Louise looked anxiously around the room. ‘Shouldn’t someone be here all the time?’
‘Someone is - almost all. And don’t worry, she’s monitored. The slightest change in breathing, heartbeat, pulse or blood pressure and the alarm goes off.’
Louise had brought some flowers from the Rectory garden. She had not asked permission, simply gone in with her secateurs and cut an armful of the things that Ann loved best. Hollyhocks, apricot and cream foxgloves, the last of some floppy pink roses with a powerful, musky scent. She did not as much as glance towards the house and no one came out to stop her.
When she had rung up to see how Ann was, Louise was told that only close relatives were allowed to visit. That meant Lionel, a man who lived in a self-centred world of his own and had probably never thought to take a flower at all, let alone his wife’s favourites.
Now, looking down at her friend, Louise saw how absurd and foolish her impulse had been. She had not fully understood how dangerously ill Ann was. Had imagined her coming round, maybe during her own visit, and, seeing the flowers, suddenly turning the corner. Or, unconscious, still being able to sense and recognise the heady fragrance of the roses she so lovingly cared for.
Stupid, stupid! Louise chided herself as she sat by the bed. She reached out, took Ann’s hand and almost dropped it. So cold and lifeless. And yet Ann was still there. Whatever it was that vanishes when a person dies, the essence of themselves, their ‘Ann-ness’ if you will, was still there.
Louise felt she should speak. For who was to say that Ann would not hear? She tried out various sentences in her mind but they all sounded pathetic. Death a whisper away and all she could think of were banal simplicities you could hear any day of the week on a television soap. ‘I’m here, Ann, it’s Louise. Can you hear me? We’re all thinking about you. Everyone is so sorry. They send their love. You’ll be all right.’ (This last surely the acme of wildly unrealistic optimism.)
In the end Louise said nothing. Just kissed Ann’s cheek, gently squeezed her hand and tried not to picture what lay under the tightly wound bandages.
Jax had done this. Fact. She had seen him running away. Well, racing away. But Val had said it wasn’t possible. That he had actually been with Jax when the crime occurred. It couldn’t be true. Yet surely he would not lie to cover for the man - not over something as terrible as this?
Was it possible she had been mistaken? Louise closed her eyes, re-imagined the moment when she had been about to open her car door, saw again the dark figure zooming up and flashing by. It had been very quick, a lightning flash. Yet she had been so sure.
Perhaps she had been thinking of Jax at the time. That was likely. These days she seemed to think of little else. Could she have superimposed his face on the speeding cyclist. The mind plays tricks, deluding and deceiving. We all believe what we want to believe.
A soft swish as the air-locked door was pushed open. A staff nurse smiled apologetically, explaining they needed to attend to Mrs Lawrence.
Louise moved away, indicating her flowers. ‘Please, could someone . . .’
‘They’ll be put into water, don’t worry.’ Then, rather awkwardly, ‘We have notified Mr Lawrence of his wife’s condition. I wondered perhaps if there was some domestic . . . well . . . upset?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Louise’s expression was one of blank bewilderment.
‘Some reason why he hasn’t called to see her. Or even telephoned.’
Driving once more through Causton on her way to Ferne Basset, Louise realised she could not go home. She just couldn’t face Val so soon after seeing Ann. Couldn’t put on her false face and express concern over the future of that creature who was ruining both their lives. And she doubted if she could successfully conceal her anger at Ann’s neglect by her husband.
As it was now one o’clock, she decided to stay in town for lunch. Instinctively avoiding the multi-storey, Louise left her bright yellow Seicento tucked away in a tiny back street, risking a parking fine.
There were only two cafes in Causton. One, Minnie’s Pantry, was unbearably mimsy. The Soft Shoe was a greasy spoon. Louise decided on the Spread Eagle which was in the Good Pub Guide and had quite decent food. The lounge, it not being market day, was only half occupied.
There were newspapers on sticks and she tried to read the arts pages of the Guardian while drinking Guinness and waiting for an individual steak and kidney pudding, braised cabbage and potato croquettes. It was hard to keep her mind on the music and theatre reviews. That world, which had so recently been very much a part of her life, now seemed as remote as Mars.