Close to Me Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Amanda Reynolds

  The right of Amanda Reynolds to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an EBook in 2017 by WILDFIRE, an imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 4515 1

  Cover photographs © Colleen Farrell/ Arcangel Images (rings) and S_Photo/ Shutterstock (background)

  Author photograph © David Churchill Photography

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise

  Dedication

  Twenty-One Days After The Fall

  1. The Day of The Fall

  2. The Day After The Fall

  September – Last Year

  3. The Day After The Fall

  September – Last Year

  4. Two Days After The Fall

  October – Last Year

  5. Three Days After The Fall

  October – Last Year

  6. Three Days After The Fall

  November – Last Year

  7. Four Days After The Fall

  November – Last Year

  8. Four Days After The Fall

  December – Last Year

  9. Five Days After The Fall

  December – Last Year

  10. Five Days After The Fall

  January – This Year

  11. Eight Days After The Fall

  February – This Year

  12. Ten Days After The Fall

  February – This Year

  13. Ten Days After The Fall

  February – This Year

  14. Ten Days After The Fall

  March – This Year

  15. Thirteen Days After The Fall

  April – This Year

  16. Thirteen Days After The Fall

  May – This Year

  17. Thirteen Days After The Fall

  June – This Year

  18. Fourteen Days After The Fall

  July – This Year

  19. Seventeen Days After The Fall

  August – This Year

  20. Nineteen Days After The Fall

  August – This Year

  21. Nineteen Days After The Fall

  September – This Year (The Day of The Fall)

  22. Twenty-One Days After The Fall

  23. Twenty-Three Days After The Fall

  24. Three Months After The Fall

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Praise

  ‘Gripping, claustrophobic and often deeply unsettling, Close To Me exerts a magnetic pull from its first pages’ – Kate Riordan, author of The Girl In The Photograph

  ‘Amanda Reynolds . . . masterfully peels away the layers to keep the reader turning the pages. [L]yrical prose . . . adds to the wonderful experience of reading this accomplished debut.’ – Kathryn Hughes, author of The Letter

  ‘Close to Me keeps you guessing, and then just when you think you know, you find another twist in the road. Gripping and suspenseful’ Michelle Adams, author of My Sister

  For Chris, Beth and Dan

  Twenty-One Days After The Fall

  I turn away from my husband, shifting my weight on to my side, as far from him as the bed will allow. The movement is instinctive, dulled by the fact I’m only half awake, in the place between reality and unreality. I shiver, close my eyes tighter. Outside, the blanket of deepest night is unrelenting, the wind charging its way between the tall trees which edge the drive. I listen to the rain hitting the tiles as it pummels the roof and stone walls of our converted barn; a lone parapet at the top of the hill. I imagine the water tracking its way down the huge windows, swamping our garden and then soaking into the ground beneath.

  My husband’s slow steady breaths and the familiar night-time noises within the house find my ear. I pull the duvet around me and allow my subconscious to take over, unlatching from the present, an almost physical letting-go. As I succumb to sleep the memories come, but I know they are unreliable; broken and unpredictable. The harder I search the further they retreat, but then something breaks through, at once unbidden and yet desperately wanted. As much as I crave the past, I fear it too.

  He lunges, his right arm raised, slamming me hard against the wall; the force of his body holding me there. In his eyes I recognise passion, but of what nature and from what emotion it’s derived I cannot tell. I reach out again to the memory, my hand touching his face, turning him towards me to read something in his expression, to look into his eyes, begging him to stop. He pushes me away, grasping my wrist to dig his fingers hard into the pale skin and then the veins beneath, his rapid breaths hot against my neck. Insistent and urgent he holds me there, pinned to the wall. I fought him, of that I’m certain; my nails deep in his skin until he cried out.

  I open my eyes; traces of early morning sunlight warming the room, creating patterns on the ceiling. I watch the rise and fall of my husband’s chest; the gentle sound of his breathing. Then he wakes too, turns to me and smiles, an easy smile, no trace of deceit; as though the last year had never happened.

