Never Alone (29 page)

You manage to sleep a little and that is good because then, at least, everything stops hurting for a while. When you wake up again – they are constantly checking you’re not dead – the pain starts up again, everywhere at once. The stabbing pain in the back of your head is the worst of all. They have put stitches in it, and the local anaesthetic wears off far too quickly.

Still, the pain means you are still alive. You are still here.

At some point in the night they move you up to a ward, and there, at least, you manage to sleep in half-hour bursts, until finally you see daylight from the windows at the end of the bay and they sit you up and give you something to drink. Tea, toast. How are you feeling?

Awesome.

A doctor tells you you are fine. Nothing broken. Cuts and bruises. They are keeping you in for observation because of the head injury, but if you continue to look perky they will let you go home.

Home, you think. You’ve never properly had one of those.

The painkillers they gave you are beginning to wear off, the comforting numbness is lifting, and what’s left is a thumping ache and the stinging in the back of your head. You ease yourself into an upright position, hoping to see a nurse, and instead you see a tall young man standing by the nurses’ station.

He’s looking at you.

When he sees you’re awake he approaches, and he’s familiar in a strange sort of way, ghost-like, someone you know from a dream. And then you see he has Jim’s eyes, Jim’s crooked smile, and Sarah’s fair hair.

‘Louis,’ you say.

He smiles at you.

As if that isn’t surprising enough, when he gets to the bed he offers you his hand.

‘Your face looks rough,’ he says.

‘Yeah, well,’ you answer.

‘The police came round last night,’ he says. ‘After they went I wanted to go home straight away and see Mum and Kitty.’

‘They’ve gone to a hotel,’ you say. ‘The police are at the farm still.’

‘Yeah, and I’m too much of a coward in any case,’ he says, rubbing his hand across his face. ‘How are they?’

The truth, you think. Can he take it? Should you rub his nose in it, say that no, perhaps it’s not his fault that his friend turned out to be a fucking psychopath, but if he’d not been behaving like a petulant child for the past three years he might have seen what was going on?

‘I think it’s a bit too early to say,’ you answer.

‘Will rang me out of the blue,’ he says. ‘Not heard from him for three years. Didn’t know who it was at first, and then he started telling me that my mum had got a new bloke, that you’d moved in. That you were a – you know. Whatever you want to call it.’

For some reason that makes you laugh. Your head pounds. None of it seems as important any more. ‘Well, whatever he said probably had some basis in truth. I’m not a prostitute, though; I’m a masseur. In any case, I’m not going to be carrying on in that line of work any more.’

Louis says, ‘You’ve known Mum a long time. She must trust you.’

That he’s willing to change the subject feels like a good sign.

‘We were all good friends at university. But you know that already.’

‘And you went off travelling,’ Louis says.

‘I ran away,’ you say.

He looks surprised. You don’t blame him – you’re finding your new commitment to honesty a little uncomfortable yourself.

‘From Dad?’ Louis asks.

‘From both of them.’

He doesn’t press you. Perhaps he doesn’t need to. It’s only been a few minutes, but you like him. You didn’t think you would, after everything Sarah said about him. She has made allowances for him at every turn, giving him time, giving him space, and only now do you see why.

‘I miss him a lot,’ Louis says. ‘I was so angry that he died. He was only forty-three.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been blaming Mum all this time. You know she should have been driving, that night? She had a cold, she said; that’s why he drove.’

He pauses and looks away for a moment. He’s an adult, a grown man; but just for a moment you can see the fatherless boy. Sarah’s son.

‘I don’t think it was her fault,’ he says. ‘I was just so angry.’

‘I don’t know if he was any different with you,’ you say, ‘but the Jim I knew was a very determined man. If he got an idea in his head, there was no point trying to talk him out of it.’

‘That’s true.’

‘It looks as if you’ve inherited his enterprising spirit,’ you say. ‘I hear your business is doing very well.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It’s not doing too badly.’

‘He’d be very proud of you. Your mum is too.’

There is so much more you could say to him about Jim, but this isn’t the time or the place. For now, you are suddenly desperate that fences should be mended between Sarah and Louis, This one thing is something that you might be able to fix, and it might make her feel better. You want that more than anything.

