Page 98 of Hope and Happiness in Bluebell Wood
‘He nods. “On the bridge.”
‘My head drops into my hands again.
‘“Do you want me to phone someone for you?” the man asks. “I’m lucky I had my bags with me when it happened. My suitcase got lost somewhere in the melee, but I still have my phone.”
‘I stare at his phone for a moment, and for the first time I realise that my own phone must have been knocked from my hands in the panic. But I shake my head.
‘“No, I have to go back there. I was in charge of that conference. I have to find out what went on, who’s been hurt.”
‘I go to stand up, but the man puts his hand on my arm to stop me.
‘“They aren’t going to let you anywhere near there right now,” he says. “Let me phone someone for you, at least to tell them you’re safe. This will be all over social media and the news in minutes. There’s nothing you can do now.”’
It’s dusk now and the jackdaw has left the garden. But the robin still remains – watching and waiting. As I stop talking, he bows his tiny head, gives me one last knowing look, and then takes off on his strange bobbing flight path, over the garden boundary and out towards the wood.
It’s over.
I turn to look at Callum. I’m not sure exactly what I’ve told him over the last few minutes, and what I was simply remembering in my head.
‘It could have been me, Callum. I could have been one of those people that got stabbed if my phone hadn’t rung and I’d still been in the meeting room.’
‘Thank God you weren’t,’ Callum says quietly. ‘It was your conference, then? There weren’t others being held at the hotel that day?’
I shake my head. ‘No, it was mine. Four people lost their lives. Two were delegates and two were hotel staff that tried to stop the attacker. Several others were badly wounded.’
‘Do you know why this guy did what he did?’
‘The police said it was just a random attack. But we found out afterwards, during the inquiry, that the company that was holding the conference had had some shady financial dealings with the country the attacker came from. He was taking what he saw as justified revenge on them.’
Callum sighs. ‘That seems to happen all too frequently now.’
‘Doesn’t it just? The finance company organised a memorialservice some weeks later, which I attended with some of my colleagues.’
‘Did that help you at all?’
I look at Callum. I don’t want to tell him, but he has to know.
‘It did until the priest taking the service started going on about God’s Plan and how the victims were in a better place, etc., etc. It was totally inappropriate and I was mortified when I heard him saying it. Those people are not in a better place, they’re dead, and their families will never be the same again, they’ll never heal from this trauma, like so many of us that were there that day. The repercussions from one evil person’s actions go on for ever.’
Callum, still keeping his distance, watches me carefully.
‘We don’t always get it right, Ava,’ he says. ‘I’m sure he only meant his words to help and to heal.’
I turn back to the window, but the birds have all gone now. The garden is still, ready to bed down for the night. The only movement comes from one of the bird feeders that swings rhythmically to and fro in the breeze.
‘Possibly,’ I say diplomatically. ‘But his words didn’t do either of those things. That memorial service was the first time I’d left my flat in weeks. I was already on sick leave by then, and the last thing I, and probably so many others, wanted was to walk into a church full of people that reminded us of what had happened. But instead of offering words of comfort that would help us find a way through our pain and suffering, all we found was someone telling us it was all part of some long-term plan! The attack changed me, Callum; it may not have taken my life, but it might as well have done. I was a mess then, and I still am now.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Callum pleads. I turn and face him again. ‘You might have been a mess then, Ava, and rightly so; whatyou experienced was a terrible thing for anyone to go through. But you’re certainly not a mess now.’
‘On the outside perhaps, I put on a damn good show. But inside, Callum, that’s a different story.’
‘Tell me.’
I sigh. I’d come this far. ‘As you know, I have a big issue with crowds – mainly indoors, but often outside, too, for some strange reason. I can’t deal with strangers and I’ve developed an extreme distrust of people I don’t know. I don’t sleep well, and when I do I have nightmares and flashbacks. When I was in London I didn’t go out; I spent weeks cooped up in my flat on my own. The only time I left was for appointments with my therapist, a well-meaning woman called Genevieve, who would listen and try to help, but never really did. I worry constantly about my children, mainly being in big cities in case the same thing happens again, but to them this time. Oh, and apparently the name given to all this is PTSD – Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. When really what it should be called is hell. There, is that enough for now? I could go on if you like?’
Callum looks at me with his usual understanding and compassion.
‘That is plenty,’ he says calmly. ‘More than enough for anyone to have to deal with in a lifetime.’
