Читать книгу Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller - Claire Allan, Claire Allan - Страница 11

I leave him to sleep. A couple of slices of toast and a cup of decaf tea later, my brain still doesn’t want to switch off. I sit in the living room, trying to distract myself from my thoughts by watching some American TV show in which a bride-to-be has to choose between a brand-new wedding gown or having her mother’s wedding dress remade into something more suitable for a modern bride.

But, of course, my mind keeps drifting back to my own wedding and my own marriage. To my husband lying upstairs resting before his next work trip. I know I should trust him. I think I do trust him. Mostly. But I wonder, should I be asking more questions?

Maybe if I have a look at his emails. His phone. His wallet. Would I find something to confirm my worst fears or would finding nothing reassure me?

I’ve never snooped on Martin before. I’ve never felt the need and I do feel guilty. I actually feel like an actor in a soap opera as I walk to the dining table, where his suit jacket is draped over the back of a chair. Delving into the pockets, I pull out a receipt for a single cup of coffee and a chicken salad sandwich. A half-empty packet of chewing gum. Assorted small change amounting to seventy-eight pence and some fluff.

Not even Columbo could find evidence of foul behaviour in that. Chiding myself, I put everything back as I found it, feeling like I’m the one who’s betrayed him. I suppose I have. I’ve doubted him.

I probably still do, a little.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself to be mindful. To be in the moment. It’s a method we use with our patients to help with anxiety. Our patients who have real problems. Mine are nothing in comparison.

I focus on the ticking of the clock. The gentle hum of the fridge freezer. The sound of the rain tapping on the windows. I close my eyes and lie down on the sofa, where I think of everything I can feel and smell, pushing all other thoughts away until my eyes start to droop and I can feel sleep wash over me.

When I wake, the house is silent and there’s a blanket draped over me. I blink, look around. The jacket’s gone from the back of the dining room chair. I see a note propped on the coffee table beside a fresh glass of water, informing me my husband’s left for the airport and didn’t want to wake me as I looked so peaceful. He’s ordered me a taxi as he had to take his car and mine’s still off the road. He loves me, he says. He’ll miss me. And the baby. No mention of the exchange we had last night.

I lift my phone, see that I have just thirty minutes until that taxi arrives, when I need to be in full possession of all of my senses and ready for a day at the hospice. Work will distract me, until home time at least. I wonder, would it be pathetic of me to text my mother and ask her to come down today instead of tomorrow? I know she won’t mind. In fact, she’ll probably jump at the chance to fuss around me more. So I send the text and I breathe a sigh of relief when, just minutes later, she replies that she’ll be with me by home time.

*

I never really believed it when people said they ‘didn’t have a minute to themselves’ before I started working in the hospice.

It’s not unusual for me to realise I’ve been trying to find five minutes to nip to the loo for the last few hours and haven’t found the chance. Our break room is filled with half-drunk coffee cups, the fridge with half-eaten lunches. We do what we can when we’re needed, because that’s what you do when you care for the terminally ill.

You don’t clock out for lunch while someone breaks down in pain or fear or grief. When they just need to tell you their story. That’s not how it works.

I grab a long overdue toilet break mid-shift, no longer able to ignore the baby kicking my bladder. I realise I’ve been so busy that I’ve not had time to think about anything but work. And that feels good.

But I’m still curious. I want to know where the note came from, if possible. I figure if anyone has information about the note, it’ll be Lorraine, our all-seeing admin officer, so I wash my hands, straighten my uniform and walk to reception, where she holds court.

‘A handwritten letter for you?’ she asks, gazing over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses at me as she sits sorting through the day’s mail. ‘I put a couple of things in your pigeonhole yesterday, but no, I don’t remember anything standing out from the norm.’

‘No one hand-delivered it?’

‘Not to my desk, no. There was some post in the box outside when I came in yesterday morning. It was probably among that.’

‘Right,’ I say, feeling disappointed that I’ve hit a dead end but wondering how many dead ends I need to hit before I accept there’s nothing more sinister to find.

‘Is it important?’ Lorraine asks. ‘Have you got the envelope there? Maybe if I saw it, it might trigger a memory.’

‘No, no, it’s not important. I’m just nosy,’ I lie.

‘Well, I hope it was something nice for you. A thank-you card or something.’

‘Something like that,’ I say and smile before excusing myself to get back to work.

Rachel is on shift, too, and we find ourselves together at lunchtime, with her eating my sandwiches while I make a piece of toast. It’s an improvement on some dry biscuits anyway.

‘I have to say, Eli, these sandwiches aren’t up to Martin’s usual standards. You must have words,’ she jokes.

‘Well, that’s because I made those. Martin’s away for a few days with work.’

‘Again?’ she asks, eyebrows raised for just a moment before she readjusts her expression. ‘I suppose the project will be nearly done now. Best he gets away before this baby comes, I guess.’

‘Yes, some last-minute glitches,’ I say, the toast losing its appeal.

We fall into an uncomfortable silence.

‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she says. ‘With the “again”. Me and my big mouth – you know what I’m like.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘He’s been away a lot.’

I know Rachel isn’t trying to be insensitive. I know she’s still sore from the break-up of her own marriage, which ended after her husband had an affair. Or, to be more accurate, numerous affairs.

I change the subject. I don’t feel comfortable falling down this particular rabbit hole with her.

‘I have to nip out to pick up my car from the garage,’ I tell her.

‘Let me run you there in my car,’ she offers. ‘I’ll pick us up something nice for afternoon break.’

I notice the sandwich I made has barely been touched. It would be churlish of me to refuse her offer of a lift, so I smile and thank her, and we grab our things and climb into her car.

‘Excuse the mess,’ she says as she throws an empty McDonald’s paper into the back seat, which is strewn with empty drinks bottles, a dog lead and a pair of rather smelly football boots.

‘It’s no messier than it was last night, don’t be worrying,’ I tell her.

‘At least last night the darkness hid the worst of it,’ she laughs.

As we drive to the garage, I know I’m too quiet. My head’s full of words, but I don’t know how to say them without sounding like I’m a paranoid wreck. I hate this feeling. Normally, conversation flows really easily between Rachel and me, and we can share each other’s worries and concerns.

‘He loves you very much, you know,’ Rachel says as we drive over the Foyle Bridge towards the garage. ‘That’s what’s on your mind, isn’t it? That stupid note. But you really shouldn’t worry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more devoted husband. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn yesterday. He’s one of the good guys.’

And he is. Without doubt. I remind myself not to make problems where none exist.

*

At 3.43 p.m., we watch a sixty-three-year-old man hold his fifty-nine-year-old wife’s hand as her chest stills. The rattle that’s come with each breath for the last twelve hours slows then stops, and the grip she’s held on his hand releases. I watch a man, still alive in every physical way that matters, die a little in front of me as he kisses his wife of thirty years on her lips before they have the chance to turn cold.

Then, very tenderly, Rachel and I do what we need to with his wife who we’ve cared for over the course of the last week. We remove the tubes and wires. We tidy the bed sheets around her. We open the window, an old hospice tradition, believed to let the spirit of the deceased move on. Then we stand back and let her family begin their grieving process.

‘Some are tougher than others,’ Rachel says as we leave.

‘Yes,’ I reply. I can’t bring myself to say more. I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep it together.

‘Almost home time,’ she says.

‘And we get to do it all again tomorrow,’ I respond, too worn out to say anything else.