‘What are you going to do?’ Louis asks.

In the past you have made your decisions carefully, unless circumstances have forced you into a corner. If you needed to run, you would run. At the time you didn’t feel ashamed; it was the way things were, and you always came out of it all right.

But this time is different. Running isn’t what you want any more. And you don’t know what Sarah wants, but it almost doesn’t matter. Friend, lover, partner – whatever she wants you to be, you’ll be it.

‘I’m going to stay with your mum,’ you say.

It’s three days before Sarah, Aiden and Kitty can go home. The wind changes direction, bringing with it warmer temperatures and rain, and, while the snow is still deep in the yard, the Land Rover can make it safely back up the hill. The three of them have stayed in the hotel, venturing out of their rooms only for meals, to visit George in the hospital and to be interviewed by the police. Will Brewer has been charged and remanded, which was a relief to them all. George has made good progress towards recovery, and has been moved to a general ward.

Sarah collects Basil from the vet’s, and Tess from Becca’s, before taking Kitty and Aiden home. It seems only right that they should all go together. She wants to take Sophie, too, but she has gone to stay with her sister in London for a week or two. Their house is being professionally cleaned; Sophie has generously paid for the cottage to be dealt with also.

The dogs are ridiculously excited to see each other, and as soon as Sarah opens the back of the car they both leap out and race through what’s left of the snow, obliterating the remaining tracks. The police have been here, of course. The house – and the cottage – were crime scenes. She locks the door behind her.

The house is dark, and quiet, and warm. Sarah doesn’t understand why it’s warm, she’s expecting it to be cold, but the heating is on, and with the lights turned on and the curtains closed everything is shockingly normal.

At bedtime they start off in three separate bedrooms: Kitty in her room, Aiden in the spare where Sarah has been sleeping, and Sarah in the master bedroom. After only a few minutes on her own, Sarah knocks quietly on the spare room door.

‘Can’t sleep either?’ Aiden asks, lifting the corner of the duvet.

‘I guess it’s not surprising. I’m so tired, though.’

They lie quietly side by side for a moment, and then Sarah moves closer to him and his arms fold around her.

‘I think I’m going to have to sell the house,’ she says.

He sighs into her hair. ‘It’s not good to make rash decisions,’ he says. ‘There’s no hurry.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’

‘I know. But I’ll help in whatever way I can until you know what you want to do.’

She listens to the wind outside, rattling the window frame. Less than a week ago she had been lying here and had woken up to find Will sitting on her bed.

Suddenly she feels sick, sits upright in bed.

‘Sarah?’

Above the wind she can hear another sound, coming from the room next door. She reaches for her dressing gown. ‘Kitty’s crying.’

By two o’clock all three of them are downstairs in the living room, the woodburner lit, watching a programme about steam trains and drinking tea. The dogs are with them. Kitty eventually falls asleep with her head in Sarah’s lap.

‘It’ll be better tomorrow,’ Aiden says.

‘I hope so.’

She looks up at him. The swelling has gone down and he looks more like Aiden again; the bruises are starting to change colour.

‘What are we going to do?’ she whispers.

‘I don’t know,’ Aiden says, kissing the top of her head. ‘But we’ll be okay. You know you’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. You proved that last week. So, we’ll be okay.’

Kitty stirs, and sighs. Sarah strokes her daughter’s hair away from her face, the way she used to when Kitty was small.

He’s right
, she thinks.
We will be okay. One day normal life will resume.

The strange thing is, it does. Normal life returns with startling efficiency.

After several weeks, when Sarah is sure she’s strong enough and that the university are offering the right kind of support, Kitty goes back to Manchester to carry on with her second term. Sarah walks the dogs twice a day. She tries to finish
The Candy Cotton Piglet at the Circus
, but finds she cannot. Instead she paints landscapes, dramatic skies, melting snow. Sophie thinks they are good, the best work she’s ever done. She asks to buy them. Of course Sarah refuses, giving them to Sophie as a present instead. But the next ones she frames, offers for sale at the village art exhibition. They sell for fifty pounds each. It’s not much, but it feels like a place to start.

Aiden has a new phone, and he has only used it to call her. He is going to train to be a physiotherapist; his healing touch will be dealing with a different kind of need, a different kind of pain. She is beginning to sleep better, and so is he.

