Page 54 of The Dead Ex
‘Take them off.’ The metal is cold against my skin. It chafes against my bones as I shake them furiously. I hear my voice rising in hysteria. ‘I SAID, GET THEM OFF!’
The woman’s face registers a sympathy which hadn’t been there before. ‘I’m afraid we can’t. Not until we’ve been to the station. Do you feel well enough to come with us now?’
Might as well get it over with. I stumble to myfeet. She takes my arm to help.
‘We can get you checked there,’ she adds, almost apologetically. ‘Unless you want us to call an ambulance.’
‘There’s nothing they can do.’
‘Why?’ cuts in the inspector. ‘Because you’ve just pretended to fit?’
‘How dare you? Is that why you haven’t called for help already?’
The flicker in his eyes shows that I’ve hit the mark.
‘I could report you for that,’I add.
He looks distinctly uncomfortable now. I’ve a mind to carry out my threat. But he’s not the only one to react like this. David hadn’t understood either. You can rarely cure epilepsy, one of the doctors once told me, but you can learn to live with it. The same can’t always be said for your nearest and dearest. Or your enemies.
I turn to the policewoman. ‘Can you fetch my tablets too? They’rein the high cupboard in the kitchen.’
She looks at the detective as if seeking approval. He nods abruptly. And then we’re on our way.
I was hoping not to come back to this police station. There’s a couple sitting on metal-backed chairs by the wall. The woman is red-eyed. She is silently weeping, holding a scrunched-up tissue in her hands.
Instinctively I know she’s just received bad news. Ason on a motorbike? A runaway daughter? A woman on my wing was once told that her daughter had died. ‘Which one?’ she’d cried. ‘I have two.’ But no one knew (the lack of communication was often appalling), so she didn’t find out until the following day. That haunts me still. It also makes me wonder how I would have coped if that had happened to a teenage Patrick.
I smile in what I hope is a comfortinggesture. In return, the woman turns away. No doubt this is related to the fact that there are two police uniforms on either side of me. At least they’ve taken off my handcuffs.Presumably they no longer think I’m going to make a dash for it.
I am led into a side room. A youngish-looking nurse is waiting. She asks me the usual stuff. Did I feel unwell before the seizure started? Yes. I was understress because I’d just been arrested. Was I hurt in any way? Only a bruise on my right arm where I had fallen. Nothing serious, she declares. Had I had anything to drink? A glass of water but I need more. Please.
I gulp it down.
The nurse has my tablets. I see her clocking the strength. What normally happens after a seizure, she asks. I explain that sometimes they increase the dose. But there’sa limit on how far you can go. I’ve almost reached that now.
‘Is she fit for interview?’ asks the policewoman. I sense from her pink cheeks that she’s been slightly rattled by our conversation. Maybe she knows now that epilepsy isn’t to be taken lightly.
The nurse turns back to me. ‘How do you feel?’
Terrible. But what’s the point in complaining? It would only delay the inevitable.
I am ledinto another room. It’s smaller than the previous one. The window is dusty, and the sunrays shining through are dancing with little white specks as if mocking the darkness inside me. There is a worn oak desk. Two chairs with stiff backs. The man in uniform indicates that I should take the one on the left. Maybe the other is for my solicitor, whom I’ve asked to be contacted. Don’t say anything aboutDavid until she arrives, I tell myself. But it’s tempting. I have to make them see this is all one big mistake.
‘Doesn’t look good, does it, Vicki?’
The detective speaks as though we are old friends instead of a stranger who has intruded into my already troubled life. I fix my gaze on that chin, which merges into the throat without the usual folds or curves. It helps me to remember that no oneis perfect.
‘We’ve already got that photograph of you with your ex plus your wedding album. And now there’s this.’
He places in front of me the small black book, which the policewoman had shown to him earlier. My personal diary.
‘I didn’t mean any of it,’ I say quickly, forgetting my earlier pledge to keep quiet. ‘They’re just … you know … thoughts.’
The look on his face can only be describedas a ‘Do you think I’m simple?’ stare.
‘I was encouraged to write them down.’
‘Therapeutic, is it?’ His voice is mocking.
