The Darkness Within: A heart-pounding thriller that will leave you reeling
The Darkness Within: A heart-pounding thriller that will leave you reeling
Lisa Stone
A gripping new crime novel from the global bestseller Cathy Glass writing as Lisa StoneYou know your son better than anyone. Don’t you?When critically ill Jacob Wilson is given a life-saving heart transplant, his parents are relieved that their loving son has been saved.However, before long, his family are forced to accept that something has changed in Jacob. Their once loving son is slowly being replaced by a violent man whose mood swings leave them terrified – but is it their fault?Jacob’s girlfriend, Rosie, is convinced the man she loves is suffering from stress. But when his moods turn on her, she begins to doubt herself – and she can only hide the bruises for so long.When a terrible crime is committed, Jacob’s family are forced to confront their darkest fears. Has the boy they raised become a monster? Or is someone else to blame?This is a spellbinding crime novel with a dark heart from the worldwide bestseller Cathy Glass, writing as Lisa Stone.
THE DARKNESS WITHIN
Lisa Stone
Copyright (#u3ddc7362-29b7-5a81-afc0-00a70a504f6b)
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
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www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © Lisa Stone 2017
Lisa Stone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008236694
Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008236700
Version: 2018-10-30
Contents
Cover (#ub5170fbc-476a-52b2-bc5f-25629cf49ad9)
Title Page (#u2c53e733-6c76-535b-90de-eee971038ad0)
Copyright
Chapter One (#uef86ba6b-9c9d-52c9-a2e0-753928baba8c)
Chapter Two (#ueca080da-c21c-5982-90ea-ec3dad32fdf6)
Chapter Three (#ua703b8de-64f3-5c1a-a9f3-d5b72a7591a8)
Chapter Four (#ua15e0ebe-eaf4-5686-abc8-af1f133cbaf7)
Chapter Five (#ud27aeca9-ed8e-5998-a6b3-d47e33adff71)
Chapter Six (#u52f4e73d-a800-5185-9b9c-1e51246892a5)
Chapter Seven (#u5494b00a-376c-5a3d-97b5-9a9b534af6c8)
Chapter Eight (#u76573197-b459-5748-9c66-ecfc93738cd2)
Chapter Nine (#ud5dccc2c-f4c2-52d4-a067-aeae74d29ac7)
Chapter Ten (#u28eabf3a-850a-548b-9ac1-c3b3f8be7b95)
Chapter Eleven (#u9d319dfe-ce3d-51fb-a164-ade2c0b48523)
Chapter Twelve (#u8fe47792-a05a-5bc0-9489-fb9a6e9f5a54)
Chapter Thirteen (#u66a5518e-9435-5f79-a188-393d538e37d8)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s note (#litres_trial_promo)
Suggested topics for reading group discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Cathy Glass Books (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_fc9ca961-a5c9-5953-8398-0bee037095ae)
It was always worse when he’d had a beer or two. That Feeling. Hot, urgent and raw, tearing through him. Making him restless, argumentative. Angry. It was as though something or someone took control of him, forcing him to act badly, to be nasty and cruel. It happened when someone had a go at him, took the piss or said something he didn’t like.
The feeling was there at other times too, Shane had to admit, but it was worse when he’d had a drink. It didn’t take much; just a few beers. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but it lowered his guard enough to allow his anger to come to the surface.
It was because of his childhood, Rosie said. They’d moved in together four months ago, and on the whole she was sympathetic. In some respects, she was too understanding for her own good. She was a good person and he liked her, even told her he loved her when she asked. But why didn’t she realize that the kinder and more understanding she became, the easier it was for him to overstep the mark?
It almost incited him to do it. Yet she continued to be understanding despite what he did to her: hitting her, making her scream, cry out and beg for mercy. Afterwards he knew that it wasn’t the gentlemanly way to act, but when he was angry and out of control he didn’t care a fuck for the gentlemanly way.
Anger, resentment, the feeling that he wasn’t good enough brewed together in an unwholesome concoction and made him act as he did. He sensed that others felt he was inferior to them; that he was uneducated, stupid, and fair game to laugh at. That was the worst feeling – that they were laughing at him, especially when it was someone he knew taking the piss. It made him so angry that he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. This had got him into trouble many times and then recently he’d smashed a bottle and glassed his best mate, Kevin, which had put him in prison. They’d been drinking and telling jokes and Kevin had told one which he hadn’t immediately grasped. Kevin had laughed and called him a dickhead. The others had laughed too, which didn’t help, but he expected more from Kevin, being his best mate. Then before he realized what he was doing he’d smashed the top off a bottle and had ground it in Kevin’s face.
He looked at Rosie now, cowering in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was theirs since he’d moved in. Why she’d let him move in he wasn’t sure, but he was pleased she had. It was kind of her, but then Rosie was kind. He could admit that even now when she’d got on his nerves and made him hit her. Had she been a horrible bitch, a slag, like his mother, he could have better justified hitting her. He’d gone to his mother’s house first on his release from prison but she hadn’t wanted him. No surprise there; she’d never wanted him, not even as a baby. The shrink he’d seen in prison had said his mother could be part of his problem – his anger stemmed from her lack of nurturing and ultimate rejection of him. But it couldn’t be helped. No one was perfect; not his mother or even Rosie for all her kindness and forgiveness.
The bedroom had been decorated in pale pink when he’d first moved in. ‘Yuck,’ he’d said to her when he’d first seen it, and she’d laughed.
‘Jesus!’ he’d exclaimed as he’d looked at her collection of china dolls in period costumes arranged on a small satin-covered chair. ‘Dolls in my bedroom! What do you take me for? A nancy boy?’
He’d told her the dolls would have to go, but she hadn’t understood to begin with because they were still there for another two days. Then he’d got angry that she hadn’t done as he’d told her and he’d thrown the dolls and the chair across the room.
He might even have thrown Rosie, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been in a really bad temper at the time. What normal bloke has dolls in his bedroom? He’d asked her nicely to remove them, and he’d had a couple of beers that night when he’d hit her so he couldn’t be held entirely responsible for his actions. Perhaps on another day when he’d been in a better mood he might simply have asked her again to remove them. In any event, the dolls and the frilly chair had gone, together with the flowery duvet cover and the matching pillowcases. She’d heard him the first time when he’d told her to get rid of those, and together they’d chosen plain white.
He liked white, it was pure and virginal, which made him feel good and think happy thoughts. The only problem with white – as it turned out – was that it showed every mark, and the bloodstains never completely disappeared. Even when Rosie scrubbed the stains over and over again and used bleach, the blood spots greyed but were still faintly visible. Once white was damaged it was spoiled for ever.
Now he saw her gaze shift to the fresh spots of blood on the duvet cover. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘It’ll wash out.’
‘No, it won’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve ruined it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. Seeing her cowering in the corner, apologizing with her face covered with blood, reignited his anger. He felt nearly as hot and uncomfortable as when he’d discovered that all the beer had gone from the fridge. He’d only had a few bottles and had been expecting to find more. It was a Saturday night for fuck’s sake, and if a bloke couldn’t have a few drinks on a Saturday, what was the world coming to?
It was Rosie’s job to shop, to buy what they needed and restock what they were low on. But she hadn’t bought more beer or vodka because of some silly discussion they’d had after the last time he’d hit her about him drinking less. He couldn’t remember agreeing to that, it seemed highly unlikely, so he’d been bitterly disappointed at the lack of alcohol. He’d been anticipating a pleasant Saturday evening in with Rosie – a few beers, a takeaway, and then sex. He liked having sex with Rosie but she’d ruined it all. When he asked where the beer and vodka were she reminded him of his promise. It was the wrong thing to say; his disappointment had exploded into anger and he’d hit her. He hadn’t meant to split her lip and send splatters of blood across the white duvet cover. It had just happened.
He appreciated that she wanted space now. After they’d argued and he’d hit her she usually needed time alone to wash her face, clean up the flat and change her clothes, so that when he returned all evidence of their disagreement had gone. She would cover the bruising on her face with make-up and all traces of blood would vanish. He didn’t like any reminders of what he’d done.
‘We’re out of beer,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and buy some. Do you want anything?’ He was feeling a bit better now.
She shook her head.
‘OK. Won’t be long,’ he said jovially and left.
Chapter Two (#ulink_c974d3ac-2283-5aae-95d1-83dd90af545d)
‘Fuck! It’s raining,’ Shane said as he stepped out of the block of flats. He didn’t like the rain. Getting wet reminded him of when his mother had left him for a whole night in a bath of cold water, because he’d said something bad.
Rosie’s car was parked by the kerb. It was their car now. He used it whenever he wished. She’d given him the keys to the car and her flat when he’d come out of prison and moved in. She was good like that, he had to admit. He really shouldn’t have hit her so hard, but he’d make it up to her. He’d buy her some of her favourite chocolate, he decided as he opened the car door and tucked himself in. That would please her and make it OK. Arguments upset him and reminded him of his childhood, so a few beers for him and some chocolate for her and their evening would be back on track.
As he started the car and then switched on the windscreen wipers, he briefly wondered if he might be over the legal drink-drive limit. He’d had three premium-strength beers. Was that enough to do it? He doubted it. But just to be on the safe side he wouldn’t drive into town, he’d go to the hypermarket instead, which was along a less-used route. The police wouldn’t be patrolling out there, stopping and randomly breathalyzing motorists; they’d have more pressing matters to attend to in town on a Saturday night. It was a bit further to drive but better to be safe than sorry. He didn’t want another spell in prison. He’d already spent too much time inside and wasn’t going back there any time soon, not now his life was good and things were looking up. He liked living with Rosie in her nice flat and driving her car. It made him feel normal, someone, like others he knew. That was one of the reasons he hadn’t told her he’d already lost his licence for driving while under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He wanted to be able to hold his head proud, and then perhaps his mother would be proud of him too.
The only fly in the ointment was the age and model of Rosie’s car. It was old and small. He was a big chap and had to stoop to get in, and he could never get the driver’s seat comfortable. His head nearly touched the roof. It was a car designed for a woman or the elderly, not a man. To feel really proud a bloke needed a new car that reflected him – big and powerful – and a dark colour, not light blue. This wasn’t at all good for his image. He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful but it just wasn’t right for him, and the car was well past its use-by date. Not that Rosie minded. She loved her car, treasured it, and when he’d told her they should buy a new one, she’d said she couldn’t afford it, which had niggled him. Surely having a decent powerful car was a priority, but he supposed that was women for you. They’d rather buy clothes or a handbag. But he’d work on her and persuade her. She’d see he was right in the end.
At least the engine wasn’t completely fucked, he thought as he accelerated. She still had some power in her, probably because she hadn’t done many miles. It took her a while to get up to speed but with his foot firmly down, she understood and responded. He did this a lot when he was alone in the car – pushed her to the limit. Once he’d done it with Rosie in the passenger seat, when he’d dropped her off at work. He’d put his foot down hard, making the tyres screech and the engine squeal, and the car hadn’t been the only one to protest! ‘Treat Betsy kindly, she’s getting old,’ Rosie had said. He’d laughed scornfully. Betsy! He referred to cars as ‘she’ but to give it a name was pathetic.
He’d laughed loudly, perhaps a bit harshly, but had eased his foot off the throttle. Not so much from any desire to treat Betsy kindly – cars, like women, needed to be worked – but because he’d been doing seventy in a thirty and there was a speed camera ahead. So he’d slowed to the limit. If he was caught on camera, they’d discover he was banned from driving, and that would ruin everything.
After that he never thrashed Betsy in the town or where there was any chance of being caught. He drove steadily, within the speed limit, and while not exactly courteous to other road users he made sure he kept his rage under control and didn’t draw attention to himself by getting out and thumping anyone.
Thankfully there was no need for all that polite constraint nonsense now. The road he was on didn’t have speed cameras so he could thrash Betsy to bits if he wished. And Rosie wasn’t with him to protest so everyone was happy. It gave him pleasure, a thrill; the ultimate blow job as she sucked up the road. He’d done it before on this stretch when he’d been alone. Race her, press her to the limit and see what she could do. He was a racing-car driver, the best in his field, zooming around the track. A Formula One driver leading the way and well ahead of the others in the Grand Prix. He could picture it, see the crowds waving and cheering, the look of admiration on their faces as he flashed past, skilfully taking another bend with the minimum drop in speed, the smallest deceleration required to keep him on the track and in the lead. You couldn’t let up if you wanted to stay ahead of the rest. Sometimes he swerved to avoid an oncoming car. Idiots! Didn’t they know he was in the race? The number one leader. Admired, respected and revered by men and women alike.
He swerved again, narrowly missing another oncoming car. ‘Get out the fucking way, you prick,’ he yelled, sounding his horn, and cursing their existence for slowing him up.
The road was poorly lit and the rain didn’t help; driving on full beam, he was still forced to slow to take the next bend, which was a bummer. He really would have to talk to Rosie again about getting a new car, with better roadholding. He would explain that the new models were safer as they were lower and gripped the road better. Safer for them both to drive. That was the way to tackle it – women appreciated and understood talk of safety, not powerful engines. He felt very clever for having thought of the best way to approach Rosie about the idea. Perceptive, intuitive, that’s what he was, and it made him feel smart and proud.
The windscreen wipers continued their relentless journey back and forth as he pictured himself in his new car. A black one, large, big wheels, with presence and a hint of mystery. He would have liked blacked-out windows but they were illegal now, so he’d have to settle for the darkest tint that was available. Yes, he could see himself at the wheel of that large powerful black car. He’d start visiting garages on Monday while Rosie was at work and test-drive what he liked the look of. The salesman would be so grateful when he showed interest in a decent car and then struck a deal.
Headlights came towards him. What the fuck! Was someone trying to overtake? No – it was a wide vehicle, he realized too late as he slammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel hard left to try to get out of its way. A delivery lorry. A fucking delivery lorry! He felt the whiplash in his neck at the exact moment he heard the crunch of metal and the sound of shattering glass. In a split second, almost simultaneously, the wipers stilled, his headlights went out and he felt as though he was flying through the air, up and over and then down.
‘Fuck!’ he cried as the car landed on its roof and the pain shot through him. ‘Fuck you!’ Then his world went very dark and silent as he blacked out.
Chapter Three (#ulink_a396f62e-67ec-57d9-9847-0936e5018ff3)
The lorry came to an abrupt halt, stopping as quickly as it could on the wet road. ‘Jesus!’ the driver exclaimed, his heart racing. He felt hot and cold at once. There was no way he could have avoided him. The other bloke was driving like a madman. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself.
He had broken out in a sweat and his hands shook as he cut the engine. ‘Jesus,’ he said again, and opened the cab door to survey the damage. ‘I hope the silly bugger’s all right.’
His legs felt unsteady as he climbed out and then stood in the rain and examined the damage to the offside wing of his lorry. It wasn’t much but that didn’t mean the car had escaped as lightly. The lorry was far more robust and built of stronger stuff. He looked down the road to where he’d hit the car, or rather it had hit him. There was a significant difference – he wasn’t responsible for the impact. But there was nothing to be seen on the dark and wet road, apart from something that could have been glass glinting in the light of his headlamps. There was no sign of the vehicle.
A car came towards him from the opposite direction. It was going slowly, the driver proceeding with caution, just as one should on this narrow slippery road. It came to a halt and he went over. The woman driving peered at him through her window and then lowered it a little.
‘Have you broken down?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ve been involved in an accident. Just now,’ he said anxiously, nodding down the road to where it had happened.
‘Are you OK?’.
‘A bit shaken,’ he admitted. ‘He was driving like a maniac.’
‘Not that small Fiat?’
‘It might have been.’
‘It overtook me back there. Blaring its horn, flashing its lights. I’m not surprised it’s been involved in an accident. He nearly killed me.’
The lorry driver began to feel a little better knowing that someone else had been subjected to the driver’s dangerous manoeuvres. ‘I’ve no idea where the car is now,’ he said, frowning. ‘There’s some damage to my lorry but I can’t see the car. I’m going to fetch my torch from the cab and take a look.’
‘Perhaps he’s driven off?’ the woman suggested, opening her car door.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. But he doubted it, not from the strength of the impact. And if he wasn’t mistaken he thought he might have caught sight of the car in his wing mirror just after it had hit him, spiralling towards the edge of the road. He couldn’t be sure though, since it had all happened so quickly and in the dark and the rain.
Without being asked, the woman got out and offered to help him look. He thanked her and she switched on her hazard warning lights, pulled up the hood on her coat, and went with him to his lorry. He took his torch and anorak from the cab and slipped on his jacket. With the torch held in front he led the way past the lorry in the direction the car had been going. Further up the road they came across a pile of broken glass and a piece of chrome almost certainly from a car’s bumper. But there was no sign of the car. He swept the torch around, scanning as far as the beam fell, left, right and in front. A car came from the direction of the hypermarket, slowed and pulled over. Lowering his window, the driver asked. ‘What’s up? You OK, mate?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ he said. ‘Did you pass a small car just now? Possibly a Fiat?’
‘No,’ the man said, and glanced at the woman seated beside him. She shook her head.
‘I think it could be in the ditch,’ the lorry driver said.
The man immediately got out and joined in their search, while his wife stayed in the car. The torch beam shone brightly into the dark, sweeping through the drizzle to the bare trees and grassy banks which flanked the ditches either side of the road. The three of them moved forward in silence, watching and listening, the air quiet, save for the sound of their shoes on the tarmac and the rain dripping from the trees. Then, further up the road, the beam fell on the outline of something more solid, something partially raised and sticking out above the ditch.
‘Over there!’ the lorry driver cried, and the three of them ran to the spot.
‘Jesus!’ he gasped.
‘Bloody hell,’ the man said.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ the woman said, taking out her phone.
The car was completely upside down in the ditch, fitting in so exactly it was almost as if it had been made for it. The doors and windows were compacted against the sides of the bank; only the underneath of the car and the bottom of the doors were visible. It was as though the car had been turned upside down and then dropped in directly from above to fit in so precisely, the lorry driver thought. And in a way it had, for the impact had flipped it over and sent it flying to land squarely in the ditch.
‘There’s no way we can get into that,’ the man said, and the lorry driver nodded.
As the woman spoke on her phone, giving details of their location to the emergency services, the man from the car began knocking on the metal of the upturned car and calling, ‘Anyone in there? Can you hear me?’
But there was no reply.
‘I suppose he could have been thrown clear,’ the lorry driver said.
‘It’s possible,’ the man from the car agreed. Together they began walking slowly up the road, peering where the torch beam shone – on either side of the road, into the ditches and up the bank, but there was no sign of anybody, dead or alive.
Other vehicles began joining the slow-moving queues forming in both directions from the hypermarket. Some of the drivers wound down their windows and asked what had happened, and, their curiosity satisfied, continued around the lorry and parked cars, driving over the glass which crackled like ice. The two men, having found nothing, returned to the woman, who said the emergency services were on their way. The men began tapping on the metal of the upturned car, calling out, ‘Anyone in there? Help is coming.’ Just for a moment they thought they might have heard something, possibly a groan, but then another car passed and sirens sounded in the distance, after which they heard nothing further from the wrecked vehicle.
Police, ambulance, and fire tenders arrived within minutes of each other and the officers immediately took control. The police closed off the road in both directions and rerouted the traffic. Portable spot lamps flooded the scene and the fire crew quickly established that there was one male in the vehicle, then set about cutting him free. Sparks flew as they worked and the man and the woman who’d stopped to help told the officers what they knew, which wasn’t a lot as neither had actually witnessed the accident. However, the woman did tell them about the driver who’d overtaken her on a blind bend, and the police officer included it in his notes. Once she and the man had given their statements and contact details, they were allowed to leave.
The lorry driver meanwhile was in a patrol car giving his statement. The police had already completed an initial safety check of his lorry and had found nothing untoward. They’d also looked at his driving licence and insurance, breathalyzed him, and checked his mobile phone, all of which they said was now standard practice at the scene of a road traffic accident. Everything had been in order and the last call he’d made had been before he’d left the hypermarket. As he finished making his statement, they saw the fire crew finally cut the driver free from the now backless car. They laid him on the waiting stretcher where the paramedics took over. An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose and a line ran from his arm to a bottle held up by one of the paramedics. As they prepared to load the stretcher into the ambulance, the lorry driver turned to the officer beside him and asked, ‘Do you think you could find out how he is?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied helpfully.
The driver watched through the windscreen as the officer went over and spoke to two of his colleagues. It had stopped raining now but a damp mist hung over the scene. They talked and nodded and at one point smiled. The ambulance sped away, its siren wailing and light flashing.
‘He’s got a broken leg and arm and a head injury,’ the officer said on his return. ‘They’ll know more once he’s at the hospital, but it seems he’s lucky to be alive.’ He paused, then added, ‘He’s known to us. He’s already lost his licence and there’s alcohol in his blood.’
The lorry driver let out a sigh of relief. He was very sorry that the accident had happened at all, but it could have been a lot worse. Supposing there’d been a seriously injured woman or child in the car – or even someone killed? He’d never have forgiven himself.
Chapter Four (#ulink_291b20be-34f6-5834-b269-b58dd49dae3c)
Rosie had almost stopped shaking now. She’d had to force herself to appear calm. Shane would be back at any moment – indeed she had expected him sooner – and he hated to see her crying and trembling. She looked silly, pathetic, he always said, like a scared-shitless rabbit. It reignited his anger if he saw her in a state.
‘Surely you’re not scared of me!’ he would say, and she’d tell him she wasn’t, trying to keep her voice steady to belie how frightened she truly was. Of course she wasn’t scared of him. She loved him. While this was true some of the time, those moments were now few and far between. Even when she wasn’t in fear of him she was on her guard, walking on eggshells, constantly making sure she didn’t upset or disappoint him. It was hard work keeping him happy and the strain was taking its toll, so much so that she wasn’t sure what was worse: being attacked or anticipating it. Life was so confusing now, especially when he apologized and told her how much he loved her and that it would never happen again.
When did her life become this difficult? She knew the answer. A week after he moved in.
Rosie had wiped the blood from her face and cleaned the vomit from the floor, scrubbing the carpet with disinfectant until the smell of sick had gone. She often vomited after he attacked her; she thought it was from shock and the pain of being punched in the stomach. She never used to be sick – not before. She’d been very healthy and happy back then, before he’d moved in. But now even thinking about his anger and what he might do to her caused her stomach to contract and the bile to rise to her throat.
