Rebound (32 page)

By the time Wispa and I emerge from the Vintage Emporium the weather has turned and it’s beginning to rain. We trot back to the car, getting completely soaked in the process. I turn the
heating on full blast, enjoying the warmth emanating from the driver’s seat. London traffic follows the changes in the weather, and the rain means instant traffic jams. We crawl back towards
Old Street, the car smelling of wet dog.

An epic hour later we reach Highgate, with an average speed for the whole trip of six miles per hour, the car’s computer tells me. I love weekends in London, but the amount of time one
wastes in traffic almost kills the joy of being out and about. Because it’s wet and miserable outside, there isn’t a single parking space free in my street. I drive out to the High
Street and do a small loop, returning to my street. Still nothing. I make a bigger loop and suddenly find myself in Tom and Samantha’s street. I cast a glance at their house as I’m
passing it. It looks dark and abandoned. Perhaps Samantha has taken the kids to some relative in the countryside, I wonder. That’s what wives of disgraced men do in crime novels, don’t
they? There is a car coming in the opposite direction and it means one of us will have to reverse all the way to the end of the street to let the other one pass. I hate reversing, so I just stop,
hoping the other driver is more accommodating. The other car stops too and turns on its headlights. This doesn’t bode well. I’m checking my rear-view mirror to see if I can reverse
after all, when the car in front jerks forward and stops, inches from my front bumper. I can see the driver’s face, pale and twisted in anger. It’s Samantha. She glares at me with
hatred and I stare back, unsure what to do. Then she opens her door and gets out of her car. I instinctively check if all my car doors are locked. Wispa lets out a warning bark as Samantha
approaches my car. She pulls at my door handle, then hits the window with an open palm.

‘Are you happy now?’ she shouts at me through the window. ‘Have you come here to gloat?’ I jump as she hits the window again. ‘It’s all your fault, you evil,
manipulative bitch! You destroyed him!’

I sit, paralysed, as Wispa barks madly at Samantha, trying to get to the window, climbing over me.

‘He’s not your first, is he? It’s your usual pattern, isn’t it? You play with decent men, you goad them, until they can’t take it any more! I bet it wasn’t
your first time at the clinic either!’ Her spit lands on the window, inches from my face. ‘How I wish you never walked into our lives! How I wish you were dead! You malignant, dirty
whore!’

I put the car in reverse and start driving frantically backwards, trying to get away from Samantha. She follows me, hitting the car’s bonnet with her fists. I press on the accelerator
pedal, the car veers to the left and the left-hand side mirror catches one of the parked cars. Crystals of broken glass and bits of plastic crunch under the wheels as I keep going back, until I
reach the end of the street. As I glance ahead I catch a glimpse of Samantha, standing motionlessly in the middle of the street. Someone’s running towards her, pointing at my car. I reverse
into the main street and drive off, wheels screeching on the asphalt. It takes me a while to gather my senses. I find myself driving down Hampstead Lane way above the speed limit, both hands on the
wheel, knuckles white. When I try to loosen my grip I realize I’m shaking. Wispa stares at me from her seat, whimpering quietly. I slow down, pull over and switch the engine off. Why on earth
did I drive down their street? I want to believe it was a genuine mistake and not some nasty trick of my subconscious. No, I really didn’t think where I was going, I was just looking for a
parking space. What a mess. I bet Samantha is going to report it to the police; God only knows what story she’s going to invent about it. That’s all I need now. It’s not enough
she blames me for Tom’s behaviour, now she can add a tale of Anna Wright, the deranged stalker, to her list of accusations. I need to call DCI Jones to give her my side of the story before
Samantha files her complaint. She’s probably on the phone right now. I’d better act fast. As I turn the engine on, I remember the car I hit while reversing. I should go back and sort it
out. I don’t want to set foot again in Samantha’s territory, but it has to be done. I park a few streets away, scribble a note of apology with my phone number on an old postcard
I’ve found in the glove compartment, leave Wispa in the car and make a dash for it. At least it’s stopped raining. I tentatively peer into Tom and Samantha’s street. It looks
empty. I trot along the parked cars until I see the pieces of broken side mirror on the road. Thankfully, the damaged car is still there. I quickly stick my note behind one of its wipers and run
back. I don’t stop until I’m back at my car, where Wispa greets me ecstatically.

