Читать книгу Lies Between Us: a tense psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming - Ronnie Turner - Страница 10

‘So, how was your day?’

Maisie Green runs a hand through her hair and stifles a yawn, sinking back into the sofa cushions as the ache in her shoulder shoots sharp fingers of pain down her back. ‘Good. My new patient was transferred today so it was a bit hectic. How about yours?’

‘I’m trying to think of a really funny anecdote or something to give you but it was terrible. Bill had to break up this brawl, then he got a glass of red thrown in his face, and somehow managed to blame it on me.’ Ben, her partner of three years, chuckles and props his feet on the coffee table, leaning his head back on the sofa cushion.

Maisie smiles, dropping a kiss on his cheek, loving him for transforming any unpleasant situation into something that tempted a giggle rather than a tear. ‘That sounds rough. One day we’ll win the lottery and you’ll be able to tell that boss of yours what you think.’

‘Can we win it in time for my shift tomorrow?’

‘I’m not sure I can pull it off that quick.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Ben weaves his fingers through hers and grins. ‘How is everything else at work?’

Maisie is an ICU nurse and her days are usually divided between assessing her patients’ conditions, monitoring and safeguarding their care, acting as an advocate for them and their families, and supporting them through the veil of turmoil that cloaks their lives. So much of what she does is emotional. Yes, she administers medication to her patients, bathes them, and cleans and tests the equipment that keeps their bodies ticking over while they heal, but she also has to be on hand to advise, support and talk to her patients’ families, stapling together their pasts with their panicked new lives.

Maisie has seen the varying shades of grief and loss. Wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, people from all walks of life… her job is to help them cross the border into this clinical world of disinfectant handwash and soggy tissues. It’s a savage world, one in which they’re no longer authors of their fates, but living with the influence of brain scans, bed sores, antibiotics, drips, and the sudden impulse to pray when they haven’t prayed before. She has seen men and women clinging to hope with steel in their fingers, chanting comforting words, hands shaking and lips wobbling. They walk up to her, telling themselves that today – today! – she’ll give them the news they’re hoping for. Today, they’ll sit beside their loved one and no longer have to cling to hope, but feel it, truly feel it. For the first time in a long time it will seep into their bones. For the first time in a long time, they will find the parts of themselves they thought they’d lost.

Maisie squeezes Ben’s hand and smiles. Although Maisie knows she shouldn’t share her patient’s details, she trusts Ben implicitly. ‘Emotional, exhausting. My new patient, Tim, was attacked and found in the middle of the street a couple of weeks ago. At least that was what I was told. The detective investigating didn’t tell us much else. They’re not sure whether it was some random attack or something premeditated. They’re looking for the culprit now but I don’t think they’re very optimistic about finding him or her.’

‘That’s terrible! How are his family coping?’

‘They’re struggling. Heidi, his wife, is broken up. He was in a coma until two days ago; now he’s progressed into a vegetative state. She can’t quite wrap her head around it, I don’t think. And she’s heavily pregnant – only a month away from her due date – with a little kid at home.’

‘God, poor lady.’

‘She’s dealing with it well. She’s a strong one, I think. And she has the support of their friend Watson. He seems like a good guy. I really feel for them both.’

‘How long have she and Tim been together?’

‘Fifteen years.’ Maisie nods, thinking of Heidi with her wild blonde curls and bright-green eyes, black bags hanging like small thunderclouds beneath. She’d stood over her husband’s bed, hand sailing back and forth between her chest and swollen stomach, as if it couldn’t quite decide where it needed to be. For the most part, she simply looked lost. Someone suspended in a state of shock. But, for a moment, all of that had given way and Maisie had thought she’d glimpsed something else. A swift shift in expression, a bowing of her shoulders, a balling of her hands, lips thinning to pale strips of ribbon, fear-laden eyes locked on the floor, then suddenly skittering across the room as if searching for the source of a noise. It was as if a film of something had settled across her face, a reality, a truth that, for a few seconds, was laid bare for those around her to see, all before her composure returned and she wiped away this look like she would wipe away dust on a shelf.