Shane liked everything to be back to normal with no trace of ‘their fight’ when he returned, so she’d also changed out of her blood- and vomit-splashed clothes. They were in the washing machine. The duvet cover would go in once the first load had finished, and she’d already put a fresh cover on the bed. The only sign of their fight now was her swollen lip. She’d managed to stop the bleeding by pressing a wet tissue on the cut, and make-up had covered the redness and bruising around her mouth and on her cheek, but it couldn’t hide the swelling. In fact, if anything, it accentuated it.
Had she really deserved the beating? she wondered as she examined her face again in the bathroom mirror. Was it really always her fault? Did she provoke him beyond reason as he accused her of doing? She honestly didn’t know. So much of her life had changed in the last six months that she barely recognized herself any more. Work colleagues and her mother had noticed the change in her too and had commented. Her mother, aware of Shane’s past, had never liked him and refused to have him in her house, saying he was a ‘bad lot’ and that a leopard never changed its spots. Her friends, even her best friend Eva at work, had never met Shane because she no longer went out socially. Shane didn’t like it. Rosie wished she could have confided in Eva or her mother. They might have been able to offer a fresh perspective and make some suggestions on how to help, but she knew that was out of the question. Shane had told her plenty of times that if she went blubbering to anyone he’d have to kill her, and she believed him.
The doorbell rang, making her start. Shane? Why didn’t he use his key? Had he lost it? Quickly checking her appearance in the mirror again she glanced around the living room, making sure everything was back to normal, then gingerly went into the hall and opened the front door. Two uniformed police officers stood side by side.
‘Rosie Jones?’ the woman police officer asked.
Rosie nodded, a sinking feeling hitting the pit of her stomach. Shane had promised to keep out of trouble.
‘I’m PC Linda Simpson and this is my colleague PC Tim Marshall. I believe you own a car with the registration number BA06 FYS?’
Rosie’s mouth went dry and her legs began to tremble. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. May we come in?’
Rosie stared at them, not fully understanding. She’d been expecting Shane and now this? ‘What sort of accident?’
‘I think it would be better if we came in to explain,’ Linda said.
Rosie moved aside to let them in.
‘In here?’ the policewoman asked, nodding to the living room.
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, and followed them in.
She sat on the sofa and Linda sat beside her, while Tim took the single armchair: Shane’s chair. She saw them glancing around. Were they looking for something? Her lip began throbbing.
‘Your car was involved in an accident earlier tonight along Bells Lane,’ Linda said, turning slightly so she could look at Rosie. ‘A person called Shane Smith was driving. Do you know him?’
Rosie nodded. ‘He’s my boyfriend. He lives here.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s injured and is being treated at St Mary’s Hospital,’ Linda continued. ‘He has a nasty head injury but it isn’t thought to be life-threatening, so he’s been quite lucky considering the state of the car. You’ll be able to find out how he is later.’ Rosie nodded. ‘You knew Shane was driving your car? You gave him permission to do so?’
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, her voice unsteady. ‘He has a key.’
Linda touched her arm, concerned. ‘Are you OK, love? You’re very pale. Can I get you a drink of water?’
‘No, I’ll be all right.’
‘He’s been well looked after,’ Linda reassured her. ‘But I’m afraid the car’s a write-off. He seems to have escaped with some broken bones and a head injury, but it could have been a lot worse. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘No,’ Rosie said. PC Tim Marshall took out his notepad and pen.
‘How long have you known Shane?’
‘Not long. He went to my school for a while.’ Rosie tried to keep her voice steady. ‘But I hadn’t seen him for years.’
‘And how long has he been living here?’
‘Four months.’
‘So you hadn’t been in touch with him before you became a couple and moved in together?’
‘No,’ Rosie confirmed. ‘I met him by chance and he had nowhere to live.’
‘Where was he before he came here, do you know?’ Linda looked at her carefully.
‘He was in prison, for something he didn’t do,’ Rosie said, and saw the look the police exchanged. Her cheeks burned.
‘So he came straight here then after his release?’ Linda asked.
‘He went to his mother’s first but she didn’t want him there.’
Linda nodded. ‘Did he tell you why he was in prison?’
‘No. He didn’t like talking about it. He wanted to put it behind him and make a fresh start.’
‘It was for GBH – grievous bodily harm. Were you aware he’d lost his driving licence for drink-driving offences? Shane wasn’t allowed to drive.’
‘Oh,’ Rosie said, genuinely shocked. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘To allow someone to drive your vehicle if they are banned is a criminal offence,’ Tim added.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ Rosie said again. ‘I put him on my insurance,’ she added, hoping this would make it better.
‘Driving while banned invalidates any insurance I’m afraid,’ Linda said. ‘They won’t be paying for your car.’
Rosie looked at her. ‘Will they keep Shane in hospital tonight?’ she asked.
‘For quite a few nights,’ Tim said, glancing up from writing. ‘He had to be cut from the wreckage.’
‘Thank you,’ Rosie said politely.
She saw them exchange another pointed glance and realized it wasn’t the reaction they would have expected, but she was a bit overwhelmed at present and struggling to take everything in.
‘That’s a nasty cut on your lip,’ Linda said.
‘I fell,’ Rosie said, her hand going nervously to her mouth.
‘Tonight?’ Linda asked.
‘Yes.’
Linda held her gaze. ‘Look love, I’ll be honest with you. Shane broke the terms of his probation by not informing his probation officer where he was living. Added to which, he was driving while banned, over the legal limit of alcohol in his blood and in a manner likely to cause harm to other road users. As soon as he’s out of hospital he’ll be returning to prison.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t realize.’
‘No. I take it he didn’t involve you in his criminal activities? He hasn’t been arriving home with expensive items, for example? Items he can’t provide receipts for?’
‘No, not as far as I know. You can have a look around if you like.’
‘Thank you.’ Tim was already on his feet.
‘So Shane won’t be home tonight?’ she asked, still trying to come to terms with it.
‘No. You can phone the hospital now if you want and see how he is.’
‘I will,’ Rosie said. ‘After you’ve had a look around.’
She watched as Linda joined Tim and they went first into the bedroom. The flat was only small and Rosie could hear them moving across the floorboards, opening and closing the wardrobe doors, and then the drawers. There was nothing to see in there apart from the wet patch on the carpet smelling of disinfectant. She’d no idea what they were searching for and frankly she didn’t care. Shane wasn’t coming home tonight and she was starting to feel relieved. They came out of the bedroom and searched the bathroom and then had to pass through the living room to enter the kitchen. She heard them open and close the cupboard doors.
‘You’re very good doing your washing on a Saturday evening,’ Linda called.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
She heard the stainless-steel bin ping as one of the officers opened and closed it. They would have seen the bloody tissues she’d used to wipe her bleeding nose and mouth. And very likely the duvet cover in the laundry basket waiting to go in the wash. They came out and Linda returned to sit beside her while Tim remained standing.
‘Is there anything you want to tell us about Shane?’ Linda asked, encouraging confidentiality.
Rosie shook her head. Linda looked at her for a moment longer then sighed.
‘OK, love. I’m going to give you the number for the Domestic Violence Unit anyway,’ she said, taking a card from her pocket and handing it to her. ‘You can just phone for a chat if you wish. You don’t have to give your name.’
Rosie gave a small nod but didn’t look at the card.
‘We’ll leave you to it then. Phone us if you need to. We can see ourselves out.’
Rosie stayed where she was as they left. She was still struggling to come to terms with what had happened and wondering what she should do for the best. Phone her mother? Phone the hospital? Speak to the Domestic Violence Unit, or change the locks? Possibly all of them, but in which order? Suddenly her life had changed in a way she could never have foreseen, and while she was sorry Shane had had an accident it had opened up an escape route. A huge weight lifted from her shoulders. There were decisions to be made and opportunities to be taken, and a light now shone at the end of what had been a very dark tunnel. She needed to galvanize herself into action. The washing machine bleeped as it finished its cycle and she stood to unload it. Once she’d sorted out the washing she’d start packing Shane’s belongings. And although she wasn’t a religious person, she said a silent thank-you to someone out there, grateful that she had been given this chance.
Chapter Five (#ulink_26f7cb59-40dc-56f8-9633-01bc917298f0)
The Reverend Andrew Wilson was going about his normal early-morning duties. He’d let Mitsy, their old Labrador, out for a run, had taken his wife and son up a cup of tea and now set out across the Maybury village green to unlock his eighteenth-century church, St Stephen’s. Mitsy had followed him as usual, circling playfully at his feet, despite her age. Dressed casually but wearing his clerical collar he walked swiftly across the damp grass, still wet from the rain of the night before. At 8 a.m. on a weekday he didn’t expect to see many of the villagers out; the commuters had already left for the station in the neighbouring town, so he tended to see the same few faces: the milkman who also delivered groceries, the paperboy finishing his round before going to college, and two dog-walkers. They all greeted him as usual with a warm, pleasant but slightly formal, ‘Good morning, Reverend,’ and he replied using their first names. He knew most of the villagers in his parish by name and he liked the village way of life. His previous parish had been in a deprived inner city which he’d initially believed was his calling. He’d done his best for five years and then asked to be moved, saying he felt he could no longer meet the challenges with everything else that was going on in his life. The bishop had been very understanding, and three months later he and his family had arrived here.
Unlocking the outer door, Andrew left Mitsy sitting obediently in the vestibule as he unlocked the second door and went into the main body of the church. He savoured the welcoming aroma of well-oiled oak, candle smoke, and the slightly musky damp of the solid stone walls. It was reassuring and comforting; a reminder of age and endurance. The church had stood here for nearly 300 years and would remain long after he had left this earth. That he was merely passing through and part of a bigger plan helped nudge his considerable worries into a slightly better perspective.
Facing the altar, he stood at the end of the aisle and crossed himself, then went to a box on the wall and switched on the lights and heating. Mrs Tremain, much-respected chairperson of the parish council, would arrive punctually at nine o’clock as she did most mornings to say a prayer in memory of her dear departed husband, and she didn’t like to be cold. Then at ten o’clock his darling wife, Liz, would lead the Bible study class while he went about his many duties in the parish. He would return to lock the church at nightfall as he did every evening apart from Sunday when he held Evensong. It was a pity the church couldn’t remain open twenty-four hours as it had in previous times – offering shelter and warmth to the needy – but vandals and thieves had put a stop to that some years before when they’d stolen the silver candlesticks from the altar and smashed a stained-glass window.
Andrew went up the aisle to the little altar with its white cloths, simple wooden cross, Bible, and candles in steel holders. Lowering his head he began his usual silent prayers, thanking the Lord for all that He had blessed them with, remembering those less fortunate and those living in famine and war-torn countries. He asked for guidance to make decisions wisely, and then mentioned by name parishioners who needed some extra help: Mr and Mrs James, whose son had been injured while serving in the army abroad; Mrs King’s husband, who was recovering from stomach surgery; Mr and Mrs Watson, who had just moved into a nursing home and whom he would visit later that afternoon; and last but not least his own son, Jacob. He always felt slightly uncomfortable, almost guilty, asking for help for his own, but he was sure the good Lord understood why it had become absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t have asked had it not been essential. Forgive me Lord for asking again but if it is your will … He struggled now; his prayer needed to be answered even if it wasn’t the Lord’s will. He was desperate and his wife was desperate too, and if he was honest they were both struggling with their faith, as they were being tested as never before. When life went well it was easy to have faith, he acknowledged, but when it went badly, really badly, and you stood to lose your only child, it was surely enough to shake the faith of even the most devout and ardent of believers?
‘Please don’t test me further in this way,’ he said as part of his prayers. ‘Anything but this. Not my son.’ As he spoke, the small inner voice of God reminded him that He had sacrificed His only son for the sake of humanity, which wasn’t what Andrew wanted to hear at all. He finished praying by thanking the Lord again and then asking that this day be the one.
Uncharacteristically, Mitsy began frantically scratching at the church door. Crossing himself, Andrew turned from the altar just as the door flew open and his wife Elizabeth ran in, without her coat and out of breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked, panic-stricken, and fearing the worst news possible.
‘They’ve found a donor!’ she cried. ‘It looks a good match. We have to leave now. Come on! I’ve left Jacob getting up. We’ll phone and cancel our appointments from the car. Be quick.’
Mitsy barked as though sharing this good news, and as Andrew hurried after his wife he thanked the good Lord for answering his prayers, and promised he’d never ask for anything for himself again.
Upstairs in the rectory Jacob had managed to wash and partially dress himself and was now sitting on the edge of his bed trying to catch his breath. Stick-thin, pale, permanently exhausted, and out of breath even with the minimal exertion, he’d been off work sick for nearly a year. At 23, having left university with a degree in business studies, he’d been six months into his first job when illness had struck, and a range of symptoms were eventually diagnosed as congenital heart disease. His heart began failing fast and he and his parents were told that a heart transplant was his only hope. While he didn’t have the strength of faith his parents had, he did believe in something – a deity? He too now said a short prayer of thanks before texting the good news to his long-term girlfriend, Eloise.
His parents arrived in his room together. He couldn’t remember a time when they’d looked so relieved and happy. While his mother helped him finish dressing his father checked his bag, which had been packed since he’d been put on the transplant list, ready and waiting for the call. Downstairs they shut Mitsy in the kitchen with food and water (a neighbour would take her out later) and barely thirty minutes after receiving the call they were on their way, overjoyed, but not forgetting that another family had lost a loved one to make this happen.
Chapter Six (#ulink_5769c478-ba42-5876-a49b-71aec8cc1430)
At the transplant centre a specialist team of doctors and nurses was now assembling as two operating theatres were being prepared, one to remove the donor heart and the other to implant it into the recipient. It was unusual for the donor and recipient to live so close – just twenty miles apart. The transplant programme stretched nationwide and organs often had to be transported miles and at great speed when a donor was matched with a recipient at the other end of the country, although neither the donor’s next of kin nor the recipient of the heart would be aware of this. Their details were confidential and would be kept secret unless they both wanted to know who the other person was. Sometimes the recipient wanted to thank the donor’s next of kin, and if they agreed they were sensitively put in contact with each other, but this was unusual, and often resulted in a heart-warming story in the press or on the news.
It wasn’t just the heart that was being removed. The donor’s family had given consent for all of his body to be used, so as well as his heart going to Jacob, the kidneys, liver, lungs, pancreas, intestine, corneas, skin, nerves, veins, tendons and even the bones from his legs were going to benefit others.
When Jacob arrived at the transplant centre with his parents they were shown to a single room where nurses weighed and measured him, checked his temperature and blood pressure before listening to his chest to make sure he was well enough to undergo surgery. He confirmed he hadn’t had anything to eat that morning; they then took a blood sample and gave him a pot for a urine sample. The anaesthetist arrived, explained what he would be doing and asked him if he’d ever had a bad reaction to an anaesthetic before. He hadn’t – the only surgery he’d had in the past was a tonsillectomy at the age of six. The two surgeons leading the team arrived shortly after and the atmosphere in the room became electric – joyous, with a sense of occasion. They went over the procedure again with Jacob and his parents and reassured them that all would be well. It was a good tissue match, they said, and they would gown up now and see him later. Before prepping began, Jacob’s parents had to say goodbye. ‘We’ll be here when you wake,’ his father told him.
‘And I’ll phone Eloise,’ his mother said, knowing that it could be a few days before he was out of intensive care and could receive visitors.
One of the nurses gently showed them out, reminding them that Jacob was in very good hands – the best. She suggested they went into the city and had some lunch to pass the time as it would be at least four hours before there was any news. She would call as soon as Jacob was out of theatre. They thanked her, but before they left they made a detour to the hospital’s little chapel, where they asked the dear Lord to watch over Jacob and the donor family who had given so generously and were now grieving over their loss.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_db2fd9e5-87e1-5f70-8dc8-4232757a7255)
After the transplant and following usual practice, Jacob was taken directly to the intensive care unit where he was kept sedated, connected to a ventilator to help with his breathing, and given a drip passing fluids and medication into his arm. As with the other transplant patients, doctors and nurses monitored him around the clock until he was stable enough to be removed from the ventilator and brought out of the drug-induced coma.
As Jacob rose up through the layers of consciousness, he began swearing and cursing at the nurses, saying things he wouldn’t have done when fully awake. He told one nurse to ‘fuck off’ and another that he’d like to ‘give her one’, before trying to grab her breast.
‘That’s not very nice coming from a vicar’s son,’ she joked, aware it wasn’t the patient talking but the cocktail of drugs – particularly potent after a transplant.
As soon as he was fully conscious Jacob returned to his normal self and, still slightly confused, asked politely, ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re in hospital, Jacob,’ the nurse said. ‘You’ve had your transplant and everything is fine. We’re moving you to a different ward soon and your family will be in to see you again later.’
Relieved, he thanked the nurse and then fell into a more natural sleep. The next time he woke, his parents and Eloise were at his bedside, his mother, holding one hand and Eloise the other, while his father stood at the foot of his bed, smiling. The glow from the ceiling light caught his hair, circling his head like a halo, and just for a moment Jacob thought he’d died and was in heaven. After a few seconds, reality hit him, and he remembered what had happened.
Jacob’s recovery continued well and after a few days he was allowed out of bed to go to the toilet, and from then on he was encouraged to walk a little each day. He was very weak to begin with but the doctor and nurses told him that was only to be expected. In addition to undergoing major surgery he’d been weak in the months prior to the operation when his own heart had been failing. He’d only been able to take a few steps before he was out of breath and feeling dizzy, and going to the gym had become a distant memory. But that would change once he was deemed well enough to embark on the supervised cardiac rehabilitation programme run by a physiotherapist in the hospital gym. He was looking forward to gaining some muscle strength and getting fit again.
His chest hurt whenever he moved, coughed or cleared his throat but that was normal too. The surgeon explained that he’d had to cut through his sternum to operate and it was now held together by wires, which Jacob could feel clicking slightly when he moved. It would take six weeks for that bone to heal, during which time, it had been emphasized, he mustn’t put it under any stress, which included not lifting anything heavier than a litre of milk. No pushing, pulling, twisting, or driving, as turning the steering wheel put pressure on the sternum. What would happen if he did exert pressure on it Jacob didn’t want to know. He was already having unsettling dreams about being stitched together like Frankenstein’s monster. The less he was told about what they’d actually done in the operating room or the details of what could go wrong, the better.
He was allowed home three weeks later and it wasn’t a moment too soon. Alone in the single hospital room and with only his parents and Eloise allowed to visit – to minimize the risk of infection – Jacob had developed cabin fever, and knew he was becoming tetchy and short-tempered. To have been holed up for much longer would have driven him mad. For the first week he would have to return to the hospital every day for a check-up, then once a week, then every other week, and then once a month for the first year. After that, assuming he stayed well, his appointments would be every three months for two years and then every six months for the rest of his life. If he had any health concerns he had to return to the hospital immediately. But as he said goodbye to the nurses, thanking them again for all they’d done, returning to the hospital was the last thing on his mind. He was about to enter the world again and with a new heart in place, he intended to live life to the full.
His parents carried his case and bags to the car and he sat in the rear, as his mother took the front passenger seat and his father drove. He put his earbuds in straightaway. He wasn’t being rude but they’d exhausted conversation during his long stay in hospital and they really didn’t have anything left to say to each other.
His mother held his bag of medication protectively on her lap and it wasn’t long before she was sorting through it, reading the instructions on the huge assortment of boxes and bottles. She’d put herself in charge of his medication and had told him she’d bought Dosette boxes. As soon as they were home she’d put the pills he needed for the week into the boxes so none would get missed or taken twice. It had been drummed into them how important it was for him to take the tablets as directed and at the correct times. There were plenty to take: two types of immunosuppressants, antibiotics, blood-pressure-lowering drugs, diuretics, aspirin, anticoagulants, painkillers, and those were only the ones he could remember. Doses of some of them would decrease and even stop over time but he’d have to take immunosuppressants for the rest of his life. If he didn’t take them his immune system would recognize his heart was not his, label it as a harmful invader and attack and destroy it as if it was a virus.
His mother would also be looking after his appointment card for the time being, and the printed handouts containing the lists of post-operative dos and don’ts. They had seen the dietician together and while much of the advice had been common sense – eat low-fat foods, limit cholesterol, salt and sugar intake – others were more specifically for transplant patients: fresh produce had to be washed well before cooking or serving as the bacteria and viruses it harboured could be transmitted to the transplant patient, whose resistance was lowered by the immunosuppressant drugs, rendering them more susceptible to infection. His potassium intake had to be managed, as did his fluid and calorie intake. The dietician had said that his new heart would be put under strain if he carried extra weight, but he’d been fit and healthy in the past so there was no reason why he wouldn’t be again. There’d been so much talk about his new heart that what had once been an innate organ like any other body part had become a living entity in its own right, and he was starting to resent the time and attention it demanded.
But what Jacob hated the thought of most were the biopsies he’d have to have once a week for the next six weeks. He’d already had two and couldn’t stand the thought of more. He had to lie on the operating table while they gave him a local anaesthetic, cut a hole in his neck and pushed a wire down the vein and into his heart to cut out a small piece. It was then sent to the lab and examined for signs of tissue rejection. ‘Transplants aren’t for the faint-hearted,’ his surgeon had said. Arsehole!
It was a little after 3 p.m. and as Jacob gazed out of the side window listening to his music he suddenly realized he was very hungry and craving meat, which was a first. Since meeting Eloise at university he’d become a vegetarian as she was, although he still ate fish, cheese and eggs. But right now, after all that healthy eating in the hospital, he was craving meat: a rump steak or a rack of ribs, rarely cooked red meat that he could sink his teeth into.
‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’ he asked, removing an earbud so he could hear her reply.
She turned to face him. ‘I’ve made a vegetarian cottage pie,’ she said, pleased he was regaining his appetite. This dish had become one of his favourites and she’d put time and effort into making it. ‘Eloise is coming as soon as she can dismiss her class.’ Eloise was a primary-school teacher at a school not far from where she lived with her parents – about an hour away.
‘Any chance of some meat?’ Jacob asked. ‘I really fancy some tonight.’
‘Well, yes, if that’s what you prefer,’ his mother said, surprised. ‘I’ve got some steak in the freezer. I’ll take it out as soon as we get home.’
‘Count me in,’ his father said chummily, glancing at his son in the rear-view mirror. Neither of them were vegetarians except when Eloise joined them for a meal. Jacob knew that given a choice his father would much rather have meat than Quorn or soya beans any day. He threw him a conspiratorial wink in the mirror.
‘Oh Jesus!’ Jacob exclaimed as the rectory came into view. A large Welcome Home bunting was draped across the front of the house and bunches of balloons festooned the porch. ‘Did you have to?’
‘It was your mother’s idea,’ his father said, ignoring the blasphemy. They only used Jesus Christ’s name with reverence.
