Page 53 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘Matt told me there’s been a pandemic. That must have been hard for you, here.’
‘Horrendous,’ he says, and it’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him. ‘People were flooding in, and we couldn’t help them fast enough. We lost so many people.’
‘And is it over?’
‘It is and it isn’t. There’s a vaccine. Fewer people are dying. But people are still getting it. Look, I’ll try to come up with something a bit cheerier for next time.’
‘Can you tell me about the car accident?’ I ask him.
‘What about it?’
‘Well, now I know that’s what put me in here, I just wondered if you could fill in any details. Whether it was my fault, whether anyone else was hurt, that sort of thing. I asked Dr Ali, but he didn’t know.’
‘I don’t think you should be worrying about that. It won’t do your blood pressure any good.’
What does that mean? ‘Do you know, whether anyone else was hurt?’
‘The driver of the other car had some cuts and bruises but nothing serious.’
I nod, and he finishes what he’s doing and walks away. That night, I dream of car journeys. Where I’m a child, sitting in the back, reading a book with the window down and my hairblowing. Where I’m a teenager, in the passenger seat, blowing gum into bubbles and changing the CD. Where I’m an adult, stuck in traffic, sweat trickling down the back of my neck. None of them end in crashes, but I feel exhausted when I wake, like I’ve been alert all night long. I doze until breakfast, and even then I’m back in a car. And it’s funny, because when I look across to the driver, I see Matt there, grinning at me. I shake myself awake. I’m so confused.
I think about the last memories I uncovered. David pushing me, the force of his hatred. It’s time to think about the last time I was in here, the first time. I close my eyes and there’s a rush of images. Angela, her hands on her hips, stretching out her back. A physio – not Fern – giving me a high five. I can smell antiseptic and recycled air. And there’s pain. Sharper and cleaner than the pain I’ve felt recently. It’s time to face it.
28
THEN
I wake, panicked. I’m in a hospital, can tell by the smells and the sights, the distant bleeping noise and the feel of rough sheets against my skin. All I can focus on is keeping my eyes open, and I’m not entirely successful at that. My eyelids droop, fall. Open again. What happened to me?
As soon as I ask myself the question, I know. David. That argument, that push. I remember tumbling down the stairs, thinking clearly that these might be my last moments, that he might have actually killed me this time. Hoping, if he has, that he is made to pay for it. There are people moving around me, but they haven’t noticed that I’m coming round. If I could just call out, they would turn and come to me, but my throat is so dry and my eyes are so tired.
Awake, again. I shake my head a little, feel at last like I’m properly conscious. A nurse comes into view, carrying a jug of water and a cup, and I smile at her because that’s exactly what I need.
‘Hello, love,’ the nurse says. ‘I’m glad you’re back with us.’
I read her name badge. Angela. I take the cup of water she offers and drink half of it in one go. ‘Hello,’ I croak. ‘Do they know? Do they know my husband tried to kill me?’
The police come that same day. Two officers, a short man called Webb and a tall woman called Persson. There’s a strange dynamic between them, something in the air, and I wonder whether they’re a couple, or about to become one. Persson takes the lead. Do they always send a woman, when it’s male violence towards a woman? I don’t know. I’ve never reported it before.
I take them through it, question by question. Every detail I remember. It’s hard, but doable. It’s the last question that throws me.
‘Would you be willing to say all of this in court?’ Persson asks.
Her expression is neutral, but I think she’s probably kind. She’s probably on my side. I picture going into a courtroom in smart clothes I don’t yet own, looking David in the eye while I detail the horrors of our marriage. It’s the very last thing I want to do.
‘Yes,’ I say.
Because it’s time. It’s more than time.
Dee comes in after lunch. She looks at me like she’s going to cry.
‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘That fucking bastard. I knew this would happen one day.’
‘Are you looking after the pub?’
Dee rolls her eyes. ‘Trust you to worry about the pub when you’re in ICU. Yes, I’m looking after it.’
‘But is David there? In the flat?’
