Simone turned to the photo. George’s handsome face squinted at the sun; his strong arm gripped Mary’s slim waist.
‘Did you enjoy nights out? Did he take you dancing? Did he see you safely home in the dark?’
Simone took out a hairbrush and gently began to brush Mary’s hair with soft whooshing strokes.
‘The darkness scares me, Mary. It’s the time when I feel most alone.’
The whooshing sound of the brush was soothing as it moved through Mary’s fine silvery hair. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in places, and a thin blue vein threaded its way across her temple to her hairline. Simone lifted the old lady’s head so she could reach the back with the hairbrush.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
‘My marriage isn’t happy. Things have never been good, but a few years ago it got worse. So I moved into the spare room…’
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
‘It didn’t stop him. He comes to me at night. I’ve tried barricading the door, but he forces his way in…’
Whoosh, whoosh.
‘Forces himself inside me.’
Whoosh.
‘It hurts. He hurts me…’
Whoosh, whoosh.
‘He enjoys hurting me, and he never stops. Never. Stops. Until. He’s. Satisfied!’
There was a rhythmic, dull thudding. It took Simone a moment to realise the hairbrush was caught in a tangle. Mary’s head was thudding against the metal safety rail of the bed, as Simone tugged furiously at the brush.
Simone let go and stepped back. Blood was roaring in her head, her hands were shaking. Mary lay drunkenly on her side, an eyelid half open where it was pressed against the metal safety rail.
‘Oh, Mary!’ Simone leaned over and unhooked the brush from the clump of hair at the back of Mary’s head. She gently rolled her back to a lying position and tucked the blankets back around her. A bruise was forming under the thin skin of her temple.
‘I’m sorry. Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry,’ said Simone, running her fingers gently over the bruise. ‘Please forgive me…’ She adjusted the blankets again. The sun had sunk behind the hospital buildings, and the room was now gloomy and cold. ’I would do anything for you… And to show you how much you mean to me, I want to show you something…’
Simone went to the door and opened it, checking the corridor was clear. Closing the door, she came back round the bed. She bent down and grasped the hem of her nurse’s dress. Slowly, she pulled it up, over her thighs, exposing thick dark tights. Her pale fleshy skin shone through the fabric. She kept pulling the material up, over where the waistband of her tights finished, above her knickers, biting into the pale skin of her abdomen. She shifted, pulling the dress higher until the material was bunched above her breasts. An angry swirling mess of pink scar tissue started around what was once her bellybutton and spread out under her ribcage, creasing and mottling the skin. It disappeared under the soft greying material of her bra. Simone moved closer to the old lady and took her hand, pressing it to a swirl of scar tissue, moving the limp hand in a stroking motion
‘Do you feel that, Mary? He did this to me. He burned me… Just as much as you need me, I need you.’
Simone stood for a moment, feeling the air cooling her ruined, scarred skin, and Mary’s warm hand on her body, then gently she let the hand drop and pulled her dress back down, smoothing out the material. She went to her bag on the floor beside the bed, and retrieved an envelope.
‘I almost forgot. I got you a card! Shall I open it?’ Simone plunged her finger into the thick envelope and tore it open, pulling out the card. ‘Look. It’s a watercolour, of a mulberry tree… I figured that the tree you and George are sitting under is a mulberry. Do you want to hear what I’ve written inside? “To my best friend Mary, get well soon, with love from Nurse Simone Matthews.”’
Simone positioned the card on the locker next to the photo and the jug, and flicked on the lamp above the bed. She sat back down and took Mary’s hand in hers.
‘I know you won’t get well. I’m pretty sure of it. But it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’ She patted Mary’s hand. ‘There. We’re all cosy again. I’ll stay with you here for a bit longer, if that’s all right? I don’t want to go home. Not until I’m sure he’s gone out for the night.’
22
Isaac answered his front door in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. A delicious smell of cooking wafted out.
‘Wow, who is this elegant, beautiful woman I see before me?’ he said, taking in Erika’s long summer dress, her styled hair and dangly silver earrings.