‘Thank you, Chris.’
He pats her hand.
‘Don’t mention it. This is what family is for. We’ll calm her down and keep her stable and your baby safe, don’t you worry.’
She tells him quickly about the prescription she’s found and the diary and Marisa’s current state of mind and he nods.
‘Mmm. That makes sense. All right. We’ll sort this out soon enough.’
She leads him into the hallway, where he takes in the scene in one practised gaze. Jake, still holding Marisa’s head close to his chest, says, ‘Hi Dad. Sorry about all this.’ Chris shakes his head and puts his fingers to his lips, motioning to Jake to stay quiet.
‘Marisa?’ Chris says and his voice is kind but firm. Kate realises it is the most she has ever heard him speak. ‘My name is Dr Sturridge and I’m going to look after you now, OK?’
Marisa turns to look at him. Her pupils are dilated, her skin waxy with sweat. Her expression is trusting, a hint of wonder in her eyes. She seems calmer again now, willing to be taken care of by this new, older man who has crouched down to her level and is checking her pulse with his thumb and forefinger.
‘We’re going to take good care of you. Nothing for you to worry about. Now, first things first, how about another cup of tea?’
‘Yes please,’ Marisa says, her voice hoarse.
Chris signals to Kate who goes back to the kitchen, leaving the three of them there. She hears the doorbell ring again. Annabelle. Someone lets her in, and immediately Kate can hear Marisa shrieking and crying, the volume of it getting louder and more shrill. Chris is keeping up his calming patter, his voice a bass note to Marisa’s soprano, and as Kate makes this second cup of tea, she hears the noise gradually subside until there is almost total silence.
She carries the mug through to the hallway. Annabelle is standing by the door, her hair wrapped up in a silk headscarf, a faded brown coat belted around her waist. She has no make-up on. Her face, denuded of its normal armour, looks scrubbed bare and defenceless, her pale lashes giving the impression of a mole blinking into the light. Kate realises she must have been getting ready for bed. Annabelle had dropped everything to be here, despite her disapproval of what they were doing.
‘Some things are more important than petty disagreements,’ Annabelle said on the phone. ‘We’ll do anything for you and Jakey and the baby, you must know that.’
Kate didn’t know, but now she does. She smiles shakily at Annabelle who nods as if she understands and nothing more needs to be said.
On the hallway floor, Jake is carefully positioning Marisa’s head on his rolled-up suit jacket. Chris is still holding her wrist, monitoring her pulse and looking at his watch to count the beats. Marisa is breathing long, heavy breaths. Her eyes are closed. The agitation has subsided.
Jake slides away from her prone form, and then comes straight over to Kate. He hugs her tightly, whispering into her ear how much he loves her and asking if she’s OK over and over again and she starts to cry and tells him she’s fine, she just wants this to be dealt with and for their baby to be safe.
‘It’s going to be all right,’ Jake says. ‘Dad has it under control, don’t you, Dad?’
‘Yup,’ Chris says. ‘I’ve given her 2mg of lorazepam and it seems to have taken the edge off. We’ll wait an hour and then see what happens and give her another dose.’
‘Should we move her?’ Kate starts. ‘To the sofa or a bed or something?”
‘No. Best leave her here rather than risk …’ He leaves a small gap. ‘… disturbing her.’
‘Right,’ Annabelle says briskly. ‘The three of us have some talking to do. We have a plan,’ she tells Jake. ‘Kate and I have already talked about it, haven’t we, dear?’
‘Yes.’
‘First things first, I’m going to pop a bandage on that scratch.’ Annabelle reaches into Chris’s medicine bag and takes out a bottle of TCP, some cotton wool and a large square of sticking plaster. She walks over to Kate, takes her hand and ushers her through to the sitting room, where she tells her to sit on the sofa. Annabelle dabs at Kate’s forehead with the TCP, which stings, and then she places the plaster on top and she does it all with such maternal tenderness that Kate finds herself wanting to weep again.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘Not at all, dear. That looks much better.’ Annabelle undoes the belt on her coat and sits on the armchair by the bay window. She slides herheadscarf down and her hair looks wispy in the lamplight. ‘Jake, do you have any whisky? I think we all need a stiff drink.’
Jake goes to the sideboard where they keep the drinks. It is just under the speaker and Kate is reminded of that Sunday, three weeks ago, when they had been playing music and Marisa had stormed in complaining it was too loud. It made sense now. An irrational kind of sense.How she must have hated me, Kate thinks, and she shivers.
‘Cold?’ Annabelle asks sharply.
‘No, I’m fine. The whisky will warm me up.’
She takes a tumbler from Jake, who passes another one to his mother. He pours himself a neat vodka and sits next to Kate on the sofa.
‘Drink that up,’ Annabelle says. ‘It’ll be good for the shock.’
