In Too Deep (35 page)

I wasn’t there in his last moments.

Except now – with Hannah’s tentative pulse twitching beneath the pale skin of her throat, her body convulsing and bleeding – there
is
something I can do. I will not allow the same thing to happen to her as happened to Jacob. I will not allow myself to lose another member of my family.

I scramble to my feet and give her a quick kiss on the cheek, telling her I’ll be back with help as soon as possible, that I must leave but only for a short time. I try to convince her that everything will be fine.

‘Don’t move, love. If you hear what I’m saying, don’t move an inch. I’ll be back before you know it, my brave girl.’

I tear off up the hill again, the breath in my lungs stinging as I forget exhaustion and weak muscles and
useless limbs. I run back to the hotel reception desk as fast as I’m able, with my legs on fire and my head pounding from adrenalin. Drawing on reserves I didn’t know I had, I compose myself with a deep breath and calmly instruct the receptionist to call for an ambulance, telling her that my daughter is losing a massive amount of blood down by the lake.

During all of this, as hotel guests stop and stare, watching my frantic state, I’m aware of Susan slowly emerging from her office. She looks perplexed, though her concern is shielded by a calm mask.

‘Gina,’ she says, coming up to me. ‘I overheard what happened.’ She gently takes hold of my wrists just as Tom walks into the foyer from outside. Every step he takes is cautious, tentative. He’s clearly upset and looks dishevelled, as if he’s been running. His eyes are wide and staring, and there’s mud on his boots, a layer of sweat and grime on his face.

‘Would you like some water, Mrs Forrester?’ the receptionist says, holding out a plastic cup from the fountain.

‘No . . . no,’ I say, gently pushing the beaker away. My vision is grey and blurry. ‘I need to get back to Hannah. Susan, please would you tell the paramedics where to find me, and fetch my bag from the boot of my car? The mechanic has the keys.’

I’m on automatic pilot, but I can’t take my eyes off Tom. His cheeks are burning red, his fists clenched by his sides. Turning, pushing bad thoughts from my mind, I
dash outside and back towards the lake. Back towards my daughter. Nothing feels real. Nothing makes sense.

Hannah is lying how I left her, her breathing shallow and urgent. She’s pale and clammy and in agony. It’s not until I hear the wail of a siren in the distance and finally spot several paramedics running down the hill to where we are, grappling with their equipment as they approach, that I actually take a moment to allow the truth into my mind.

Someone did this to Hannah. Someone did this to my daughter.

As soon as they spot her, as soon as they see the shroud of dark red around her, the paramedics move faster. Within seconds they are on the ground, assessing her, cutting off her pyjamas, asking me questions about her health and condition.

Portable monitors are unpacked and attached, beeping out results and readings that I don’t understand. A woman gets a line in the back of her hand, telling me she’s giving her pain relief to make her more comfortable.

I nod furiously. ‘Do whatever you need,’ I say, trusting these strangers with my daughter’s life.

Backup soon arrives with two more paramedics and a stretcher to get her to the waiting ambulance. The bleeding has thankfully slowed since they arrived, and I’m right beside my girl, holding her hand as they strap her on, carrying her up the steep slope.

‘You’re going to be fine, love,’ I tell her through teary eyes. She’s semi-conscious, and once or twice her head
lolls my way. I’m not sure if it’s because she hears my voice or because she’s being bumped around as they get her up the steep hill.

What would Rick say? I think shamefully, following on. I’m her mother. I’m supposed to be looking after her. I let her down. Looking at her in this pitiful state makes me want to weep, but it also makes me vow that nothing bad will ever happen to her again.

I promise you, Rick . . .

The ambulance doors are open and they slide her inside, swiftly doing their jobs with efficiency and confidence. Thank God they’re here. Thank God I’m not dealing with this alone.

‘Are you coming along too, Mum?’ one of the men asks. He has kind eyes and his warm look beckons me inside the ambulance.

‘Yes, yes, thank you.’ I climb in, sitting down on a small seat next to Hannah. She’s moaning and groaning, twisting in pain on the narrow bed. The only female paramedic in the crew sits beside her, making checks, constantly assessing her state.

As I buckle myself in, as I feel the vehicle move, the woman leans across and speaks quietly. ‘She’ll need to go straight into surgery,’ she tells me. ‘All the right people are being alerted. She’ll be in good hands.’ She takes mine, giving them a squeeze.

