‘Mr McCarthy. How are you feeling?’
‘Much better, thank you,’ he replies, unsure of who she is.
‘Good. Most people don’t survive a heart attack as serious as yours.’
She scribbles a note on the clipboard.
‘I’m taking you into surgery tomorrow at ten o’clock.’
‘And you are?’
‘Your surgeon. Emily Granger.’
‘But you’re a …’
She arches an eyebrow and waits for him to finish the statement. He hesitates and she does it for him.
‘A woman?’
‘You’re so young,’ he says, recovering.
Dr Granger smiles knowingly. ‘That’s very flattering, but I’m forty-one.’
‘You look younger.’
She hooks the clipboard onto the frame of the bed.
‘Who would you rather hold your heart in their hands?’ she asks, showing him her long delicate fingers. ‘A guy who swings a golf club like an axe, or a woman who can micro-suture wings onto a butterfly?’
It’s not a question she expects to be answered. Instead, she begins talking him through the operation, how she will take veins from his thighs to use for the bypasses.
‘Has my heart been badly damaged?’ he asks.
‘I won’t know until I take a look.’
‘But you can make it right?’
‘I can widen arteries and bypass blockages, but I can’t restore dead heart tissue.’
‘How many years?’ he asks, fixing her with his gaze.
‘I don’t talk in terms of longevity, but if you eat well, exercise, avoid stress …’
‘How long?’ he asks again.
‘Long enough.’
The wheels of the trolley bed rattle as it is pushed from the lift, along a wide corridor to the York Ward. My uncles have arrived already and are arguing with a receptionist about securing the ‘best room in the place … no expense spared …’
‘This is a hospital, not the Marriott,’ she replies.
Dr Granger says goodbye. Daragh seems particularly taken by her, admiring her figure as she walks away.
‘Stop ogling my surgeon,’ says Daddy.
‘What?’
‘But she’s a woman!’ says Finbar.
‘So?’ I ask.
‘She can sew wings onto a butterfly,’ says Daddy.
‘Great, I’ll get my net,’ says Daragh. ‘Is she really the best?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Now you can all go home.’
After a long, drawn-out goodbye, Daddy is wheeled to a private room and hooked up to a different heart machine that feeds information to the nursing station. A handful of other patients are out of bed, shuffling along the corridor. All of them wear monitors as they test their mended hearts.
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ I say, kissing his cheek. He holds out his arms, wanting a hug. I lean down and he grips me tightly.
‘If anything happens to me – you and your mother are going to be looked after.’
‘You’re going to be OK.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m just saying …’ He hesitates. ‘Do you think the surgeon knows?’
‘Knows what?’
‘Who I am?’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Mmmmm.’
36
Dreams, then waking; it is sometimes hard to tell the difference. Henry’s side of the bed is cold and smooth. He worked a nightshift. I used to be quite comfortable being alone, keeping my own company, but the house feels empty without Henry and my heart gives a little contraction of sorrow at his absence.
Out of bed, I press my nose to the bedroom window and peer down at the garden, which is overgrown and needs mowing. The wind swoops. Sunlight flickers. There are unanswered messages on my phone. One of them is from Alison Goodall. A half-apology, or a fraction of the whole, delivered in a tremulous voice.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t make a statement to the police. I was frightened. You heard him – he threatened to take the kids from me. He told the police that I hurt Chloe.’
I don’t blame Alison for being scared. In her shoes, I might have done the same. Although I’d like to think that I would never be in her shoes, that I’d never let a man control my existence or raise his hand to me, I know that’s naive. Strong women can be abused. Rich women. Poor women. Old. Young. Victim-blamers, often men, sometimes claim that women enable their violent husbands by being somehow co-dependent, or enjoying their victimhood, but none of that is true. There is only one person who can control domestic abuse, and that’s the abuser.
When a woman has been traumatised again and again by a partner who claims to love them, it starts to warp her reality. She begins to doubt herself, to mistrust her perceptions. She believes she is worthless and deserves to be punished. It’s not Imogen Croker’s fault that she fell for Darren Goodall. It’s not Alison’s fault for marrying him, or Tempe’s fault for beginning the affair. Both of them chose someone who appeared kind, caring and compassionate at the outset. They fell in love. They invested in the false narrative, and only when they were in too deep did the mask begin to slip and the true monster show his face.
It’s still early when I call Alison back. She answers as though she’s been holding the phone.
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I heard what happened. Please forgive me.’
‘You did nothing wrong,’ I say, only half meaning it. ‘Did the police issue a protection notice?’
‘Darren convinced them it wasn’t necessary.’
‘You can take out a private injunction. Apply directly to the family court.’
‘How long would that take?’
‘A week, maybe longer. You need to find a lawyer.’
‘I don’t want to antagonise Darren.’
‘Do you want to be free of this marriage?’
Alison goes quiet. I hear her mother in the background, telling Nathan that his pancakes are ready.
‘I don’t have any proof,’ says Alison.
‘There are hospital records. Recordings.’
‘But I don’t have them.’
‘A lawyer will do that.’
‘Will you come?’
‘I’m not a witness.’
‘You saw what he did …’ She pauses and sucks in a breath. ‘I don’t have anyone else. Darren didn’t like me getting close to people. He pushed my friends away.’
There is another long pause.
‘Get a court date. I’ll see what I can do.’
I hang up as the doorbell sounds. Mrs Ainsley is on the steps, holding a dog leash, but no dog.
‘Sorry, dear, but have you seen Blaine?’
She’s still wearing her slippers and pyjama bottoms under a knee-length padded jacket.
‘I let him out into the garden last night, but he didn’t come back. I must have left the gate unlocked, but I never do. I’m very careful.’
She’s talking about the side gate where she keeps her rubbish bins.
‘I’ve looked everywhere. Have you seen him?’
‘No. Normally, I hear him barking.’
‘Does he bark?’
Only all the time.
There is a tremor in her voice and I can see the worry etched across her forehead.