‘We can soon take it down,’ Elizabeth said, feeling a little hurt. She’d wanted everything to be perfect for his homecoming. ‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said with a shrug.
Clearly they were going to have to continue to make allowances during his convalescence. It was almost impossible to imagine how frustrating it must be for a lad of Jacob’s age to have to deal with chronic illness and then a major operation. But at least now he was home, and with time, patience and understanding, nature would do the rest. Allow at least six months, the surgeon had said, then gradually life will return to normal.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_1e95bbc0-a9bc-5e0f-87d8-0f3780784748)
Mitsy, having heard the car draw up, was now barking furiously on the other side of the front door.
‘She’ll be pleased to see you,’ Jacob’s father said as he finished parking.
‘But remember not to let her lick your face,’ his mother warned. ‘And to wash your hands after stroking her.’
Jacob nodded. More guidelines from the dos and don’ts list to reduce the risk of infection.
His parents carried his bags into the house and Mitsy was immediately at his feet, panting and wagging her tail excitedly. Jacob automatically bent to stroke her and as he did so felt a sharp jabbing pain in his chest. He straightened. It was his own fault; he’d been warned to avoid sudden movements until his breastbone was fully healed. Leaving the dog, he went over and sat in one of the armchairs by the fireside. Another Welcome Home banner hung from the mantelpiece with more bunches of balloons either side. They’d certainly gone to town, he thought, and with a niggle of guilt wondered if he shouldn’t have been more grateful. His mother was now in the kitchen sorting out his medication. She meant well.
‘I’ll take these to your room,’ his father said, picking up his case and rucksack.
Jacob stifled a sigh of frustration, resenting his dependence on them. He watched the fire for a few moments, unsure of what he should be doing now he was home. It felt strange, after all those weeks in hospital. ‘I’m going to my room for a while,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, of course,’ his mother said, stepping in from the kitchen. ‘You’re bound to feel tired to begin with. I’ll bring up your tablets. Would you like a snack and a drink to see you through to dinner?’
‘Just a drink,’ he replied, heaving himself to his feet.
‘Tea, fruit juice, milk? What would you like?’
‘A beer,’ he replied.
She laughed; they both knew he was joking for he wasn’t allowed alcohol, as it would reduced the effectiveness of his medication. ‘Just as well you weren’t a drinker,’ she said. ‘At least you won’t miss that.’
Upstairs, he found his father unpacking his case.
‘Leave that, Dad, I can do it,’ he said.
His father hesitated. ‘OK, but don’t overdo it, son. You know what the doctor said.’
‘I won’t.’
They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, not knowing quite what to say or do, then his father cleared his throat. ‘Well, if you’re all right for a couple of hours I’ve got some parish business to attend to.’
‘Yes. Go. Do what you normally do. Mum’s here if I need anything. But I must start doing things for myself again.’
‘I know, son. But not too much all at once.’
Jacob nodded and watched him go, then looked around his room before easing himself onto the bed. Almost immediately a tap sounded on the door and his mother appeared, carrying a tray with a mug of tea, a glass of water and his pills in a small plastic pot given to them by the hospital. ‘You look comfortable,’ she said, coming over and placing the tea on his bedside cabinet. She held out the glass of water and pot of pills as if she expected him to take them while she waited.
‘Put them on there,’ he said a little brusquely, nodding to his bedside cabinet.
She did as he said. ‘Don’t forget to take them.’
‘I won’t.’ He yawned.
‘I’ll leave you to rest then,’ she said, and left.
He wasn’t physically tired as she thought – more exhausted from the narrow strip his life had become. He needed some space and time to himself, and he needed to establish some ground rules. He’d been washed, dressed and even taken to the toilet by nurses in the early days. Continuously examined by doctors who discussed him as though he was theirs, so that he felt his body was no longer his own. Everyone seemed to have a claim on it and knew more about it than he did. And all the advice about his recovery, although necessary and well meant, had become suffocating, as was being constantly fussed over, not only by the nurses but by his parents and Eloise. Some blokes might have enjoyed all the attention but he didn’t; it had reduced him to a childlike dependency, humiliating and degrading. It would be a sharp learning curve before his parents and Eloise saw him as an independent bloke again, if he’d ever been one, which he was starting to doubt.
He’d had too much time to think in hospital; indeed there hadn’t been much else to do. He’d spent hours, days thinking about his life – the years before his illness. Gradually he’d come to see that he’d never carved out an identity, a will, a personality of his own. He’d always toed the line, done as he was told and what was expected of him. He’d worked hard at school, learnt to play the organ so he could help out in church, been polite to his father’s parishioners, and had tolerated the down-and-outs and misfits who’d arrived regularly at their door in the city looking for help and a handout. Even as a teenager he hadn’t rebelled. In fact he’d been a bit of a mummy’s boy. And away at university he could only remember one instance of drunk and loutish behaviour, before he’d joined the Christian Union and met Eloise.
Eloise was a nice girl; kind, well-mannered and polite. His parents had taken an immediate liking to her and were soon treating her like the daughter they’d never had. Jacob was looking forward to seeing her again tonight and hopefully having sex – the first time since he couldn’t remember when – sometime before he’d become really ill. When he stayed the night at her house her parents gave them a double room, but when she stayed with him his mother showed her to the guest room. They then had to wait until his parents were asleep before he could creep along the landing and into Eloise’s room to make love to her. Although he apologized for his parents’ Victorian and prudish attitude, he had to admit that the secret risqué nature of their liaison added to his enjoyment.
Tonight, however, there was an additional hurdle to be overcome. The list of dos and don’ts included post-operative sex with the warning that his breastbone mustn’t be put under any pressure until it was fully healed, which ruled out the missionary position – the one they usually used. After some thought Jacob decided that the best way – perhaps the only way – would be for her to sit astride him as he lay on his bed. And as he pictured this, the conservative, rather prim Eloise bouncing up and down on his erect penis, it caused it to come to life. A very good sign, he thought, for one of the possible side effects of his medication was impotence, which would require more pills and be yet another blow to his manhood.
He must have dozed, for he woke with a start to the sound of his mother tapping on his bedroom door again. ‘Eloise is here. There’s no rush. I’ve made her a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll be right down,’ he called, easing himself off the bed and into an upright position. It always took a few minutes after a sleep or a nap for his muscles and brain to start working again; he assumed it was the tablets.
He used the bathroom, combed his hair and checked his face in the mirror before carefully making his way downstairs. Before he’d become ill he’d taken the stairs two or three at a time, but now, aware of what a fall could mean, he made his descent slowly using the handrail. He resented that he had to approach everything with caution and trepidation but for the time being it was unavoidable. As he entered the living room Mitsy ran to him again, panting and wagging her tail, asking to be made a fuss of. Jacob ignored her and crossed instead to Eloise.
‘Good to see you home,’ she said warmly. She knew not to throw her arms around him until his chest was fully healed, so instead she smiled and looked up into his eyes, waiting for him to slip his arm around her as he’d done in the hospital. But he didn’t – he briefly kissed her cheek and then sat in one of the fireside chairs. Elizabeth had come into the living room in time to see her son’s dismissive greeting and the look of disappointment on Eloise’s face.
‘Let’s draw up this chair so the two of you can sit together,’ she said, pulling the matching armchair from the other side of the hearth.
Eloise flashed her a smile of gratitude as together they positioned it as close as it would go to Jacob’s chair and Eloise sat down.
‘Do you want anything, Jacob?’ Elizabeth asked. He shook his head. ‘Eloise, another tea?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Dinner won’t be long. We’ll eat just as soon as Andrew returns.’
Eloise smiled and thanked her again, then turned to Jacob. He was gazing into the fire that danced in the magnificent inglenook fireplace, part of the original house and now only lit on special occasions or when they had guests staying.
‘So how are you?’ she asked him after a moment.
‘Fine,’ he said without taking his eyes from the fire. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you, but it’s not me who’s had the heart transplant.’ She gave a small nervous laugh. ‘Pleased to be home at last?’
‘Of course.’
‘How’s the pain today?’
He shrugged. ‘I just take the tablets if I need them.’
She moved a little closer and rested her hand gently on his arm as she had done for hours and hours in the hospital. ‘How are you feeling in yourself?’ she asked, aware he had been feeling low at times.
He shifted, finding her intensity uncomfortable. ‘OK,’ he said. She seemed to expect more but that was the trouble with women – they expected you to expose yourself, pour out your feelings and vulnerabilities as they did.
There was silence as the fire crackled.
‘I left the teaching assistant to dismiss my class so I could leave early,’ she said, making conversation.
‘Good,’ he said, which seemed to please her. She smiled and, taking his hand in hers, kissed it tenderly.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she said.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ he agreed. This was clearly the right thing to say for she beamed at him and kissed his hand again.
Thankfully his father arrived to save him from further conversation. Eloise and he greeted each other with a warm embrace and cheek kisses as they always did. He asked her how she was and how her journey had been and then he went to wash and change, ready for dinner.
Conversation over dinner became easier as he didn’t have to talk much at all. Eloise and her parents did all the talking and he appeared to have been excused, he assumed on the grounds of health. They chattered away non-stop about day-to-day trivia, small talk about nothing in particular, which they seemed to thrive on. He didn’t know how they managed it. All that polite tattle that filled the gaps between eating and seemed to bind them together. Had he ever been part of it? He supposed he must have been, although he couldn’t remember doing it with the enthusiasm they did. He felt like a visitor or alien from another planet as they prattled on, Eloise about the changes in the school curriculum and how it would impact on her teaching and the class’s learning, and his father about the village bypass. He was on the committee and had attended a meeting in the village hall that afternoon – lots of fogies trying to feel important. And as for his mother, she managed to create a storyline out of collecting him from the hospital which he really didn’t appreciate. He frowned. Perhaps he was jealous? Was he envious that they could share this warm comradeship of conversation that eluded him? He’d be the first to admit that he didn’t have anything to tell them, that since his illness and then the operation his life had stopped, and he had nothing new to say. All he could contribute – had he wanted to join in – were remarks about being a patient which they were only too familiar with. But that would change just as soon as he was completely fit and well.
He excused himself from the table straight after pudding at 8.30 on the grounds he was tired – they understood. His mother fussed around him and asked if he needed help undressing, which was embarrassing. Then she produced the plastic pill pot already containing his night-time meds together with a glass of water for him to take up to bed. He called a collective good night to the three of them as he went up the stairs, and guessed they’d probably start talking about him as soon as he’d left the room.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_0b2fc33d-c72f-5a93-8a2c-679beded2a5a)
‘Jacob’s very quiet,’ Eloise said, her brow furrowing with concern. ‘He’s hardly said a word to me all evening.’
‘Nor to me,’ Elizabeth said gently. ‘But it is only his first day home. Everything must seem very strange, and he’s recovering from a huge operation. It will take time.’
Andrew agreed, and Eloise knew she mustn’t take Jacob’s attitude personally. She remained at the table talking to Andrew and Elizabeth for nearly an hour and then they transferred to the living room to watch the late evening news on television. At 10.30 Eloise kissed them both good night and made her way upstairs. They were lovely people and made her feel so welcome – more than Jacob had done tonight, she thought, but quickly dismissed this as unkind and selfish. Of course it would take time for him to adjust and recover. She assumed he wouldn’t be visiting her room tonight.
Quietly crossing the landing so as not to wake Jacob, she entered the guest room that had become hers. It was comfortable, with a single bed and a faint smell of jasmine from the reed diffuser Elizabeth had placed on the chest of drawers. Over the last few years – since she’d begun staying – this room had gradually become her home from home, and she kept a toothbrush and toiletries in the small en-suite bathroom, and a change of clothes in the wardrobe. She felt relaxed and at ease here, not only in this room but in the whole house.
She washed, changed, and then, yawning, climbed gratefully into bed. The end of the school week was always tiring with the children excitable at the prospect of the weekend, and tonight she’d met heavy traffic on the way over too. But she was here now and there’d be plenty of time to unwind and de-stress over the weekend. She wasn’t returning home until after dinner on Sunday as she had often done before Jacob’s operation. But this time when Elizabeth had telephoned to check she would be staying the whole weekend she’d been concerned.
‘Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble with Jacob just home?’ she’d asked.
‘Don’t be silly, of course not,’ Elizabeth had chided warmly. ‘It will do Jacob good, and you know I always appreciate your company. You already feel like my daughter-in-law.’
This had pleased Eloise immensely. She had always got on well with Elizabeth and had come to feel she had a place in their family, assuming, as Elizabeth did, that one day she really would be her daughter-in-law. Jacob had said as much before his illness – ‘As soon as we’ve saved enough for a deposit on a home of our own I’ll propose.’ So it was an unannounced engagement where they’d implicitly promised themselves to each other and lived their daily lives in the comfortable knowledge that they were a couple. And while their plans to marry had been put on hold with the onset of Jacob’s illness, Eloise had no doubt that once he’d recovered and returned to work, their plans and saving would continue and reach fruition.
With these happy thoughts as bedfellows, Eloise quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She was fast asleep, lying on her side, when the door to her room silently opened and then closed again. She didn’t stir. The room was pitch black; at the rear of the house there were no streetlamps, just meadows where cows grazed. Outside a thick cloud covered a moonless grey sky so even though her curtains were parted no light shone in.
The first she knew that someone was in her room was when a hand covered her mouth and she woke with a start. Then his familiar breath, hot on her cheek as he hissed close to her ear.
‘Sssh. Be quiet or they’ll hear you.’ It was a moment before he removed his hand.
‘Jacob, you scared me to death,’ she said, turning to him. Her heart was still pounding from the shock. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to my room?’
‘A surprise,’ he said, and climbed into bed beside her.
She moved over to make room for him, propping herself on her side to look at him. Her pulse began to settle. Jacob eased himself onto his back and she snuggled close, draping one arm over his stomach, well away from the angry scar on his chest. He’d lost that clinical smell which had pervaded his room at the hospital, and now smelt of his deodorant and the fabric conditioner Elizabeth added to the laundry. She breathed it in, homely and comforting.
‘What time is it?’ she whispered, enjoying the warmth and intimacy of his body. It had been a long time since they’d had the opportunity to lie close.
‘Twelve-thirty,’ he whispered. ‘My parents are in bed and asleep.’
‘I thought you were asleep too,’ she said with a small laugh.
‘I’ve been waiting for them to come up so I could visit you. Just like old times.’ He picked up her hand that was resting on his stomach and placed it on the outside of his shorts.
‘Jacob!’ she said surprised. ‘We can’t, can we? Not yet?’
‘Why not?’ He pressed her hand onto him and felt him stir.
‘You’re not well enough, are you?’
‘Let’s put it to the test,’ he said roguishly. He eased off his shorts and then curled her fingers around him, growing firmer under her touch.
She assumed he wanted her to masturbate him as she had done when he’d been too ill and weak before the operation to make love properly. He’d touched her too, although she hadn’t got much pleasure from it. A large part of making love for her was the warmth and weight of his body on hers as they moved together as one. But she appreciated that men were different in their sexual wants and needs, and it had helped restore some of his confidence – his masculinity, he’d said.
‘He may need a bit of encouragement,’ Jacob said, moving her hand to work up and down the shaft of his penis, before reaching out and switching on the lamp.
‘Jacob!’ she said, startled. She blinked into the light.
‘That’s better. I need to see.’
He threw back the duvet so he could watch properly, see her hand on his dick, but the movement was too delicate.
‘Harder. Faster,’ he said, and gripping her hand showed her what to do. How he would have liked to have shoved it in her mouth as the bloke on the film he’d watched on his laptop had done, but he didn’t think she was ready for that, not yet. Not prim Eloise. Next time, he promised himself.
He was big now, he could see how big he was, and getting bigger by the second. Hard, proud and bold as the blood coursed through his veins. He was standing to attention as he hadn’t done for a long while. Watching her hand move up and down was adding to his pleasure. ‘Take off your nightdress,’ he said, tugging at it.
She didn’t and her hand lost some of its firmness. ‘I need to see you,’ he said again urgently. Why didn’t she understand? He tugged harder, yanked at the buttons at the top of her nightdress and they gave way. She gave a small cry, presumably of pleasure. Women liked forceful blokes, didn’t they? He roughly pulled the nightdress from her and rubbed his hand over her breasts and then down between her legs, making her cry out again.
‘Sit on me,’ he demanded, tweaking her nipple. ‘It’s the only way I can have you.’ While this was true, more importantly it was part of the image he’d nurtured all afternoon, having downloaded it from the internet. The very thought of the picture fuelled his pleasure.
‘Sit on me,’ he said again, pushing her body down the bed and towards his crotch.
She was hesitant to begin with, resisting a little. Playing hard to get. But with another firm push she did as she was told and sat astride him, knees bent. She was clearly reluctant to open her legs really wide and display herself to him as he would be able to see everything, and with her legs as they were, he struggled to get himself in. Taking hold of her knees, he forced her legs wide apart, as wide as they would go, and then with one good hard shove he was in. She cried out again and so did he. It was fucking ecstasy! He looked at his dick fully inserted in her opening and at her breasts with their large reddening nipples. Grabbing her hips, he moved her up and down to show her what to do as he began thrusting, as much as he was able to with the mattress below and his chest muscles complaining. But each thrust was sheer pleasure and as she grew moister it became easier. His pleasure raged and he could feel his new heart beating wildly, faster than it had before. Briefly he wondered if it would stand the strain; they were really pushing it now, testing it to the limit. But he felt his heart was on his side and willing him to succeed and if he didn’t, what a way to go!
Up and down, up and down, the usually conservative Eloise glued to his dick like a stuck pig. Was she enjoying it? He couldn’t tell and he didn’t know or care. If she wasn’t she’d just have to put up with it, for she was staying there until he’d finished, for sure. He needed this, his heart did, and as he couldn’t lie on her, or she him, she’d have to stay astride him, riding on his dick. He grabbed her nipples and began twisting them, hard. She cried out and tried to push his hands away but he held on tight; he was past the point of no return. He watched her face contort as he pulled and twisted and thrust as hard as he could, harder than he’d ever done before in his life. The gradual build-up to the moment, the absolute height of pleasure, and then stillness as he discharged into her.
‘Jesus! Fucking Jesus!’ he cried out. And in the room next door his father woke, convinced he’d just heard the devil.
Chapter Ten (#ulink_84c62daa-770d-5cce-8240-7701706d28d7)
‘Good to have you back,’ Eva said as she and Rosie took their places at the cashier’s counter of the high street bank. ‘I’ve missed having you here.’
‘Thanks.’ Rosie smiled. ‘It’s good to be here again. I hope I can still remember what to do.’
‘You’ll be fine. Nothing’s changed. Are you free for a quick coffee after work? I’ve got some news I’m dying to tell you.’
Rosie hesitated and then realized she didn’t have to go straight home any longer. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’
‘Great. We’ll chat later. Here we go, ready for the onslaught.’
It was exactly 9 a.m. and the deputy manager was unlocking the main door ready for business. A small queue had already formed outside and as soon as the door opened it quickly dispersed itself at the counter of cashiers. Rosie smiled and said a bright good morning to her first customer. She was pleased to be back at work – another step towards normality. She’d taken two weeks off after Shane’s accident. She was due some annual leave and she’d told her boss that she needed it for personal reasons. As well as clearing out his belongings, she needed time to recover and come to terms with what had happened – and hopefully move on. Her mother had suggested she stay with her for a while but Rosie felt she needed to stand alone to prove to herself that she could, that Shane no longer had a hold over her and she wasn’t afraid of him any more.
While Shane had been in the hospital, she’d sent him a letter saying that if he ever came near her again she’d call the police. That night, Rosie had called out the local locksmith and had the locks on her flat changed, so that if upon his recovery Shane did try to visit, he’d find himself unable to enter. Once the job had been done she’d felt an overwhelming sense of relief. At last, her flat was safe. Now all that remained of Shane was in her head and she knew it would take time before he left her completely, if he ever did. She was trying hard not to think about him, to shake off the moments of panic that gripped her when she thought about him coming out of hospital, perhaps angrier than before. She’d told her mother a little of what had happened but not all. Some things – the sexual things he’d done to her – she couldn’t say. She’d found it a little easier to share this with a group for survivors of domestic violence she’d joined online. The anonymity helped and of course they were on the same page as her, having experienced similar or worse. There were two men in the group, which surprised her; she’d never thought that some women could be as evil as men. But while the group had helped, ultimately she knew her full recovery would be down to her. Clearing out the flat and going back to work was the next step.
Mondays were always busy at the bank and the time flew by. As she dealt with each customer’s request or inquiry her confidence grew, and by lunchtime she was starting to relax. Eva was on a different lunch break to her so she went out for a short walk and a breath of fresh air before returning to the staff room to eat her sandwiches and make a cup of tea. Other colleagues who didn’t know her as well as Eva were there and they asked her if she’d had a nice holiday and seemed pleased to see her back. Their kindness touched her. It was a pity she hadn’t been able to confide in anyone and ask for help when she’d needed it. She still felt responsible for letting Shane into her life and allowing the abuse to continue, although the online survivors group tried to reassure her it wasn’t her fault.
At 4.30 the deputy bank manger locked the door, and they cashed up, shut down their terminals and packed away for the night. An hour later, she and Eva called goodbye to their colleagues and left the building. The coffee shop was a short walk up the High Street and they settled with their drinks either side of a corner table where they could talk without being overheard.
‘Rosie, I’m pregnant,’ Eva announced with a huge smile as soon as they sat down. ‘I did two tests at the weekend and they were both positive.’
‘Oh Eva, that’s fantastic,’ Rosie said. ‘Congratulations! I’m so pleased for you both.’ And she was genuinely pleased. She knew that Eva and her husband, Syed, had been trying for over a year for a baby.
‘Promise you won’t tell anyone at the bank yet,’ Eva said. ‘I’m going to wait until I’m three months.’
‘I promise,’ Rosie said.
Eva shared her plans – to take a year’s maternity leave and then return to the bank part time as they needed her income to pay their mortgage. Then her attention turned to Rosie. ‘But enough about me. How are you? Do you want to tell me what the personal reasons were that suddenly made you take time off? You know it won’t go any further.’
Rosie looked carefully at her friend. How easy it would be to tell her the truth but then she’d have to live with her shock and sympathy and she didn’t want that. She was trying to move on.
‘The guy I was seeing had an accident – wrote my car off.’ She paused. ‘We’re – we’re not together any more, so there’s been a lot going on in my life. It was all getting on top of me. I just needed a break.’ She shrugged, trying to be casual, and took a sip of her coffee.
‘OK. I can understand that. So he’s out of your life for good?’
‘Yes, completely.’
‘A carefree singleton. Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that!’ Eva laughed.