  1

  The Day of The Fall

  Cold and smooth, the flagstones of our hallway are reassuringly solid beneath me, each one a raised bump, the mortar crevices like emery boards to my touch, segmenting the repeating pattern. There’s no part of me I can move except for my left hand, and yet I feel I’m floating free.

  ‘Jo, can you hear me?’ my husband whispers, his skin damp to the touch as his top lip brushes my cheek. ‘Jo, answer me,’ Rob insists. ‘For god’s sake, Jo. Are you okay? Just answer me!’

  A loud sound echoes down the hallway, thuds so imperative they pierce the darkness, pulling me up to the surface gasping. There’s someone at the door, shouting to be let in, but Rob ignores them, asking me over and over what’s wrong. I don’t reply, the words forming, then gone. The door is opened, a chill blast of air rushing towards me as a woman’s voice draws near, calm and measured. Then at last blissful sleep, like a cool blanket enfolding me; releasing the tight fist of pain.

  Consciousness arrives piecemeal; elements returning one by one, although I resist them. First there’s the light beyond my closed eyelids, then sounds and movement around me. I may have been lying here a while, or no time at all. I try to recall what happened, my fingers worrying at the stones beneath me, their cool touch comforting. I was on the landing, I know that much, and Rob was behind me, too close, his long strides outpacing me. ‘No!’

  ‘Jo, it’s okay, you passed out again, but I’m here to help.’ She smells sharp and astringent, her breath warm. ‘Please try to stay still so I can help you.’

  I shiver, the cold air funnelling in through the open door, the wind whipping around the barn, relentless as always. I’d thought we could tame the elements, lay down roots, but, fifteen years on, the constant battering of the wind still disturbs me. Nothing fragile survives up here, stringy shoots plucked from tend
er soil, saplings bent then snapped, gates snatched from hands, car doors wrenched open and slammed closed, tearing fingernails and bruising shins. ‘We live at the top of a hill, what do you expect?’ Not this. Not every day.

  ‘Jo, do you remember what happened?’ Rob asks. ‘You fell, Jo. You fell down the stairs. Lost your footing. You were coming down in front of me. I tried to save you, Jo. I tried to save you.’ He keeps saying it, as if that will make me remember.

  A pinch to my finger, a cuff to my arm, sensors stuck to my skin. I try to sit up, but Rob tells me to stay still, his palms under my armpits, hoisting me on to his knees, the bones of them angular beneath my back. I loll against my husband, too weak to struggle, his long limbs now encircling me, but his hold on me is too tight, I can’t breathe.

  ‘Jo, can you answer some questions?’ the calm voice asks.

  ‘She’s barely conscious!’ Rob shouts, his words slicing through me. ‘Can’t it wait?’

  The reply is firm. ‘Rob, you need to move back, let Jo speak.’

  I open my eyes to the bright light, the stairs stretching up and over me, dizzying. ‘I don’t want him,’ I say. Rob’s hands are hot on my skin, his fingers stroking my neck, my shoulder, pressing in. ‘Tell him to let me go!’ I struggle and cry out in pain, but she insists I stay still.

  ‘Can you move away, Rob? You need to let us do our job,’ she says, then she leans over me, her face above mine, asking me so many questions and I try to answer, to tell her where it hurts, how I am. ‘Can you remember what you were doing before you fell, Jo?’

  I look up the stairs to Fin’s door. ‘I was sad,’ I tell her. ‘Because of Fin.’

  ‘Fin?’ the stranger echoes, her eyes kind.

  ‘It’s our son,’ Rob says, his hand now squeezing mine.

  Pain shoots through my wrist and Rob drops my hand; says he’s sorry. He keeps repeating how sorry he is, and all I can think is, I don’t want him this close to me.

  ‘Just give us some space, Rob,’ the stranger tells him, taking my other wrist in her hand. ‘I’m giving you something for the pain, Jo.’

