Sometimes the coldest places are not in the midst of winter, when your breath puffs white, your feet are numb from the cold and your fingers stiff and frozen. Sometimes the coldest places are in the warmth of your own home, surrounded by your family.
I’m lying in a bed that isn’t mine; that much I know. The mattress is firmer for a start; there is no familiar softness that I’m used to. I tentatively stretch out my fingers and can hear the faint rustle of cotton against plastic. A waterproof mattress, I decide.
I can feel the weight of the bedding on top of me. Again, the comforting softness of the fibre-filled duvet is absent. A heavier weight, one less supple, rests over me. I raise my finger and move it against the fabric. More starched cotton. The extra weight, I assume, will be a blanket on top of the sheet. I make a little bet with myself that it is blue. Then, on second thoughts, I hedge my bets. It’s blue or green … possibly white. I have been hedging my bets a lot lately. It will definitely be cellular, though. That, I am certain.
So far I have made a conscious effort not to open my eyes.
On the other side of a closed door I can hear indistinguishable voices of people as they walk by, the sounds growing softer and louder like a lapping tide against the shore.
The faint smell of antiseptic loiters in the air, mixed with the odour of a sweet, sterile environment, confirming my thoughts as to where I am – in hospital.
There’s another smell. One I’m very familiar with. It’s the scent of his aftershave, which has a fresh aqua zest to it. I bought it for him for our anniversary last year, eight years married. It’s an expensive designer one but I didn’t mind the cost. I never minded spending money on Luke. It’s called Forever. Turned out it was a rather ironic name. I’m not sure if I’ll be buying him an anniversary present this year. Or any year, now.
‘Clare? Clare, can you hear me?’ It’s Luke’s soft voice, close to my ear. ‘Are you awake, Clare?’
I don’t want to speak to him. I’m not ready. I don’t know why, but some inner sense is telling me not to respond. His fingers curl around mine and I feel the pressure of his squeeze. I have a strange urge to snatch my hand away. But I don’t. Instead, I lie perfectly still.
I hear the swoosh of the door and cork-soled shoes squeak and squelch across the linoleum floor. ‘Mr Tennison?’ a quiet voice asks. ‘There’s a police officer outside. He’d like to speak to you.’
‘What, now?’
‘He wants to speak to Mrs Tennison too, but I’ve told him that’s not possible just yet.’
Luke’s hand slips from mine and I hear the scrape of the chair against the floor. ‘Thank you,’ says Luke.
I listen as he and the nurse leave the room. Luke can’t have closed the door properly as I can hear quite clearly the conversation now taking place.
‘DC Phillips,’ announces the police officer. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Tennison. We were hoping to interview your wife, but the nurse said she’s not regained full consciousness yet.’
‘No, that’s right,’ replies Luke. I can hear the protectiveness in his tone and imagine him standing taller, squaring his shoulders. The way he does when he is asserting his authority. The way he does when we argue.
‘Maybe you could help us.’
‘I’ll try.’ A hint of irritation accompanies his words now. If you didn’t know him, you probably wouldn’t notice it. I’ve heard it a lot recently; more than I care for.
‘How would you describe your wife’s disposition leading up to yesterday’s … er … incident?’ says Phillips.
Incident? What incident? I try to recall what the detective can be talking about, but draw a blank and am