‘Let’s go home,’ I tell her and she seems to agree.

This time I manage to find a parking spot right in front of my house. Without inspecting the damage to my car I head straight for the door.

The house feels cold and damp. I lock the front door and put the safety chain on. That’s it, I’m done with the outside world for the day. I turn the heating on and, as the radiators
begin to tick with a promise of warmth, I bury myself under the blankets on the sofa, a generous glass of Aberlour in my hand. I know I should call DCI Jones, but I can’t be bothered. The
comforting heat of the whisky spreads in my stomach, relaxing my body. As I take another sip, my eyelids start to droop, the shapes of the furniture in the room become blurred and I fall
asleep.

Through the haze of sleep I can hear my phone ring, but my body feels almost paralysed, my limbs too heavy to move. I try to open my eyes, but that too seems like too much of an effort. I float
away again, to be woken up by Wispa’s warning bark. She hasn’t moved from her place by the sofa, but her ears are pricked up, her wise eyes alert.

‘What is it?’ I want to ask her, but barely manage a mumble. My head is spinning and my body is still too heavy to move. Wispa lets out a low growl, looking at the open door to the
hallway. I try to focus, but it’s too dark to see clearly. My heart begins to pound, I push myself up, but my legs fold when I attempt to stand. I fall back on the sofa, panting. Something is
wrong with me – food poisoning or maybe I’m having a stroke. Whatever it is, I need help. I frantically search for my phone and find it on the floor by Wispa’s front paws. It
takes me a while to focus on the screen, but eventually I manage to dial 999. As the operator enquires which emergency service I need all I manage is a long wail. In desperation I awkwardly stab
the ‘end’ button. I put the phone down and try to speak. After a while I succeed in saying a few words and sound just about intelligible. Wispa watches me, ears pricked, curious and
uncomprehending. When I can focus on my phone, I clumsily scroll through my contacts and find DCI Jones’s number. She answers immediately and listens patiently to my slow and rambling account
of what is happening. Then she tells me DS Kapoor and DC Montgomery are on their way. I put my phone down, relieved I’ve managed to express myself clearly enough for her to understand.
Wispa’s lain down by my feet again. I pull the blanket over me and close my eyes. After what seems like a second or two my doorbell rings, its fierce sound cutting through my stupor. My heart
is pounding again. Wispa rushes to the hallway, barking. What to do now? I’m picking up my phone, when I hear someone shouting through the letter box.

‘Ms Wright? Anna? It’s DS Kapoor!’

DS Kapoor, what is he doing here?

‘Hello,’ I manage to squeak.

‘Anna, do let us in!’

I try to get up, but the whole room sways and spins. I hold on to the sofa until the spinning slows down, then shuffle towards the hallway, my legs heavy and numb.

‘Anna!’ DS Kapoor pounds on the door.

‘Just a minute,’ I mumble.

I reach the hallway and move slowly along the wall towards the front door. I can see a blurred shape behind the glass, Wispa barking at it, wagging her tail. It takes me ages to undo the chain
and open the door. There is a policewoman standing behind DS Kapoor. She’s tall and blonde, her long hair tied back in a severe ponytail.

‘Hello, Anna, this is DC Montgomery. Is it all right if we come in?’

I nod because it’s too much effort to speak. They gently lead me to the kitchen and sit me down in one of the chairs.

‘Can you try telling us what happened?’

This is hard, because I don’t really know.

‘Have you been drinking, Anna?’ asks DC Montgomery. ‘Have you taken anything?’

I look at her, uncomprehending.

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK, not to worry.’ DS Kapoor puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘We’d like you to come with us, Anna.’

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No,’ he smiles. ‘I’d like a doctor to have a look at you.’ He speaks slowly and loudly. Too loudly. ‘Nothing to worry about. But it would be good if you
could come with us now. Can you do it for me?’

‘Yes,’ I say because I like him. ‘But Wispa—’

‘I’ll look after her, don’t worry. Can you stand?’

As I lean on the table and try get up the world spins again and fades to black.

I wake up feeling uncomfortable. I’m slouched on a hard, blue chair, DS Kapoor and DC Montgomery flanking me on both sides. We’re in a hot and stuffy room, filled
with people sitting in rows on blue chairs. There is a plasma screen on the wall in front of me, showing what appears to be a commercial for double glazing.