  ‘I don’t want him,’ I say. ‘Get him off me!’ The throbbing in my head takes over, a searing heat beneath my skull. I close my eyes, their voices slipping away.

  Different lights when I open my eyes, brighter than before, and movement. We’re winding down the hill away from the barn, and there’s no siren, but speed, and so many wires, so many questions and Rob is beside me again, but I can’t get away from him because I’m tethered to the bed, strapped down, and now I don’t remember why I’d wanted to escape, although the urge hasn’t left me and when he touches me I flinch.

  ‘How old is your wife, Rob?’ the stranger asks, her face now in focus; younger than I’d imagined.

  ‘Jo’s fifty-five,’ Rob replies, his voice choked with emotion. He never cries; why now?

  ‘No,’ I whisper, my voice barely there. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What did you say, Jo?’ Rob’s voice closer now.

  I turn away, close my eyes, try to sleep, but I’m jolted awake by a thought. ‘The kids, do they know?’

  ‘I’ll ring them once we get to the hospital,’ Rob replies.

  He shouldn’t worry them, I tell him. Especially Fin, he’s got enough to cope with on his first day.

  ‘First day?’ Rob asks. ‘Jo, what are you talking about?’

  I close my eyes again, too tired to reply. My skull feels loose beneath my scalp, each bump and bend in the road spinning my head like a gyroscope. I imagine my brain sloshing around in liquid, like a foetus in the womb, its legs and arms kicking and punching from within. The need to sleep is overwhelming, but the pain keeps me awake, my lucidity only in thought, not speech. Why would Rob tell them I’m fifty-five? He’s normally such a stickler for detail. It’s two months until my birthday.

  We turn a sharp corner and all I can hear is Rob’s voice, saying again that I fell, then he leans over me, his mouth almost touching mine and he whispers, ‘You’ll be fine, Jo. I promise.’

  And I whisper back, ‘Don’t make me any more promises, you bastard.’

  2

  The Day After The Fall

  ‘If you were going to kill me, how would you do it?’ I ask, turning to Rob in the darkness, my hands seeking him out across the bed. ‘I’ve already thought about how I’d kill you,’ I say. ‘I’d stab you with a kitchen knife.’ I laugh and move closer, draping my arm across his bare chest.

  ‘Well I haven’t thought about it at all,’ he says, lifting my hand to his lips, peppering the palm with kisses. I shriek with laughter as he pulls me to him, skin on skin, familiar, safe—

  ‘I bet you gave yourself a fright!’ the nurse says, her voice loud enough to rouse me from sleep. She pulls back the curtains and the weak sunlight lifts my lids. I shade my eyes with the back of my left hand, the right too painful to move, watching as she crosses the room, her blonde curls coming into focus, sandy tufts pulled into a top-knot, her movements perky, like her tone.

  ‘The doctor’s started his rounds, so let’s get you sitting up.’ She removes a remote control from my slack grasp, untangling the corkscrewed flex with her other hand as she presses a button to raise the head of the bed. ‘Better?’ she asks, considering my seated position.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I smile, but a sharp pain is shooting from one side of my head to the other. ‘Do you know if my husband’s brought my phone in? I’m lost without it.’

  She laughs. ‘You ladies and your phones. No, not yet, but I think he’s on his way in.’ She smooths the covers. ‘He was so worried about you last night. Kept saying you fell, like he couldn’t believe what had happened. It’s the shock, isn’t it?’ She’s at the end of the bed now, reading the beige folder of notes she brought in with her. ‘Shook you both up like a bottle of fizz!’ She laughs, and I must wince because she asks, ‘Is the pain bad, Jo? Where does it hurt?’

  ‘My head,’ I reply, tears in my eyes as I squint against the agony of it, a pang of fear accompanying the awful beat of my headache. I open my eyes and tell her, ‘I can’t remember what happened, everyone keeps saying I fell. But I don’t know what happened. Do you know?’

