Dare to Love (32 page)

‘Babes I’m just packing. You got my message?’ He’s like a boarder at the end of term and the long summer holidays lie ahead.

‘Yes. It’s brilliant news. When do you go?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘It’s a bit sudden. What’s going to happen to Darron?’

‘He coming with me.’

‘You managed to sort that out so quickly?’

‘My colleague give me the wink last week but I didn’t want to say anything till I know for sure. I been checking with Darron’s auntie if he can stay with them. They cool about it. They been checking schools for me. We been promised a place for him to start next week. It all happening so fast. Everything falling in place. It’s just you now Josi. When you coming?’

‘How’s Mel?’

‘She gone a bit crazy but I have to tell you that when I see you. When you coming?’

‘Whoa! You’ve been planning this for weeks. I’ve just found out. I need some time.’

‘How much time? Babes, I been wanting this so much. A fresh start for me and you. I can’t wait till we together again.’

‘Me too. I want to be with you too Grant.’ There. I’ve said it. My heart’s pounding, my knees are shaking and I’m scared as hell so it must be the right decision.

‘When you going to tell Richard?’

‘Tonight. I’ll tell him tonight. He won’t like it. I don’t know what he’ll do.’ That’s scaring me too.

‘Babes, be careful. I wouldn’t like if you tell me you leaving me. I would fight to keep you. Josi, I’m fighting for you now. Come to me. I want us to be together. We can make it work. I love you babes. My flight’s five tomorrow. Call me anytime.’

‘Grant?’

‘Yes babes.’

‘I love you. I want to be with you too.’

My phone flashes up two missed calls from unknown numbers. They must have tried phoning while I was engaged. Probably someone trying to sell me something, insurance or to change my utilities. It rings again. Might as well tell them I don’t want anything. I have to think about how I’m going to tell my husband I’m leaving him after eight months of marriage.

‘Hello.’

‘Is that Mrs Meyers?’ The warm concern in the male voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from a call centre, but I’m still getting ready to say ‘No thank you, not today.’

‘Mrs Josi Mayers?’

‘Yes,’ I snap, a little irritated by this intrusion.

‘I’m afraid I have some news about your husband, Richard.’

Afraid, why’s he afraid? What’s Richard done? Is it to do with Dr Patterson? I sit down. ‘Who’s this?’

‘It’s Paul Manny, manager at the gun club. I’m afraid Richard’s been in an accident. He’s been taken to the hospital.’

‘What kind of accident? Which hospital?’

‘He’s sustained a gunshot wound. He’s on his way to the hospital. We’ve been trying to contact you for the last twenty minutes, but your phone kept going to voicemail. It wasn’t the kind of message we wanted to leave on your voicemail.’

‘Yes. I was talking to a friend. Is it serious? Which hospital?’

‘Nottingham. If you’d like we can send someone to take you to the hospital. Where are you at the moment?’

‘I’m still at work. The hospital isn’t too far. I’ll get there quicker in a taxi, but thanks for offering. Where was he shot?’

‘He was on the target range, just leaving when…’

‘I mean where on his body was he shot?’

‘In the head.’

‘WHAT! How long ago?’

‘About half an hour.’

‘And you’re just telling me now? Is it serious?’

‘I’m not sure. The paramedics were very efficient.’ That’s an evasive answer if ever I heard one. He sounds like a politician.

‘I have to go.’

I call a taxi. Five minutes. I flick on the answerphone. Tidy the papers on my desk, close the blinds, open them again, take my coffee cup to the small shared kitchen, rinse it out and turn it down. Pick up my handbag, check my phone. They’ll ring when they’re two minutes away. Tidy the papers on my desk. Put them in the draw instead. Check my phone. It rings. Time to go downstairs. I lock the door. The plaque winks at me.

LIFE IS A DARING ADVENTURE – LIVE IT.

