‘He’s here to teach me guitar,’ clarifies Rufus, when I look at him blankly. Of course, I remember Charlie saying he’d found him a teacher. I was expecting him to be older. There is something familiar about him.
‘Oh, hi, Kit. Lovely to meet you. I’m Lena. Have we met before?’
‘Hey, Lena.’ A lazy grin spreads across his face. ‘No, I don’t think so, although you might have seen me at one of your husband’s gigs.’ Estranged husband, I want to say, but I fight the urge to correct him.
‘You can use the living room, if you like,’ I say. ‘It’s much cooler in there.’
‘Great, thanks.’ Kit stands up and reaches for his electric guitar, which is propped against the wall in a cushioned case. He’s taller than Rufus and broader, instantly making my son look much younger, and I feel a surge of protectiveness towards him.
Rufus leads Kit into the living room, chatting away, and I swell with pride. The months at college have done him good. A few years ago he found it hard to look strangers in the eye, never mind talk to them, but he seems at ease with Kit. Before long I hear a guitar riff float through the house.
I head upstairs to my bedroom and take the bear from my pocket. There is only one key attached to it and it’s a simple Yale. I sit on the edge of my bed staring at it for a while. It looks like a front-door key. I really should show it to the Morgans just in case they mislaid theirs when they were moving in.
As I stand up to go back downstairs I notice a movement outside. A man is pacing up and down on the other side of the street, his head lowered. I recognize his gait and when he looks up and glares towards the Morgans’ house I realize who he is.
Drew.
What is he doing? He’s crossing the street so that he’s standing by the Morgans’ classic Jaguar. I continue to watch as he runs a hand slowly over the bonnet, his brows knitted, his expression dark. He continues to stand there for a few more minutes and, just as I decide to go downand find out what’s going on, I see Henry opening his front gate. Drew is now gesticulating towards the car. He looks upset and his voice is raised, but I can’t make out what he’s saying over the sound of Rufus butchering the electric guitar in the room below. I watch, mesmerized, as Henry reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. It seems a friendly action, but Drew shrinks back, his expression one of alarm. Then Henry leans over and says something in Drew’s ear. Drew shakes his head and mutters a reply. Henry turns away from him to walk back into the house. Drew stares after him for a couple more seconds before he slopes off down the street with an air of dejection. What was all that about?
16
NATALIE
Natalie’s eyes flicker open. Where is she? The light is dim and there is a pounding at the back of her head that runs all the way down her neck, through her arms and to her fingers. Her whole body feels sore and heavy, as if she’s been hit by a bus. Is that what happened? Was she knocked over? Is she in hospital? She tries to prop herself up on her elbows but even this small movement takes every ounce of energy she has. She’s on a narrow bed, tucked up tightly beneath a crisp white sheet overlaid with a knitted navy-blue blanket. It must be a private room. It’s whitewashed and clinical, like a hospital, and there is a slight citrus scent undercut with bleach. She surveys the bare walls, the stripped floorboards, the patterned rug that lies next to the window, which is covered with white venetian blinds. In the corner is a rocking chair and, perched on a gingham cushion, a grey rabbit with a matching gingham bow tie. She blinks again. That’s odd. It looks too nice to be a hospital room. Maybe she’s in some facility, like rehab. But why would she be? She doesn’t have a drug problem. She doesn’t drink too much.
She flops back against the pillow, drained.
Is it still Sunday? Images shift and resettle in her mind. Why does her brain feel so foggy and her memories scrambled? She tries to put them in some semblance of order. She can’t remember much. And then a snippet of memory. Walking through a park. She was running from something. Did she fall and crack her head? That would explain the shooting pain at the base of her skull.
She jolts when the door opens and a woman walks in wearing blue scrubs and a disposable face mask. She must be a nurse, she thinks, with relief. So, she is in a hospital. A very nice one too, from her surroundings.
The nurse is pushing a trolley into the room. On it is a tray of food, which looks like fish fingers and mashed potato. The smell makes her feel nauseous. Why does she feel like she’s got a hangover?
‘Where am I?’ she asks the nurse, as she approaches the bed. ‘Which hospital?’
The nurse doesn’t reply. She doesn’t flinch or make any sign that she’s even heard her.
‘Excuse me?’ Natalie wonders if any sound is actually coming out of her mouth. She feels like she’s in a dream. Maybe she is dreaming. Maybe she’s dying. Maybe she suffered a brain injury in the park and is lying there, right now, on the hot tarmac, bleeding out from a head wound, surrounded by concerned onlookers, and this is all some out-of-body, weird near-death experience.
She tries to prop herself up again but finds she can’t. ‘Please,’ she rasps. Her voice sounds weak but she’s surely making some sound, yet the nurse continues to ignore her. She wheels the trolley over to Natalie’s bed, but shedoesn’t look her in the eye. Instead she busies herself with pouring Natalie a glass of water from a jug. Then she slowly unwraps a knife and fork from a white paper napkin and begins cutting up the fish fingers as though Natalie is a child. Natalie can feel her mouth gaping open as she watches the nurse arrange her knife and fork for her and place the glass next to her plate, just so. And then she looks at Natalie squarely in the eye for the first time.
‘Eat up, there’s a good girl,’ she says, as though Natalie is five, her voice muffled behind the mask. She reaches over and Natalie flinches as the woman props pillows behind her and helps her sit up. She positions the trolley so that it’s next to the bed. She picks up the glass of water and brings it to Natalie’s lips. ‘You need to drink,’ she says. ‘Drink it all. You are severely dehydrated.’
‘Where am I?’
‘Drink.’
‘But what’s happened to me?’
‘I said drink,’ she says, tipping it into Natalie’s open mouth and making her splutter. The nurse tuts and tries again, and Natalie does as she’s told.
‘That’s better,’ says the nurse when Natalie swallows the water. Natalie can’t tell if the nurse is smiling behind her mask. All she can see is her eyes, and they look empty. The nurse replaces the glass. ‘Try to eat,’ she says, handing Natalie the plastic fork. Not metal. Not something she could do any damage with.
‘Can you please tell me what’s ha—’
‘Eat,’ the nurse snaps. ‘I’ll be back in a bit.’ She turns and leaves the room.
Natalie lets the food grow cold. She reaches up and touches her head, but finds no dressing or bandage, no stitches or anything that suggests she’s been wounded.
