Читать книгу Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller - Claire Allan, Claire Allan - Страница 20

Work always has the ability to take me away from everything. Even on days like today, when I’m existing after just a few hours’ sleep and trying to wrap my head around the notion that my husband might be cheating on me.

And that someone out there seems intent on doing whatever it takes to let me know about it.

I’m too busy to allow it anything more than fleeting space in my head. I have other people to care for. People to keep comfortable. An emergency respite admission for a young woman who has stage four breast cancer and can’t get any relief from her pain. Emotional support to offer to Mr Connor’s family to keep them from hitting out at one another as their grief rages.

I know how to do this job well.

There’s a comfort in that. There’s stress involved, of course, but it’s a good stress – an adrenaline buzz, but of the good kind.

There’s a huge sense of achievement that comes with making sure someone suffers as little as possible in their last hours and moments. It’s always sad, yes. Don’t get me wrong. I have cried and will cry for many of our patients and for their families, but I feel proud that I can make a horrific experience less so.

So, although I’m dead on my feet and my head’s still aching, I’m almost sorry when my shift ends. I’d happily have stayed on at work for another few hours if they’d let me, but Rachel is ushering me towards the door as soon as staff changeover is done.

‘I’ll be following you out of the door, so on you go. You’re exhausted and I can’t have you taking ill on my conscience. Try, if you can, to relax on your days off.’

I shrug and she gives me a sympathetic look. ‘You know where I am if you need me. The kids are still with their dad, so I’m a free agent.’

‘Well in that case, I’m sure you’ll have much more you could be doing than being bothered with my worries,’ I tell her.

‘You’re my friend, Eli. You and Martin both. I care about you.’

I feel bad for being snappy with her earlier, so I reach out for a hug. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but thanks for listening.’

‘You’d do the same for me in return,’ she says before opening the door and giving me a gentle push outwards.

When I get into the car, I take my phone from my bag and see a series of messages from Martin, the last of which says his flight was delayed and is now due to land at Belfast just before six. He hopes to be able to make it home before 8.30 p.m. He’s going to call into the police station on his way home and speak to Constable Dawson.

For a moment or two I wonder whether we can just forget it all. Brush it all under the carpet. Can I live with knowing what I know?

I’m afraid to ask him about the allegations. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll have. If he continues to deny it, should I believe him? If he admits it, should I leave?

The thought hits me in the stomach with the force of the kick from my baby that follows. This is not how we planned it. This is not how it’s meant to be.

I know I’ll make it home before him by half an hour or so. I wonder whether to stop and pick up a takeaway on the way home, like I often do on a Saturday night. But this is hardly any normal Saturday night. I’m going home to ask him again, only this time directly, if he’s having an affair. I need to see his face as he answers me. See if I can tell if he’s lying.

I shake my head – I won’t pick up a takeaway. I won’t act as if everything’s normal when it so clearly isn’t. Everything feels sullied.

As I pull out of the hospice driveway and turn left towards the Foyle Bridge, I’m glad my mother’s at home. I imagine Martin won’t feel as glad, even though the pair of them have always got along well. He’s been made aware of my mother’s interrogation techniques from the stories I’ve regaled him with about my youth.

We’d rubbed along quite nicely together. I’ve never given her much trouble, not even as a teenager. But there were a few memorable occasions – some missing vodka from one of the bottles in her drinks’ cabinet, to name one where she went full bad cop on me. I wondered, would she go full bad cop on Martin? Or would she play the good cop role while I lost control of my temper?