Cath Staincliffe - Split Second

‘A pashmina. That is so soft. It’s lovely.’

‘And you like red?’

‘I do, my favourite. You asked us enough times.’

Ruby laughed.

Louise draped the scarf round her neck. ‘What do you think?’

‘Cool. Needs lipstick, though.’

Louise smiled.

‘You going to try?’ Ruby asked her. Meaning try and wake him.

‘Bit later. Sing him your piece.’

‘They might not like it; it’s pretty full-on.’ Ruby nodded to the door to the rest of the ward. Some of the patients were meant to have as much peace and quiet as possible. Overstimulation being a concern with a fragile brain.

‘Sing it quietly. Go on, be good practice.’

‘Okay.’

Louise settled back, savoured the sound. Ruby never faltered. Her confidence clear, her breathing controlled, pitch-perfect.

An hour later, Louise set aside her sewing, stood up and stretched. She shifted her chair back and took Luke’s hand in hers, patted the back of it and spoke clearly in his ear. A command and a prayer: ‘Wake up, Luke, open your eyes, come on, wake up now.’ She watched. Pinched the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard. He remained limp, made no response.

She felt the disappointment keenly; it didn’t get any easier. She fought the impulse to yank him upright, as if she could shake him awake, as if with enough vehemence she could break through the cocoon and free him. She closed her eyes for a moment, regaining her balance.

Ruby gave a rueful shrug and pulled out her phone. Louise imagined teenagers the length and breadth of the land texting over the Christmas turkey, causing ructions.

She got the wash bag from her carriers and pulled out the nail-clippers. His nails were longer than her own, smooth, with a gentle sheen, the half-moons clear, the cuts on his knuckles healed now. She wondered when the bandages would come off his head; if his hair would grow back the same, or if there would be bald patches where they’d opened him up.

Emma

She went home every Christmas. What else could she do? Her mum loved to have her there and did her best to make it cosy. Always made turkey and all the trimmings, even though there were just the three of them.

This year Emma was ill. The cold had broken overnight, her raw throat giving way to a streaming nose and thumping head. The journey was a nightmare. An earlier train had been cancelled, so this one was full of people squabbling about seat reservations and advance bookings and there weren’t enough seats. The only place Emma could find to settle herself was in the corridor outside the toilets, surrounded by her bags. It stank. Even with a blocked-up nose she could smell it. There was something wrong with the heating too, like it was set at boiling point, and she was sweaty and thirsty and it just wasn’t possible to fight her way through to the on-board buffet.

She was feeling so cranky and weary by the time the train squealed into New Street that she got a taxi rather than wait for a bus and blew sixteen pounds on that.

‘Ey up.’ Her father took one look at her. ‘It’s Rudolph! What a conk; you could light your way home with that.’ The very first thing he said.

‘I’ve got a cold,’ Emma said.

‘Never!’ he said sarcastically. ‘Come on, bring your bags in, don’t stand there like a sack of potatoes.’

Her mother usually tried to smooth things over, to cajole him, but he always had the upper hand. One time he’d derided Emma’s choice of winter coat.

‘Makes you look twice as fat.’

‘It’s padded, that’s the style,’ her mum had said. And she had got black, not the white, which was nicer but less practical. Black was meant to be slimming.

But he wouldn’t stop. ‘Marshmallow Man!’ he crowed. ‘Like in Ghostbusters. ’

‘Roger, please!’ her mum scolded. ‘Stop going on at her.’

That made it worse. ‘What? I’m not allowed to comment on what my hard-earned wages are spent on?’

‘If you can’t say anything nice…’ her mother started, but there was a pleading quality in her voice.

‘I’m not going to lie to the girl. I don’t know what you were thinking of. She looks a bloody sight.’

He would often laugh as he said these things. Not the sort of laugh that was infectious. A cold, barking laugh so you’d see his teeth, but his eyes looked furious. One time when he told her she couldn’t learn piano because it was a waste of money and she’d as much musical talent as a tone-deaf ape and they’d no piano to practise on anyway, Emma had gone to her mother. Rounded on her really, the wildness coming out of her and saying awful things about him: I hate him, I wish he was dead.

‘No you don’t, that’s silly talk.’ Her mother had calmed her down and Emma stopped crying.

‘Why don’t you tell him, Mum? Make him stop.’

‘Look. He loves me, and he loves you. He never swears, he’s never violent. He’s never laid a finger on me, never would. He’s a bit sharp-tongued now and again, but that’s just how he is. Que sera sera. There’s a lot worse men, I can tell you. Now, go wash your face and I’ll make us a drink. Can you manage an eclair? There’s still two left.’

On the rare occasion that Emma did look to her mother for a sense of shared grievance, of solidarity, it was always the same: her mother quick to mollify her. ‘It’s just his way; he loves you, he doesn’t mean anything by it.’ Did he love her? Of course he did, she knew he did, and she loved him; she just wished he wasn’t always finding fault.

Other times, he pretended he was only joking. He’d accuse Emma and her mum of having no sense of humour, of not being able to take a joke. Usually it was Emma he picked on, but sometimes it was her mum. Her mum would go very quiet and then just disappear upstairs, if she could, and Emma thought she had a cry, but when she came back you couldn’t tell. She hadn’t got red eyes or a husky voice.

Emma liked it best when he was out and there was just the two of them, like on Sundays when he played cricket and his Tuesday practices, or Wednesdays when he played darts. What was weird was they talked about him even when he wasn’t there, passing on things he’d said, sharing his views on this and that, but it was like talking about some rare species. Observing its mannerisms and habits as though they were fixed and a fact of nature.

He should have been a critic, Emma thought. One of those people who write scathing, bitchy columns in magazines about films or celebrities or restaurants. Hatchet jobs. He’d be good at those. Because his disdain wasn’t confined to immediate family; he’d carp on about neighbours or workmates or politicians with the same acid tongue. The difference was he did it behind their backs, not to their faces. And he’d entertain his friends at the pub with his put-downs and send-ups. Roger was known as ‘a good laugh’. He could have been a stand-up comedian.

Her mum made a fuss of her and they had her favourite tea: lasagne and apple pie and cream. It would ruin her diet, but there was no point trying to stick to it over Christmas – and not when she was ill as well. She’d start again in the New Year.

Dad complained that there was a new man sharing his office at Clevely and Son and he wanted them to switch to a new type of spreadsheet package. Dad was quite happy with the one they used, he didn’t want to have to start fathoming out something else, but Mr Clevely was ‘thinking about it’.

‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,’ Mum said and doled out the rest of the pie.

Emma told them she’d had to go to the police.

‘Causing an obstruction, eh?’ Dad quipped, his eyes hard and bright.

‘I saw the student who was stabbed and the other boy, the one in the coma.’ She told them what had happened, quickly, so he wouldn’t make any nasty comments.