The One Day You Were My Husband (61)

“How dare you!” I said. “I am twenty-seven years old. I—”

“And you don’t know anything,” my mother butted in. “You may be a trainee surgeon, Carrie, but make no mistake: you’re still a child. You moved to medical school from a tiny village in Devon. You have had one job, you’ve barely traveled, you have no life experience outside the walls of a hospital. Do yourself a favor and trust me.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed, until the thought suddenly came: She’s right.

“I’ve never worked in criminal defense,” Mum went on. “It’s not my thing. But I’ve helped enough people in trouble to know how this is going to end for Johan. I’m afraid these people are right, Carrie. You really do have to go home before this gets worse. You have to leave your feelings behind and start looking at this from a practical and strategic angle.”

“Mum! What’s wrong with you? He needs help! He must have been coerced into this! He’s really frightened!”

She took a long breath. “Carrie, you know how much justice matters to me. You know what I’m willing to sacrifice for the greater good. But he—Johan…” She stopped.

“Johan what? He’s a lost cause?”

“I think so,” she said, and her voice was sorrowful. “I wish I could have visited him myself, tried to drag it out of him. I’m reliant only on what you and Prawat have told me, but it seems to me that he’s in very serious trouble. And, significantly, he’s not trying to fight it. He’s asked us not to fight it. He’d only be doing that if he was following instructions. From people who don’t welcome third-party involvement. The sort of people neither you nor I want to come up against.”

“But…”

“Carrie. Your career is your life. It always has been. And I can relate to that. Are you going to throw it away for a man? A man you’ve known for only a few months?”

Before I had a chance to speak, Mum unmuted and told them I’d be coming home in the next forty-eight hours.

Once again, my mother was right here by my side, and once again I was completely alone. I sat quietly in my chair, like the child they all believed me to be.

A smiling waiter brought up a tray of room service dinner soon after. It sat on a stand in the corner while we finished the video call. A yellow flower had been placed cheerfully on each folded napkin, with a note saying, We wish you joy with your meal!



* * *



—

“I have some more difficult news,” Mum said as we returned to the visitor center the next morning. The rains had returned; I was sweating under a plastic poncho and my shoes were already soaked through.

“Prawat called me last night, after the meeting with your hospital team. I’m sorry, but he says it’s not safe for him to dig around any longer. He was ‘paid a visit’ last night, whatever that means. He says nobody harmed him, but he won’t lock horns with those sorts of people. He’s out.”

I carried on walking. One foot in front of the other. Rain hammered on my poncho, which was not up to the job at hand.

“If I’m honest, Carrie, I’m out of my depth, too,” Mum said. “I can take on any number of government officials, but I don’t know anything about crime rings, and I don’t know how to help Johan if he’s sticking with this one. Prawat is being sensible. We should follow his example.”

I said nothing. I should have seen this coming. I should have known Mum would only engage if the situation enabled her to win.

We passed the craft shop, which apparently sold polished wooden furniture made by the prisoners. It never seemed to be open.

“Carrie, I want you to fly home tomorrow morning. You have to get out of here. You have to go back to your life.”

I imagined having a fridge again, filled with fresh food; music coming out of Johan’s radio; the bike he’d bought me to commute to St. Mary’s Hospital. Autumn creeping in with regretful yellow light, the days rapidly shortening. Returning to my life—our life—without him.

Tears filled my eyes, and I let them fall. I cried for Johan, for us, but above all for the person I’d believed myself to be. An adult woman with agency in her own life. A woman who understood, finally, what it meant to be truly happy.



* * *



—

Johan had a black eye, a split lip, and nasty cuts near his hairline.

He didn’t pick up the phone at first. He just looked at me warily, as if weighing up the pros and cons of talking.

“Are you OK?” I asked, when he finally did.

He half nodded, half shrugged.

“What’s happened?”

“Your mum’s friend continued to poke around, even though I told you to stop him. So they fired a warning shot.”

I blanched. “Someone attacked you?”

He snorted. “Trust me,” he said. “This was not an attack. At most it was a polite warning.”

“Oh God, Johan. Are you sure it was because of Prawat?”

“Very sure.”

“I…OK. He was paid a visit, too. He’s done, if that helps.”

Johan nodded. “Good.”

“How are you feeling? How are you doing, inside there?” I pointed at his head.

“Not good.”