42
The first night had passed in a blur. Alex had refused to leave Amy’s side, despite a number of voices imploring him to rest. At some points he dozed in the hard-backed armchair in the corner, at others he tried to stay awake on the upright chair by Amy’s bed. His dreams felt more like hallucinations, where he chased Amy but lost her; or was confronted by groups of faceless men who he would attack without hesitation, breaking bones and ignoring screams until his hands were covered in their warm blood. Eventually he dragged the larger chair across to the bedside, and fell asleep for an hour slumped forward, his face buried in the hospital mattress.
During the first twenty-four hours Amy opened her eyes a few times, but she was groggy from the shock and the painkillers, not really registering her surroundings much, blinking wearily, then closing her eyes again.
Alex waited outside while the doctors examined her and collected evidence. When they had finished they gave him encouraging reports. There was some internal bruising and a small amount of bleeding, they said, looking down at their notes as they did so, and they would need to keep an eye on her, but there shouldn’t be any permanent damage. The rest of her wounds were not as severe as they looked. Her shoulder was sprained, and her shin had taken a bad knock but there was no bone break. The cut across her throat looked shocking and would probably leave a scar, but it would fade. The CT scan showed no internal swelling or bleeding to the head, and while the bruises looked nasty they would disappear eventually. The list went on, each item increasing Alex’s burning need for vengeance – but all her physical injuries would heal, and without the need for too much medical intervention.
The psychological prognosis had not been delivered with as much reassurance. The effects of such an experience would be wide-ranging and long-lasting, Alex was warned by Isla and others. Amy would need time and space to react in the way she needed to, and unobtrusive, consistent support over the next days, weeks, months and years. He nodded, trying to take it all in, doing his best to understand what was needed from him; but even then he was not prepared for the first thing Amy said when she opened her eyes properly the following day.
‘I’m so sorry, Alex.’
Her voice took him by surprise, as he had been staring at her hand, stroking it while she rested, feeling groggy and disorientated through lack of sleep, and he hadn’t sensed her waking.
He looked up, trying not to be overcome with emotion at the sound of the familiar sweet voice he had been longing to hear. He tried to smile reassuringly. ‘Hey,’ he cooed in an almost-whisper, his heart constricting in love and pain to see his lovely Amy finally awake. ‘Don’t say sorry, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about.’
Tears began to seep down the sides of her face. ‘I tried to fight them, I promise I did. But I couldn’t… I should have tried harder, I should have done whatever it took, I should have…’
Alex stood up quickly while she was talking. ‘No, Amy,’ he interrupted, trying to stroke her cheek and catch the tears as they fell. He was so stricken by her words that his voice came out much harsher than he intended. She winced at the sound and again at his touch. ‘Don’t say that, please,’ he begged more softly, as her sobs became louder. He looked around desperately for help; he wasn’t sure how to calm her.
A nurse came bustling in. ‘Ssh,’ she said to Amy, reaching across to quickly pour some water into a plastic cup. ‘You’re safe now, my love. Don’t fret. Nothing can hurt you. Here, take these pills, they’ll help with your pain.’
The nurse assisted Amy with the water and the pills while Alex looked on, standing back, feeling useless and pathetic that this stranger could comfort her so easily when he couldn’t.
By the time the nurse left, Amy had closed her eyes again.
She woke up a couple of hours later, and this time she was silent, staring across towards the window as though in a daydream. Again, Alex didn’t know what to say to her, so he tried to fuss to make up for his earlier ineptitude.
‘Amy, I’m so sorry…’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t, Al. Not right now, okay?’
He paused, searching for something to say.
‘Do you want some water?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Shall I put the TV on?’
‘If you want.’
He switched it on and flicked through the channels.
‘Any preference?’
‘You choose something.’
The news? Too gloomy, he thought. Sport? Not Amy’s thing. So he left it on The Simpsons and they listened to inane squeaky chatter that usually made them giggle, as Amy continued to stare out of the window. Alex felt silly and selfish, as though in the middle of this crisis all he could think to do was to put the telly on. When the nurse came in to help Amy to the toilet, he left, embarrassed, even though when Amy had been ill in Thailand he hadn’t even blinked at keeping her company in the bathroom.
Detective Thompson called in twice to see how Amy was doing. Finding her awake in the afternoon, Alex watched as he asked her questions, quizzing her relentlessly, reminding Alex that speedy progress was essential, when he tried to jump in upon seeing Amy’s distress. Every word the policeman uttered, each question he posed, repeatedly slammed the reality of all this into Alex’s mind, that it was not just some horrible twilight nightmare they could escape from.
Finally, the detective left them alone, and before long the day receded into evening. Alex spent another uncomfortable night in the chair, still unwilling to leave, but less sure of his purpose in being there, unnerved by how ineffective his actions and presence had been in the past twenty-four hours. He resolved to talk to Isla in the morning, to ask her more about what he should do, and how he should be.
At nine o’clock the next morning, Amy’s parents arrived, dishevelled and tired-looking, cases in hand, having come straight from the flight. When Amy first saw them she broke down, howling her pain to them, a rag doll in her mother’s arms, sagging against her. Alex’s intense awkwardness returned. He hardly looked at Amy’s father as he rose to shake hands, but when he did he realised that Ray hadn’t even registered Alex’s presence yet, staring horrified at his distressed and injured daughter.
When Ray finally saw him, Alex imagined for a moment that Amy’s father was going to hit him. This slightly stooped old man with watery eyes, half a foot smaller than Alex, sprang forward as though possessed, and Alex instinctively backed away. Just in time, Ray seemed to rein himself in and gave a curt nod instead, just saying, ‘Alex.’
Tess looked round when she heard Alex’s name, her daughter still buried in the cradle of her arms, and put a hand out briefly to rub Alex’s arm. The gesture made him think of his own mother, and for a moment he longed for that familiar comfort. But after Jamie’s troubles had begun Alex had stopped leaning on her, not wanting to cause her any additional worries. Now, he reminded himself that since there was little she could really do, it would be unfair to burden her with this. And the thought of his dad’s unease in the presence of others’ emotions was enough to put a stop to any notion of confidences there.
Amy drifted in and out of sleep over the following excruciating hours. Her mum and dad had taken the seats so Alex was propped against the wall staring out of the window, or offering to fetch them drinks, which they declined.
Detective Thompson returned around lunchtime. He asked them all to leave, as he thought Amy would find it easier without an audience. As they made their way out, Alex saw the policeman sit on Amy’s bed and speak softly and solemnly to her, and that she nodded in understanding.