Sophie Hannah - Hurting Distance

She looks sceptical. ‘Remember, we haven’t got all day,’ she says.

I grip your hand. ‘Robert?’ I begin tentatively. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. I love you.’ I am determined to talk to you in exactly the way I would if we were alone; I don’t want you to notice a difference in my manner and feel disorientated and scared. I am still me, and you’re still you; the strange situation we’re in hasn’t changed us one bit, has it, Robert? We must think of Sergeant Zailer as part of the furniture, no different from the small black television on the high shelf opposite your bed, the green chair with wooden arms that I’m sitting on, or the small plastic round-edged table with the glass and jug of water on it.

They like round edges in this hospital. There are no right angles between the floor and the walls. Instead, the two are joined by a curved seal of grey rubber that runs all the way round the room. Seeing it makes me think of all the harmful things that must be kept outside, kept away from you.

Behind your bed, on the wall, there’s a big red emergency button. My having to leave soon makes this an emergency.

‘That’s a bit daft,’ I say, stroking your arm. ‘They’ve put out water and a glass on the table, but how are you supposed to drink it? Someone in this hospital’s got a strange sense of humour.’ My tone is light, frivolous. I have always been the one who jollies us both along. I’m not going to sit beside you and wring my hands and weep. You’ve been through enough already and I don’t want to make it worse.

‘Actually, maybe it’s a kind of bribe,’ I say. ‘Same with the telly on the wall. Do the doctors come in and tell you that if you wake up quickly, you can watch Cash In the Attic and have a drink of tap water? It’s not great, is it, as incentives go? They should fill that jug with champagne instead.’

If you could smile, you would. You once told me that you love champagne, but only drink it in restaurants. I felt wounded, and thought it was tactless of you to mention it, since we have never been to a restaurant together and at the time I feared we never would. I pictured you and Juliet at the Bay Tree—where you went to get my Magret de Canard aux Poires —happy to chat endlessly to the chef when he emerged from the kitchen because you knew you’d have plenty of time to talk to one another later—the rest of your lives. I can still see that picture in my mind, and it stings my heart.

‘I didn’t think you’d have your own room,’ I say. ‘It’s nice. Everything’s so clean. Does a cleaner come in every day?’

I leave a pause before speaking again. I want you to know how much I hope you’ll answer me.

‘You’ve got a great view, too. A little square courtyard, covered with crazy paving. With benches around three sides and a knot garden in the middle.’ I look at Sergeant Zailer. ‘Is it called a knot garden?’

She shrugs. ‘I’m the wrong person to ask about gardens. I hate the things. Haven’t got one and don’t want one.’

‘It is called a knot garden. And on one side of the courtyard, there’s a row of round bushes. If you turn your head to the right and open your eyes, you’ll be able to see it.’

Sergeant Zailer’s mobile begins to ring. The noise startles me and I drop your hand. I expect her to apologise and switch her phone off, but she takes the call. She says, ‘Yep’, several times, and then, ‘Really?’ I wonder if the call has anything to do with you or Juliet.

‘Do you know what happened to you?’ I whisper, leaning in closer. ‘I don’t, not exactly, but the police think Juliet attacked you. I think that’s what happened. You very nearly died, but you didn’t. Thanks to me, you were found in time. You had an operation—’

There is a knock at the door. I turn and see the nurse who showed us in, a plump young woman with blond hair scraped back into a short, high ponytail. I’m scared she’s going to say I have to leave, but it is Sergeant Zailer she’s glaring at. ‘I’ve told you before, no mobile phones on the ward. It interferes with our machines. Switch it off.’

‘Sorry.’ Sergeant Zailer puts her phone back in her bag. Once the nurse has gone, she tells me, ‘It’s bollocks, that stuff about the machines. The doctors use their mobiles in here all the time. Stupid woman.’

‘She’s just doing her job,’ I say. ‘Like most people’s, it involves the random application of nonsensical rules. You should understand, given what you do for a living.’

‘Two more minutes and we’re going,’ she warns me. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

I turn away from her, back to you. ‘I don’t think you mind being here, do you?’ I say. ‘A lot of people hate hospitals, but I don’t think you do. We’ve never talked about it, but I bet if we did, you’d say you quite like them, for the same reason that you like service stations.’

‘He likes service stations?’ Sergeant Zailer’s voice intrudes. ‘Sorry, but . . . I’ve never heard of that before. Everyone hates service stations.’

I’ve never hated them, and since you and I met I have loved them. Not just Rawndesley East—all motorway service stations. You’re right: they are totally self-contained, places that could be nowhere or anywhere, free of what you once called the tyranny of geography. ‘Each one’s like a world that exists outside real space and real time,’ you said. ‘I like them because I’ve got an overactive imagination.’

‘Do all lorry drivers feel that way about them?’ I teased you. ‘Is it a sort of vocation thing?’

You replied as if my question had been deadly serious: ‘I don’t know. Could be.’

Now, every time I drive past a sign that says ‘Moto’ or ‘Welcome Break’ and see a small picture of a bed, white lines against a blue background, I think of us and of room eleven.

‘I went there last night,’ I tell you. ‘To our room. I thought . . . I couldn’t bear to miss a week.’

‘You were at the Traveltel last night?’ Sergeant Zailer interrupts again.

I nod.

‘But I collected you from home this morning.’

‘I left the Traveltel at five-thirty and was home for six,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not sleeping much at the moment. I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I?’

‘If you really want to.’

Her phone rings again. This time I don’t let go of your hand. ‘Yep,’ she says. ‘What?’ She looks at me in an odd way. ‘Yeah. I’ll ring you back.’

‘What?’ I ask, not caring if I’m overstepping the mark.

‘Wait here,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll be ten seconds.’

Once she’s gone, I walk over to the table and pour myself a glass of water. ‘She’s not allowed to leave us alone,’ I say. ‘She told me on the way here. But she has. Which is good. It means she trusts me more than she did at first. Maybe seeing us together’s made her realise . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Juliet tried to kill you, Robert. You can divorce her. And then we can get married. Will we still go to the Traveltel every Thursday once we’re married? It wouldn’t surprise me if you—’ I stop. My heart springs up into my throat. I blink, to check I’m not hallucinating.

Your eyelids and lips are twitching. Your eyes are open.

I drop the water, run over to you, grab your hand. ‘Robert?’

‘Naomi.’ It’s more of an exhalation than a word spoken aloud.

‘Oh, God. Robert. I . . .’ I’m afraid to speak.

Your mouth is moving, as if you’re trying to say something else. Your face contorts.

‘Are you in pain?’ I ask. ‘Shall I call a nurse?’

‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ you whisper.

I stare at the dry white ridges of skin on your lips. Shake my head. It’s impossible. There’s no way. You don’t know what you’re saying. ‘It’s me, Robert. Not Juliet.’