‘No.’ The lift doors opened and Harry got in. Dom had no other choice but to follow him.
The presence of others put a stop to the argument for a minute and, when the doors opened, Harry didn’t waste any more words on his dad. He hurried along to the entrance to the ICU and, before Dom could stop him, pressed the buzzer.
Dom pleaded twice more for him to leave it, and twice more Harry pushed the buzzer. He had to see them. He had to get inside. On the third buzz a disembodied voice answered. Harry began to explain who he was, but the voice from inside the ward cut him off. ‘We aren’t open to visitors at present. Please ask at reception for details about how to arrange a visit.’ A crackle, and that was it.
Harry wanted to cry, or hit something, hard. Instead he turned on his dad. ‘Why did you lie about talking to Fran? Why bring me here, if you knew I wouldn’t be allowed in? Why?’ Dom went to hug him, but Harry shrugged him off. ‘Why?’
Dom finally spoke up. ‘I honestly didn’t know we wouldn’t be allowed in.’ His expression grew more belligerent – a sure sign that he knew he was in the wrong, but also that there was no way he was going to admit it. ‘And besides, I thought it was important to make the gesture.’
‘An empty gesture. You never really wanted me to actually see them, did you?’ Harry shouted.
Dom sighed. ‘You think what you want, Harry. You always do. But believe this: I have your best interests at heart. I always do. I’m your dad.’
Harry turned and started walking away towards the lifts, not knowing whether his dad having his back was a good or a bad thing.
Chapter 27
MARCUS AND Fran were taking it in turns to go home every other night in order to break down the fatigue and, more pragmatically, because the hospital simply did not have the facilities for more than one of them to stay.
The surprising thing was that Marcus was sleeping, deeply and solidly, during his nights at home. His routine was always the same. He would let himself into the house, scoop up the piles of cards from friends and complete strangers and go straight through into the kitchen. There he would microwave a portion of whatever had been left by the neighbours. He’d stand by the back door, cradling the ballistically hot bowl with a tea towel, shovelling the food into his mouth with a spoon until it was all gone. As everyone kept saying, It was important to keep his strength up. Then he would climb the stairs, get into bed and fall into a deep pit of sleep. No nightmares, no sudden waking up bathed in sweat, no heart-crushing dreams of Jess, whole and happy. Nothing. In the morning the alarm would wake him. He would shower, then eat a bowl of cereal, aware that the quicker he ate, the quicker he could get back to the place he least wanted to be.
Fran looked up from her phone as he approached the bay. ‘You’re late back,’ she said. He wasn’t. Not really. He didn’t greet or kiss his daughter. Neither of them spoke or touched Jess much any more. Precisely when they’d stopped, he couldn’t say for sure. The physical distance between them was the same, a hand-span between bed and chair, but emotionally the separation was much wider and deeper.
‘Has something happened?’ He shrugged off his jacket.
Fran nodded, stood up and walked away from Jess’s bed, indicating that he should follow, which he did, his mouth sawdust-dry. They picked a spot near the noticeboard in the corridor. ‘Harry and Dom came to the hospital yesterday.’
‘What?’
‘I had a message passed on to me from some woman downstairs, saying a man and his son had brought some flowers to reception and that they’d left a message.’ She passed him an envelope. Inside was a florist’s card, and written on it was, ‘There are no words. Harry x.’
Marcus didn’t know what to say, but he knew why Fran was upset. His response was cautious. ‘At least it’s a sign that Harry must be willing to come in and talk to us.’
Fran’s agitation increased. ‘So you’d have thought. But no. Look!’ She thrust her phone at him.
Marcus found himself looking at a photo posted to the local Facebook group thread about the crash. The photo clearly showed Harry handing over a huge bouquet at the hospital reception. There was a comment underneath from Dom, expressing their fervent wishes for Jess’s and Tish’s recovery. Marcus felt his head begin to thud. It was a crass thing to do, but he really didn’t care – couldn’t care.
‘Please, Fran. Does it really matter?’ Marcus didn’t have any energy left over for anger. ‘We have far bigger problems than what Harry and Dom are, or aren’t, doing.’ He immediately regretted his comment, but it was too late. He saw Fran flinch and move away from him, a tiny retraction, but a noticeable one.
‘It matters,’ Fran gathered herself, ‘because Dom is more concerned with how Harry looks than with what Harry has done.’ Blotches of red mottled her cheeks. ‘It was his car. He was driving.’
Marcus was weary, but he forced himself to speak his mind. ‘Fran, it was a horrendous accident.’
She stared at him. ‘Are you telling me just to accept it?’ She struggled to compose herself. ‘Accidents happen! Is that it? Is that all we are going to get? Look at Jess, Marcus. Look at her!’ She gestured back towards the ward. ‘Look at the state she’s in. Harry was driving.’
‘That doesn’t mean it was his fault.’
Fran stood completely still. ‘Well, if it wasn’t his fault, whose was it?’
Marcus had no answer for that. They had reached an impasse.
After a few awkward moments he said he needed to go to the toilet. Fran went back to Jess’s bedside without him. It was a lie, he didn’t really need the loo; what he wanted was a moment on his own. Time to breathe and for Fran to calm down.
In the Gents he depressed the tap and held his hands in the stream of water. Five seconds of release. He allowed himself another press. It was a tiny comfort. Liquid warmth, the smell of soap, a fraction of a pause from the harsh imperative of watching and hoping and worrying. When the water stopped, Marcus looked up and studied his reflection in the mirror. He looked shocking. Old. Grey. He rested his head against the glass, just to take the weight off the stretched sinews in his neck for a few moments. It was an accident. They had all been hurt. Jess and Tish took the brunt of it. It was unfair. Life was. It was cruel and arbitrary, but blaming others wouldn’t change that. It would only add another huge weight to the burden they were already having to carry.
The door opened and someone entered the bathroom, but Marcus didn’t move. He could tell, by the slowing of the footsteps, that whoever it was, they were curious, concerned about him even. Then one of the toilet doors banged – so not concerned enough to say anything. He wasn’t surprised. Distress didn’t invite company. He peeled himself away from the mirror, straightened his spine and headed back to his post.
The minute he came through onto the ward he could tell that something was wrong. The energy was different. In the place of careful concentration there was a sense of urgency and action. He ran on to the ward.
They were gathered in the bay, a swarm of white coats and busy hands. Instructions were being issued and acted upon with an efficiency that didn’t seem human. One voice dominated; the others assented, quickly, with the minimum of words. The moment after the doctor shouted, ‘CLEAR’, there was a millisecond of nothing and Marcus felt his heart stop.