  She’s beside me again, casting her eyes down to the beige folder. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’

  I look down too, at the hospital gown and bedding covering me, only my forearms exposed. There’s a bruise spreading either side of the tight support bandage which stretches from the fingers to elbow of my right arm, and two of the nails are torn, as though I’d reached out, clawed at something to save myself.

  ‘18:02 the paramedic attended you, that’s what it says in here,’ she tells me, very matter-of-fact. ‘Took a tumble down the stairs. You don’t remember, sweetie?’

  I shake my head and the pain worsens. ‘I remember I was at the bottom of the stairs and then I must have blacked out. Do you know what time Rob went home last night?’ I start crying again, the nurse’s kindness releasing more emotion. ‘I can’t remember much at all of what happened after we got here. When did my husband leave? Do you know?’

  ‘Oh, Jo. Don’t upset yourself, sweetie. I’ll ask the doctor to give you something stronger for the pain. You lie still for now.’ She’s wheeling the blood pressure monitor around to the other side of the bed. ‘You got any kids?’ she asks me, wrapping a cuff around my upper arm.

  ‘Two. Sash and Fin. Fin’s just gone to university.’

  She smiles. ‘You must be very proud. Your daughter going to go too?’

  ‘She’s finished her degree; got a job and her own flat.’

  The nurse laughs loudly. ‘Nooo! You’re not old enough.’

  There’s a tap on the door and, as the nurse rushes to open it, the tension on my arm builds until I think the Velcro fastening is sure to pull apart. As the cuff slowly deflates a young man with dark brown eyes enters the room.

  ‘Well, Mrs Harding, you’re looking a bit brighter this morning,’ he says in heavily accented English.
He turns to the nurse and asks her about my blood pressure, which had apparently been a concern last night.

  ‘BP back to normal, I’m pleased to say’, the nurse tells him, rewarding me with a smile, although her eyebrows are raised as if I have finally decided to behave.

  I smile back and ask her if she’ll stay with me a while. She laughs, tells me I’m a funny one, but I mean it; I want her here when Rob arrives. Every time I think of him all I can see is his angry expression at the top of the stairs, although my recollections are incomplete. Were we arguing? Is that why I stumbled? Was I trying to get away from him?

  ‘Good,’ the doctor says, studying the notes the nurse has handed him, reading as he nods. ‘Very good. And the headache, Jo?’ He regards me from the end of the bed, his manner detached.

  The nurse answers for me. ‘She still has a headache; we’ve had a few tears.’

  ‘Okay, I can prescribe something for the pain. No dizziness, nausea?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I reply.

  His dark eyes rove over me like a scan. ‘You seem to have passed all our tests with flying colours. I think you can go home, if you would like?’ I hesitate, but he’s already saying, ‘Good, good. I’ll arrange for some painkillers to take with you and the leaflets we talked about, do you remember?’

  ‘I don’t—’ I begin, interrupted by the door opening.

  ‘You look a bit better, darling,’ Rob says, my overnight bag in his hand, stepping aside to allow the nurse to leave. He drops the bag to the floor and leans down to kiss me. I turn my head away and he frowns, asks how I’m feeling.

  ‘Mr Harding.’ The doctor extends a small hand to my husband’s much larger one. ‘I’m Mr Agrawal, we briefly spoke late last night as you were leaving. Your wife seems to be recovering well; a nasty sprain to her right wrist, some bruising, but of course our primary concern is still the head injury. She took a nasty knock and was unconscious for several minutes, I understand.’

  Was I? I think back, recalling again Rob’s anger, then lying on the hallway floor, but nothing in between. There was an ambulance ride, followed by endless waits for scans and X-rays, and then another delay as a bed was found – Rob’s insistence I must have a private room slowing down the process. I’d wanted to sleep above everything else, even the kids had dropped out of my mind, a thought which brings panic as it returns. ‘Are Sash and Fin okay?’ I ask Rob, cutting across his conversation with Mr Agrawal.