Meanwhile the house is up for sale. Big houses don’t sell as quickly as small ones, but already there have been some viewings; the estate agent promises that the market will pick up when the weather improves. The bank has, mercifully, offered her more time to repay her debt now she has a strategy in place to reduce it.

Sophie and George are back at home, and, whether it’s denial or just a measure of their strength, they are bouncing back, better than ever. The press attention has died down remarkably quickly. They are planning a dinner party. Sarah and Aiden are invited.

Louis has been in touch. Explaining everything to him has been awkward, but he listens; he phones almost every day. He is coming home for a whole weekend at Easter. Sarah feels as if he is finding his way back to her.

And Tess no longer barks at the croft.

Whatever was inside it has gone.

Never Alone
has been on a long journey since the first draft of it was written during NaNoWriMo in November 2014. Many people have helped the story develop, and have provided invaluable research assistance, and I am glad to have the opportunity to acknowledge them here.

Firstly my eternal gratitude to the Myriad Editions family, particularly my outstanding and insightful editor Vicky Blunden, and publisher and friend Candida Lacey, for being excited about every draft, for improving it each time, and for your patience as I worked my way round in circles with the plot. Thank you both for your faith in me, and in the story. As always I am profoundly grateful for my genius copy-editor Linda McQueen, who spots things no one else can and always leaves me with a manuscript I can be proud of.

I am not very good at writing on my own, and so I’m lucky to have a posse of talented writing friends who have supported, inspired and encouraged me on a daily basis. For saving my sanity, making me laugh, supplying me with tea and cake and being fantastic in every way, my thanks to my cabin mates: Jo Hinton Malivoire, Denise West and Donna-Louise Bishop.

In the company of these great writers,
Never Alone
took shape in various cafés and tea rooms in Norfolk; with this in mind I recommend to you the Alby Tea Room between Cromer and Aylsham, and Henry’s Coffee and Tea Store and the Rocket House Café in Cromer. Thank you for the cake, the breakfasts, the tea, and for making us feel so welcome.

I would also like to thank Gail and Mick of the Royal Oak Hotel in Helmsley, North Yorkshire, who willingly
answered all sorts of daft questions about hospitals and what the roads are like when it snows.

Thank you to Jeannine Taylor and Bruce Head, who allowed me to write about their beautiful, clever dog, Tess.

Several people helped me with research and I am grateful to Charlotte Buckley for answering questions about veterinary practice (and Cath Bore for putting us in touch with each other); Ann Dunkerley, who helped a great deal with early drafts and was very encouraging at every stage; Simon Lloyd, who answered questions about massage services for women in London; Boris Starling and Sophie Hannah for explaining how cars perform in heavy snow in rural areas; Alison Murray, who, on a very intense creative writing weekend run by the brilliant Greg Mosse, told me that the scariest thing she could imagine would be waking up to find someone sitting on her bed; Yvonne Johnson for helping me choose the Margaux from George’s wine cellar; Karen Gambrell for advising on banking procedure; Ben Clarke for checking my hospital scenes; Andrew Taylor for technical help; @alexisgebbie and @JFDerry on Twitter for assistance in navigating my way around York city centre (alas, you may notice that the busking scene does not now take place in Parliament Square, but thank you nonetheless). Any mistakes, omissions and applications of artistic licence are, of course, my responsibility alone.

Special thanks, as always, to my dear friends Samantha Bowles, Katie Totterdell and Greg Mosse, who always seem to be able to offer an insight into plot opportunities that I would otherwise miss; and to the brilliant Jacqueline Chnéour for providing a fresh perspective on the book. You never fail to make my books better.

Thank you to everyone who helped me with the crime scene. You know who you are; I’m not going to name names. I would not have made it this far without you.

As always I am grateful to anyone who reads my books, and to those who take time to let me know what they thought, either by email or by writing a review. In particular, the members of THE Book Club on Facebook, and to the awesome Tracy Fenton, who has been unendingly supportive of my writing, and helped me with some important changes at the last minute – you are brilliant, thank you.

Lastly but not leastly, my fabulous family who have kept cheering me on – thank you all. I love you.