Come Back to Me (16 page)

The first night had passed in a blur. Alex had refused to leave Amy's side, despite a number of voices imploring him to rest. At some points he dozed in the hard-backed armchair in the corner, at others he tried to stay awake on the upright chair by Amy's bed. His dreams felt more like hallucinations, where he chased Amy but lost her; or was confronted by groups of faceless men who he would attack without hesitation, breaking bones and ignoring screams until his hands were covered in their warm blood. Eventually he dragged the larger chair across to the bedside, and fell asleep for an hour slumped forward, his face buried in the hospital mattress.

During the first twenty-four hours Amy opened her eyes a few times, but she was groggy from the shock and the painkillers, not really registering her surroundings much, blinking wearily, then closing her eyes again.

Alex waited outside while the doctors examined her and collected evidence. When they had finished they gave him encouraging reports. There was some internal bruising and a small amount of bleeding, they said, looking down at their notes as they did so, and they would need to keep an eye on her, but there shouldn't be any permanent damage. The rest of her wounds were not as severe as they looked. Her shoulder was sprained, and her shin had taken a bad knock but there was no bone break. The cut across her throat looked shocking and would probably leave a scar, but it would fade. The CT scan showed no internal swelling or bleeding to the head, and while the bruises looked nasty they would disappear eventually. The list went on, each item increasing Alex's burning need for vengeance – but all her physical injuries would heal, and without the need for too much medical intervention.

The psychological prognosis had not been delivered with as much reassurance. The effects of such an experience would be wide-ranging and long-lasting, Alex was warned by Isla and others. Amy would need time and space to react in the way she needed to, and unobtrusive, consistent support over the next days, weeks, months and years. He nodded, trying to take it all in, doing his best to understand what was needed from him; but even then he was not prepared for the first thing Amy said when she opened her eyes properly the following day.

‘I'm so sorry, Alex.'

Her voice took him by surprise, as he had been staring at her hand, stroking it while she rested, feeling groggy and disorientated through lack of sleep, and he hadn't sensed her waking.

He looked up, trying not to be overcome with emotion at the sound of the familiar sweet voice he had been longing to hear. He tried to smile reassuringly. ‘Hey,' he cooed in an almost-whisper, his heart constricting in love and pain to see his lovely Amy finally awake. ‘Don't say sorry, you've got nothing to be sorry about.'

Tears began to seep down the sides of her face. ‘I tried to fight them, I promise I did. But I couldn't … I should have tried harder, I should have done whatever it took, I should have …'

Alex stood up quickly while she was talking. ‘No, Amy,' he interrupted, trying to stroke her cheek and catch the tears as they fell. He was so stricken by her words that his voice came out much harsher than he intended. She winced at the sound and again at his touch. ‘Don't say that, please,' he begged more softly, as her sobs became louder. He looked around desperately for help; he wasn't sure how to calm her.

A nurse came bustling in. ‘Ssh,' she said to Amy, reaching across to quickly pour some water into a plastic cup. ‘You're safe now, my love. Don't fret. Nothing can hurt you. Here, take these pills, they'll help with your pain.'

The nurse assisted Amy with the water and the pills while Alex looked on, standing back, feeling useless and pathetic that this stranger could comfort her so easily when he couldn't.

By the time the nurse left, Amy had closed her eyes again.

 

She woke up a couple of hours later, and this time she was silent, staring across towards the window as though in a
daydream. Again, Alex didn't know what to say to her, so he tried to fuss to make up for his earlier ineptitude.

‘Amy, I'm so sorry …'

She shook her head. ‘Don't, Al. Not right now, okay?'

He paused, searching for something to say.

‘Do you want some water?'

‘No thanks.'

‘Can I get you anything else?'

‘No, it's fine.'

‘Shall I put the TV on?'

‘If you want.'

He switched it on and flicked through the channels.

‘Any preference?'

‘You choose something.'

The news? Too gloomy, he thought. Sport? Not Amy's thing. So he left it on
The Simpsons
and they listened to inane squeaky chatter that usually made them giggle, as Amy continued to stare out of the window. Alex felt silly and selfish, as though in the middle of this crisis all he could think to do was to put the telly on. When the nurse came in to help Amy to the toilet, he left, embarrassed, even though when Amy had been ill in Thailand he hadn't even blinked at keeping her company in the bathroom.