‘Where am I?’

‘A&E at the Whittington.’ DS Kapoor smiles at me reassuringly.

‘Have I had an accident?’

‘You’re OK. We just need a doctor to have a look at you.’

‘Why?’

Before he answers, a swing door on the right opens and a nurse in blue uniform appears, saying my name. DS Kapoor and DC Montgomery hoist me up and I’m being led along a corridor to a
small cubicle. There is a bed in it, I notice with relief. The nurse busies herself checking my pulse and blood pressure, then she puts a thermometer in my ear. It feels nice to be lying down.

I must’ve dozed off because I’m being woken up by someone new. He’s tall and has the crumpled look of someone who hasn’t slept for days.

‘Hello, Anna, I’m Doctor Duval and I’m going to have a look at you.’ He speaks with a strong French accent.

‘Why am I here? Am I ill?’

‘The two nice police officers who brought you here are a bit concerned about you.’

‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘We’ll do some tests and then we’ll know more. Nothing to worry about, Anna.’

He takes my face in his hands and looks at my eyes. It seems extremely strange, but I let him do it. Then he turns towards the nurse and speaks to her in a quiet voice. I feel overwhelmed by
tiredness and close my eyes.

I wake up in a different room and on a different bed. It’s quiet and the lights are dimmed. There is a drip attached to my arm, a bag dangling on a metal pole above my head, translucent
liquid travelling down the IV line. I’m in hospital. In the semi-darkness I can see other beds; there are five of us in the room. The woman by the window is snoring loudly. Next to me there
is an old, shrivelled lady, her face lined and tired, the shape of her tiny body barely visible under the sheets. I doze off again and am woken up by a loud voice. It’s coming from the bed
next to mine.

‘And I shall be driving off in my Ferrari,’ says the old lady.

A night nurse appears soundlessly by her side.

‘You’re not driving off anywhere, Margaret. You’re in hospital.’

‘Oh, sorry, pet.’ The old lady sounds completely lucid.

‘Not to worry, Margaret. Go back to sleep.’

‘OK, pet.’

The nurse checks my drip, then disappears down the corridor. I fall asleep again.

I’m woken up by the metal clatter of a breakfast cart. It’s 7.30 a.m. and a choice of cornflakes or porridge is being served with milk. The nurses are bustling
around, distributing drugs. A short queue of mobile patients forms outside the bathrooms. Two nurses tend to my neighbour Margaret, who is being washed in bed, her grey wisps of hair combed gently.
A feisty nurse with a strong Eastern European accent checks my blood pressure, pulse and temperature, removes the catheter from my arm and tells me a doctor will come to see me shortly.

I must’ve dozed off again because when I open my eyes a tall man is standing by my bed.

‘Hello, I’m Doctor Duval, you may not remember me from yesterday. I have good news. We are happy to discharge you today.’

‘What was wrong with me?’

‘We have found a concentration of diazepam in your system.’

‘Diazepam?’

‘Valium. You may have overdosed accidentally . . .’

‘I don’t use Valium. I’ve never taken it in my life.’

He purses his lips and exhales in a very French way.

‘Well, we did find a concentration of benzodiazepine and its metabolites in your blood. Mixed with alcohol, it probably made you feel pretty lousy. But it wasn’t a severe case and
I’m happy to discharge you. Any questions?’

I can’t think of any, so I purse my lips and exhale, imitating his French mannerism. He obviously gets the message, because he nods and moves on to the next patient. The feisty Eastern
European nurse appears by my bed again.

‘OK, dear? You’re going home then? Your things are in there.’ She points at a small locker by my bed. ‘You can change here.’ She draws the curtain around my
cubicle. ‘I think there is someone waiting to take you home.’ She gestures towards the corridor.

‘Who?’

She shrugs her shoulders and moves on, letting the curtain drop. I retrieve my clothes from the locker and dress hastily. Standing up proves to be more difficult. I have to hold on to the bed
because of a wave of dizziness, but it passes after a few minutes. I open the curtain and tentatively move in the direction of the corridor. There is a man standing by the nurses’ station.
When he turns towards me, I recognize him. What the hell?

‘DS Kapoor?’

‘Nav, please. Morning, Anna! I’ve got your discharge letter.’ He smiles at me and waves a piece of paper. ‘All set to go?’