‘I’m in no rush to start another relationship now,’ Rosie said. ‘So how are you feeling?’ She was anxious to steer the conversation back to safer ground. ‘No morning sickness?’
‘No, not yet, but I won’t mind if I am sick. I mean it’s all part of being pregnant and will be worth it in the end.’
‘Absolutely,’ Rosie agreed, and they continued talking about Eva’s pregnancy.
Once they’d finished their coffee, Eva said she’d better go as Syed would be home soon and she wanted to have dinner ready. They left the coffee shop together and then went their separate ways. Rosie was returning to an empty flat but she didn’t mind, not at all, for empty was far better than having Shane waiting for her. She’d started to relax again in the flat; she could watch some television, listen to her music, then go to bed without being in constant fear. Every night, she went through a little ritual of checking the doors and windows were locked and that there were no shadowy shapes lurking in the street. But every night, she saw nothing. It looked like Shane was leaving her alone. And once she’d saved up enough she’d buy herself another car.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_9d2ea456-3590-5250-b988-c464db35074a)
Elizabeth had telephoned Eloise on Sunday to see how she was, but her call had gone through to voicemail so she’d assumed the poor girl was still ill in bed. She’d left a message saying she hoped Eloise felt better soon. She waited until midday on Thursday before trying again; she knew how irritating it was to keep having to answer the phone if you weren’t feeling well. This time Eloise did answer.
‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ she said quietly.
‘Hello, love. How are you? Feeling a bit better?’
There was a pause before she replied. ‘Did Jacob tell you I was ill?’
‘Yes of course, love. When Andrew and I returned on Saturday and found you’d gone we were obviously concerned. How are you feeling now?’
Another pause. ‘Better, thank you.’
‘Good. What was it? The flu? Jacob didn’t seem to know.’
‘I’m not sure. But I’m all right now.’ Her voice sounded flat.
Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Are you really all right? You sound a little … I don’t know … a little subdued,’ she said, for want of a better word.
‘Yes. I’m all right.’
‘Well, that’s good. It was fantastic news about Jacob’s test results, wasn’t it? He hates those biopsies but it’s so reassuring to know there’s no sign of rejection.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I have to go. I’m on playground lunch duty.’
‘Oh, OK. I’m pleased you’re feeling better. See you at the weekend then. Will you be coming Friday night or Saturday?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Don’t worry. Come as soon as you can. We’re all looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Thank you,’ Eloise said a little stiffly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, love.’
Elizabeth slowly set down her phone on the table in front of her, not sure what to make of their conversation. Eloise hadn’t sounded herself, she’d seemed distant and restrained, as if she was hiding something. One of the characteristics Elizabeth had always liked about Eloise was her bubbly personality. She had a zest and enthusiasm for life which Jacob had had too before he’d fallen ill. It took a lot to get Eloise down. Perhaps she and Jacob had had an argument. Maybe about her leaving early? He was so insensitive and tetchy at present that if the poor girl had said she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go home, he could easily have thrown a strop. Elizabeth could picture it only too clearly and if that was the case then he needed to apologize. She and Andrew were having to make allowances for him continuously and think carefully before they spoke.
Elizabeth thought hard; another possibility for Eloise’s mother was that she’d just found out Eloise was pregnant. But no, she dismissed that straightaway. Jacob had been in hospital for the last month and before that he’d have been too weak. She assumed they were having a physical relationship, as young people did nowadays before marriage, but because of his illness he hadn’t been well enough. Yet something was bothering Eloise.
Elizabeth ruminated on it for the next half-hour and when she called Jacob down for lunch she said, ‘I’m not prying, love, but is everything all right between you and Eloise?’
‘Yes of course,’ he said, immediately on the defensive. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I phoned her a little while ago to see how she was and she didn’t seem like her usual self.’
‘I told you, she’s ill,’ he said, irritated.
‘She was back at work. She said she was on lunch duty when I called.’
‘So?’ he demanded.
‘I’m just concerned, that’s all. She’s a sensitive girl, and all of this can’t have been easy for her.’
‘And it’s easy for me?’ he shot back.
‘No, love. Of course not.’ She knew she wasn’t handling this right, but it was so difficult to talk to him at present. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything at all. ‘I’m just concerned for you both.’
‘Well, don’t be!’ he snapped. His face was set as he glared at her. ‘What goes on between Eloise and me has nothing to do with you or Dad. You both need to keep the fuck out of my life. Understood?’ Grabbing his plate of food from the table, he stormed upstairs.
‘Jacob?’ she called after him. But his bedroom door slammed shut and then there was silence.
Elizabeth remained where she was, her mouth dry and her pulse beating wildly, shocked to the core by what had just happened and at a loss to know what to do. It wasn’t the first time he’d sworn since coming home but she’d never felt threatened by him before. The way his face had contorted with anger. The look in his eyes as he glared at her, the tone in his voice; she had seen and felt pure hatred in her son! The aftercare notes from the hospital had said transplant patients could become frustrated by their long recovery but this was more than frustration. Much more. She and Andrew couldn’t do anything right and the way he treated them suggested he loathed and detested them. But why? Then she caught herself. Of course he didn’t detest them. He was recovering from a major life-changing operation, and it didn’t get more serious than a heart transplant. He was also having to take a vast array of pills which, though necessary, all came with possible side effects. With small relief Elizabeth acknowledged that it was quite likely his medication was responsible for his mood swings and aggression. She’d check the list. If it was the medication then presumably something could be done about it. The surgeon had mentioned that if the side effects of any of his drugs became too unpleasant then they could try him on another brand.
Mitsy ventured out from under the table and Elizabeth stroked her head. ‘We’re just going to have to be patient,’ she told her. ‘It’s bound to take time.’ The dog looked up questioningly. Since Jacob had returned from hospital he’d hardly had anything to do with her; she’d stopped vying for his attention, and now kept out of his way. ‘It’s bound to take time,’ Elizabeth repeated, as much for her own benefit as the dog’s.
‘No Eloise?’ Andrew asked when he returned from visiting a parishioner on Friday evening.
‘Apparently not,’ Jacob said sarcastically, glancing at her empty chair at the table.
Elizabeth saw her husband take a breath. She knew he was about to reprimand Jacob and quickly stepped in. ‘She’s coming tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Your dinner’s ready.’
Andrew nodded and went upstairs to wash and change before eating, avoiding looking at his son. He’d been later than he expected so Elizabeth and Jacob had started dinner without him. When he returned Elizabeth pinged his plated meal in the microwave. Jacob gobbled down the last of his food and, as his father sat down, left to go to his room.
‘What have I done now?’ Andrew sighed. ‘I’ve just come in.’
‘You haven’t done anything,’ Elizabeth said, setting his plate in front of him. ‘You know how he is at present.’
‘I’m not sure I do any longer.’
She joined him at the table but didn’t resume eating until he’d said grace. ‘How was Mr Tilney?’ she asked. Andrew picked up his knife and fork.
‘Comfortable. His family are with him.’ He paused. ‘You’re definitely going to ask about adjusting Jacob’s medication at his next appointment?’
‘Yes. Monday,’ Elizabeth confirmed. She smiled encouragingly, although she’d checked the list of possible side effects and the most serious had been the increased risk of infection from the immunosuppressants. Nausea, vomiting and hair loss were mentioned, but nothing about mood swings or sudden anger.
‘So how was your day?’ Andrew asked.
‘Good. The church is ready for tomorrow. It’s looking lovely. Let’s hope the weather stays fine.’
She and a band of volunteers had spent the afternoon thoroughly polishing and dusting the church, arranging the flowers, and making sure everything was ready for the wedding that was due to take place the following morning. The wedding was causing considerable excitement in the village as the couple getting married were minor celebrities, having appeared in a long-running television soap. They weren’t locals but had chosen Maybury church for its charm and olde-worldliness, and Andrew was taking the service. It was rumoured that camera crews might be present, and the press certainly would. Most of the village would be turning out to watch.
‘Once Eloise arrives the three of us will walk over,’ Elizabeth said brightly. ‘It’ll be lovely to watch a full white wedding after everything that’s been going on. And it might give Jacob and Eloise some ideas.’ Andrew nodded and smiled, for they’d both assumed that when their son did marry, it would be in Andrew’s church. The image of Jacob completely recovered, in a new suit bought specially for his wedding, and waiting at the altar for his bride, brought a lightness to Elizabeth’s thoughts that hadn’t been there for a long while.
Jacob remained in his room for the rest of the evening, as he had been doing most evenings since returning from hospital. Aware he needed to take regular rests as part of his recovery, Elizabeth and Andrew didn’t disturb him. But at nine o’clock Elizabeth went into the kitchen where she kept his medication and transferred the pills he needed from the Dosette box into the little plastic cup as she did at regular intervals throughout the day. She poured a glass of water and carried that and the pills upstairs. She knocked on Jacob’s door and waited for his, ‘Come in,’ before entering. He was sprawled on his bed, the laptop that he now spent so much time on open on his lap.
‘How are you, love?’ she asked. Going over to him, she carefully set the glass and pills on his bedside cabinet. He grunted an acknowledgement, his gaze staying on the screen. She turned and as she did she caught sight of what he was watching. ‘Jacob!’ she said, horrified.
‘What, Mum?’ he asked, meeting her gaze confrontationally, and making no attempt to hide the screen or lower the lid. ‘Is there a problem?’
Hot, flustered, and unsure of what to say, Elizabeth backed away. ‘That’s not nice,’ she said, shocked.
He laughed unkindly. ‘Well, you don’t have to watch it, do you?’
She hurried from his room to her own, where she sat down shakily on her bed. She’d wait until she was calmer before going down to Andrew. She wouldn’t tell him, he didn’t need more upset. But what had shaken her more than actually catching Jacob watching porn was his blatant disregard for her. He hadn’t been embarrassed or ashamed. It was as though he didn’t care or have any respect for her any more, which wasn’t like the Jacob she knew, not at all.
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_fffc1223-e4ab-535c-9fd1-9bc1cc3ee994)
Jacob sat in the passenger seat next to his mother as she drove, his gaze fixed rigidly ahead and earbuds in so he didn’t have to look at or talk to her. Elizabeth was grateful she didn’t have to make conversation or try to smooth over the last confrontation with her son, for her thoughts were full of what she would say to the doctor, diplomatically, so that Jacob didn’t become upset and angry again. Their disagreement this morning had been over his wish to drive them and he was clearly still in a bad mood. True, it was only a few days until the six-week post-operation milestone – when he could drive again – but Elizabeth had erred on the side of caution and had wanted to check with the doctor first that it was all right. Jacob had exploded into anger, swearing at her and kicking a chair. Thankfully Andrew had already left the house so hadn’t witnessed this last scene.
The bad atmosphere had been building over the weekend, Elizabeth admitted as what had promised to be a pleasant few days had quickly deteriorated into one angry scene after another. When Eloise had arrived on Saturday morning she’d received a frosty, offhand reception from Jacob. Then without giving a reason he’d refused to go to watch the wedding. Andrew was already at the church so she and Eloise had gone together, but Eloise had been very quiet and seemed to take little pleasure in the ceremony, presumably worrying about Jacob. When they’d returned to the rectory, Elizabeth had left them alone in the living room, believing they could do with some time together to repair their differences while she busied herself making lunch. Half an hour later Eloise had come to find her, looking as though she might have been crying, and said she was going now as her mother wasn’t well.
‘Oh dear, I am sorry. I expect she’s got what you had,’ Elizabeth sympathized, while suspecting it might be an excuse. But what could she say? She’d asked where Jacob was and Eloise had said he’d gone up to his room for a rest. Eloise couldn’t be persuaded to stay for lunch so Elizabeth had seen her off at the door, sending her mother, whom she had yet to meet, her best wishes for a speedy recovery.
Once she’d gone Jacob had appeared and taken his lunch up to his room, which had irritated Andrew who’d just come in and had expected them all to eat together.
Then on Sunday morning Andrew had made the mistake of saying that now Jacob was quite a bit better it would be nice if he started going to church again. Elizabeth and Jacob usually went together and if Eloise was staying with them for the weekend she came too. Elizabeth had been in the adjacent room when Andrew had broached the subject with Jacob and had heard every word of their heated exchange. It had culminated in Jacob shouting, ‘He’s your God, not mine! Stuff your religion. I never believed. I hate your fucking church.’ Which simply wasn’t true. For even if Jacob hadn’t had the strength of faith his father had, he’d never minded going to church before. And as the Reverend’s son there was a certain expectation – duty, even – for him to go, although Elizabeth would be the first to admit that duty was no longer a word in Jacob’s vocabulary.
‘It’ll be better once he can get out more,’ Elizabeth had said placatingly to Andrew after Jacob had stormed off. He was clearly badly shaken.
Andrew had nodded half-heartedly, not wholly convinced. ‘Just make sure you talk to the doctor about his medication. Something has to change.’
Jacob had spent the rest of the day in his room, only coming down to eat and take his pills, which Elizabeth no longer took up to him, but set out in the kitchen, calling up to her son when it was time.
She glanced at Jacob now as she parked in the hospital car park. Expressionless and unfazed by the bad atmosphere, he was head down, selecting music on his phone. He stayed in the car while she bought a ticket from the machine and placed it in the windscreen. Then with his earbuds still in and without acknowledging her at all, he got out and fell into step beside her as they walked to the main entrance. It wasn’t until they were in the department that he took out his earbuds, but then of course it wasn’t to talk to her, but to the nurses, some of whom were young and attractive. She saw him turn on the charm and thought of Eloise. Jacob had never overtly flirted with the nurses before.
The routine was similar and they’d attended so many of these check-ups that they knew what to expect. As usual it took nearly an hour to run all the tests, monitor his heart rate and weigh him, before they were called in to see the doctor.
Dr Shah, one of the implant team who they’d seen before, sat behind his desk going through the latest test results. He glanced up and greeted them as they entered, then continued reading as they took the two chairs opposite. Jacob strummed his fingers on his knee and fiddled with the wire of his earbuds, now looped around his neck. He began tapping his foot impatiently as Elizabeth sat perfectly still, her thoughts racing with what she had to say.
‘Well, young man,’ Dr Shah said, finally looking up. ‘You’re doing very well. All your test results are good. Spot on. Let me have a look at you.’
It was the usual routine and Jacob went over to the couch so Dr Shah could examine him. He admired the scar, felt his chest, and then listened to his heart.
‘Perfect. A wonderful strong beat. I’m very pleased. It’s behaving exactly as it should. Well done.’ The examination over, Jacob returned to his seat next to his mother. Dr Shah sat behind his desk again, making a few notes, then looked at Jacob.
‘So how are you feeling in yourself? Fit and raring to go?’ He smiled.
‘Can I start driving now?’ Jacob asked.
Dr Shah consulted his notes again. ‘You’re six weeks post-op next week and everything seems to be healing nicely so I don’t see why not. As long as you’re careful and don’t overdo it. I assume we’re talking about driving a car along a road and not racing?’ He laughed at his joke and Elizabeth smiled politely.
Jacob nodded.
‘You’re starting the cardiac rehab programme next week so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drive yourself to and from your appointments if that’s what you’re thinking?’
‘Yes,’ Jacob agreed amicably.
‘Good. And no side effects from the medication? You seem to be tolerating it all well.’
‘I’m fine,’ Jacob said.
‘You may find that your new heart reacts slightly differently to your old one,’ Dr Shah said. ‘Especially when you start to exercise. That’s perfectly normal. During the transplant the nerves to the heart are cut. The medical term is denervation. They don’t grow back but that doesn’t matter. Your old heart rate was controlled by your nervous system but your new heart is controlled by adrenalin. It will make your new heart beat faster and take a little longer to slow down. Again, all perfectly normal and it won’t limit what you are able to do. The physiotherapist will talk to you more about this and show you how to warm up properly before exercise. The denervation also means that you will no longer feel chest pain related to your heart. The nerve connections that conducted pain are gone. Any chest pain you feel during activity is probably caused by the healing of your chest after surgery.’
‘I do get breathless if I exert myself,’ Jacob admitted. ‘And I seem to tire more easily.’
‘You will at this stage in your convalescence, but that isn’t because there is a problem with your heart, it’s just because you’ve been out of shape for a long time. As you exercise, your strength and stamina will improve. Another couple of months and you’ll be a new man.’ He smiled again. ‘Any more questions?’ He looked from Jacob to Elizabeth.
‘Yes, I have a question,’ Elizabeth said, steeling herself. ‘About the possible side effects of the medication.’ Jacob looked at her sharply. ‘I wonder if you could advise me?’
‘Of course,’ Dr Shah said.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. ‘My husband and I have some concerns that the drugs could be having side effects, not physical ones but more to do with temperament. I know Jacob won’t appreciate me saying this, but he can easily become irritated and frustrated, even angry.’ She was being as diplomatic as she could. ‘He was never like this before and we were wondering if his medication could have anything to do with it, and if so, whether it could be adjusted. I remember you saying there are different brands.’
Dr Shah shifted his gaze from Elizabeth to Jacob. ‘Do you feel you’re more easily irritated and angry now than you used to be?’
‘Yes. Because I’m fed up with not being able to do what I want,’ Jacob retorted.
Dr Shah was nodding. ‘Exactly my feeling.’ He returned his gaze to Elizabeth. ‘This is about the emotional effects of a long-term life-threatening illness followed by major surgery and months of convalescing. In some patients the drugs can cause physical symptoms like stomach cramps – but Jacob isn’t saying that. Let me assure you that the drugs prescribed are not responsible for any change in Jacob’s level of patience. Personally I think he is coping remarkably well.’ He smiled at Elizabeth, condescendingly she thought, before continuing. ‘Jacob is a young man, full of zest and with a vitality for life. Of course he’s going to feel a bit fed up and irritable. That’s natural, and it will improve and go with time, I’m sure.’ Then to Jacob he said, ‘You’re not feeling depressed are you? If so, I can give you something for that.’
Not more pills, Elizabeth thought, but Jacob was shaking his head. ‘No, I’m not depressed,’ he confirmed.
‘Good,’ Dr Shah said. ‘I think it would help if you start regaining your independence as long as you don’t overdo it. So by all means start driving again. Another month or so and you’ll be back to your old self – indeed fitter with your new heart. Then we can start talking about you returning to work.’
‘Fantastic,’ Jacob said.
‘And, as your mother has brought up the subject of changes in personality,’ Dr Shah continued, ‘you can disregard all that stuff and nonsense you read from time to time in the tabloid press about transplant patients taking on some of the likes and dislikes of the donor. It’s fanciful nonsense that sells newspapers, nothing more. The heart is an organ like any other. It pumps blood around the body. And although we attribute emotion to the heart – Valentine cards and the like – you can’t transplant personality or emotion.’ He laughed at the ludicrousness of the suggestion. Elizabeth smiled weakly and felt a complete fool. Jacob smirked. He was enjoying this, she thought, although he didn’t say anything until they’d left the consulting room.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he sneered as they walked quickly down the corridor together. ‘You and Dad need to get off my case.’ He strode away from her and Elizabeth had to run to catch up with him.
‘Jacob, we’re only concerned for you.’
‘Well, don’t be! Go and smother someone else. I don’t need all your concern, it’s suffocating.’ A passer-by glanced at them.
She followed him through the revolving door out of the hospital. He stopped. ‘I’ve got some things to do in town. I’ll see you later,’ he said, and headed off in the opposite direction to the car.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, horrified. She ran a few steps to catch up with him. ‘You’re not well enough to be out by yourself.’
He stopped dead. ‘Yes I am. You heard what the doctor said. I need to regain my independence. And where I’m going is none of your business.’ He set off again.
‘But how will you get home?’ she called after him. ‘Shall I wait for you here?’
‘No! For Christ’s sake, no!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘I’ll use the buses like everyone else.’ He continued along the pavement towards the main road.
It crossed her mind to run after him but what good would that do? It was likely to make him more angry and she couldn’t physically stop him from going. She wished she could pick him up, put him in the car and take him home as if he were a child. Perhaps she was being overprotective, although she was sure the doctor hadn’t meant this when he’d said he could start regaining his independence by driving a little. Fearing for his safety, she returned to the car to call Andrew for advice. He’d know what to do.
Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_18f32629-3c15-5966-b064-931f7acd3173)
‘He’s a silly boy,’ Andrew said. ‘What’s he trying to prove?’
‘That he can manage alone and be independent, I suppose,’ Elizabeth offered. ‘But he gets so angry with me. It’s frightening.’ She had yet to tell Andrew what Dr Shah had said about the side effects of the medication having nothing to do with Jacob’s behaviour.
‘I suppose it might do him some good,’ Andrew said reflectively. ‘Make him realize he’s not invincible and he needs us. Try not to worry, I’m sure he’ll phone you soon.’
‘Do you think so?’ Elizabeth asked uncertainly. ‘I am worried.’
‘Once he needs a lift home, he’ll phone. I can’t see him using the buses. It will be an uncomfortably long journey.’
‘I’ll wait around here for a while then,’ she said, only partly reassured.
The ticket had an hour to run and Elizabeth sat in the car with her side window slightly lowered to let in some fresh air, resisting the urge to phone Jacob. She was also thinking about what Dr Shah had said. Not so much about Jacob needing his independence, nor him telling her that the medication wasn’t responsible for Jacob’s behaviour, but what he’d said about cutting the nerves to Jacob’s heart, and that they’d never grow back. She couldn’t remember being told that before the operation but then there’d been so much to take in it might have been mentioned and she’d forgotten. Now his words stuck and resonated with unsettling familiarity, for that was exactly what if felt like to her – the nerves to Jacob’s heart had been cut, severing emotion. Denervation, Dr Shah had called it. He’d said that it was nothing to worry about, part of the procedure, and had no negative after-effects. But how could he be sure? Doctors didn’t know everything. They didn’t get it right all the time. She checked her phone for messages – there were none – and then googled denervation.
A surprisingly long list of websites offering information on denervation appeared and opening the first, she quickly learned that radio-frequency denervation was most commonly used to treat chronic back pain. The nerves around the joints in the back were deactivated, thus alleviating the symptoms. But this wasn’t the denervation Jacob had had and she googled again, this time typing in denervation and heart transplants
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Lisa Stone
A gripping new crime novel from the global bestseller Cathy Glass writing as Lisa StoneYou know your son better than anyone. Don’t you?When critically ill Jacob Wilson is given a life-saving heart transplant, his parents are relieved that their loving son has been saved.However, before long, his family are forced to accept that something has changed in Jacob. Their once loving son is slowly being replaced by a violent man whose mood swings leave them terrified – but is it their fault?Jacob’s girlfriend, Rosie, is convinced the man she loves is suffering from stress. But when his moods turn on her, she begins to doubt herself – and she can only hide the bruises for so long.When a terrible crime is committed, Jacob’s family are forced to confront their darkest fears. Has the boy they raised become a monster? Or is someone else to blame?This is a spellbinding crime novel with a dark heart from the worldwide bestseller Cathy Glass, writing as Lisa Stone.
