It’s still Friday but late. His second trip home to pick up things they need. He stares at his coat, dripping water on to the parquet floor. He hadn’t even noticed it was raining. He checks his hands. Wet. Feels his hair. Wet too. He wonders how long this daze-like existence will continue. When he might start to feel human again.
The problem, since the cathedral, is working out how he’s supposed to fit into the world around him. It’s not so bad at the hospital. There his purpose is clear. There Ed Hartley is the parent of a very poorly child. In Gemma’s small and oh-so-clinical cubicle, it’s all bleeping machines and nurses with tests and updates and his job is to listen, to watch the numbers on the machines, to press the doctors for information and above all to stay strong. His job is also to care for his wife who’s always been so much tougher on the outside than the inside. He runs errands for coffee and sandwiches and watches Rachel with all her hands-on care of their daughter, so tender and so patient that it’s almost unbearable to him.
But back here in the house, collecting things for Rachel and checking the post, Ed has absolutely no idea how to be. The house is just the same but their life is completely dismantled. It’s as if there are two worlds and he has no idea how to transport himself between one and the other.
He hears himself take in a long, slow breath and finds that he cannot bear the silence. You need to do something. The voice in his head sounds afraid. You need to get a grip and you need to phone Canada again. He glances at the landline and wonders if it’s safer to use his mobile this time. Will the police really check their phone records? He has no idea.
All he wants is confirmation that everything in Canada’s OK. He’s already tried emailing her parents but the email bounced, the address no longer valid. His first frantic call to the unit – late that first night – was a complete waste of time. They couldn’t help him and told him to phone back in the morning. He couldn’t; he was back at the hospital.
He watches more drips fall from his coat, pooling into a tiny puddle on the floor. If Rachel were here, she would appear with a cloth, worried about a watermark on the wood. He thinks of her earlier, before the scene with Alex, brushing Gemma’s hair – turning their daughter’s head from side to side ever so carefully.
He realises that he should have said something to the police about Canada from the off but leaving it this long has somehow made it more and more impossible to find the right explanation.
At last Ed takes his mobile from his trouser pocket and moves into the kitchen. A plate with toast crumbs is still on the side from his last dash home for toiletries and clothes. Rachel wants to stay at the hospital full time, using the little room provided for the family of seriously ill patients for rest. But the bed’s a single. They’ve tried taking turns but neither of them sleeps properly so Rachel says he should be the one to collect more things, check the post and grab some rest at home too.
He didn’t want to leave, after what happened with Alex. But now? It’s a window to try Canada again. He scrolls through the contacts in his phone and then remembers he didn’t store the number. He googles the unit and dials, working out the time difference in his head. Five hours behind – the unit should be fully staffed.
A female voice answers. ‘The Meridale Centre. Can I help you?’
‘Hello. I’m ringing, please, to inquire about one of your patients. Laura Berkley. I just want to know how she’s doing, please. Nothing urgent. A general call.’
‘And you are?’
He pauses, his pulse quickening as he tries to decide whether to lie.
‘It’s just we can only share information with relatives. Are you a relative?’
‘Sort of.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Can I take your name?’
‘Look, I simply want to know if Laura Berkley is there. And if she’s OK. Surely you can at least tell me that?’
There’s a longer pause and some noise at the end of the line as if the woman is checking with a colleague or maybe a computer screen.
‘Excuse me. But are you a reporter?’ Her tone’s curt suddenly and Ed ends the call, aware of his pulse in his ear as he keeps the mobile pressed against it.
Why did she say that? Why did she think the media might be interested in Laura?
He’s shaken and to steady himself he moves to sit on the high stool at the breakfast bar. Are you a reporter?
Ed has no idea what on earth to do next. He thinks of his beautiful daughter in that hospital bed with the nasty frame shielding the stump which was once her leg.