Detective Thompson called in twice to see how Amy was doing. Finding her awake in the afternoon, Alex watched as he asked her questions, quizzing her relentlessly, reminding Alex that speedy progress was essential, when he tried to jump in upon seeing Amy's distress. Every word the policeman uttered, each question he posed, repeatedly slammed the reality of all this into Alex's mind,
that it was not just some horrible twilight nightmare they could escape from.

Finally, the detective left them alone, and before long the day receded into evening. Alex spent another uncomfortable night in the chair, still unwilling to leave, but less sure of his purpose in being there, unnerved by how ineffective his actions and presence had been in the past twenty-four hours. He resolved to talk to Isla in the morning, to ask her more about what he should do, and how he should be.

 

At nine o'clock the next morning, Amy's parents arrived, dishevelled and tired-looking, cases in hand, having come straight from the flight. When Amy first saw them she broke down, howling her pain to them, a rag doll in her mother's arms, sagging against her. Alex's intense awkwardness returned. He hardly looked at Amy's father as he rose to shake hands, but when he did he realised that Ray hadn't even registered Alex's presence yet, staring horrified at his distressed and injured daughter.

When Ray finally saw him, Alex imagined for a moment that Amy's father was going to hit him. This slightly stooped old man with watery eyes, half a foot smaller than Alex, sprang forward as though possessed, and Alex instinctively backed away. Just in time, Ray seemed to rein himself in and gave a curt nod instead, just saying, ‘Alex.'

Tess looked round when she heard Alex's name, her daughter still buried in the cradle of her arms, and put a hand out briefly to rub Alex's arm. The gesture made him think of his own mother, and for a moment he longed for
that familiar comfort. But after Jamie's troubles had begun Alex had stopped leaning on her, not wanting to cause her any additional worries. Now, he reminded himself that since there was little she could really do, it would be unfair to burden her with this. And the thought of his dad's unease in the presence of others' emotions was enough to put a stop to any notion of confidences there.

Amy drifted in and out of sleep over the following excruciating hours. Her mum and dad had taken the seats so Alex was propped against the wall staring out of the window, or offering to fetch them drinks, which they declined.

Detective Thompson returned around lunchtime. He asked them all to leave, as he thought Amy would find it easier without an audience. As they made their way out, Alex saw the policeman sit on Amy's bed and speak softly and solemnly to her, and that she nodded in understanding.

Ray wandered off without a backwards glance, his shoulders hunched, while Tess walked over to Alex. ‘Ray just needs some space,' she said. ‘He's taken it very hard. Do you want to get some air?'

Alex nodded and they walked outside and stood in the shade of a large melaleuca tree.

Tess took Alex's arm and rubbed his forearm with her other hand. ‘Alex,' she said, ‘it's okay –'

She hesitated. Alex was silent, unsure what she meant.

‘– I don't know if … if you are thinking along these lines, but it's not … it's not your fault, what happened. There was nothing …'

Even though he had berated himself a million times in the past forty-eight hours –
if only, if only
– he was shocked
to hear her say this, and turned to look at her, searching her face to see if she meant it. He wanted to shake her off, to tell her of course it wasn't his fault, he had done everything he could to keep Amy safe.

‘Thanks,' he said instead, standing stiffly, looking at the floor.

‘It's okay,' she replied sadly, dropping his arm.

When Mark had woken up the morning after the law ball he had had that blissful momentary void as he moved between states of consciousness before his memory kicked in, along with a particularly aggressive hangover.

With rising indignation he remembered Chloe supporting him up the stairs to her flat, and rolled over, realising he was in Chloe's room, with Chloe next to him, snoring softly. He reached over to the floor and grabbed his jacket, pulling out his mobile and seeing that it was only six forty-five. The movement made his head groan with pain, so he rolled back and lay staring at the ceiling for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts.

There was no avoiding it. He kept replaying the moment he'd overbalanced; the crash of the drum kit behind him; Chloe's surprised, shocked face as she almost came with him but managed to right herself, as he'd used both his hands to
try to break his fall and keep any percussion from falling on top of him.

Then the walk of shame to the entrance, the replay now accompanied by the slow clapping of his throbbing head. Seeing Risto Kiesi, the new guy, smirking at them both, and passing David and Neil, who both had heavy scowls on their faces. Being glad he hadn't spotted his father as Chloe dragged him outside, then hearing Henry's voice, the rage in it, the humiliation.

