The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [188]
John closes his eyes. He looks tired unto death, grizzled stubble furring the seams and gullies of his hollowed cheeks. ‘Don’t think so…’
That doesn’t bode well. I leave him to dress, and hurtle downstairs before Jennings finds anything, wondering how to make him understand the relationship between John, Frannie and me.
On my way to the hospital, I park in Avebury outside the main office to explain why I might not be around for a few days.
Graham, eating a custard cream, strolls out of the kitchen as I walk in. Lilian looks up from her computer screen, with a concerned expression. Indy–we weren’t expecting to see you today,’ she says. News travels in Avebury, it seems. ‘How is your poor gran?’
‘Not sure. The doctors aren’t giving much away, and they’ve started talking about doing tests, though what for I can’t imagine. They must have X-rayed every bone in her body.’
‘I heard it was a break-in.’ Graham’s face is unusually expressionless. Oh, God, don’t let gossip about John have started already. Why did it have to be Corey’s husband on duty yesterday?
‘It was a break-in,’ I say firmly.
John’s at the police station. Jennings took my fingerprints himself, at the cottage, but he wants John to have DNA taken. There was blood on some of the broken glass on the floor.
Lilian shakes her head. ‘They’ll never catch anyone. Not unless somebody informs.’ She looks me straight in the eyes as she says it. ‘Your shifts at the caf are being covered. I’ll tell the television people as well, just in case. Let us hear when…you know anything.’
I nod and walk out of the office, feeling two sets of eyes on my back.
At the hospital, Frannie is asleep again. ‘It is sleep, isn’t it?’ I ask the nurse. ‘You’re sure?’
‘She was awake earlier, when we took her down to X-ray. Groggy, but charming the porters. Tired her out, though. She’ll wake if you touch her.’
I lay my hand gently on her forehead. Be careful how you rouse someone sleeping. The skin’s warm and papery. Her eyes blink open, and gradually focus on mine. A smile spreads across her face. ‘Oh, how lovely,’ she says. ‘What you doin’ here, Indy? Come to take me home?’
She’s asleep again, only five minutes later. I sit by the bed, back sweaty against the beige plastic upholstery of the visitor’s chair, waiting to slip my hand out of hers until I’m sure it won’t wake her.
What happened, Fran? I asked her.
Don’t recall a bloody thing. Fell over, din’ I? Banged me head or summat. Her accent becoming broader, old Wiltshire, a sure sign she’s frightened. Not of the person who hurt her–I’m sure she’s not faking memory loss this time–but afraid because she can’t remember.
The room fills with the thrum of engines, the clatter of rotors.
‘Air ambulance coming in. Big excitement of our day,’ says a voice, bringing me awake with a jerk. The woman in the next bed nods towards the window with relish. ‘Probably a motorway accident.’ She’s propped up against a pile of pillows, reading Woman’s Weekly, enormous boobs encased in a black satin nglig with embroidered pink roses. A nicotine-yellow tube snakes from under the sheet into a plastic sac on a stand. ‘Why don’t you go and have a coffee or summat, my lover? You look wore out. You might want to buy her a nightie in the hospital shop while you’re downstairs.’
Fran’s bony shoulder is draped in a blue hospital gown, faded with much laundering.
‘I never thought. I’ll bring one from home tomorrow.’
‘Bring her two, dear, one to wash and one to wear. Don’t forget her dressing-gown and slippers.’ She flaps her magazine at me. ‘I’ll keep an eye on your nan, don’t you worry, and tell her where you’re to when she wakes.’
I take the lift down to the lobby. As soon as I turn it on, my phone bleeps with a text. It’s from Martin: So sorry about yr gran, petal. If u need place to stay, my cottage empty tonight. Have to be in Bath, but can leave key
The air ambulance is leaving, hovering