Page 80 of The Wife
And then I realise with a jolt that I reallyamhearing my dad’s voice! I blink. And then I blink again. The drug must finally be wearing off. Celia said it would only last a few minutes.
Unless I’m hallucinating, I can hear my father issuing someone with instructions. ‘Call the police!’ he cries. ‘And get an ambulance here too!’
To my frustration, I can’t move anything else, just my eyelids. Celia and Malcolm are still holding me in place on the chair but are now staring in horror at the opening door. The overhead lights come on, bathing the room in brightness. The noose is taut around my neck. The cramps in my stomach are unbearable and my breathing is so shallow, I’m afraid my lungs are going to give out at any second.
A man stands in the doorway – he’s wearing the hotel uniform and his face is a mask of shock.
‘The police, man!’ Dad yells at him. ‘Call the police! Don’t just stand there!’
‘Yes, yes, of course!’ The man blinks and disappears.
Dad rushes over and all I can see is the top of his head as he yanks Malcolm off the dining chair, then holds him upright by his shirt and punches him square in the face. Malcolm doubles over, clutching his nose, blood spilling down onto his trousers. I would cheer if I could.
Next, Dad clambers up onto the armchair with me and loosens the rope around my neck. He then wraps one arm around me, supporting my body, and throws off the noose with the other. I crumple against him.
Celia appears to be frozen by my side, her hands still seeming to hold me up, although Dad is bearing my full weight now. She finally gathers her senses and lets go of me, gingerly stepping down off the dining chair and crouching down next to her husband.
‘Zoe! Zoe, love!’ Dad stares into my eyes and I’m desperate to explain what’s going on. But all I can do is gaze at him helplessly. ‘Talk to me! Are you okay?’ I blink at him. He shifts position slightly, scoops me up into his arms and carefully steps down off the armchair onto the floor with me.
Celia has begun gathering her paraphernalia from the bed and stuffing it into the rucksack. ‘We found her like that, up on the chair,’ she lies. ‘Why on earth did you hit Malcolm? We were trying to help her, you silly man!’
‘Fine,’ Dad replies. ‘You can tell that to the police when they get here. I’m sure they’ll be interested in why you’re both wearing gloves, and why Malcolm has plastic bags tied over his shoes.’ Even in my incapacitated state, I’m marvelling at how calm yet scathing my dad is managing to be.
‘The police?’ Celia scoffs. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘Necessary or not,’ Dad replies, ‘they’re calling them now.’
Celia bends to help up her husband.
‘I think he broke my nose,’ Malcolm mutters as he staggers to his feet.
Celia whips something up off the floor, clumsily trying to shove it into Malcolm’s bag.
Dad grunts and lays me down on the bed, propping my back up against the headboard. He turns to Celia. ‘What’s wrong with Zoe? Why’s she drooling and twitching like that? Why isn’t she talking?’
‘Probably shock. Looks like she was trying to kill herself. There’s a note on the bed.’
‘What’s that you’re putting in your bag?’ Dad rips the rucksack from her and pulls it open, peering inside. ‘A syringe? And what’s in this box?’ He reads from it, stumbling over the pronunciation: ‘Suxamethonium… What’s that?’ He pauses and then reads more from the label. ‘A depolarising neuromuscular blocker.’ He takes hold of Celia’s arm. ‘Did you inject this shit into my daughter?’
‘What? No, of course not. I told you, we came in and found her up on the chair like that.’
‘Oh yeah, and how did you get into her room? Got a key, have you?’
Celia edges towards the door. ‘Malcolm and I had better fetch Toby from the spa. He’s her husband; he needs to know what’s happening here.’
‘Oh no you don’t.’ Dad strides over and blocks their exit. ‘You two are staying right where I can see you until the police arrive.’
Celia’s mouth drops open and then snaps shut like a trap.
My head swims and my eyes close. Their voices fade and everything goes quiet and dark.
Thirty-Five
NINE MONTHS LATER
Dad and Madeline sit at my new kitchen table unwrapping crockery from a cardboard box, setting each piece down while I work out which cupboards to put them in. I’m renting a little three-bedroom converted ground-floor flat just round the corner from Dad until I find a place to buy. There’s no hurry though; the flat is on a six-month rolling lease, so maybe we’ll stay here indefinitely. It’s a tiny little place with poky rooms and a square patch of garden, but it’s characterful, with an open fire in the lounge and a fruit-bearing apple tree in the garden. I think Dad’s nose was put out of joint when I told him we were moving, though.
‘I don’t know why you’re throwing your money away on rent when I’m rattling around in my place,’ Dad says, reading my mind; we’ve been very much on the same wavelength recently. ‘You should all just move in with me permanently. Tell her, Madeline.’
