Rubbernecker (32 page)

Nobody died, and Patrick felt oddly pleased.

54

THE TUESDAY AFTER
the funeral, Meg went back to the coma ward to finish reading
The Da Vinci Code
to Mrs Deal.

The day was unseasonably cold and wet, and it took some willpower to go, but kindness and responsibility were her crosses to bear.

Jean waved brightly at her from down the corridor, and Meg draped her jacket over Mrs Deal’s motionless legs and pulled up what she’d learned was the least obnoxious of the vinyl easy chairs.

The book sucked her into its vortex and two hours passed, when she’d only planned one. It seemed to have the same effect on Mrs Deal, who lay motionless the entire time, which Meg interpreted as rapt attention.

‘The End,’ said Meg at last. She closed the book and put it in her lap, and blew out her cheeks as if she’d just run a mile. ‘How bloody brilliant was
that
?’

Mrs Deal was speechless in her appreciation for Dan Brown.

And then she started tapping.

Jeeeesus Christmas
, thought Meg. She needed to go home, have a hot bath and then eat a lot of chocolate ice cream in front of the telly.

‘Hi,’ said Patrick.

‘Shit, you made me jump.’

He didn’t say sorry or anything else, so Meg went on, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to say goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’m going home.’

‘
Home
home?’

He frowned in confusion and repeated, ‘Home.’

‘I mean, to Brecon?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ Meg wasn’t sure how she felt. She would miss him, but she wasn’t quite sure how much there was to miss.

‘What will you do there?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Patrick.

‘Are you going to apply to another university?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will you come back to visit us?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Meg tried not to feel hurt. There was only so much you could expect from someone like Patrick. Still, he
had
come to say goodbye, which was surprisingly socially interactive of him.

‘How’s Lexi?’ she asked.

‘She likes my bedroom,’ he shrugged, and Meg was confused into silence.

Patrick looked past her. ‘Is that her?’

‘This is Mrs Deal,’ said Meg. ‘Come and say hello.’

Patrick stepped forward a few tentative paces until he was at the foot of the bed. ‘Hello,’ he said to the wall over her head.

‘She can’t speak. Come closer, so she can see you.’

‘
Can
she see me?’

‘Of course,’ said Meg, even though she realized now that that was an assumption she had made just because Mrs Deal’s eyes were open.

Patrick edged closer.

‘Mrs Deal, this is Patrick. Remember I told you he was going to read to you? Well, he can’t now, but he’s come to say hi anyway.’

‘Hi,’ he said. He waited, then added, ‘Does she know I’m here?’

‘Don’t be rude,’ snapped Meg. ‘She can hear you!’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Why is her finger twitching like that?’

Meg was annoyed at his insensitivity. She was about to snap again, then she remembered that she’d asked the same question herself. She reddened at the memory. ‘It just does. She can’t help it. You don’t notice it after a while.’

‘Oh,’ said Patrick, and seemed to lose interest. He looked around the ward. ‘Is the girlfriend here?’

‘You mean Angie?’

‘Spicer’s girlfriend.’

‘Yes, that’s Angie. She left, apparently.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe she had to. Or maybe she just
felt
she had to. I feel very sorry for her. I mean, it wasn’t
her
fault, was it? She only ever did her best for the patients.’

‘Eight and five,’ said Patrick.

‘What?’

He pointed at Mrs Deal’s fingers. ‘Eight and five, eight and five, see? Then she starts again. Eight and five.’

Meg counted. Eight taps and then five. Eight and five. She had never noticed.

‘You’re right! What does that mean?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s helpful.’

‘Not really,’ said Patrick. Then, after a short pause while they both stared at Mrs Deal’s hand, he went on, ‘It could mean lots of things. Or nothing. Thirteen. Or eighty-five. Or it could be simple code, like for the alphabet. The eighth letter is H and the fifth is E.’

They both looked down at Mrs Deal’s still finger and waited. Meg giggled nervously. ‘Watch, I bet she won’t do it now!’

But she did.

Eight and then five.

And then sixteen.

‘There goes your theory!’ laughed Meg.

‘P,’ said Patrick.

‘HEP,’ said Meg. ‘Help?’

Patrick ignored her. Mrs Deal was tapping again. For a long time without a break.

‘U,’ said Patrick.

‘HEPU?’ Meg screwed up her face. ‘What does
that
mean?’

‘Get a pen,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s starting again.’

Meg took a pen from her bag and wrote on the rear inside cover of
The Da Vinci Code
.

Mrs Deal tapped and Patrick called out the letters and Meg wrote them down in one neat stream of randomness.

Finally Mrs Deal’s finger rested. They waited but there was no more.

Patrick looked over Meg’s shoulder as they ran their eyes across the letters, looking for natural breaks.

They both saw it at the same time, and Meg felt a weird tingle lift the hairs on the back of her neck, all the way up to her ears.

‘HE PUSHED ME,’ said Patrick.

Monica didn’t like the crib either. She agreed with Tracy that the traditional wooden bars were too masculine, and then agreed with her again about the one with the fairy-tale canopy.

‘I mean,’ she said, ‘you’re having a girl, not a
monkey
!’

Tracy giggled, but thought that that was pretty rich, coming from someone who had brought nothing but a pair of home-knitted bootees and a bottle of Asti Spumante to her baby shower. She didn’t
say
anything though, because although six friends had said they’d come, Monica had been the only one who’d actually turned up. Also because Monica had been quite adamant that Tracy would have a baby that weighed no more than seven pounds, ‘because that’s all you look like you’ve gained’.

‘It’s scientific,’ she’d added, stubbing out her cigarette with authority, and Tracy had had another cupcake.

Monica did too. There were dozens of them, all with pink icing and little silver balls. Raymond had agreed that she could have the shower at his house. She told him it was because it was closer for everyone, but really it was so she could show off.