I look at her. She knows nothing about me or my family or what’s happened to us over the years, yet she’s as kind and caring as anyone could ever be to another human being.

‘I understand,’ I say, far too rationally for how I’m actually feeling. My heart is out of control and my limbs won’t stop shaking. I’m freezing and sweating all at once, especially when I see more blood soaking through the blanket covering Hannah. Then I remember I don’t even have my bag or phone.

‘How much can she lose . . . ?’

‘We have units on standby already,’ the woman tells me. ‘We’ll sort her out, don’t you worry.’ She gives a concerned smile, peering forwards through the front window, a little frown forming as she glances at her watch. ‘Fast as you can, guys,’ she says, trying to sound cheery.

The journey seems interminable, even though the siren is on, parting the traffic in waves ahead of us, and eventually we arrive at the hospital. I’m ushered out of the ambulance as more medical staff meet us.

The lead paramedic from our team calmly recounts Hannah’s condition to several nurses who have come out to help. Within seconds, they’re wheeling her away on a trolley, through the wide glass sliding doors of the hospital’s emergency entrance and down a short corridor to a bay ready and waiting for her.

I try to keep close, but it’s tricky with so many people attending her. Questions are fired around by the doctor in charge – some at me, some at the recovery team – and I do my best to answer clearly, including giving them my mobile number for the file.

No, she’s not on any medication . . . She’s allergic to penicillin . . . She’s never been in hospital before
apart from a broken wrist . . . She’s eighteen and a student . . .

My mind whips back and forth across Hannah’s short life, picking out relevant information that will help them give her the best possible treatment and outcome. My fingers are in my mouth, me tearing at my nails, my mind on fire as all the horrific possibilities scream through me.

A doctor takes me aside. Her face is solemn, yet there’s something about her that gives me confidence.

‘Your daughter is going to need an operation. It could be life-threatening otherwise.’

And she goes on to describe in detail the procedure I don’t want to hear. ‘We’ll take good care of her. Don’t you worry.’

‘Will you be doing the operation?’ I ask, not daring to mention the outcome.

The doctor nods. ‘I’m going to theatre now to prepare. I’ll make certain you get news as soon as there is any. You can have a moment with her before they bring her down.’

I’m about to tell her I don’t have my phone but she strides off before I have a chance. Instead, I push back through the cubicle curtain to Hannah. There are only a couple of nurses with her now. One of them adjusts the line going into the back of her hand, while the other makes notes on a chart. She seems much more comfortable.

‘How are you feeling, love?’

Her head turns to the side. I see in her eyes that she’s drugged up on painkillers.

‘It hurts,’ she whispers.

‘Where, honey?’

‘Everywhere.’ She shudders, screwing up her eyes.

‘Do you know what happened? I’d gone to get the car, but it broke down and then I couldn’t find you.’

Hannah’s head turns the opposite way.

‘Think, love. It’s important.’

The nurses are making noises about going to theatre, about the porters coming to take her.

‘Was it an accident? Did you fall?’ I pray she remembers.

Hannah shrugs loosely, then slowly shakes her head. Tears collect in her eyes.

‘Did someone do this to you? Who hurt you?’

She shrugs again.

‘You need to tell me who it was, Han. It’s really important.’

The nurse whips back the curtain as the porters arrive, unlocking the brakes on her bed.

‘There’s a place for you to wait while she’s in theatre, Mrs Forrester,’ one of them says, ushering me away. ‘You can get a hot drink.’

‘Who, Hannah, who was it? Please, tell me,’ I say, hurrying along beside her, ignoring the nurse.

Hannah’s gaze tracks mine as we go down the corridor. I chase after her, reaching out to touch her hand, each of us clinging on by our fingertips. The porters push her bed up to the lift doors, pressing the button and waiting. Hannah’s lips part as though she’s trying to speak, but
can’t. There’s something dark and sad inside her – something hopeless and lost.

‘Hannah, it’s important. I can help you . . .’

She looks right at me, and her mouth takes on the shape of a word that doesn’t quite make it out. Instead she turns away, the tears in her eyes glistening in the harsh light overhead. She screws up her face as if she’s searching for the right way to say it. As if remembering all over again is too painful to bear.