THE DARKNESS WITHIN
Lisa Stone
Copyright (#u3ddc7362-29b7-5a81-afc0-00a70a504f6b)
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © Lisa Stone 2017
Lisa Stone asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008236694
Ebook Edition © March 2017 ISBN: 9780008236700
Version: 2018-10-30
Contents
Cover (#ub5170fbc-476a-52b2-bc5f-25629cf49ad9)
Title Page (#u2c53e733-6c76-535b-90de-eee971038ad0)
Copyright
Chapter One (#uef86ba6b-9c9d-52c9-a2e0-753928baba8c)
Chapter Two (#ueca080da-c21c-5982-90ea-ec3dad32fdf6)
Chapter Three (#ua703b8de-64f3-5c1a-a9f3-d5b72a7591a8)
Chapter Four (#ua15e0ebe-eaf4-5686-abc8-af1f133cbaf7)
Chapter Five (#ud27aeca9-ed8e-5998-a6b3-d47e33adff71)
Chapter Six (#u52f4e73d-a800-5185-9b9c-1e51246892a5)
Chapter Seven (#u5494b00a-376c-5a3d-97b5-9a9b534af6c8)
Chapter Eight (#u76573197-b459-5748-9c66-ecfc93738cd2)
Chapter Nine (#ud5dccc2c-f4c2-52d4-a067-aeae74d29ac7)
Chapter Ten (#u28eabf3a-850a-548b-9ac1-c3b3f8be7b95)
Chapter Eleven (#u9d319dfe-ce3d-51fb-a164-ade2c0b48523)
Chapter Twelve (#u8fe47792-a05a-5bc0-9489-fb9a6e9f5a54)
Chapter Thirteen (#u66a5518e-9435-5f79-a188-393d538e37d8)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s note (#litres_trial_promo)
Suggested topics for reading group discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Cathy Glass Books (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_fc9ca961-a5c9-5953-8398-0bee037095ae)
It was always worse when he’d had a beer or two. That Feeling. Hot, urgent and raw, tearing through him. Making him restless, argumentative. Angry. It was as though something or someone took control of him, forcing him to act badly, to be nasty and cruel. It happened when someone had a go at him, took the piss or said something he didn’t like.
The feeling was there at other times too, Shane had to admit, but it was worse when he’d had a drink. It didn’t take much; just a few beers. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but it lowered his guard enough to allow his anger to come to the surface.
It was because of his childhood, Rosie said. They’d moved in together four months ago, and on the whole she was sympathetic. In some respects, she was too understanding for her own good. She was a good person and he liked her, even told her he loved her when she asked. But why didn’t she realize that the kinder and more understanding she became, the easier it was for him to overstep the mark?
It almost incited him to do it. Yet she continued to be understanding despite what he did to her: hitting her, making her scream, cry out and beg for mercy. Afterwards he knew that it wasn’t the gentlemanly way to act, but when he was angry and out of control he didn’t care a fuck for the gentlemanly way.
Anger, resentment, the feeling that he wasn’t good enough brewed together in an unwholesome concoction and made him act as he did. He sensed that others felt he was inferior to them; that he was uneducated, stupid, and fair game to laugh at. That was the worst feeling – that they were laughing at him, especially when it was someone he knew taking the piss. It made him so angry that he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. This had got him into trouble many times and then recently he’d smashed a bottle and glassed his best mate, Kevin, which had put him in prison. They’d been drinking and telling jokes and Kevin had told one which he hadn’t immediately grasped. Kevin had laughed and called him a dickhead. The others had laughed too, which didn’t help, but he expected more from Kevin, being his best mate. Then before he realized what he was doing he’d smashed the top off a bottle and had ground it in Kevin’s face.
He looked at Rosie now, cowering in the corner of the bedroom, the one that was theirs since he’d moved in. Why she’d let him move in he wasn’t sure, but he was pleased she had. It was kind of her, but then Rosie was kind. He could admit that even now when she’d got on his nerves and made him hit her. Had she been a horrible bitch, a slag, like his mother, he could have better justified hitting her. He’d gone to his mother’s house first on his release from prison but she hadn’t wanted him. No surprise there; she’d never wanted him, not even as a baby. The shrink he’d seen in prison had said his mother could be part of his problem – his anger stemmed from her lack of nurturing and ultimate rejection of him. But it couldn’t be helped. No one was perfect; not his mother or even Rosie for all her kindness and forgiveness.
The bedroom had been decorated in pale pink when he’d first moved in. ‘Yuck,’ he’d said to her when he’d first seen it, and she’d laughed.
‘Jesus!’ he’d exclaimed as he’d looked at her collection of china dolls in period costumes arranged on a small satin-covered chair. ‘Dolls in my bedroom! What do you take me for? A nancy boy?’
He’d told her the dolls would have to go, but she hadn’t understood to begin with because they were still there for another two days. Then he’d got angry that she hadn’t done as he’d told her and he’d thrown the dolls and the chair across the room.
He might even have thrown Rosie, but he wasn’t sure. He’d been in a really bad temper at the time. What normal bloke has dolls in his bedroom? He’d asked her nicely to remove them, and he’d had a couple of beers that night when he’d hit her so he couldn’t be held entirely responsible for his actions. Perhaps on another day when he’d been in a better mood he might simply have asked her again to remove them. In any event, the dolls and the frilly chair had gone, together with the flowery duvet cover and the matching pillowcases. She’d heard him the first time when he’d told her to get rid of those, and together they’d chosen plain white.
He liked white, it was pure and virginal, which made him feel good and think happy thoughts. The only problem with white – as it turned out – was that it showed every mark, and the bloodstains never completely disappeared. Even when Rosie scrubbed the stains over and over again and used bleach, the blood spots greyed but were still faintly visible. Once white was damaged it was spoiled for ever.
Now he saw her gaze shift to the fresh spots of blood on the duvet cover. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘It’ll wash out.’
‘No, it won’t,’ he said. ‘You’ve ruined it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. Seeing her cowering in the corner, apologizing with her face covered with blood, reignited his anger. He felt nearly as hot and uncomfortable as when he’d discovered that all the beer had gone from the fridge. He’d only had a few bottles and had been expecting to find more. It was a Saturday night for fuck’s sake, and if a bloke couldn’t have a few drinks on a Saturday, what was the world coming to?
It was Rosie’s job to shop, to buy what they needed and restock what they were low on. But she hadn’t bought more beer or vodka because of some silly discussion they’d had after the last time he’d hit her about him drinking less. He couldn’t remember agreeing to that, it seemed highly unlikely, so he’d been bitterly disappointed at the lack of alcohol. He’d been anticipating a pleasant Saturday evening in with Rosie – a few beers, a takeaway, and then sex. He liked having sex with Rosie but she’d ruined it all. When he asked where the beer and vodka were she reminded him of his promise. It was the wrong thing to say; his disappointment had exploded into anger and he’d hit her. He hadn’t meant to split her lip and send splatters of blood across the white duvet cover. It had just happened.
He appreciated that she wanted space now. After they’d argued and he’d hit her she usually needed time alone to wash her face, clean up the flat and change her clothes, so that when he returned all evidence of their disagreement had gone. She would cover the bruising on her face with make-up and all traces of blood would vanish. He didn’t like any reminders of what he’d done.
‘We’re out of beer,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and buy some. Do you want anything?’ He was feeling a bit better now.
She shook her head.
‘OK. Won’t be long,’ he said jovially and left.
Chapter Two (#ulink_c974d3ac-2283-5aae-95d1-83dd90af545d)
‘Fuck! It’s raining,’ Shane said as he stepped out of the block of flats. He didn’t like the rain. Getting wet reminded him of when his mother had left him for a whole night in a bath of cold water, because he’d said something bad.
Rosie’s car was parked by the kerb. It was their car now. He used it whenever he wished. She’d given him the keys to the car and her flat when he’d come out of prison and moved in. She was good like that, he had to admit. He really shouldn’t have hit her so hard, but he’d make it up to her. He’d buy her some of her favourite chocolate, he decided as he opened the car door and tucked himself in. That would please her and make it OK. Arguments upset him and reminded him of his childhood, so a few beers for him and some chocolate for her and their evening would be back on track.
As he started the car and then switched on the windscreen wipers, he briefly wondered if he might be over the legal drink-drive limit. He’d had three premium-strength beers. Was that enough to do it? He doubted it. But just to be on the safe side he wouldn’t drive into town, he’d go to the hypermarket instead, which was along a less-used route. The police wouldn’t be patrolling out there, stopping and randomly breathalyzing motorists; they’d have more pressing matters to attend to in town on a Saturday night. It was a bit further to drive but better to be safe than sorry. He didn’t want another spell in prison. He’d already spent too much time inside and wasn’t going back there any time soon, not now his life was good and things were looking up. He liked living with Rosie in her nice flat and driving her car. It made him feel normal, someone, like others he knew. That was one of the reasons he hadn’t told her he’d already lost his licence for driving while under the influence of drugs and alcohol. He wanted to be able to hold his head proud, and then perhaps his mother would be proud of him too.
The only fly in the ointment was the age and model of Rosie’s car. It was old and small. He was a big chap and had to stoop to get in, and he could never get the driver’s seat comfortable. His head nearly touched the roof. It was a car designed for a woman or the elderly, not a man. To feel really proud a bloke needed a new car that reflected him – big and powerful – and a dark colour, not light blue. This wasn’t at all good for his image. He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful but it just wasn’t right for him, and the car was well past its use-by date. Not that Rosie minded. She loved her car, treasured it, and when he’d told her they should buy a new one, she’d said she couldn’t afford it, which had niggled him. Surely having a decent powerful car was a priority, but he supposed that was women for you. They’d rather buy clothes or a handbag. But he’d work on her and persuade her. She’d see he was right in the end.
At least the engine wasn’t completely fucked, he thought as he accelerated. She still had some power in her, probably because she hadn’t done many miles. It took her a while to get up to speed but with his foot firmly down, she understood and responded. He did this a lot when he was alone in the car – pushed her to the limit. Once he’d done it with Rosie in the passenger seat, when he’d dropped her off at work. He’d put his foot down hard, making the tyres screech and the engine squeal, and the car hadn’t been the only one to protest! ‘Treat Betsy kindly, she’s getting old,’ Rosie had said. He’d laughed scornfully. Betsy! He referred to cars as ‘she’ but to give it a name was pathetic.
He’d laughed loudly, perhaps a bit harshly, but had eased his foot off the throttle. Not so much from any desire to treat Betsy kindly – cars, like women, needed to be worked – but because he’d been doing seventy in a thirty and there was a speed camera ahead. So he’d slowed to the limit. If he was caught on camera, they’d discover he was banned from driving, and that would ruin everything.
After that he never thrashed Betsy in the town or where there was any chance of being caught. He drove steadily, within the speed limit, and while not exactly courteous to other road users he made sure he kept his rage under control and didn’t draw attention to himself by getting out and thumping anyone.
Thankfully there was no need for all that polite constraint nonsense now. The road he was on didn’t have speed cameras so he could thrash Betsy to bits if he wished. And Rosie wasn’t with him to protest so everyone was happy. It gave him pleasure, a thrill; the ultimate blow job as she sucked up the road. He’d done it before on this stretch when he’d been alone. Race her, press her to the limit and see what she could do. He was a racing-car driver, the best in his field, zooming around the track. A Formula One driver leading the way and well ahead of the others in the Grand Prix. He could picture it, see the crowds waving and cheering, the look of admiration on their faces as he flashed past, skilfully taking another bend with the minimum drop in speed, the smallest deceleration required to keep him on the track and in the lead. You couldn’t let up if you wanted to stay ahead of the rest. Sometimes he swerved to avoid an oncoming car. Idiots! Didn’t they know he was in the race? The number one leader. Admired, respected and revered by men and women alike.
He swerved again, narrowly missing another oncoming car. ‘Get out the fucking way, you prick,’ he yelled, sounding his horn, and cursing their existence for slowing him up.
The road was poorly lit and the rain didn’t help; driving on full beam, he was still forced to slow to take the next bend, which was a bummer. He really would have to talk to Rosie again about getting a new car, with better roadholding. He would explain that the new models were safer as they were lower and gripped the road better. Safer for them both to drive. That was the way to tackle it – women appreciated and understood talk of safety, not powerful engines. He felt very clever for having thought of the best way to approach Rosie about the idea. Perceptive, intuitive, that’s what he was, and it made him feel smart and proud.
The windscreen wipers continued their relentless journey back and forth as he pictured himself in his new car. A black one, large, big wheels, with presence and a hint of mystery. He would have liked blacked-out windows but they were illegal now, so he’d have to settle for the darkest tint that was available. Yes, he could see himself at the wheel of that large powerful black car. He’d start visiting garages on Monday while Rosie was at work and test-drive what he liked the look of. The salesman would be so grateful when he showed interest in a decent car and then struck a deal.
Headlights came towards him. What the fuck! Was someone trying to overtake? No – it was a wide vehicle, he realized too late as he slammed on the brakes and pulled the wheel hard left to try to get out of its way. A delivery lorry. A fucking delivery lorry! He felt the whiplash in his neck at the exact moment he heard the crunch of metal and the sound of shattering glass. In a split second, almost simultaneously, the wipers stilled, his headlights went out and he felt as though he was flying through the air, up and over and then down.
‘Fuck!’ he cried as the car landed on its roof and the pain shot through him. ‘Fuck you!’ Then his world went very dark and silent as he blacked out.
Chapter Three (#ulink_a396f62e-67ec-57d9-9847-0936e5018ff3)
The lorry came to an abrupt halt, stopping as quickly as it could on the wet road. ‘Jesus!’ the driver exclaimed, his heart racing. He felt hot and cold at once. There was no way he could have avoided him. The other bloke was driving like a madman. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself.
He had broken out in a sweat and his hands shook as he cut the engine. ‘Jesus,’ he said again, and opened the cab door to survey the damage. ‘I hope the silly bugger’s all right.’
His legs felt unsteady as he climbed out and then stood in the rain and examined the damage to the offside wing of his lorry. It wasn’t much but that didn’t mean the car had escaped as lightly. The lorry was far more robust and built of stronger stuff. He looked down the road to where he’d hit the car, or rather it had hit him. There was a significant difference – he wasn’t responsible for the impact. But there was nothing to be seen on the dark and wet road, apart from something that could have been glass glinting in the light of his headlamps. There was no sign of the vehicle.
A car came towards him from the opposite direction. It was going slowly, the driver proceeding with caution, just as one should on this narrow slippery road. It came to a halt and he went over. The woman driving peered at him through her window and then lowered it a little.
‘Have you broken down?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ve been involved in an accident. Just now,’ he said anxiously, nodding down the road to where it had happened.
‘Are you OK?’.
‘A bit shaken,’ he admitted. ‘He was driving like a maniac.’
‘Not that small Fiat?’
‘It might have been.’
‘It overtook me back there. Blaring its horn, flashing its lights. I’m not surprised it’s been involved in an accident. He nearly killed me.’
The lorry driver began to feel a little better knowing that someone else had been subjected to the driver’s dangerous manoeuvres. ‘I’ve no idea where the car is now,’ he said, frowning. ‘There’s some damage to my lorry but I can’t see the car. I’m going to fetch my torch from the cab and take a look.’
‘Perhaps he’s driven off?’ the woman suggested, opening her car door.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. But he doubted it, not from the strength of the impact. And if he wasn’t mistaken he thought he might have caught sight of the car in his wing mirror just after it had hit him, spiralling towards the edge of the road. He couldn’t be sure though, since it had all happened so quickly and in the dark and the rain.
Without being asked, the woman got out and offered to help him look. He thanked her and she switched on her hazard warning lights, pulled up the hood on her coat, and went with him to his lorry. He took his torch and anorak from the cab and slipped on his jacket. With the torch held in front he led the way past the lorry in the direction the car had been going. Further up the road they came across a pile of broken glass and a piece of chrome almost certainly from a car’s bumper. But there was no sign of the car. He swept the torch around, scanning as far as the beam fell, left, right and in front. A car came from the direction of the hypermarket, slowed and pulled over. Lowering his window, the driver asked. ‘What’s up? You OK, mate?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ he said. ‘Did you pass a small car just now? Possibly a Fiat?’
‘No,’ the man said, and glanced at the woman seated beside him. She shook her head.
‘I think it could be in the ditch,’ the lorry driver said.
The man immediately got out and joined in their search, while his wife stayed in the car. The torch beam shone brightly into the dark, sweeping through the drizzle to the bare trees and grassy banks which flanked the ditches either side of the road. The three of them moved forward in silence, watching and listening, the air quiet, save for the sound of their shoes on the tarmac and the rain dripping from the trees. Then, further up the road, the beam fell on the outline of something more solid, something partially raised and sticking out above the ditch.
‘Over there!’ the lorry driver cried, and the three of them ran to the spot.
‘Jesus!’ he gasped.
‘Bloody hell,’ the man said.
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ the woman said, taking out her phone.
The car was completely upside down in the ditch, fitting in so exactly it was almost as if it had been made for it. The doors and windows were compacted against the sides of the bank; only the underneath of the car and the bottom of the doors were visible. It was as though the car had been turned upside down and then dropped in directly from above to fit in so precisely, the lorry driver thought. And in a way it had, for the impact had flipped it over and sent it flying to land squarely in the ditch.
‘There’s no way we can get into that,’ the man said, and the lorry driver nodded.
As the woman spoke on her phone, giving details of their location to the emergency services, the man from the car began knocking on the metal of the upturned car and calling, ‘Anyone in there? Can you hear me?’
But there was no reply.
‘I suppose he could have been thrown clear,’ the lorry driver said.
‘It’s possible,’ the man from the car agreed. Together they began walking slowly up the road, peering where the torch beam shone – on either side of the road, into the ditches and up the bank, but there was no sign of anybody, dead or alive.
Other vehicles began joining the slow-moving queues forming in both directions from the hypermarket. Some of the drivers wound down their windows and asked what had happened, and, their curiosity satisfied, continued around the lorry and parked cars, driving over the glass which crackled like ice. The two men, having found nothing, returned to the woman, who said the emergency services were on their way. The men began tapping on the metal of the upturned car, calling out, ‘Anyone in there? Help is coming.’ Just for a moment they thought they might have heard something, possibly a groan, but then another car passed and sirens sounded in the distance, after which they heard nothing further from the wrecked vehicle.
Police, ambulance, and fire tenders arrived within minutes of each other and the officers immediately took control. The police closed off the road in both directions and rerouted the traffic. Portable spot lamps flooded the scene and the fire crew quickly established that there was one male in the vehicle, then set about cutting him free. Sparks flew as they worked and the man and the woman who’d stopped to help told the officers what they knew, which wasn’t a lot as neither had actually witnessed the accident. However, the woman did tell them about the driver who’d overtaken her on a blind bend, and the police officer included it in his notes. Once she and the man had given their statements and contact details, they were allowed to leave.
The lorry driver meanwhile was in a patrol car giving his statement. The police had already completed an initial safety check of his lorry and had found nothing untoward. They’d also looked at his driving licence and insurance, breathalyzed him, and checked his mobile phone, all of which they said was now standard practice at the scene of a road traffic accident. Everything had been in order and the last call he’d made had been before he’d left the hypermarket. As he finished making his statement, they saw the fire crew finally cut the driver free from the now backless car. They laid him on the waiting stretcher where the paramedics took over. An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose and a line ran from his arm to a bottle held up by one of the paramedics. As they prepared to load the stretcher into the ambulance, the lorry driver turned to the officer beside him and asked, ‘Do you think you could find out how he is?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied helpfully.
The driver watched through the windscreen as the officer went over and spoke to two of his colleagues. It had stopped raining now but a damp mist hung over the scene. They talked and nodded and at one point smiled. The ambulance sped away, its siren wailing and light flashing.
‘He’s got a broken leg and arm and a head injury,’ the officer said on his return. ‘They’ll know more once he’s at the hospital, but it seems he’s lucky to be alive.’ He paused, then added, ‘He’s known to us. He’s already lost his licence and there’s alcohol in his blood.’
The lorry driver let out a sigh of relief. He was very sorry that the accident had happened at all, but it could have been a lot worse. Supposing there’d been a seriously injured woman or child in the car – or even someone killed? He’d never have forgiven himself.
Chapter Four (#ulink_291b20be-34f6-5834-b269-b58dd49dae3c)
Rosie had almost stopped shaking now. She’d had to force herself to appear calm. Shane would be back at any moment – indeed she had expected him sooner – and he hated to see her crying and trembling. She looked silly, pathetic, he always said, like a scared-shitless rabbit. It reignited his anger if he saw her in a state.
‘Surely you’re not scared of me!’ he would say, and she’d tell him she wasn’t, trying to keep her voice steady to belie how frightened she truly was. Of course she wasn’t scared of him. She loved him. While this was true some of the time, those moments were now few and far between. Even when she wasn’t in fear of him she was on her guard, walking on eggshells, constantly making sure she didn’t upset or disappoint him. It was hard work keeping him happy and the strain was taking its toll, so much so that she wasn’t sure what was worse: being attacked or anticipating it. Life was so confusing now, especially when he apologized and told her how much he loved her and that it would never happen again.
When did her life become this difficult? She knew the answer. A week after he moved in.
Rosie had wiped the blood from her face and cleaned the vomit from the floor, scrubbing the carpet with disinfectant until the smell of sick had gone. She often vomited after he attacked her; she thought it was from shock and the pain of being punched in the stomach. She never used to be sick – not before. She’d been very healthy and happy back then, before he’d moved in. But now even thinking about his anger and what he might do to her caused her stomach to contract and the bile to rise to her throat.
Shane liked everything to be back to normal with no trace of ‘their fight’ when he returned, so she’d also changed out of her blood- and vomit-splashed clothes. They were in the washing machine. The duvet cover would go in once the first load had finished, and she’d already put a fresh cover on the bed. The only sign of their fight now was her swollen lip. She’d managed to stop the bleeding by pressing a wet tissue on the cut, and make-up had covered the redness and bruising around her mouth and on her cheek, but it couldn’t hide the swelling. In fact, if anything, it accentuated it.
