima seemed more rested for it – or maybe it was just Steffie that felt better.
She felt it again then: that aching feeling of something being wrong, not only because of Jemima’s condition, but because of their relationship, which felt impaired too.
She felt something fizzing in a dark corner of her body – a truth that, were she more able-minded at that point, she would have acknowledged and identified.
But as it was, she clapped her gloved hands dully together, and said, ‘Let’s go.’
The main entrance of the Royal Hospital was like a modern version of a drawbridge: a white grid above the door suspended on poles. The whole thing looked as though it could snap down at any minute, barring entry.
The light was bright after being indoors all day. Steffie squinted as she looked about, hand above her eyes. There were a few cars and minibuses scattered around the forecourt, their tops laden with snow. The road opposite was grumbling with traffic. Immediately before them was a lawn that was cultivating baby trees that were feeble with winter, huddling together in bunches, like scrawny children.
‘This way?’ Greg said, pointing to the path that ran alongside the hospital. She nodded and they set off, snow creaking underfoot.
They got to the end of the path and came to a glass building. ‘Here?’ he said.
Again, she nodded and they traversed the length of the mirrored building, their reflections walking beside them. What would they look like, she wondered? A dishevelled woman with wild hair; an unshaven man in a tramp’s coat.
‘We’ve not really had a chance to speak since the police,’ Greg said. It was true. They had been surrounded by staff since then, had been waiting in Jemima’s room for the EEG test results. ‘What are your thoughts?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘But you’re shocked about the drug, about the …?’ He stalled, unable to recall its name.
‘Diazepam,’ she said.
He did a double take at her. ‘Wasn’t that …?’ he began.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I thought perhaps—’
‘No,’ she said, cutting him and the subject off.
He knew her tone of voice – could read her well. And he said no more.
They arrived at a map on stilts, buried in snow. Greg wiped the map with his glove. ‘You are here’ appeared.
Steffie stamped her feet, watched her breath appearing and then disappearing before her.
‘According to this, there’s a place down here where we could try to get something to eat, if you fancy it?’ Greg said.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Although I’m not very hungry.’
‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘But if we don’t eat something solid, we won’t last.’
They turned the corner of the glass building and faced a stone building with pillars and a courtyard. A lady was walking across the courtyard towards them, her head bent, not looking around her. She knew where she was heading, Steffie supposed; or else she didn’t care.
They made their way through an archway to the door beyond. The grandiose entryway reminded Steffie of Danube House, of the fact that it was only yesterday that they had arrived there with Jemima for her audition, and the thought pushed her further into melancholia, further into her coat.
As they entered the building, they were greeted by a blast of warm beefy air. They were near a restaurant. Signposts on chains dangled above their heads, wobbling.
‘This way, I think,’ Greg said.
They walked halfway down the corridor, Steffie glancing at the artwork on the walls: enlarged photographs of people smiling, mouths stretched, eyes laughing.
‘Here we are,’ Greg said, pointing to a closed door with glass panels in. Beyond, Steffie could see people carrying trays, could hear muted conversations.
She ran a hand through her hair, felt her hair tingling and rising with static.
Greg was looking at her oddly, hesitantly. ‘Steffie …’ he began. He paused, unbuttoned his coat. ‘Did you tell the police the truth?’
She stared up at him. ‘The truth?’ she said. ‘About what?’
‘About that drug.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s just that I thought—’
‘You thought what?’
He gazed at her and then shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
Greg was determined to sleep. He had asked one of the nurses for a pillow and a blanket, and was lying in the chair, his legs stretched out, arms folded. It was uncomfortable, but he was starting to realise that they could be here for the long haul and if he didn’t sleep soon he would be incapable of making any decisions if required.
It took several hours for him to become drowsy. But in the early hours of the morning, the ward finally fell silent and the beeps on Jemima’s monitor were more subdued. He didn’t know whether this was his own body shutting down or if the nurses had turned the volume down on the equipment and on their own voices. But his last thought was: Ah, bliss.
And then he sat up so quickly that his pillow toppled and his head spun with dizziness.
Steffie was screaming.
‘Get away! Get away from her!’
His head flooded with panic. He looked about him for a weapon – saw the desk lamp that the nurse had given him earlier. He grabbed it as he stood up, the plug ripping from the wall socket. And then he threw it to where Steffie was pointing. It smashed against the wall and fell with a clatter.
There was the sound of running footsteps and the room was swamped in light. He put his hands to his face and stared about him in confusion, at the smashed lamp and splintered glass on the floor; at Steffie crouching on her pull-out bed; at the two nurses who were looking about in alarm; at Jemima lying on her back, her fractured limb in casts, her eyes closed, her oxygen mask in place, her drip secure.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ shouted one of the nurses. ‘There’s glass everywhere. Did you throw that lamp? You could have hit the patient!’
‘I’ll get a dustpan,’ said the other nurse, hurrying from the room.
Greg was staring about him, stunned.
