have found the question funny. ‘My husband’s an antique dealer. The wardrobe was for his shop. It’s odd, but I’m not sure whether he bought it or not.’
Before Emily can reflect any more on that, the sergeant resumes. ‘What did you and Mr Klein talk about in the car?’
‘I think we had an argument.’ A vague memory stirs and Emily tries to grasp it, but it fades away. Talking is making Emily’s head thump even more, and so is trying to call to mind the conversation they had in the car. ‘Greg told me something. I’ve forgotten exactly what it was he said. But I do know I was very angry about it.’
Emily pauses. Sergeant Campbell waits for her to continue. The constable gives her what is no doubt intended to be an encouraging look. ‘I just remember Greg asking me over and over: “Who was it, Emily? Who was it?” He was shouting.’
Emily has a sudden image of her husband’s furious face.
‘Who was what?’ asks the sergeant, somewhat impatiently.
‘I don’t know.’ Emily frowns.
‘Do you recall your answer to your husband’s question?’
‘Yes,’ Emily replies, surprised, ‘I do. The answer was: “My father.” I told him that it was my father.’ The mere thought of him makes her shudder.
‘So, you remember you were arguing,’ the sergeant recaps, looking down and pointing her index finger at the notebook on her knee, ‘but not what it was about.’
Emily glances at the sergeant’s pad. Although for her the notebook is upside down, Emily can clearly see that the police officer has taken no notes whatsoever. She has merely doodled a series of dots in a circular pattern, which reminds Emily of the recurrent spiral motif she uses in her own artwork.
‘That’s right.’ Emily nods, and then scowls as the pain in her head intensifies.
‘If it comes back to you, will you contact us?’
‘How do I get in touch with you?’
The policewoman produces a card from a pocket in her uniform and hands it to her. Emily looks at it and sees a series of addresses, telephone numbers and a shoulder number under the heading Sergeant Campbell, Roads Policing Unit, Thames Valley Police.
‘What’s your name again?’ Emily addresses Campbell’s colleague, thinking it would be infinitely preferable to deal with him than the scary sergeant.
‘PC Constable,’ he replies.
‘Police Constable Constable?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ he says wryly. ‘I desperately need a promotion.’
Emily tries again to smile at him, but yet another bolt of pain shoots through her head and she suddenly finds him far less amusing. She still can’t work out why she’s here. She seems to recollect being told last time she woke up that she’d been involved in an accident. A growing sense of alarm overcomes her initial disorientation.
Sergeant Campbell’s next question does nothing to reassure her. ‘Mrs Klein, do you know what caused you to crash the car?’ The police officer clicks her pen again.
Emily has a vision of her car hurtling off the road towards a tree. She feels a wave of panic break over her. Is this what really happened? Or is her imagination running wild? She takes a deep breath. So, she crashed the car. That makes sense. It would explain why she’s in hospital and why her head, neck and side hurt so much. But she can’t think straight. And she’s far too tired to answer any more questions.
At that moment, the door to her hospital room opens and in strides a tall, plump woman wearing a badge that identifies her as Staff Nurse Peterson. She reminds Emily a little of Chummy in Call the Midwife. Emily is now almost convinced she’s trapped on a TV studio set in a bad dream.
But then the nurse says, ‘Oh, Mrs Klein, you’re awake again.’ She puts her hand on Emily’s arm. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Very confused,’ Emily replies, ‘and in pain.’
Staff Nurse Peterson checks the drip, and tells Emily that she’ll administer some more painkillers. As the nurse completes her clinical checks and records the data on Emily’s chart, Sergeant Campbell drops her bombshell.
‘I must say, Mrs Klein,’ she says, ‘you’re taking the news of your husband’s death incredibly well.’
Emily senses Staff Nurse Peterson freeze at Campbell’s remark. Words swirl round in Emily’s head. Argument…my father…car crash…husband’s death. She tries to suppress the scream rising inside her, and it erupts as a strangled whimper. That’s the only sound audible in the room. It seems to resonate in Emily’s ears. She cradles her sore head in her hands.
‘Mrs Klein hadn’t been told yet that Mr Klein was killed in the accident,’ the nurse hisses at Sergeant Campbell, who looks unperturbed.
Campbell’s mobile phone rings out and shatters the silence that ensues. The police officer takes the call.
Staff Nurse Peterson glares at the redhead while talking soothingly to Emily whose eyes dart from one woman to the other. The sergeant, impervious to the nurse’s disapproval, continues to mumble into her phone. When she has ended the call, Campbell taps her colleague on the shoulder.
‘Let’s go,’ she says to Constable. ‘I am sorry,’ she mutters to Emily who isn’t sure if Campbell is apologising or expressing her condolences. Then she turns and heads for the door without so much as a cursory glance in Staff Nurse Peterson’s direction.
PC Constable gets up from his seat, and tells Emily how sorry he is for her loss. Then he leaves the hospital room before his superior, who is holding the door open for him.
Emily clearly hears Campbell’s words as she follows Constable out: ‘The witness has finally turned up at the station to give his statement.’
Just as Emily is wondering if Campbell’s phone call and witness have anything to do with her, Staff Nurse Peterson hangs the chart up on the end of her bed and says, ‘Don’t worry. You concentrate on getting better. You’ll be home in no time.’
But Emily barely registers what the nurse says. Greg is dead, Emily thinks. I was driving the car. I didn’t kill him. I can’t have killed him. The thought of going home without Greg fills her with despair and dread.
~
Devon, Christmas Eve, 1995
At half past nine, Josephine Cavendish was already snoring on the sofa in front of the television. Emily decided to go to bed although she knew there was no way she’d be able to sleep. Not tonight.
As she cleaned her teeth, she could hear Michael Stipe’s voice coming from the end of the corridor. Half a World Away. Amanda stayed up here a lot listening to REM. She also liked Pearl Jam and Nirvana. Even when she wasn’t listening to music, she seemed to spend as much time as possible in her bedroom. Perhaps she feels safe in hers, Emily thought.
Emily