Had she really deserved the beating? she wondered as she examined her face again in the bathroom mirror. Was it really always her fault? Did she provoke him beyond reason as he accused her of doing? She honestly didn’t know. So much of her life had changed in the last six months that she barely recognized herself any more. Work colleagues and her mother had noticed the change in her too and had commented. Her mother, aware of Shane’s past, had never liked him and refused to have him in her house, saying he was a ‘bad lot’ and that a leopard never changed its spots. Her friends, even her best friend Eva at work, had never met Shane because she no longer went out socially. Shane didn’t like it. Rosie wished she could have confided in Eva or her mother. They might have been able to offer a fresh perspective and make some suggestions on how to help, but she knew that was out of the question. Shane had told her plenty of times that if she went blubbering to anyone he’d have to kill her, and she believed him.
The doorbell rang, making her start. Shane? Why didn’t he use his key? Had he lost it? Quickly checking her appearance in the mirror again she glanced around the living room, making sure everything was back to normal, then gingerly went into the hall and opened the front door. Two uniformed police officers stood side by side.
‘Rosie Jones?’ the woman police officer asked.
Rosie nodded, a sinking feeling hitting the pit of her stomach. Shane had promised to keep out of trouble.
‘I’m PC Linda Simpson and this is my colleague PC Tim Marshall. I believe you own a car with the registration number BA06 FYS?’
Rosie’s mouth went dry and her legs began to tremble. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. May we come in?’
Rosie stared at them, not fully understanding. She’d been expecting Shane and now this? ‘What sort of accident?’
‘I think it would be better if we came in to explain,’ Linda said.
Rosie moved aside to let them in.
‘In here?’ the policewoman asked, nodding to the living room.
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, and followed them in.
She sat on the sofa and Linda sat beside her, while Tim took the single armchair: Shane’s chair. She saw them glancing around. Were they looking for something? Her lip began throbbing.
‘Your car was involved in an accident earlier tonight along Bells Lane,’ Linda said, turning slightly so she could look at Rosie. ‘A person called Shane Smith was driving. Do you know him?’
Rosie nodded. ‘He’s my boyfriend. He lives here.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s injured and is being treated at St Mary’s Hospital,’ Linda continued. ‘He has a nasty head injury but it isn’t thought to be life-threatening, so he’s been quite lucky considering the state of the car. You’ll be able to find out how he is later.’ Rosie nodded. ‘You knew Shane was driving your car? You gave him permission to do so?’
‘Yes,’ Rosie said, her voice unsteady. ‘He has a key.’
Linda touched her arm, concerned. ‘Are you OK, love? You’re very pale. Can I get you a drink of water?’
‘No, I’ll be all right.’
‘He’s been well looked after,’ Linda reassured her. ‘But I’m afraid the car’s a write-off. He seems to have escaped with some broken bones and a head injury, but it could have been a lot worse. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’
‘No,’ Rosie said. PC Tim Marshall took out his notepad and pen.
‘How long have you known Shane?’
‘Not long. He went to my school for a while.’ Rosie tried to keep her voice steady. ‘But I hadn’t seen him for years.’
‘And how long has he been living here?’
‘Four months.’
‘So you hadn’t been in touch with him before you became a couple and moved in together?’
‘No,’ Rosie confirmed. ‘I met him by chance and he had nowhere to live.’
‘Where was he before he came here, do you know?’ Linda looked at her carefully.
‘He was in prison, for something he didn’t do,’ Rosie said, and saw the look the police exchanged. Her cheeks burned.
‘So he came straight here then after his release?’ Linda asked.
‘He went to his mother’s first but she didn’t want him there.’
Linda nodded. ‘Did he tell you why he was in prison?’
‘No. He didn’t like talking about it. He wanted to put it behind him and make a fresh start.’
‘It was for GBH – grievous bodily harm. Were you aware he’d lost his driving licence for drink-driving offences? Shane wasn’t allowed to drive.’
‘Oh,’ Rosie said, genuinely shocked. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘To allow someone to drive your vehicle if they are banned is a criminal offence,’ Tim added.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ Rosie said again. ‘I put him on my insurance,’ she added, hoping this would make it better.
‘Driving while banned invalidates any insurance I’m afraid,’ Linda said. ‘They won’t be paying for your car.’
Rosie looked at her. ‘Will they keep Shane in hospital tonight?’ she asked.
‘For quite a few nights,’ Tim said, glancing up from writing. ‘He had to be cut from the wreckage.’
‘Thank you,’ Rosie said politely.
She saw them exchange another pointed glance and realized it wasn’t the reaction they would have expected, but she was a bit overwhelmed at present and struggling to take everything in.
‘That’s a nasty cut on your lip,’ Linda said.
‘I fell,’ Rosie said, her hand going nervously to her mouth.
‘Tonight?’ Linda asked.
‘Yes.’
Linda held her gaze. ‘Look love, I’ll be honest with you. Shane broke the terms of his probation by not informing his probation officer where he was living. Added to which, he was driving while banned, over the legal limit of alcohol in his blood and in a manner likely to cause harm to other road users. As soon as he’s out of hospital he’ll be returning to prison.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Rosie said. ‘I didn’t realize.’
‘No. I take it he didn’t involve you in his criminal activities? He hasn’t been arriving home with expensive items, for example? Items he can’t provide receipts for?’
‘No, not as far as I know. You can have a look around if you like.’
‘Thank you.’ Tim was already on his feet.
‘So Shane won’t be home tonight?’ she asked, still trying to come to terms with it.
‘No. You can phone the hospital now if you want and see how he is.’
‘I will,’ Rosie said. ‘After you’ve had a look around.’
She watched as Linda joined Tim and they went first into the bedroom. The flat was only small and Rosie could hear them moving across the floorboards, opening and closing the wardrobe doors, and then the drawers. There was nothing to see in there apart from the wet patch on the carpet smelling of disinfectant. She’d no idea what they were searching for and frankly she didn’t care. Shane wasn’t coming home tonight and she was starting to feel relieved. They came out of the bedroom and searched the bathroom and then had to pass through the living room to enter the kitchen. She heard them open and close the cupboard doors.
‘You’re very good doing your washing on a Saturday evening,’ Linda called.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly.
She heard the stainless-steel bin ping as one of the officers opened and closed it. They would have seen the bloody tissues she’d used to wipe her bleeding nose and mouth. And very likely the duvet cover in the laundry basket waiting to go in the wash. They came out and Linda returned to sit beside her while Tim remained standing.
‘Is there anything you want to tell us about Shane?’ Linda asked, encouraging confidentiality.
Rosie shook her head. Linda looked at her for a moment longer then sighed.
‘OK, love. I’m going to give you the number for the Domestic Violence Unit anyway,’ she said, taking a card from her pocket and handing it to her. ‘You can just phone for a chat if you wish. You don’t have to give your name.’
Rosie gave a small nod but didn’t look at the card.
‘We’ll leave you to it then. Phone us if you need to. We can see ourselves out.’
Rosie stayed where she was as they left. She was still struggling to come to terms with what had happened and wondering what she should do for the best. Phone her mother? Phone the hospital? Speak to the Domestic Violence Unit, or change the locks? Possibly all of them, but in which order? Suddenly her life had changed in a way she could never have foreseen, and while she was sorry Shane had had an accident it had opened up an escape route. A huge weight lifted from her shoulders. There were decisions to be made and opportunities to be taken, and a light now shone at the end of what had been a very dark tunnel. She needed to galvanize herself into action. The washing machine bleeped as it finished its cycle and she stood to unload it. Once she’d sorted out the washing she’d start packing Shane’s belongings. And although she wasn’t a religious person, she said a silent thank-you to someone out there, grateful that she had been given this chance.
Chapter Five (#ulink_26f7cb59-40dc-56f8-9633-01bc917298f0)
The Reverend Andrew Wilson was going about his normal early-morning duties. He’d let Mitsy, their old Labrador, out for a run, had taken his wife and son up a cup of tea and now set out across the Maybury village green to unlock his eighteenth-century church, St Stephen’s. Mitsy had followed him as usual, circling playfully at his feet, despite her age. Dressed casually but wearing his clerical collar he walked swiftly across the damp grass, still wet from the rain of the night before. At 8 a.m. on a weekday he didn’t expect to see many of the villagers out; the commuters had already left for the station in the neighbouring town, so he tended to see the same few faces: the milkman who also delivered groceries, the paperboy finishing his round before going to college, and two dog-walkers. They all greeted him as usual with a warm, pleasant but slightly formal, ‘Good morning, Reverend,’ and he replied using their first names. He knew most of the villagers in his parish by name and he liked the village way of life. His previous parish had been in a deprived inner city which he’d initially believed was his calling. He’d done his best for five years and then asked to be moved, saying he felt he could no longer meet the challenges with everything else that was going on in his life. The bishop had been very understanding, and three months later he and his family had arrived here.
Unlocking the outer door, Andrew left Mitsy sitting obediently in the vestibule as he unlocked the second door and went into the main body of the church. He savoured the welcoming aroma of well-oiled oak, candle smoke, and the slightly musky damp of the solid stone walls. It was reassuring and comforting; a reminder of age and endurance. The church had stood here for nearly 300 years and would remain long after he had left this earth. That he was merely passing through and part of a bigger plan helped nudge his considerable worries into a slightly better perspective.
Facing the altar, he stood at the end of the aisle and crossed himself, then went to a box on the wall and switched on the lights and heating. Mrs Tremain, much-respected chairperson of the parish council, would arrive punctually at nine o’clock as she did most mornings to say a prayer in memory of her dear departed husband, and she didn’t like to be cold. Then at ten o’clock his darling wife, Liz, would lead the Bible study class while he went about his many duties in the parish. He would return to lock the church at nightfall as he did every evening apart from Sunday when he held Evensong. It was a pity the church couldn’t remain open twenty-four hours as it had in previous times – offering shelter and warmth to the needy – but vandals and thieves had put a stop to that some years before when they’d stolen the silver candlesticks from the altar and smashed a stained-glass window.
Andrew went up the aisle to the little altar with its white cloths, simple wooden cross, Bible, and candles in steel holders. Lowering his head he began his usual silent prayers, thanking the Lord for all that He had blessed them with, remembering those less fortunate and those living in famine and war-torn countries. He asked for guidance to make decisions wisely, and then mentioned by name parishioners who needed some extra help: Mr and Mrs James, whose son had been injured while serving in the army abroad; Mrs King’s husband, who was recovering from stomach surgery; Mr and Mrs Watson, who had just moved into a nursing home and whom he would visit later that afternoon; and last but not least his own son, Jacob. He always felt slightly uncomfortable, almost guilty, asking for help for his own, but he was sure the good Lord understood why it had become absolutely necessary. He wouldn’t have asked had it not been essential. Forgive me Lord for asking again but if it is your will … He struggled now; his prayer needed to be answered even if it wasn’t the Lord’s will. He was desperate and his wife was desperate too, and if he was honest they were both struggling with their faith, as they were being tested as never before. When life went well it was easy to have faith, he acknowledged, but when it went badly, really badly, and you stood to lose your only child, it was surely enough to shake the faith of even the most devout and ardent of believers?
‘Please don’t test me further in this way,’ he said as part of his prayers. ‘Anything but this. Not my son.’ As he spoke, the small inner voice of God reminded him that He had sacrificed His only son for the sake of humanity, which wasn’t what Andrew wanted to hear at all. He finished praying by thanking the Lord again and then asking that this day be the one.
Uncharacteristically, Mitsy began frantically scratching at the church door. Crossing himself, Andrew turned from the altar just as the door flew open and his wife Elizabeth ran in, without her coat and out of breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked, panic-stricken, and fearing the worst news possible.
‘They’ve found a donor!’ she cried. ‘It looks a good match. We have to leave now. Come on! I’ve left Jacob getting up. We’ll phone and cancel our appointments from the car. Be quick.’
Mitsy barked as though sharing this good news, and as Andrew hurried after his wife he thanked the good Lord for answering his prayers, and promised he’d never ask for anything for himself again.
Upstairs in the rectory Jacob had managed to wash and partially dress himself and was now sitting on the edge of his bed trying to catch his breath. Stick-thin, pale, permanently exhausted, and out of breath even with the minimal exertion, he’d been off work sick for nearly a year. At 23, having left university with a degree in business studies, he’d been six months into his first job when illness had struck, and a range of symptoms were eventually diagnosed as congenital heart disease. His heart began failing fast and he and his parents were told that a heart transplant was his only hope. While he didn’t have the strength of faith his parents had, he did believe in something – a deity? He too now said a short prayer of thanks before texting the good news to his long-term girlfriend, Eloise.
His parents arrived in his room together. He couldn’t remember a time when they’d looked so relieved and happy. While his mother helped him finish dressing his father checked his bag, which had been packed since he’d been put on the transplant list, ready and waiting for the call. Downstairs they shut Mitsy in the kitchen with food and water (a neighbour would take her out later) and barely thirty minutes after receiving the call they were on their way, overjoyed, but not forgetting that another family had lost a loved one to make this happen.
Chapter Six (#ulink_5769c478-ba42-5876-a49b-71aec8cc1430)
At the transplant centre a specialist team of doctors and nurses was now assembling as two operating theatres were being prepared, one to remove the donor heart and the other to implant it into the recipient. It was unusual for the donor and recipient to live so close – just twenty miles apart. The transplant programme stretched nationwide and organs often had to be transported miles and at great speed when a donor was matched with a recipient at the other end of the country, although neither the donor’s next of kin nor the recipient of the heart would be aware of this. Their details were confidential and would be kept secret unless they both wanted to know who the other person was. Sometimes the recipient wanted to thank the donor’s next of kin, and if they agreed they were sensitively put in contact with each other, but this was unusual, and often resulted in a heart-warming story in the press or on the news.
It wasn’t just the heart that was being removed. The donor’s family had given consent for all of his body to be used, so as well as his heart going to Jacob, the kidneys, liver, lungs, pancreas, intestine, corneas, skin, nerves, veins, tendons and even the bones from his legs were going to benefit others.
When Jacob arrived at the transplant centre with his parents they were shown to a single room where nurses weighed and measured him, checked his temperature and blood pressure before listening to his chest to make sure he was well enough to undergo surgery. He confirmed he hadn’t had anything to eat that morning; they then took a blood sample and gave him a pot for a urine sample. The anaesthetist arrived, explained what he would be doing and asked him if he’d ever had a bad reaction to an anaesthetic before. He hadn’t – the only surgery he’d had in the past was a tonsillectomy at the age of six. The two surgeons leading the team arrived shortly after and the atmosphere in the room became electric – joyous, with a sense of occasion. They went over the procedure again with Jacob and his parents and reassured them that all would be well. It was a good tissue match, they said, and they would gown up now and see him later. Before prepping began, Jacob’s parents had to say goodbye. ‘We’ll be here when you wake,’ his father told him.
‘And I’ll phone Eloise,’ his mother said, knowing that it could be a few days before he was out of intensive care and could receive visitors.
One of the nurses gently showed them out, reminding them that Jacob was in very good hands – the best. She suggested they went into the city and had some lunch to pass the time as it would be at least four hours before there was any news. She would call as soon as Jacob was out of theatre. They thanked her, but before they left they made a detour to the hospital’s little chapel, where they asked the dear Lord to watch over Jacob and the donor family who had given so generously and were now grieving over their loss.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_db2fd9e5-87e1-5f70-8dc8-4232757a7255)
After the transplant and following usual practice, Jacob was taken directly to the intensive care unit where he was kept sedated, connected to a ventilator to help with his breathing, and given a drip passing fluids and medication into his arm. As with the other transplant patients, doctors and nurses monitored him around the clock until he was stable enough to be removed from the ventilator and brought out of the drug-induced coma.
As Jacob rose up through the layers of consciousness, he began swearing and cursing at the nurses, saying things he wouldn’t have done when fully awake. He told one nurse to ‘fuck off’ and another that he’d like to ‘give her one’, before trying to grab her breast.
‘That’s not very nice coming from a vicar’s son,’ she joked, aware it wasn’t the patient talking but the cocktail of drugs – particularly potent after a transplant.
As soon as he was fully conscious Jacob returned to his normal self and, still slightly confused, asked politely, ‘Where am I?’
‘You’re in hospital, Jacob,’ the nurse said. ‘You’ve had your transplant and everything is fine. We’re moving you to a different ward soon and your family will be in to see you again later.’
Relieved, he thanked the nurse and then fell into a more natural sleep. The next time he woke, his parents and Eloise were at his bedside, his mother, holding one hand and Eloise the other, while his father stood at the foot of his bed, smiling. The glow from the ceiling light caught his hair, circling his head like a halo, and just for a moment Jacob thought he’d died and was in heaven. After a few seconds, reality hit him, and he remembered what had happened.
Jacob’s recovery continued well and after a few days he was allowed out of bed to go to the toilet, and from then on he was encouraged to walk a little each day. He was very weak to begin with but the doctor and nurses told him that was only to be expected. In addition to undergoing major surgery he’d been weak in the months prior to the operation when his own heart had been failing. He’d only been able to take a few steps before he was out of breath and feeling dizzy, and going to the gym had become a distant memory. But that would change once he was deemed well enough to embark on the supervised cardiac rehabilitation programme run by a physiotherapist in the hospital gym. He was looking forward to gaining some muscle strength and getting fit again.
His chest hurt whenever he moved, coughed or cleared his throat but that was normal too. The surgeon explained that he’d had to cut through his sternum to operate and it was now held together by wires, which Jacob could feel clicking slightly when he moved. It would take six weeks for that bone to heal, during which time, it had been emphasized, he mustn’t put it under any stress, which included not lifting anything heavier than a litre of milk. No pushing, pulling, twisting, or driving, as turning the steering wheel put pressure on the sternum. What would happen if he did exert pressure on it Jacob didn’t want to know. He was already having unsettling dreams about being stitched together like Frankenstein’s monster. The less he was told about what they’d actually done in the operating room or the details of what could go wrong, the better.
He was allowed home three weeks later and it wasn’t a moment too soon. Alone in the single hospital room and with only his parents and Eloise allowed to visit – to minimize the risk of infection – Jacob had developed cabin fever, and knew he was becoming tetchy and short-tempered. To have been holed up for much longer would have driven him mad. For the first week he would have to return to the hospital every day for a check-up, then once a week, then every other week, and then once a month for the first year. After that, assuming he stayed well, his appointments would be every three months for two years and then every six months for the rest of his life. If he had any health concerns he had to return to the hospital immediately. But as he said goodbye to the nurses, thanking them again for all they’d done, returning to the hospital was the last thing on his mind. He was about to enter the world again and with a new heart in place, he intended to live life to the full.
His parents carried his case and bags to the car and he sat in the rear, as his mother took the front passenger seat and his father drove. He put his earbuds in straightaway. He wasn’t being rude but they’d exhausted conversation during his long stay in hospital and they really didn’t have anything left to say to each other.
His mother held his bag of medication protectively on her lap and it wasn’t long before she was sorting through it, reading the instructions on the huge assortment of boxes and bottles. She’d put herself in charge of his medication and had told him she’d bought Dosette boxes. As soon as they were home she’d put the pills he needed for the week into the boxes so none would get missed or taken twice. It had been drummed into them how important it was for him to take the tablets as directed and at the correct times. There were plenty to take: two types of immunosuppressants, antibiotics, blood-pressure-lowering drugs, diuretics, aspirin, anticoagulants, painkillers, and those were only the ones he could remember. Doses of some of them would decrease and even stop over time but he’d have to take immunosuppressants for the rest of his life. If he didn’t take them his immune system would recognize his heart was not his, label it as a harmful invader and attack and destroy it as if it was a virus.
His mother would also be looking after his appointment card for the time being, and the printed handouts containing the lists of post-operative dos and don’ts. They had seen the dietician together and while much of the advice had been common sense – eat low-fat foods, limit cholesterol, salt and sugar intake – others were more specifically for transplant patients: fresh produce had to be washed well before cooking or serving as the bacteria and viruses it harboured could be transmitted to the transplant patient, whose resistance was lowered by the immunosuppressant drugs, rendering them more susceptible to infection. His potassium intake had to be managed, as did his fluid and calorie intake. The dietician had said that his new heart would be put under strain if he carried extra weight, but he’d been fit and healthy in the past so there was no reason why he wouldn’t be again. There’d been so much talk about his new heart that what had once been an innate organ like any other body part had become a living entity in its own right, and he was starting to resent the time and attention it demanded.
But what Jacob hated the thought of most were the biopsies he’d have to have once a week for the next six weeks. He’d already had two and couldn’t stand the thought of more. He had to lie on the operating table while they gave him a local anaesthetic, cut a hole in his neck and pushed a wire down the vein and into his heart to cut out a small piece. It was then sent to the lab and examined for signs of tissue rejection. ‘Transplants aren’t for the faint-hearted,’ his surgeon had said. Arsehole!
It was a little after 3 p.m. and as Jacob gazed out of the side window listening to his music he suddenly realized he was very hungry and craving meat, which was a first. Since meeting Eloise at university he’d become a vegetarian as she was, although he still ate fish, cheese and eggs. But right now, after all that healthy eating in the hospital, he was craving meat: a rump steak or a rack of ribs, rarely cooked red meat that he could sink his teeth into.
‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’ he asked, removing an earbud so he could hear her reply.
She turned to face him. ‘I’ve made a vegetarian cottage pie,’ she said, pleased he was regaining his appetite. This dish had become one of his favourites and she’d put time and effort into making it. ‘Eloise is coming as soon as she can dismiss her class.’ Eloise was a primary-school teacher at a school not far from where she lived with her parents – about an hour away.
‘Any chance of some meat?’ Jacob asked. ‘I really fancy some tonight.’
‘Well, yes, if that’s what you prefer,’ his mother said, surprised. ‘I’ve got some steak in the freezer. I’ll take it out as soon as we get home.’
‘Count me in,’ his father said chummily, glancing at his son in the rear-view mirror. Neither of them were vegetarians except when Eloise joined them for a meal. Jacob knew that given a choice his father would much rather have meat than Quorn or soya beans any day. He threw him a conspiratorial wink in the mirror.
‘Oh Jesus!’ Jacob exclaimed as the rectory came into view. A large Welcome Home bunting was draped across the front of the house and bunches of balloons festooned the porch. ‘Did you have to?’
‘It was your mother’s idea,’ his father said, ignoring the blasphemy. They only used Jesus Christ’s name with reverence.
‘We can soon take it down,’ Elizabeth said, feeling a little hurt. She’d wanted everything to be perfect for his homecoming. ‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said with a shrug.
Clearly they were going to have to continue to make allowances during his convalescence. It was almost impossible to imagine how frustrating it must be for a lad of Jacob’s age to have to deal with chronic illness and then a major operation. But at least now he was home, and with time, patience and understanding, nature would do the rest. Allow at least six months, the surgeon had said, then gradually life will return to normal.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_1e95bbc0-a9bc-5e0f-87d8-0f3780784748)
Mitsy, having heard the car draw up, was now barking furiously on the other side of the front door.