Maisie didn’t ask Heidi why. She didn’t want to intrude on her grief. She had never seen a reaction like that before, not from the other distraught wives who sat weeping by their husbands’ sides, or the girlfriends who looked like big-eyed children as she gently explained treatment and tried to buoy their hopes. Heidi wept for her husband, fear and pain painted clearly across her face, but there was something else too. Something she was trying to keep hidden.

Her friend Watson, a tall, bearded man, fetched her tea and snacks although they were only pushed to the side and steadily grew into a small tower of food. He constantly held her hand, his eyes finding their way to Tim, his fingers removing a tear from his cheek when he thought no one else was watching. Maisie spoke words of comfort and eased them into a new world as she had done with so many others before.

Some families struggled to talk in front of the patient but, when they did, it soothed their fears and lightened the atmosphere. She always asked them questions that allowed them to open up a little more easily. ‘Jam or marmalade? Rainy days or sunny days? Cats or dogs? Which does he or she prefer? Tell me the simple things.’

‘I hope this chap, Tim, recovers. Does he have a fair chance?’

‘He does but then it’s early days. Heidi was telling me this really sweet story about how he injured himself when he was little and his mum bought him a pair of Mickey Mouse socks to cheer him up. He kept them on for weeks, literally, wouldn’t take them off because he thought they were lucky. He still has them.’ Ben inches down the sofa, resting his chin on his hand. ‘His daughter had to read this story out to her class a few months ago – she was so nervous. Apparently Tim washed his socks with a pair of her own and told her she’d have some of his luck. It worked a treat because the little girl pulled it off.’

‘That’s adorable.’

‘Mmm. Heidi’s not sure about letting her visit Tim. It’s tough. She had a mishap at school – a kid pushed her off the climbing frame and she broke her hand so she’s feeling a bit vulnerable. Heidi’s worried it might be a bit much for her to see Tim like that. Sometimes it helps, sometimes it just upsets everyone. Always depends on the people.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s worth a shot if it helps the little girl.’ Maisie nods, visualising Heidi’s expression; how, despite fishing for a look of calm, her anguish had been brushed across her face like black paint over a white wall. Her reaction to seeing Tim was one of the strangest Maisie had experienced. She had cared for countless VS patients over the years, and each one seemed like a shell, their personality replaced with an abyss that crippled those around them. In her precious moments of quiet, Maisie sometimes wondered if it would have been easier if they had stayed in a coma for ever. At least then they’d look as if they were sleeping. In a vegetative state they were watching, moving, reacting to the environment around them. But it was only reflexes, would only ever be reflexes. Until the brain had had a chance to heal, Tim would still be lodged firmly in the landscape of his mind.

‘What about the friend… Watson? How did he seem?’ Ben heaves himself off the sofa and jogs into their tiny kitchen where he boils the kettle, swiping a strand of brown hair from his eye.

‘He tried to cover it up but you could see he was heartbroken. He was supporting Heidi, making sure she was comfortable, fetching her snacks. I think he seems really sweet.’

‘Do you want some tea, sweetheart?’ Ben hooks the handle of a mug with his finger and raises an eyebrow.

‘Yes, please. Fancy cracking open the good biscuits?’

Ben winks, shooting a mischievous grin her way. ‘You’re a bad influence on me.’

She laughs, tucking her feet under a blanket. Rivulets of steam spout from the mugs like smoke from twin chimneys. Ben passes her a mug and props a plate of custard creams between them. ‘I have an early shift at the café tomorrow. I can drop you off at work if you want to go a bit earlier?’

‘That would be lovely, thanks!’ She nestles into his arms, nibbling on a biscuit and delighting in his warmth after a day on the ward. As an ICU nurse, her job entailed keeping a tight lid on her emotions, building a wall, brick by brick, to enable her to remain professional, but sometimes, when she least expected, cracks rocked through her defences. And it was at times like these, when she could curl up with Ben and leave behind her life in the hospital, that she found the sense of calm she needed to relax.

Ben wraps his arms around her and deposits a gentle kiss on her head. And Maisie savours it – savours the small pause before this day ends and a new day begins.