He pulled himself up again. His mouth was dry and disgusting, he needed water. He made his way slowly down the poky hallway of Chloe's flat, body aching, to the kitchen, ran the tap and pushed his mouth straight under the flow, not even bothering to look for a glass.

He wiped his mouth and sighed, looking out of the kitchen window, straight at someone else's curtains on the opposite side of the road. What should he do?

Wearily, he made his way back down the hallway, grabbed his clothes from the floor and started putting them on. Chloe didn't stir. Her arms were flung out from her sides like she had fallen onto the bed and straight into a deep sleep. Her long brown hair fanned out across her pillow, a section of it across her face, the rest of it framing her neck and graceful shoulders. His gaze continued down over the soft mounds of her breasts under her T-shirt, the rest of her enveloped in a duvet.

He had an urge to ease himself down onto her, hug her tightly into the softness of her covers, kiss her lips, her neck and that sweet button nose. But he was dressed now, a dishevelled version of the previous night, bow tie in his pocket, and ready to leave.

He moved towards the door, then turned back to look at Chloe once more, so peaceful and still; hesitating, feeling that somehow this one decision of leaving was a defining moment in his life.

He walked back over to the bed, sat on the edge of it, and kissed Chloe lightly on the lips.

She didn't stir, even though he willed her to. He needed her to wake up and see him there with his mussed-up hair and his stinking breath and his bloodshot eyes, even though he wasn't quite sure why.

‘Chloe,' he whispered.

She murmured something unintelligible, and he began to smile, anticipating her eyes opening, but she rolled away from him and half-buried her head under the pillow he'd used.

Mark remained where he was for a moment. He ran a hand lightly down her arm. He tried to think, though his sore head made it difficult. He pushed away the edginess that jostled with his hangover for attention, and slowly got up, turned away from Chloe, and made for the door.

Each time Amy opened her eyes there were a million fluorescent pin pricks dancing upon the dirty white ceiling. At first she had thought they'd strapped her down, but apparently it was the bruises on her stomach that felt like a dead weight. Her shoulder was swathed in bandages and when she moved it produced a sharp shooting pain. The whole of her ached and ached, inside and out.

It was surprisingly easy not to think. Just to stare in front of her and let all conscious thought drift into the misty recesses of her brain. Now and then the fog cleared a little and then she cried, wretched, gasping sobs beyond her control.

Alex sometimes looked at her with a strange expression on his face. At one stage she had met his gaze to find him studying her like something that had dropped out of the sky and landed at his feet. She was searching for disgust in his eyes, but he was hiding it well.

She needed him. But not like this – him mute and staring out of the window. She needed him to find the right words, the ones she so desperately needed to hear, even though she herself had no idea what they were. She wanted to tell her mum and dad to go away half the time, but also to cling to them and try to disappear inside the cavern their arms made.

She needed them all. But not like this.

Her mother was soothing, helpful, but persistent, like those outback flies that wouldn't give up until they had attached themselves to you. And Alex … Alex was distant and tense, full of latent rage that might only be assuaged by inflicting pain on someone. She could sense him trying to mentally move away from these surroundings, this reality. She couldn't blame him for that; she was doing the same.

Her father, on the other hand, was quiet, anguish written on his face; and a growing frustration in his movements and his sharp words for anyone other than his child. His distress was like an invisible cord stretching across the room, drawing her to him. When he'd arrived, for the first time since it happened she had been comforted. She had realised with a shock that what she had been waiting to see on someone else's face was not empathy but the companionship of unmitigated suffering.

He had refused to leave the hospital since they'd got there, though he told her mum to get rest. He'd barely said a word to Alex, who usually left when her mother did. A lot of the time when Amy was awake in the amber-lit hours her father was folded over in the chair beside her bed, snoring softly. But if she caught his eyes watching her, she didn't know what to say. She didn't think he did either.

When she thought of the person she had been just a few days ago, she felt like she was watching a film of another girl with plans and hopes and dreams. She spent most of the time now trying
not
to think, not to conjure up images she didn't want to see, not to dwell on the future, when she couldn't possibly imagine how she would ever get beyond this point. For the rest of her life she would be a girl who had been raped. She didn't want to be that girl. She wanted to tear off her skin and climb out from beneath the bloodied mess of it and run away. She didn't want Alex to see her like this. Defiled. She wanted him to tell her it was all a lie, all just a nightmare, but every time he looked at her she saw in his eyes that the nightmare was real.