‘She’ll be pleased to see you,’ Jacob’s father said as he finished parking.
‘But remember not to let her lick your face,’ his mother warned. ‘And to wash your hands after stroking her.’
Jacob nodded. More guidelines from the dos and don’ts list to reduce the risk of infection.
His parents carried his bags into the house and Mitsy was immediately at his feet, panting and wagging her tail excitedly. Jacob automatically bent to stroke her and as he did so felt a sharp jabbing pain in his chest. He straightened. It was his own fault; he’d been warned to avoid sudden movements until his breastbone was fully healed. Leaving the dog, he went over and sat in one of the armchairs by the fireside. Another Welcome Home banner hung from the mantelpiece with more bunches of balloons either side. They’d certainly gone to town, he thought, and with a niggle of guilt wondered if he shouldn’t have been more grateful. His mother was now in the kitchen sorting out his medication. She meant well.
‘I’ll take these to your room,’ his father said, picking up his case and rucksack.
Jacob stifled a sigh of frustration, resenting his dependence on them. He watched the fire for a few moments, unsure of what he should be doing now he was home. It felt strange, after all those weeks in hospital. ‘I’m going to my room for a while,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, of course,’ his mother said, stepping in from the kitchen. ‘You’re bound to feel tired to begin with. I’ll bring up your tablets. Would you like a snack and a drink to see you through to dinner?’
‘Just a drink,’ he replied, heaving himself to his feet.
‘Tea, fruit juice, milk? What would you like?’
‘A beer,’ he replied.
She laughed; they both knew he was joking for he wasn’t allowed alcohol, as it would reduced the effectiveness of his medication. ‘Just as well you weren’t a drinker,’ she said. ‘At least you won’t miss that.’
Upstairs, he found his father unpacking his case.
‘Leave that, Dad, I can do it,’ he said.
His father hesitated. ‘OK, but don’t overdo it, son. You know what the doctor said.’
‘I won’t.’
They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, not knowing quite what to say or do, then his father cleared his throat. ‘Well, if you’re all right for a couple of hours I’ve got some parish business to attend to.’
‘Yes. Go. Do what you normally do. Mum’s here if I need anything. But I must start doing things for myself again.’
‘I know, son. But not too much all at once.’
Jacob nodded and watched him go, then looked around his room before easing himself onto the bed. Almost immediately a tap sounded on the door and his mother appeared, carrying a tray with a mug of tea, a glass of water and his pills in a small plastic pot given to them by the hospital. ‘You look comfortable,’ she said, coming over and placing the tea on his bedside cabinet. She held out the glass of water and pot of pills as if she expected him to take them while she waited.
‘Put them on there,’ he said a little brusquely, nodding to his bedside cabinet.
She did as he said. ‘Don’t forget to take them.’
‘I won’t.’ He yawned.
‘I’ll leave you to rest then,’ she said, and left.
He wasn’t physically tired as she thought – more exhausted from the narrow strip his life had become. He needed some space and time to himself, and he needed to establish some ground rules. He’d been washed, dressed and even taken to the toilet by nurses in the early days. Continuously examined by doctors who discussed him as though he was theirs, so that he felt his body was no longer his own. Everyone seemed to have a claim on it and knew more about it than he did. And all the advice about his recovery, although necessary and well meant, had become suffocating, as was being constantly fussed over, not only by the nurses but by his parents and Eloise. Some blokes might have enjoyed all the attention but he didn’t; it had reduced him to a childlike dependency, humiliating and degrading. It would be a sharp learning curve before his parents and Eloise saw him as an independent bloke again, if he’d ever been one, which he was starting to doubt.
He’d had too much time to think in hospital; indeed there hadn’t been much else to do. He’d spent hours, days thinking about his life – the years before his illness. Gradually he’d come to see that he’d never carved out an identity, a will, a personality of his own. He’d always toed the line, done as he was told and what was expected of him. He’d worked hard at school, learnt to play the organ so he could help out in church, been polite to his father’s parishioners, and had tolerated the down-and-outs and misfits who’d arrived regularly at their door in the city looking for help and a handout. Even as a teenager he hadn’t rebelled. In fact he’d been a bit of a mummy’s boy. And away at university he could only remember one instance of drunk and loutish behaviour, before he’d joined the Christian Union and met Eloise.
Eloise was a nice girl; kind, well-mannered and polite. His parents had taken an immediate liking to her and were soon treating her like the daughter they’d never had. Jacob was looking forward to seeing her again tonight and hopefully having sex – the first time since he couldn’t remember when – sometime before he’d become really ill. When he stayed the night at her house her parents gave them a double room, but when she stayed with him his mother showed her to the guest room. They then had to wait until his parents were asleep before he could creep along the landing and into Eloise’s room to make love to her. Although he apologized for his parents’ Victorian and prudish attitude, he had to admit that the secret risqué nature of their liaison added to his enjoyment.
Tonight, however, there was an additional hurdle to be overcome. The list of dos and don’ts included post-operative sex with the warning that his breastbone mustn’t be put under any pressure until it was fully healed, which ruled out the missionary position – the one they usually used. After some thought Jacob decided that the best way – perhaps the only way – would be for her to sit astride him as he lay on his bed. And as he pictured this, the conservative, rather prim Eloise bouncing up and down on his erect penis, it caused it to come to life. A very good sign, he thought, for one of the possible side effects of his medication was impotence, which would require more pills and be yet another blow to his manhood.
He must have dozed, for he woke with a start to the sound of his mother tapping on his bedroom door again. ‘Eloise is here. There’s no rush. I’ve made her a cup of tea.’
‘I’ll be right down,’ he called, easing himself off the bed and into an upright position. It always took a few minutes after a sleep or a nap for his muscles and brain to start working again; he assumed it was the tablets.
He used the bathroom, combed his hair and checked his face in the mirror before carefully making his way downstairs. Before he’d become ill he’d taken the stairs two or three at a time, but now, aware of what a fall could mean, he made his descent slowly using the handrail. He resented that he had to approach everything with caution and trepidation but for the time being it was unavoidable. As he entered the living room Mitsy ran to him again, panting and wagging her tail, asking to be made a fuss of. Jacob ignored her and crossed instead to Eloise.
‘Good to see you home,’ she said warmly. She knew not to throw her arms around him until his chest was fully healed, so instead she smiled and looked up into his eyes, waiting for him to slip his arm around her as he’d done in the hospital. But he didn’t – he briefly kissed her cheek and then sat in one of the fireside chairs. Elizabeth had come into the living room in time to see her son’s dismissive greeting and the look of disappointment on Eloise’s face.
‘Let’s draw up this chair so the two of you can sit together,’ she said, pulling the matching armchair from the other side of the hearth.
Eloise flashed her a smile of gratitude as together they positioned it as close as it would go to Jacob’s chair and Eloise sat down.
‘Do you want anything, Jacob?’ Elizabeth asked. He shook his head. ‘Eloise, another tea?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Dinner won’t be long. We’ll eat just as soon as Andrew returns.’
Eloise smiled and thanked her again, then turned to Jacob. He was gazing into the fire that danced in the magnificent inglenook fireplace, part of the original house and now only lit on special occasions or when they had guests staying.
‘So how are you?’ she asked him after a moment.
‘Fine,’ he said without taking his eyes from the fire. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you, but it’s not me who’s had the heart transplant.’ She gave a small nervous laugh. ‘Pleased to be home at last?’
‘Of course.’
‘How’s the pain today?’
He shrugged. ‘I just take the tablets if I need them.’
She moved a little closer and rested her hand gently on his arm as she had done for hours and hours in the hospital. ‘How are you feeling in yourself?’ she asked, aware he had been feeling low at times.
He shifted, finding her intensity uncomfortable. ‘OK,’ he said. She seemed to expect more but that was the trouble with women – they expected you to expose yourself, pour out your feelings and vulnerabilities as they did.
There was silence as the fire crackled.
‘I left the teaching assistant to dismiss my class so I could leave early,’ she said, making conversation.
‘Good,’ he said, which seemed to please her. She smiled and, taking his hand in hers, kissed it tenderly.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she said.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ he agreed. This was clearly the right thing to say for she beamed at him and kissed his hand again.
Thankfully his father arrived to save him from further conversation. Eloise and he greeted each other with a warm embrace and cheek kisses as they always did. He asked her how she was and how her journey had been and then he went to wash and change, ready for dinner.
Conversation over dinner became easier as he didn’t have to talk much at all. Eloise and her parents did all the talking and he appeared to have been excused, he assumed on the grounds of health. They chattered away non-stop about day-to-day trivia, small talk about nothing in particular, which they seemed to thrive on. He didn’t know how they managed it. All that polite tattle that filled the gaps between eating and seemed to bind them together. Had he ever been part of it? He supposed he must have been, although he couldn’t remember doing it with the enthusiasm they did. He felt like a visitor or alien from another planet as they prattled on, Eloise about the changes in the school curriculum and how it would impact on her teaching and the class’s learning, and his father about the village bypass. He was on the committee and had attended a meeting in the village hall that afternoon – lots of fogies trying to feel important. And as for his mother, she managed to create a storyline out of collecting him from the hospital which he really didn’t appreciate. He frowned. Perhaps he was jealous? Was he envious that they could share this warm comradeship of conversation that eluded him? He’d be the first to admit that he didn’t have anything to tell them, that since his illness and then the operation his life had stopped, and he had nothing new to say. All he could contribute – had he wanted to join in – were remarks about being a patient which they were only too familiar with. But that would change just as soon as he was completely fit and well.
He excused himself from the table straight after pudding at 8.30 on the grounds he was tired – they understood. His mother fussed around him and asked if he needed help undressing, which was embarrassing. Then she produced the plastic pill pot already containing his night-time meds together with a glass of water for him to take up to bed. He called a collective good night to the three of them as he went up the stairs, and guessed they’d probably start talking about him as soon as he’d left the room.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_0b2fc33d-c72f-5a93-8a2c-679beded2a5a)
‘Jacob’s very quiet,’ Eloise said, her brow furrowing with concern. ‘He’s hardly said a word to me all evening.’
‘Nor to me,’ Elizabeth said gently. ‘But it is only his first day home. Everything must seem very strange, and he’s recovering from a huge operation. It will take time.’
Andrew agreed, and Eloise knew she mustn’t take Jacob’s attitude personally. She remained at the table talking to Andrew and Elizabeth for nearly an hour and then they transferred to the living room to watch the late evening news on television. At 10.30 Eloise kissed them both good night and made her way upstairs. They were lovely people and made her feel so welcome – more than Jacob had done tonight, she thought, but quickly dismissed this as unkind and selfish. Of course it would take time for him to adjust and recover. She assumed he wouldn’t be visiting her room tonight.
Quietly crossing the landing so as not to wake Jacob, she entered the guest room that had become hers. It was comfortable, with a single bed and a faint smell of jasmine from the reed diffuser Elizabeth had placed on the chest of drawers. Over the last few years – since she’d begun staying – this room had gradually become her home from home, and she kept a toothbrush and toiletries in the small en-suite bathroom, and a change of clothes in the wardrobe. She felt relaxed and at ease here, not only in this room but in the whole house.
She washed, changed, and then, yawning, climbed gratefully into bed. The end of the school week was always tiring with the children excitable at the prospect of the weekend, and tonight she’d met heavy traffic on the way over too. But she was here now and there’d be plenty of time to unwind and de-stress over the weekend. She wasn’t returning home until after dinner on Sunday as she had often done before Jacob’s operation. But this time when Elizabeth had telephoned to check she would be staying the whole weekend she’d been concerned.
‘Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble with Jacob just home?’ she’d asked.
‘Don’t be silly, of course not,’ Elizabeth had chided warmly. ‘It will do Jacob good, and you know I always appreciate your company. You already feel like my daughter-in-law.’
This had pleased Eloise immensely. She had always got on well with Elizabeth and had come to feel she had a place in their family, assuming, as Elizabeth did, that one day she really would be her daughter-in-law. Jacob had said as much before his illness – ‘As soon as we’ve saved enough for a deposit on a home of our own I’ll propose.’ So it was an unannounced engagement where they’d implicitly promised themselves to each other and lived their daily lives in the comfortable knowledge that they were a couple. And while their plans to marry had been put on hold with the onset of Jacob’s illness, Eloise had no doubt that once he’d recovered and returned to work, their plans and saving would continue and reach fruition.
With these happy thoughts as bedfellows, Eloise quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She was fast asleep, lying on her side, when the door to her room silently opened and then closed again. She didn’t stir. The room was pitch black; at the rear of the house there were no streetlamps, just meadows where cows grazed. Outside a thick cloud covered a moonless grey sky so even though her curtains were parted no light shone in.
The first she knew that someone was in her room was when a hand covered her mouth and she woke with a start. Then his familiar breath, hot on her cheek as he hissed close to her ear.
‘Sssh. Be quiet or they’ll hear you.’ It was a moment before he removed his hand.
‘Jacob, you scared me to death,’ she said, turning to him. Her heart was still pounding from the shock. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to my room?’
‘A surprise,’ he said, and climbed into bed beside her.
She moved over to make room for him, propping herself on her side to look at him. Her pulse began to settle. Jacob eased himself onto his back and she snuggled close, draping one arm over his stomach, well away from the angry scar on his chest. He’d lost that clinical smell which had pervaded his room at the hospital, and now smelt of his deodorant and the fabric conditioner Elizabeth added to the laundry. She breathed it in, homely and comforting.
‘What time is it?’ she whispered, enjoying the warmth and intimacy of his body. It had been a long time since they’d had the opportunity to lie close.
‘Twelve-thirty,’ he whispered. ‘My parents are in bed and asleep.’
‘I thought you were asleep too,’ she said with a small laugh.
‘I’ve been waiting for them to come up so I could visit you. Just like old times.’ He picked up her hand that was resting on his stomach and placed it on the outside of his shorts.
‘Jacob!’ she said surprised. ‘We can’t, can we? Not yet?’
‘Why not?’ He pressed her hand onto him and felt him stir.
‘You’re not well enough, are you?’
‘Let’s put it to the test,’ he said roguishly. He eased off his shorts and then curled her fingers around him, growing firmer under her touch.
She assumed he wanted her to masturbate him as she had done when he’d been too ill and weak before the operation to make love properly. He’d touched her too, although she hadn’t got much pleasure from it. A large part of making love for her was the warmth and weight of his body on hers as they moved together as one. But she appreciated that men were different in their sexual wants and needs, and it had helped restore some of his confidence – his masculinity, he’d said.
‘He may need a bit of encouragement,’ Jacob said, moving her hand to work up and down the shaft of his penis, before reaching out and switching on the lamp.
‘Jacob!’ she said, startled. She blinked into the light.
‘That’s better. I need to see.’
He threw back the duvet so he could watch properly, see her hand on his dick, but the movement was too delicate.
‘Harder. Faster,’ he said, and gripping her hand showed her what to do. How he would have liked to have shoved it in her mouth as the bloke on the film he’d watched on his laptop had done, but he didn’t think she was ready for that, not yet. Not prim Eloise. Next time, he promised himself.
He was big now, he could see how big he was, and getting bigger by the second. Hard, proud and bold as the blood coursed through his veins. He was standing to attention as he hadn’t done for a long while. Watching her hand move up and down was adding to his pleasure. ‘Take off your nightdress,’ he said, tugging at it.
She didn’t and her hand lost some of its firmness. ‘I need to see you,’ he said again urgently. Why didn’t she understand? He tugged harder, yanked at the buttons at the top of her nightdress and they gave way. She gave a small cry, presumably of pleasure. Women liked forceful blokes, didn’t they? He roughly pulled the nightdress from her and rubbed his hand over her breasts and then down between her legs, making her cry out again.
‘Sit on me,’ he demanded, tweaking her nipple. ‘It’s the only way I can have you.’ While this was true, more importantly it was part of the image he’d nurtured all afternoon, having downloaded it from the internet. The very thought of the picture fuelled his pleasure.
‘Sit on me,’ he said again, pushing her body down the bed and towards his crotch.
She was hesitant to begin with, resisting a little. Playing hard to get. But with another firm push she did as she was told and sat astride him, knees bent. She was clearly reluctant to open her legs really wide and display herself to him as he would be able to see everything, and with her legs as they were, he struggled to get himself in. Taking hold of her knees, he forced her legs wide apart, as wide as they would go, and then with one good hard shove he was in. She cried out again and so did he. It was fucking ecstasy! He looked at his dick fully inserted in her opening and at her breasts with their large reddening nipples. Grabbing her hips, he moved her up and down to show her what to do as he began thrusting, as much as he was able to with the mattress below and his chest muscles complaining. But each thrust was sheer pleasure and as she grew moister it became easier. His pleasure raged and he could feel his new heart beating wildly, faster than it had before. Briefly he wondered if it would stand the strain; they were really pushing it now, testing it to the limit. But he felt his heart was on his side and willing him to succeed and if he didn’t, what a way to go!
Up and down, up and down, the usually conservative Eloise glued to his dick like a stuck pig. Was she enjoying it? He couldn’t tell and he didn’t know or care. If she wasn’t she’d just have to put up with it, for she was staying there until he’d finished, for sure. He needed this, his heart did, and as he couldn’t lie on her, or she him, she’d have to stay astride him, riding on his dick. He grabbed her nipples and began twisting them, hard. She cried out and tried to push his hands away but he held on tight; he was past the point of no return. He watched her face contort as he pulled and twisted and thrust as hard as he could, harder than he’d ever done before in his life. The gradual build-up to the moment, the absolute height of pleasure, and then stillness as he discharged into her.
‘Jesus! Fucking Jesus!’ he cried out. And in the room next door his father woke, convinced he’d just heard the devil.
Chapter Ten (#ulink_84c62daa-770d-5cce-8240-7701706d28d7)
‘Good to have you back,’ Eva said as she and Rosie took their places at the cashier’s counter of the high street bank. ‘I’ve missed having you here.’
‘Thanks.’ Rosie smiled. ‘It’s good to be here again. I hope I can still remember what to do.’
‘You’ll be fine. Nothing’s changed. Are you free for a quick coffee after work? I’ve got some news I’m dying to tell you.’
Rosie hesitated and then realized she didn’t have to go straight home any longer. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’
‘Great. We’ll chat later. Here we go, ready for the onslaught.’
It was exactly 9 a.m. and the deputy manager was unlocking the main door ready for business. A small queue had already formed outside and as soon as the door opened it quickly dispersed itself at the counter of cashiers. Rosie smiled and said a bright good morning to her first customer. She was pleased to be back at work – another step towards normality. She’d taken two weeks off after Shane’s accident. She was due some annual leave and she’d told her boss that she needed it for personal reasons. As well as clearing out his belongings, she needed time to recover and come to terms with what had happened – and hopefully move on. Her mother had suggested she stay with her for a while but Rosie felt she needed to stand alone to prove to herself that she could, that Shane no longer had a hold over her and she wasn’t afraid of him any more.
While Shane had been in the hospital, she’d sent him a letter saying that if he ever came near her again she’d call the police. That night, Rosie had called out the local locksmith and had the locks on her flat changed, so that if upon his recovery Shane did try to visit, he’d find himself unable to enter. Once the job had been done she’d felt an overwhelming sense of relief. At last, her flat was safe. Now all that remained of Shane was in her head and she knew it would take time before he left her completely, if he ever did. She was trying hard not to think about him, to shake off the moments of panic that gripped her when she thought about him coming out of hospital, perhaps angrier than before. She’d told her mother a little of what had happened but not all. Some things – the sexual things he’d done to her – she couldn’t say. She’d found it a little easier to share this with a group for survivors of domestic violence she’d joined online. The anonymity helped and of course they were on the same page as her, having experienced similar or worse. There were two men in the group, which surprised her; she’d never thought that some women could be as evil as men. But while the group had helped, ultimately she knew her full recovery would be down to her. Clearing out the flat and going back to work was the next step.
Mondays were always busy at the bank and the time flew by. As she dealt with each customer’s request or inquiry her confidence grew, and by lunchtime she was starting to relax. Eva was on a different lunch break to her so she went out for a short walk and a breath of fresh air before returning to the staff room to eat her sandwiches and make a cup of tea. Other colleagues who didn’t know her as well as Eva were there and they asked her if she’d had a nice holiday and seemed pleased to see her back. Their kindness touched her. It was a pity she hadn’t been able to confide in anyone and ask for help when she’d needed it. She still felt responsible for letting Shane into her life and allowing the abuse to continue, although the online survivors group tried to reassure her it wasn’t her fault.
At 4.30 the deputy bank manger locked the door, and they cashed up, shut down their terminals and packed away for the night. An hour later, she and Eva called goodbye to their colleagues and left the building. The coffee shop was a short walk up the High Street and they settled with their drinks either side of a corner table where they could talk without being overheard.
‘Rosie, I’m pregnant,’ Eva announced with a huge smile as soon as they sat down. ‘I did two tests at the weekend and they were both positive.’
‘Oh Eva, that’s fantastic,’ Rosie said. ‘Congratulations! I’m so pleased for you both.’ And she was genuinely pleased. She knew that Eva and her husband, Syed, had been trying for over a year for a baby.
‘Promise you won’t tell anyone at the bank yet,’ Eva said. ‘I’m going to wait until I’m three months.’
‘I promise,’ Rosie said.
Eva shared her plans – to take a year’s maternity leave and then return to the bank part time as they needed her income to pay their mortgage. Then her attention turned to Rosie. ‘But enough about me. How are you? Do you want to tell me what the personal reasons were that suddenly made you take time off? You know it won’t go any further.’
Rosie looked carefully at her friend. How easy it would be to tell her the truth but then she’d have to live with her shock and sympathy and she didn’t want that. She was trying to move on.
‘The guy I was seeing had an accident – wrote my car off.’ She paused. ‘We’re – we’re not together any more, so there’s been a lot going on in my life. It was all getting on top of me. I just needed a break.’ She shrugged, trying to be casual, and took a sip of her coffee.
‘OK. I can understand that. So he’s out of your life for good?’
‘Yes, completely.’
‘A carefree singleton. Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that!’ Eva laughed.
‘I’m in no rush to start another relationship now,’ Rosie said. ‘So how are you feeling?’ She was anxious to steer the conversation back to safer ground. ‘No morning sickness?’
‘No, not yet, but I won’t mind if I am sick. I mean it’s all part of being pregnant and will be worth it in the end.’
