Like the one I thought I saw at the museum, the day Tommy kissed me.
“Ignore it, ignore it,” I mutter, hiding my face in my hair. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me, that horrible nightmare making me see things that aren’t really there. Unfortunately, my feet seem to have a mind of their own, and before I know it I’m pushing through the same doors, finding myself in a horribly familiar, green tiled corridor.
I’m back in the old wing.
I proceed down the corridor in a dreamlike state. It’s not as quiet as it was last time and a couple brush past me, their hushed whispers following them like a trail of smoke.
There’s no dark-haired figure in sight. I knew I’d imagined it.
My feet slow down in the same place as last time, at the entrance to the wing named after Jane. I study the heavy wooden doors. They’re propped open today, beckoning me in. I hesitate, before taking a step into the small atrium beyond. My footsteps sound oddly hushed.
There’s another set of doors, leading into a dilapidated waiting room. The walls are covered in wooden panels that hint at a past grandeur, like the box at the theatre, but they’re let down by shoddy PVC chairs screwed into the floor. A scattering of patients wait, quiet but for the odd sigh and shuffle of crossing and uncrossing legs.
I shake my head. What am I doing here? I need to go and see Jess. I turn to leave, annoyed at myself and my misfiring brain for being so weird.
That’s when I see him.
I hold my hands out to the glass, as though I’m going to take hold of the frame, but I walk forward and squint at it instead. It’s an old, faded black and white print, workmen in flat caps and waistcoats, rather than helmets and hi-vis jackets, standing in proud, neat lines in front of the old hospital wing. I glance at the tarnished plaque on the frame.
1845.
So how is he in it?
I quickly snap a photo on my phone. The resemblance really is uncanny, even though the photo is grainy. I zoom in to take another. Maybe it’s just the outfit he’s wearing, it’s so similar to his costume. . .
Oh, god. The museum. It’s my final shift today. I check the time on my phone and realize I’m meant to be there in an hour. I snap one final picture before spinning on my heel and leaving to go and see my friend.
“Hello, Niamh. Thank you for coming.” Ruth sounds oddly formal. She has exhausted bags that stretch from under her eyes to halfway down her cheeks. She looks like she’s aged ten years overnight.
“Of course.” I slide in through the curtain and perch awkwardly on an empty chair. I haven’t taken my backpack off, so my body is pitched forwards and I put all my effort into balancing on the chair lip without falling off. I look at the figure in the bed.
Jess. She’s unconscious, hooked up to a drip and some monitors that are beeping and whirring quietly in the corner. Her normally golden-brown skin is ashy, making her look both strangely old and young at the same time. Even the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks seems faded.
“What happened?”
“She went out when we got home last night.” A sob catches in Ruth’s throat. “For milk, you know, for my tea. She’s such a good girl like that. The newsagent is only round the corner, I didn’t think anything of it.” She falls silent, dabbing at red eyes with a screwed-up tissue. I pull a few more sheets from the box on the table and hand them to her. She takes them hesitantly. “But then she didn’t come back. I was going out to look for her when I got a call from the hospital. Someone had found her on the street and called an ambulance.”
“What did the doctors say?”
“She has a concussion and a pretty nasty wound on the back of her head, but she’ll be OK, they hope. Scans didn’t show any swelling on the brain. They’ve given her a sedative, so she’ll sleep.” I watch as she gently strokes her daughter’s hand, concern etched into the lines on her face. “She could wake up anytime,” Ruth continues. “I know she wanted to talk to you. There was a half-written text on her phone.”
I flush automatically, thinking about our texts. Ruth meets my eyes. “I read them. I’m not sorry, I wouldn’t have known half of it if I hadn’t. The police have it now, anyway.” She takes a deep breath. “You put her in danger, Niamh, but I only blame myself. I told her to look out for you.”
An awkward silence falls between us. I stare at Jess’s Afro curls, their bleached blonde ends poking out from beneath what would usually strike me as a comedy sized bandage. I feel as though my insides have been removed, carefully turned inside out and replaced again. I want to be sick. This is my fault.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Ruth sighs. “I suppose Detective Moran called you?”
“I don’t think so.” I scrabble for my phone and see that in fact yes, he has. Two missed calls and an answerphone message fill my screen. I hit dial and hold the phone to my ear.
It only takes seconds for all of the blood in my body to pool around my ankles. “Oh my God.”
It’s Will.
Will is out of custody.
“They released him last night, just before. . .” She glances down at her daughter. “They could only keep him for twenty-four hours without a charge and there was no real evidence against him.”