Then, as the lift pings and the doors slide open, she turns back to face me. Her expression has changed to one of bitterness stitched up with fear. She judders in a deep breath.

‘It was Tom’s dad,’ she says, half closing her eyes, making me think she’s not sure. ‘Tom’s dad did it . . .’

‘Oh, love,’ I say, realising how drugged up she is. And then she’s trundled into the lift, the doors wheezing closed, cutting me off from my daughter.

The relatives’ waiting room is empty and consists of a gurgling coffee machine, a dying pot plant and several plastic armchairs. I can’t face the emptiness of it, not with what Hannah said ringing through my head.

Instead, I walk up and down the busy hospital corridors for over an hour, witnessing everything from trauma emergencies arriving, to pregnant women in labour pacing about in flapping robes, to kids proudly sporting their new plaster casts. Eventually I find myself in the main cafeteria, exhausted, tearful, feeling scared, but also grateful. Hannah is in good hands, and my mindless walking has somehow helped pass the time. I’m a little closer to seeing my daughter again.

The canteen is buzzing with staff and visitors, and filled with the comforting smells of pie, gravy and overcooked vegetables. I queue for a cup of tea – grateful for the few coins I found in my pocket.

I shuffle forward in the long line of staff and concerned-looking relatives, listening to their hopeful conversations, the nervous laughter, the exchanges between
parents and their young children about what to have to eat. It makes me feel grounded and unusually calm, given what Hannah is currently going through.

There’s a hand on my shoulder.

‘Gina . . .’

Susan is standing right next to me, with Tom hovering behind her. He has changed his clothes, looks more composed.

‘Susan,’ I say, not knowing what else is appropriate. She must feel really bad that this has happened at her hotel, yet I suspect she knows something. Especially given what Hannah said, though I don’t want to jump to conclusions.

‘We wanted to find out how she is, didn’t we, Tom?’ She turns briefly to her son, who nods solemnly, taking a step forward. ‘And to give you this.’ Susan hands me my bag.

‘I’m so sorry to hear about her accident,’ Tom says, almost as if he’s been instructed.

‘Who said it was an accident?’

He looks pained and pulls a face. ‘I’m sorry, I just assumed . . . I heard that she was found at the bottom of the lake steps. It was natural to think she’d fallen.’

‘Rather than pushed.’ I hold his gaze, studying his reaction, even though the only movement on his face is a tiny jaw-twitch.

‘Will you be calling the police?’ Susan asks. She moves forward with me as the queue shortens.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I answer honestly. ‘I need to find
out how she is first. She’s in theatre now.’ I reach the front of the line, asking if Susan and Tom want a cup of tea too.

‘Only if you’d like the company,’ she says. ‘Though Tom has to go and move the car, don’t you, Tom? The car park was full, so we had to leave it in a temporary spot.’

The dented Range Rover flashes through my mind, but then I remember seeing Susan coming up the drive in an Audi once, making me wonder if what she said is actually true, that she doesn’t like driving the bigger vehicle.

‘It might take me a while,’ Tom says, sounding glad of his reprieve. ‘I hope you get news soon.’ He looks at me briefly before walking off with his head down, hands in pockets.

Susan and I find a quiet table near the window. I sip my tea, but it’s still too hot.

‘He’s very upset,’ Susan says, as if I should feel sorry for her son.

‘That’s odd, considering him and Hannah have only recently met.’ The conversation we had by the lake is still on my mind, and I wonder just how much Susan is prepared to cover for her family.

‘Tom takes things like that hard,’ she says. ‘He’s very sensitive.’

I swear she says something else under her breath, but she brings her cup to her lips so I don’t catch it. We both stare out of the window, which faces out on to a small lawned area. Several patients are sitting outside with visitors, a couple in wheelchairs, some with drip stands beside them and plastic tubes snaking their way beneath
pyjamas and gowns. A man and a woman are smoking, even though the sign above them tells them not to.

‘You’d think they’d stop, wouldn’t you?’

‘Sorry?’ Susan turns.

‘Those two out there. Look at them smoking. They’re clearly ill, and he only has one leg.’ A thick bandage crowns the man’s stump. With Hannah in an operating theatre, my son dead, my husband missing, I feel pious enough to comment.