‘Absolutely,’ Rosie agreed, and they continued talking about Eva’s pregnancy.
Once they’d finished their coffee, Eva said she’d better go as Syed would be home soon and she wanted to have dinner ready. They left the coffee shop together and then went their separate ways. Rosie was returning to an empty flat but she didn’t mind, not at all, for empty was far better than having Shane waiting for her. She’d started to relax again in the flat; she could watch some television, listen to her music, then go to bed without being in constant fear. Every night, she went through a little ritual of checking the doors and windows were locked and that there were no shadowy shapes lurking in the street. But every night, she saw nothing. It looked like Shane was leaving her alone. And once she’d saved up enough she’d buy herself another car.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_9d2ea456-3590-5250-b988-c464db35074a)
Elizabeth had telephoned Eloise on Sunday to see how she was, but her call had gone through to voicemail so she’d assumed the poor girl was still ill in bed. She’d left a message saying she hoped Eloise felt better soon. She waited until midday on Thursday before trying again; she knew how irritating it was to keep having to answer the phone if you weren’t feeling well. This time Eloise did answer.
‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ she said quietly.
‘Hello, love. How are you? Feeling a bit better?’
There was a pause before she replied. ‘Did Jacob tell you I was ill?’
‘Yes of course, love. When Andrew and I returned on Saturday and found you’d gone we were obviously concerned. How are you feeling now?’
Another pause. ‘Better, thank you.’
‘Good. What was it? The flu? Jacob didn’t seem to know.’
‘I’m not sure. But I’m all right now.’ Her voice sounded flat.
Elizabeth hesitated. ‘Are you really all right? You sound a little … I don’t know … a little subdued,’ she said, for want of a better word.
‘Yes. I’m all right.’
‘Well, that’s good. It was fantastic news about Jacob’s test results, wasn’t it? He hates those biopsies but it’s so reassuring to know there’s no sign of rejection.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I have to go. I’m on playground lunch duty.’
‘Oh, OK. I’m pleased you’re feeling better. See you at the weekend then. Will you be coming Friday night or Saturday?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Don’t worry. Come as soon as you can. We’re all looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Thank you,’ Eloise said a little stiffly. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, love.’
Elizabeth slowly set down her phone on the table in front of her, not sure what to make of their conversation. Eloise hadn’t sounded herself, she’d seemed distant and restrained, as if she was hiding something. One of the characteristics Elizabeth had always liked about Eloise was her bubbly personality. She had a zest and enthusiasm for life which Jacob had had too before he’d fallen ill. It took a lot to get Eloise down. Perhaps she and Jacob had had an argument. Maybe about her leaving early? He was so insensitive and tetchy at present that if the poor girl had said she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go home, he could easily have thrown a strop. Elizabeth could picture it only too clearly and if that was the case then he needed to apologize. She and Andrew were having to make allowances for him continuously and think carefully before they spoke.
Elizabeth thought hard; another possibility for Eloise’s mother was that she’d just found out Eloise was pregnant. But no, she dismissed that straightaway. Jacob had been in hospital for the last month and before that he’d have been too weak. She assumed they were having a physical relationship, as young people did nowadays before marriage, but because of his illness he hadn’t been well enough. Yet something was bothering Eloise.
Elizabeth ruminated on it for the next half-hour and when she called Jacob down for lunch she said, ‘I’m not prying, love, but is everything all right between you and Eloise?’
‘Yes of course,’ he said, immediately on the defensive. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I phoned her a little while ago to see how she was and she didn’t seem like her usual self.’
‘I told you, she’s ill,’ he said, irritated.
‘She was back at work. She said she was on lunch duty when I called.’
‘So?’ he demanded.
‘I’m just concerned, that’s all. She’s a sensitive girl, and all of this can’t have been easy for her.’
‘And it’s easy for me?’ he shot back.
‘No, love. Of course not.’ She knew she wasn’t handling this right, but it was so difficult to talk to him at present. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything at all. ‘I’m just concerned for you both.’
‘Well, don’t be!’ he snapped. His face was set as he glared at her. ‘What goes on between Eloise and me has nothing to do with you or Dad. You both need to keep the fuck out of my life. Understood?’ Grabbing his plate of food from the table, he stormed upstairs.
‘Jacob?’ she called after him. But his bedroom door slammed shut and then there was silence.
Elizabeth remained where she was, her mouth dry and her pulse beating wildly, shocked to the core by what had just happened and at a loss to know what to do. It wasn’t the first time he’d sworn since coming home but she’d never felt threatened by him before. The way his face had contorted with anger. The look in his eyes as he glared at her, the tone in his voice; she had seen and felt pure hatred in her son! The aftercare notes from the hospital had said transplant patients could become frustrated by their long recovery but this was more than frustration. Much more. She and Andrew couldn’t do anything right and the way he treated them suggested he loathed and detested them. But why? Then she caught herself. Of course he didn’t detest them. He was recovering from a major life-changing operation, and it didn’t get more serious than a heart transplant. He was also having to take a vast array of pills which, though necessary, all came with possible side effects. With small relief Elizabeth acknowledged that it was quite likely his medication was responsible for his mood swings and aggression. She’d check the list. If it was the medication then presumably something could be done about it. The surgeon had mentioned that if the side effects of any of his drugs became too unpleasant then they could try him on another brand.
Mitsy ventured out from under the table and Elizabeth stroked her head. ‘We’re just going to have to be patient,’ she told her. ‘It’s bound to take time.’ The dog looked up questioningly. Since Jacob had returned from hospital he’d hardly had anything to do with her; she’d stopped vying for his attention, and now kept out of his way. ‘It’s bound to take time,’ Elizabeth repeated, as much for her own benefit as the dog’s.
‘No Eloise?’ Andrew asked when he returned from visiting a parishioner on Friday evening.
‘Apparently not,’ Jacob said sarcastically, glancing at her empty chair at the table.
Elizabeth saw her husband take a breath. She knew he was about to reprimand Jacob and quickly stepped in. ‘She’s coming tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘Your dinner’s ready.’
Andrew nodded and went upstairs to wash and change before eating, avoiding looking at his son. He’d been later than he expected so Elizabeth and Jacob had started dinner without him. When he returned Elizabeth pinged his plated meal in the microwave. Jacob gobbled down the last of his food and, as his father sat down, left to go to his room.
‘What have I done now?’ Andrew sighed. ‘I’ve just come in.’
‘You haven’t done anything,’ Elizabeth said, setting his plate in front of him. ‘You know how he is at present.’
‘I’m not sure I do any longer.’
She joined him at the table but didn’t resume eating until he’d said grace. ‘How was Mr Tilney?’ she asked. Andrew picked up his knife and fork.
‘Comfortable. His family are with him.’ He paused. ‘You’re definitely going to ask about adjusting Jacob’s medication at his next appointment?’
‘Yes. Monday,’ Elizabeth confirmed. She smiled encouragingly, although she’d checked the list of possible side effects and the most serious had been the increased risk of infection from the immunosuppressants. Nausea, vomiting and hair loss were mentioned, but nothing about mood swings or sudden anger.
‘So how was your day?’ Andrew asked.
‘Good. The church is ready for tomorrow. It’s looking lovely. Let’s hope the weather stays fine.’
She and a band of volunteers had spent the afternoon thoroughly polishing and dusting the church, arranging the flowers, and making sure everything was ready for the wedding that was due to take place the following morning. The wedding was causing considerable excitement in the village as the couple getting married were minor celebrities, having appeared in a long-running television soap. They weren’t locals but had chosen Maybury church for its charm and olde-worldliness, and Andrew was taking the service. It was rumoured that camera crews might be present, and the press certainly would. Most of the village would be turning out to watch.
‘Once Eloise arrives the three of us will walk over,’ Elizabeth said brightly. ‘It’ll be lovely to watch a full white wedding after everything that’s been going on. And it might give Jacob and Eloise some ideas.’ Andrew nodded and smiled, for they’d both assumed that when their son did marry, it would be in Andrew’s church. The image of Jacob completely recovered, in a new suit bought specially for his wedding, and waiting at the altar for his bride, brought a lightness to Elizabeth’s thoughts that hadn’t been there for a long while.
Jacob remained in his room for the rest of the evening, as he had been doing most evenings since returning from hospital. Aware he needed to take regular rests as part of his recovery, Elizabeth and Andrew didn’t disturb him. But at nine o’clock Elizabeth went into the kitchen where she kept his medication and transferred the pills he needed from the Dosette box into the little plastic cup as she did at regular intervals throughout the day. She poured a glass of water and carried that and the pills upstairs. She knocked on Jacob’s door and waited for his, ‘Come in,’ before entering. He was sprawled on his bed, the laptop that he now spent so much time on open on his lap.
‘How are you, love?’ she asked. Going over to him, she carefully set the glass and pills on his bedside cabinet. He grunted an acknowledgement, his gaze staying on the screen. She turned and as she did she caught sight of what he was watching. ‘Jacob!’ she said, horrified.
‘What, Mum?’ he asked, meeting her gaze confrontationally, and making no attempt to hide the screen or lower the lid. ‘Is there a problem?’
Hot, flustered, and unsure of what to say, Elizabeth backed away. ‘That’s not nice,’ she said, shocked.
He laughed unkindly. ‘Well, you don’t have to watch it, do you?’
She hurried from his room to her own, where she sat down shakily on her bed. She’d wait until she was calmer before going down to Andrew. She wouldn’t tell him, he didn’t need more upset. But what had shaken her more than actually catching Jacob watching porn was his blatant disregard for her. He hadn’t been embarrassed or ashamed. It was as though he didn’t care or have any respect for her any more, which wasn’t like the Jacob she knew, not at all.
Chapter Twelve (#ulink_fffc1223-e4ab-535c-9fd1-9bc1cc3ee994)
Jacob sat in the passenger seat next to his mother as she drove, his gaze fixed rigidly ahead and earbuds in so he didn’t have to look at or talk to her. Elizabeth was grateful she didn’t have to make conversation or try to smooth over the last confrontation with her son, for her thoughts were full of what she would say to the doctor, diplomatically, so that Jacob didn’t become upset and angry again. Their disagreement this morning had been over his wish to drive them and he was clearly still in a bad mood. True, it was only a few days until the six-week post-operation milestone – when he could drive again – but Elizabeth had erred on the side of caution and had wanted to check with the doctor first that it was all right. Jacob had exploded into anger, swearing at her and kicking a chair. Thankfully Andrew had already left the house so hadn’t witnessed this last scene.
The bad atmosphere had been building over the weekend, Elizabeth admitted as what had promised to be a pleasant few days had quickly deteriorated into one angry scene after another. When Eloise had arrived on Saturday morning she’d received a frosty, offhand reception from Jacob. Then without giving a reason he’d refused to go to watch the wedding. Andrew was already at the church so she and Eloise had gone together, but Eloise had been very quiet and seemed to take little pleasure in the ceremony, presumably worrying about Jacob. When they’d returned to the rectory, Elizabeth had left them alone in the living room, believing they could do with some time together to repair their differences while she busied herself making lunch. Half an hour later Eloise had come to find her, looking as though she might have been crying, and said she was going now as her mother wasn’t well.
‘Oh dear, I am sorry. I expect she’s got what you had,’ Elizabeth sympathized, while suspecting it might be an excuse. But what could she say? She’d asked where Jacob was and Eloise had said he’d gone up to his room for a rest. Eloise couldn’t be persuaded to stay for lunch so Elizabeth had seen her off at the door, sending her mother, whom she had yet to meet, her best wishes for a speedy recovery.
Once she’d gone Jacob had appeared and taken his lunch up to his room, which had irritated Andrew who’d just come in and had expected them all to eat together.
Then on Sunday morning Andrew had made the mistake of saying that now Jacob was quite a bit better it would be nice if he started going to church again. Elizabeth and Jacob usually went together and if Eloise was staying with them for the weekend she came too. Elizabeth had been in the adjacent room when Andrew had broached the subject with Jacob and had heard every word of their heated exchange. It had culminated in Jacob shouting, ‘He’s your God, not mine! Stuff your religion. I never believed. I hate your fucking church.’ Which simply wasn’t true. For even if Jacob hadn’t had the strength of faith his father had, he’d never minded going to church before. And as the Reverend’s son there was a certain expectation – duty, even – for him to go, although Elizabeth would be the first to admit that duty was no longer a word in Jacob’s vocabulary.
‘It’ll be better once he can get out more,’ Elizabeth had said placatingly to Andrew after Jacob had stormed off. He was clearly badly shaken.
Andrew had nodded half-heartedly, not wholly convinced. ‘Just make sure you talk to the doctor about his medication. Something has to change.’
Jacob had spent the rest of the day in his room, only coming down to eat and take his pills, which Elizabeth no longer took up to him, but set out in the kitchen, calling up to her son when it was time.
She glanced at Jacob now as she parked in the hospital car park. Expressionless and unfazed by the bad atmosphere, he was head down, selecting music on his phone. He stayed in the car while she bought a ticket from the machine and placed it in the windscreen. Then with his earbuds still in and without acknowledging her at all, he got out and fell into step beside her as they walked to the main entrance. It wasn’t until they were in the department that he took out his earbuds, but then of course it wasn’t to talk to her, but to the nurses, some of whom were young and attractive. She saw him turn on the charm and thought of Eloise. Jacob had never overtly flirted with the nurses before.
The routine was similar and they’d attended so many of these check-ups that they knew what to expect. As usual it took nearly an hour to run all the tests, monitor his heart rate and weigh him, before they were called in to see the doctor.
Dr Shah, one of the implant team who they’d seen before, sat behind his desk going through the latest test results. He glanced up and greeted them as they entered, then continued reading as they took the two chairs opposite. Jacob strummed his fingers on his knee and fiddled with the wire of his earbuds, now looped around his neck. He began tapping his foot impatiently as Elizabeth sat perfectly still, her thoughts racing with what she had to say.
‘Well, young man,’ Dr Shah said, finally looking up. ‘You’re doing very well. All your test results are good. Spot on. Let me have a look at you.’
It was the usual routine and Jacob went over to the couch so Dr Shah could examine him. He admired the scar, felt his chest, and then listened to his heart.
‘Perfect. A wonderful strong beat. I’m very pleased. It’s behaving exactly as it should. Well done.’ The examination over, Jacob returned to his seat next to his mother. Dr Shah sat behind his desk again, making a few notes, then looked at Jacob.
‘So how are you feeling in yourself? Fit and raring to go?’ He smiled.
‘Can I start driving now?’ Jacob asked.
Dr Shah consulted his notes again. ‘You’re six weeks post-op next week and everything seems to be healing nicely so I don’t see why not. As long as you’re careful and don’t overdo it. I assume we’re talking about driving a car along a road and not racing?’ He laughed at his joke and Elizabeth smiled politely.
Jacob nodded.
‘You’re starting the cardiac rehab programme next week so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drive yourself to and from your appointments if that’s what you’re thinking?’
‘Yes,’ Jacob agreed amicably.
‘Good. And no side effects from the medication? You seem to be tolerating it all well.’
‘I’m fine,’ Jacob said.
‘You may find that your new heart reacts slightly differently to your old one,’ Dr Shah said. ‘Especially when you start to exercise. That’s perfectly normal. During the transplant the nerves to the heart are cut. The medical term is denervation. They don’t grow back but that doesn’t matter. Your old heart rate was controlled by your nervous system but your new heart is controlled by adrenalin. It will make your new heart beat faster and take a little longer to slow down. Again, all perfectly normal and it won’t limit what you are able to do. The physiotherapist will talk to you more about this and show you how to warm up properly before exercise. The denervation also means that you will no longer feel chest pain related to your heart. The nerve connections that conducted pain are gone. Any chest pain you feel during activity is probably caused by the healing of your chest after surgery.’
‘I do get breathless if I exert myself,’ Jacob admitted. ‘And I seem to tire more easily.’
‘You will at this stage in your convalescence, but that isn’t because there is a problem with your heart, it’s just because you’ve been out of shape for a long time. As you exercise, your strength and stamina will improve. Another couple of months and you’ll be a new man.’ He smiled again. ‘Any more questions?’ He looked from Jacob to Elizabeth.
‘Yes, I have a question,’ Elizabeth said, steeling herself. ‘About the possible side effects of the medication.’ Jacob looked at her sharply. ‘I wonder if you could advise me?’
‘Of course,’ Dr Shah said.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. ‘My husband and I have some concerns that the drugs could be having side effects, not physical ones but more to do with temperament. I know Jacob won’t appreciate me saying this, but he can easily become irritated and frustrated, even angry.’ She was being as diplomatic as she could. ‘He was never like this before and we were wondering if his medication could have anything to do with it, and if so, whether it could be adjusted. I remember you saying there are different brands.’
Dr Shah shifted his gaze from Elizabeth to Jacob. ‘Do you feel you’re more easily irritated and angry now than you used to be?’
‘Yes. Because I’m fed up with not being able to do what I want,’ Jacob retorted.
Dr Shah was nodding. ‘Exactly my feeling.’ He returned his gaze to Elizabeth. ‘This is about the emotional effects of a long-term life-threatening illness followed by major surgery and months of convalescing. In some patients the drugs can cause physical symptoms like stomach cramps – but Jacob isn’t saying that. Let me assure you that the drugs prescribed are not responsible for any change in Jacob’s level of patience. Personally I think he is coping remarkably well.’ He smiled at Elizabeth, condescendingly she thought, before continuing. ‘Jacob is a young man, full of zest and with a vitality for life. Of course he’s going to feel a bit fed up and irritable. That’s natural, and it will improve and go with time, I’m sure.’ Then to Jacob he said, ‘You’re not feeling depressed are you? If so, I can give you something for that.’
Not more pills, Elizabeth thought, but Jacob was shaking his head. ‘No, I’m not depressed,’ he confirmed.
‘Good,’ Dr Shah said. ‘I think it would help if you start regaining your independence as long as you don’t overdo it. So by all means start driving again. Another month or so and you’ll be back to your old self – indeed fitter with your new heart. Then we can start talking about you returning to work.’
‘Fantastic,’ Jacob said.
‘And, as your mother has brought up the subject of changes in personality,’ Dr Shah continued, ‘you can disregard all that stuff and nonsense you read from time to time in the tabloid press about transplant patients taking on some of the likes and dislikes of the donor. It’s fanciful nonsense that sells newspapers, nothing more. The heart is an organ like any other. It pumps blood around the body. And although we attribute emotion to the heart – Valentine cards and the like – you can’t transplant personality or emotion.’ He laughed at the ludicrousness of the suggestion. Elizabeth smiled weakly and felt a complete fool. Jacob smirked. He was enjoying this, she thought, although he didn’t say anything until they’d left the consulting room.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ he sneered as they walked quickly down the corridor together. ‘You and Dad need to get off my case.’ He strode away from her and Elizabeth had to run to catch up with him.
‘Jacob, we’re only concerned for you.’
‘Well, don’t be! Go and smother someone else. I don’t need all your concern, it’s suffocating.’ A passer-by glanced at them.
She followed him through the revolving door out of the hospital. He stopped. ‘I’ve got some things to do in town. I’ll see you later,’ he said, and headed off in the opposite direction to the car.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, horrified. She ran a few steps to catch up with him. ‘You’re not well enough to be out by yourself.’
He stopped dead. ‘Yes I am. You heard what the doctor said. I need to regain my independence. And where I’m going is none of your business.’ He set off again.
‘But how will you get home?’ she called after him. ‘Shall I wait for you here?’
‘No! For Christ’s sake, no!’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘I’ll use the buses like everyone else.’ He continued along the pavement towards the main road.
It crossed her mind to run after him but what good would that do? It was likely to make him more angry and she couldn’t physically stop him from going. She wished she could pick him up, put him in the car and take him home as if he were a child. Perhaps she was being overprotective, although she was sure the doctor hadn’t meant this when he’d said he could start regaining his independence by driving a little. Fearing for his safety, she returned to the car to call Andrew for advice. He’d know what to do.
Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_18f32629-3c15-5966-b064-931f7acd3173)
‘He’s a silly boy,’ Andrew said. ‘What’s he trying to prove?’
‘That he can manage alone and be independent, I suppose,’ Elizabeth offered. ‘But he gets so angry with me. It’s frightening.’ She had yet to tell Andrew what Dr Shah had said about the side effects of the medication having nothing to do with Jacob’s behaviour.
‘I suppose it might do him some good,’ Andrew said reflectively. ‘Make him realize he’s not invincible and he needs us. Try not to worry, I’m sure he’ll phone you soon.’
‘Do you think so?’ Elizabeth asked uncertainly. ‘I am worried.’
‘Once he needs a lift home, he’ll phone. I can’t see him using the buses. It will be an uncomfortably long journey.’
‘I’ll wait around here for a while then,’ she said, only partly reassured.
The ticket had an hour to run and Elizabeth sat in the car with her side window slightly lowered to let in some fresh air, resisting the urge to phone Jacob. She was also thinking about what Dr Shah had said. Not so much about Jacob needing his independence, nor him telling her that the medication wasn’t responsible for Jacob’s behaviour, but what he’d said about cutting the nerves to Jacob’s heart, and that they’d never grow back. She couldn’t remember being told that before the operation but then there’d been so much to take in it might have been mentioned and she’d forgotten. Now his words stuck and resonated with unsettling familiarity, for that was exactly what if felt like to her – the nerves to Jacob’s heart had been cut, severing emotion. Denervation, Dr Shah had called it. He’d said that it was nothing to worry about, part of the procedure, and had no negative after-effects. But how could he be sure? Doctors didn’t know everything. They didn’t get it right all the time. She checked her phone for messages – there were none – and then googled denervation.
A surprisingly long list of websites offering information on denervation appeared and opening the first, she quickly learned that radio-frequency denervation was most commonly used to treat chronic back pain. The nerves around the joints in the back were deactivated, thus alleviating the symptoms. But this wasn’t the denervation Jacob had had and she googled again, this time typing in denervation and heart transplants
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Lisa Stone
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Шпионские детективы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: When critically ill Jacob Wilson is given a life-saving heart transplant, his parents are relieved that their loving son has been saved.However, before long, his family are forced to accept that something has changed in Jacob. Their once loving son is slowly being replaced by a violent man whose mood swings leave them terrified – but is it their fault?Jacob’s girlfriend, Rosie, is convinced the man she loves is suffering from stress. But when his moods turn on her, she begins to doubt herself – and she can only hide the bruises for so long.When a terrible crime is committed, Jacob’s family are forced to confront their darkest fears. Has the boy they raised become a monster? Or is someone else to blame?This is a spellbinding crime novel with a dark heart from the worldwide bestseller Cathy Glass, writing as Lisa Stone.