Page 18 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
I nearly say that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t make me cry, that I’m fragile, scared of everything. But I don’t know him, so I don’t. I don’t say it’s good to see him either, but it is. He looks so solid and dependable, like he’d stand steady through a hurricane. Like he’d stand by you, no matter what. Why am I thinking about these things?
‘The police still haven’t been,’ I say, as if it’s something he can help with.
He pulls a chair over so it’s closer to my bed but not too close, and then he sits down and rests one ankle on the other knee. And all the time he’s doing that, he doesn’t talk. But once he’s settled, he does. ‘I spoke to the nurse.’
‘About me?’
‘Yes, she wanted me to reassure you that you’re safe. You don’t need to worry about anything.’
‘That’s what everyone keeps saying, but I don’t know how it can be true. He tried to kill me, Matt, and no one is listening. What if he’s out there trying to kill someone else? What if he’s successful this time?’
Even as I’m saying it, I know this isn’t likely. Women are killed by men they know, by their partners, predominantly. David wouldn’t do this to anyone else. But still, he should face the consequences, shouldn’t he? He should at least do that.
Matt just absorbs my storm of words. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I just get the tea.’
‘Well, could you maybe do that, then?’
He laughs, and there is something familiar about it. Who is it he reminds me of? While he’s gone, I run a list of TV people through my head, trying to find a match, but come up short.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘Tea, one sugar.’
It’s sweet that he remembers. I take it from him and try to smile.
‘That’s quite the shiner you have there,’ he says, pointing to his own eye to show me what he means.
‘Oh,’ I say, touching it. It’s faintly sore. ‘I haven’t seen it. I haven’t been out of bed.’
He doesn’t say anything, just sits down and looks at his shoes, rests his plastic cup on his thigh.
‘Do people tell you that you look like someone?’
He looks up, meets my gaze. ‘Um, I don’t think so. Well, once there was this guy who was in EastEnders for a few months. He was, like, going out with one of the Slater sisters, or something. And a couple of people said I looked like him.’
It’s the most he’s said in one go. And it’s about a soap opera I’ve never watched. I have no idea who the Slater sisters are.
‘It’s not that,’ I say.
‘Oh, then… no.’
‘Why do you do this?’
He looks taken aback. Perhaps he’s not used to people asking frank questions. But he doesn’t look offended. He doesn’t shut down.
‘This… volunteering?’
‘Yes. Do you have a paying job as well? Or are you a lottery winner or something, looking to do a bit of good? What’s the story, Matt?’
He leans back, starts tipping on his chair, and it takes me back to schooldays, teachers giving warnings about possibly mythical children who had cracked their heads open and had to have them stitched back together. And I almost tell him not to do it, but then I remember that he isn’t my pupil, or my colleague, or even my friend. Not yet.
‘I work here, actually.’
‘In the hospital?’ For a moment, I think he’s going to say that this is his work, that he’s not a volunteer at all, that he’s assessing me or something.
‘Yes. I run the restaurant.’
‘And you choose to spend your spare time here too?’
He smiles, and I can see he’s not sure how to answer. ‘Things are a bit strange for me at the moment. Quiet. I don’t much like being at home. So I hang out here a bit, meeting people.’