The accident and emergency waiting room is virtually empty. Obviously not many accidents happen at five thirty on a Wednesday afternoon. People are too busy making their way home to be engaged in any life-threatening activities, no skaters, rock climbers, footballers, rugby players. None of those who clog up the room at weekends with broken limbs, dislocated joints, cuts, bruises and bruised egos. The two receptionists draw to a natural close their conversation about the last episode of
Eastenders
. The one with the short blonde bob looks at me enquiringly.

‘Can I help you?’ she says in that sing song voice they reserve for patients. A voice she wasn’t using to her colleague a second ago.

‘Yes. I’m looking for a Mr Richard Meyers.’ She looks at her screen. ‘He was brought in with a head injury,’ I add, hoping the extra information will speed her up. She slides a glance at her colleague who receives it expectantly, like children sliding notes under a door so the adult won’t see.

‘And you are?’

‘Mrs Meyers, his wife.’

Another note passes between them.

‘Please take a seat, Mrs Meyers, and we’ll get one of the doctors to see you.’

‘Is he all right?’ It sounds tighter than when it left my head.

She looks down at my hands griping the counter. I look at them too but they don’t seem to belong to me.

‘I’ll get a doctor to see you straight away,’ her voice softens, loses its singsong officiality. ‘Please take a seat, Mrs Meyers.’

A doctor, who looks to be in his late thirties, about Grant’s age, with an open clean face, like a well-scrubbed china plate with no traces of what was on it last or what is about to be laid on it, approaches me, hand outstretched.

‘Would you like to come this way, Mrs Meyers?’ His outstretched hand guides me to a small door at the side of the reception desk. Can he feel me shaking? Can he tell I’m thinking the worst when I should be thinking the best? I should be thinking, He’s had a graze to the side of his head; he’ll probably have a small scar that will be visible now that his hair’s receding. He won’t be able to cover it by growing his hair long. He’ll be conscious of it for a while but he’ll get used to it, in time might even come to view it as distinguished. May even joke about it being a war wound. In time I’ll kiss it, trace it with my tongue; it might even be a turn on for him. I’ll suggest he needs glasses and he’ll retort it’s not him that needs them but the guy who shot him. Then maybe he needs a sat nav so he’ll know exactly where he should be – not in the firing line of some short-sighted rifleman. This is my hope, this is my prayer.

‘Mrs Meyers, I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m afraid your husband died from his wounds. I’m very sorry.’ His voice is a warbling sound, like I’m listening to him at the bottom of a swimming pool. He’s not English. Greek? Maybe that’s why he’s warbling; he’s getting the words wrong.

‘When? How?’ Now I’m warbling too. Maybe it’s the acoustics in this room.

‘Unfortunately he was already gone by the time the ambulance brought him in. There was nothing we could do.’

I try to think of something to say. There’s something I should be saying. I open my mouth, hoping the right words will file out in perfect sentence formation, like synchronised swimmers, all in their place, beautiful, eloquent. But like the little girl in the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini, they’re too shy to come out and stay well hidden in the cubicle of my mouth, wedged behind my teeth, clinging on as the air gushes past them.

‘Mrs Meyers. I’m very sorry but the police would like to speak to you about your husband’s death.’

‘The police?’ There. They’ve gathered their confidence again, ready to face the world. ‘Why do I need to see the police?’

‘He died from a gunshot wound, Mrs Meyers. They have to investigate. They will also need you to identify your husband’s body.’ They must have sorted out the acoustics. He’s warbling less, but he’s still getting the words wrong. Richard’s not a body.

‘Can I get you a drink, Mrs Meyers?’

I shake my head then change my mind. Maybe some water will help loosen the words, make them more flexible, more obedient.

‘Yes please. Water.’

Two officers return with the doctor. He introduces them and they pull up chairs around me to form a triangle. The father, son and Holy Ghost. I wonder where that’s come from. I’m not religious, haven’t been to church in a long time, didn’t even have a religious ceremony. Is that why this has happened, because I forgot to invite the father, son and Holy Ghost into my marriage?