‘Maybe you could swap it,’ said Monica.

‘What? The baby?’

They shrieked with laughter; Asti was fizzy as hell.

‘The
crib
. I bet Mothercare would take it back and he’d never even notice.’

‘I’m not sure about
that
,’ said Tracy. ‘He notices
everything
.’

That was true. Badly squeezed toothpaste and drips on the toilet seat were prime among them.

Monica shook her head, dismissing all men with a wave of a cupcake. ‘Oh, they never notice stuff like that. He probably just went in and bought the first one he saw.’

‘You think so?’

‘I
know
so.’

After Monica left, Tracy vacuumed the rug around where her feet had been, and thought about the crib.

She didn’t plan to have another baby, so this was her only chance of a fairy-tale canopy. She’d always regret it if she didn’t get exactly what she wanted.

She went through the bathroom bin and found the price ticket. £895. Incredible.

Then she called Mothercare and asked whether she could exchange the crib for the fairy-tale one.

The lady on the phone was as nice as pie. She checked the prices and said that the crib with the canopy was actually only £650, so there would be a refund as well, as long as Tracy had the receipt.

‘Oh, I don’t,’ said Tracy. ‘My husband has that. I don’t want to ask him for it because I don’t want him to know I’m exchanging the crib he bought.’

‘I totally understand,’ said the nice lady, ‘but I’m afraid in that case it would just have to be a straight swap.’

Tracy was a bit cheesed off about that. Bloody Mothercare, making money on the deal! Still, she really wanted the fairy-tale crib, so said that that would be OK.

The lady only needed the code off the price tag, but when Tracy gave it to her there was a long pause, while there were the clicks of a computer keyboard and a few puzzled little sounds.

‘I’m not
sure
that’s one of our models,’ the woman said slowly.

‘It’s got Mothercare on the ticket.’

‘Has it? Hold on.’ More clicking and soft, internal noises.

‘Ah yes, here it is,’ said the woman. ‘But it’s not current stock. I’m afraid that means we wouldn’t be able to exchange it, after all.’

‘He only bought it two weeks ago,’ said Tracy.

‘From which branch?’

‘Yours, I suppose. We only live a few miles away.’

More clicking.

‘I’ve just checked, madam, and that particular crib hasn’t been stocked in any of our stores for at least two years.’

‘That’s impossible,’ said Tracy crossly. ‘He bought it two weeks ago!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think I’d notice a bloody great wooden cage in my house if it had been there any longer!’

That wasn’t strictly true; she didn’t
live
here, after all. There was a garage she’d never been in, and a hatch to an attic at the top of the stairs. But it
sounded
true, and that was the main thing.

There was a longish silence at the other end of the line. ‘Perhaps he bought it elsewhere? Secondhand?’

‘He wouldn’t buy it secondhand!’ spat Tracy. ‘He’s
rich
.’

‘Well,’ said the lady coolly, ‘he didn’t buy it from us in the past two years, and it is no longer current stock, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

‘Fine!’ said Tracy and slammed down the phone.

‘Fucking bitch!’ she yelled at the vacuum cleaner, then she frowned hard at the ticket on the crib.

Raymond
was
rich. He had a big house and an expensive car, and Tracy had found his bank statements while he was in the shower. He didn’t need to buy anything secondhand. The crib still had the tags on it. It
must
be new!

Maybe he’d hidden it from her for a while, as a surprise. Raymond didn’t like surprises, but maybe he’d made an exception. Maybe he’d bought it as soon as he’d found out she was pregnant. Maybe there was an Aladdin’s cave of gifts for her up in the attic, waiting to be dispensed.

He
was
a dark horse.

She should just ask him, really, but Raymond was not the kind of man you could just
ask
. He didn’t get angry, but he did get quiet, which was worse.

Tracy glanced at the mantel clock; he wouldn’t be home for an hour. Plenty of time to see what she could find.

She giggled and finished what was left of the Asti, which was only a gulp. Then she went upstairs carefully, holding on to the banister. The stairs were steep, and Jordan/Jamelia/Jaden unbalanced her even at the best of times.

She found the pole that Mr Deal –
Raymond
– kept behind the bathroom door. It was heavy and wooden and the brass hook on the end was tiny and had to go into what seemed to be an even tinier brass ring on the attic hatch. The pole waved and wobbled in her hand. Stupid thing!

She knew she was snooping and that that was a bad thing to do, but if Raymond didn’t want her asking questions, he shouldn’t be so mysterious! Buying her a crib that was two years out of date.
Getting
baby clothes without her. And all the wrong colour, when they
knew
they were having a girl. What was
wrong
with him?

She got impatient and off-balance, and the hook banged the wall and tore the paper.

‘
Shit
,’ she said. Mr Deal’s house was very, very neat and tidy, and he would be sure to notice a six-inch gash and peeling paper right there on the landing. He’d be terribly cross. She’d have to stick it back on before he got home.

Suddenly an hour didn’t seem like a long time at all.

She took twenty minutes to find glue, then she couldn’t reach the tear, and so she got a chair from the second bedroom and placed it on the landing.

That’s where Mr Deal found her when he got home, glueing her own stupid fingers to the wallpaper as she teetered like a beach ball on the delicate chair that was far too close to the top of the long, winding staircase.

And he
was
cross.

Terribly.

PART FOUR

55

PATRICK CALLED HIS
mother to tell her he was coming home, but she wasn’t there. He left a message instead, with the time of the train, so she could come and pick him up from Merthyr.

On the ride home, he sat at a table and unpacked the mobile phone Meg had given him on the station platform.

‘For emergencies,’ she’d said.

‘But I don’t
have
any emergencies,’ he’d said.

‘Patrick! How can you—’