‘Are you all right?’ the nurse was saying, rubbing Steffie’s back.
Steffie was opening and closing her mouth like a fish, just as silent as one.
‘Can you speak?’
Greg leant back against the radiator, his legs heavy. The nurse was right: he could have hit Jemima, could have injured her on top of everything else. The lamp was an old industrial-looking one – a bulky thing.
‘There was someone there,’ Steffie was saying.
‘Where?’ the nurse said, looking in the direction where Steffie was pointing.
‘By Jemima,’ she said. ‘They were going to hurt her.’
‘Who?’ the nurse said.
Her colleague had returned, was crouched down, sweeping the floor and picking up the large shards of glass by hand.
‘Here,’ Greg said, ‘let me do that.’ He took the dustpan and brush from her. ‘I’m really sorry.’
The nurse tutted and moved away. Their primary concern was their patient. Men throwing heavy lamps were not acceptable or welcome on the children’s ward. In that moment, he felt as though he were paying for every serial killer, rapist and abuser of his gender.
And then the nurse shouted as Steffie gulped for breath and fell forward on to the floor.
Greg dropped the dustpan, glass tinkling behind him as he dashed forward. ‘She’s passed out,’ the nurse said, cradling Steffie in her lap on the floor. ‘Get Nathan,’ she said. The other nurse hurried from the room.
Greg knelt down. Steffie had opened her eyes. The nurse was stroking her forehead. ‘It’s all right,’ the nurse was saying. ‘It’s all right.’
‘Greg,’ she said, looking petrified.
‘It’s OK, Steffie,’ he said.
The other nurse returned with the night doctor, who sat Steffie up, held a finger before her, listened to her heart, looked in her ears and eyes, asked her her name, age, what day of the week it was.
Steffie had gone white. She was shivering, straining to draw breath, her eyes large and staring.
The doctor didn’t seem concerned. He was talking in a low voice to one of the nurses.
Greg indicated that he would like a word in the corridor. ‘What happened?’ Greg asked him, when they were out of earshot of Steffie.
‘Panic attack,’ the doctor replied matter-of-factly. ‘No doubt due to the stressful circumstances. The system becomes overloaded so it blacks out, like flicking a switch. Sort of a time-out, if you like.’
‘A time-out,’ Greg said pensively.
‘Does she suffer from anxiety?’ the doctor asked, licking his lips. He looked tired, thirsty. He frowned, waiting for Greg’s response.
‘You what?’ Greg said.
‘Anxiety,’ the doctor repeated. ‘Does she suffer from any form of it?’
‘Yes,’ Greg said. ‘And no.’
‘Oh? So which is it?’
‘Well, she…’ Greg glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice. ‘…She suffered from a phobia in the past. But I was led to believe that it was all better, that she was better.’
‘I see,’ the doctor said. ‘Well … emergency over. She’s probably just exhausted. Make sure she gets some rest.’ And he walked away, his Crocs squelching as though wet.
Greg watched the blue of the doctor’s medical tunic until it had disappeared around the corner of the ward.
Then he thought about what to say and do next.
The nurses were busying themselves with Jemima now – checking her vitals, changing her drip.
Steffie was sitting on the pull-out bed. She was still shivering. He reached for her coat, draped it over her shoulders.
‘Would you like me to make you a nice cup of tea, Mum?’ the nurse asked Steffie. They had finished with Jemima.
Steffie made no response.
The nurse frowned in concern at Greg.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll go along to the family room in a minute.’
‘Right you are, then,’ the nurse said. ‘Give us a shout if you need us.’ And they left the room.
Steffie turned to him. ‘I thought I was dying,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t breathe. My chest was so tight. And I couldn’t hear. All I could hear was this hissing noise and …’
‘It’s OK,’ he said, holding her hand. ‘The doctor said it was understandable … Look what we’re going through. You’d have to have nerves of steel not to be affected.’
‘But what if it’s come back? What if it’s like before? What if…?’
He gripped her hand more forcibly than he had intended. ‘Nothing bad’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘This isn’t like before. It’s all going to be OK.’ He loosened his grip.
She didn’t look convinced. She was trying to smile. The sight of it made his heart wobble.
‘I think you should sleep in the hotel tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘You need some rest.’
She nodded slowly with an expression that said, We’ll see.
They said no more. He moved his chair to be next to her, to remain by her side for reassurance. As the silence fell again, he felt his eyes grow heavy with fatigue, and doubt.
He knew Steffie – knew when she was lying, when she was frightened, when she was hiding something.
If he had noticed the look of alarm on her face when the sergeant named the drug in Jemima’s bloodstream, then surely the detectives would have done too.
They remained sitting like that – upright, without tea, without distraction or conversation – until dawn crept forward, across the snowy fields, ravaging the lawn of Danube House, creeping across the sleeping houses of Guildford to the Royal Hospital, where it tapped on the glass, crackled against the concrete, snapped their bones into standing and stretching; for a new day had arrived.