The doctor leaves. Says to ask for him by name if I need anything else. I don’t know what his name is and I’m too embarrassed to ask him, in case he’s told me already and I’ve forgotten. I’ll ask at reception on the way out. I look at the father and son, or, more accurately, the father and daughter. One of the officers is a young woman who could easily be her colleague’s daughter. Is she a trainee? Is she learning how to ask wives when they last saw their husbands, whether they knew he was a member of a gun club and whether she knew he was going there today? Is she learning why these questions make no sense?

‘Can I see him?’ It suddenly occurs to me that they may be talking about the wrong person. Maybe it’s not my Richard at all. All this time they may have been talking to the wrong Mrs Meyers. Maybe this conversation is meant for another Mrs Meyers. They could be wasting my time and theirs.

‘Yes, we’ll need you to identify him,’ the older officer says.

‘Is there someone you would like us to call, Mrs Meyers?’ the daughter asks. She seems concerned, like she’s learning fast. I’d like them to call Richard, he’s who I call in these situations. He’s who I called when my mother died, when Lewis fell out of a tree and broke his leg. He’s who I called when my car wouldn’t start, when the boiler broke down, when I wasn’t sure about the lease for my office.

‘No, let me see him first.’ If it’s not him, I’ll call him, tell him to come and get me, relay this whole weird experience to him.

Buoyed by the thought it’s not Richard, I’m eager to get the identification over with. The officers accompany me to the mortuary. Little is said. The older one lets the staff know who we’ve come to see. He’s on a trolley, like he’s asleep with the covers over his head to block out the light. The man in the white coat pulls the cover back. The two officers break my fall as my knees, without any instruction from me, decide to sit down. The girl is surprisingly strong.

‘Is this your husband, Mrs Meyers?’

I nod. The words are in hiding again. I want to say only one half of him is Richard. The half that looks like a giant smashed tomato is not him. The man covers his head again and they lead me away, back to the room with the triangle of chairs. I take the glass of water and finish it in one gulp.

‘Is there someone we can call for you?’ the girl asks again. I can’t think.

‘We can arrange for you to be taken home,’ she says, ‘did you drive here?’

‘No. Taxi. My car’s at work.’

‘Is there someone you can call to be at home with you?’ She’s very insistent. Maybe she’s done this before, maybe she’s not a trainee after all. I only have a couple of friends in the village, well, mainly Richard’s friends. I’ve not been there long enough to put down roots. I call Susan.

‘Hi, to what do I owe this pleasure,’ she chirps down the phone, ‘not another impromptu BBQ is it? I could certainly use a well done steak and a large glass of Rioja.’

‘Sue, Richard’s dead. Can you come round tonight? I could use a friend.’

‘Josi, are you kidding me? Don’t joke. What do you mean Rich…’

‘The police are going to bring me home soon. Can you come?’

‘Of course I can come. I’ll look out for you.’

She does her best to be helpful. She keeps me supplied with tea and tissues as I relay the news over and over. To his parents (they will inform the rest of his family), my children, my family, his colleagues (he won’t be in tomorrow, please let his clients know, like I’m ringing to say he’s got the flu and won’t be in for a few days), his friends. The village already knows, flowers and cards have started arriving.

At eleven o’clock I thank Sue and ask her to leave. She’s reluctant, says it’s no bother staying, she’s made arrangements to stay the night, am I sure I’m OK? Should I be on my own at a time like this? When it’s clear I want her to leave she hugs me tightly, fighting back her own tears, and says she’ll be over first thing in the morning.

I pour myself a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc, sit on the settee and curl my leg up. I watch the TV with the sound down. It’s the news channel. Pictures of misery and pain parade across the screen in a never-ending stream. There’s one more call I have to make. I find the name in my phone book and dial. It goes straight to voicemail – must be switched off. ‘Grant, its Josi. Richard died today. I won’t be coming to you.’

Grant

I pull up outside her apartment. This might be the last time I see her. I push the thought to
the back of my mind, can’t afford to think this way. After last night I have to do whatever it take to be with her. It’s eight hours since I see her and it feel like eight days. Her friend taking her to the airport. I offer but she say Celia would be disappointed, she book time off work specially. So I’m here three hours before her flight saying goodbye.