‘Nell!’ Ferdia was on his knees beside Cara. ‘Help me turn her onto her side.’
Frozen with fear and confusion, Nell then snapped to it.
Kneeling beside Cara’s thrashing body, Ferdia trying to contain her, they gently moved her.
‘It’s a seizure?’ Nell asked.
‘A boy at school used to get them. Bring some pillows. Protect her head.’
In the room, there were lots of pillows because there were lots of beds. They all managed to be both flat and lumpy, but they’d have to do.
While Ferdia cradled Cara’s skull, Nell arranged the pillows around Cara’s head and face. ‘I’ll stay with her,’ he said. ‘Go and get Ed. Ring an ambulance.’
Nell raced down the stairs, calling, ‘Ed, Ed!’
A scatter of gaudily dressed guests, Ed included, flooded into the hall, gleefully energized by the new turn their night had taken.
‘Ed, you need –’
‘I’m Stampy Mallowan.’
Oh, God, he was jarred.
‘Ed, Cara’s not well. Someone call an ambulance.’
‘Dr Basil Theobald-Montague at your service.’ Johnny shouldered his way forward, then bowed with exaggerated courtesy.
‘No –’
‘Struck off though I am, with my reputation in tatters, I believe I may –’
‘Johnny, stop. This is real.’ Nell twisted around desperately. ‘Clifford! Muiria! Call an ambulance, please. Cara is sick.’
Muiria looked terrified. ‘Sick?’
‘Some sort of seizure.’
That word had the desired effect: Ed scooted up the stairs, Jessie rang 999, and Clifford conducted an urgent, muttered conversation with Muiria.
That mozzarella was out-of-date.
Only by two days.
But you said –
‘Muiria.’ Jessie thrust her phone at her. ‘Talk to them, tell them how to get here.’
Nervously Muiria took the phone. ‘The quickest way is to turn off at the – That’s it, aye … No, keep going. You’ll come to a burnt-out tractor. Keep going past a sign for Molly’s Hollow. You’ll be thinking you’ve gone too far. You haven’t. You’ll come to a new bungalow. A man will run out into the road and shout after you. That’s Howard, pay no heed, he just likes the lights. We’re in there on the left. If you pass the stony goats, you’ve gone too far … Goats. Made from stone. Aye.’ She took the phone from her ear. ‘They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.’
With rustling yellow clothing and crackling radio mics, the paramedics were up the stairs and, within moments, had Cara efficiently strapped onto a stretcher, while everyone watched in silence. She was being taken to a hospital in Belfast and only Ed could go with her.
‘We’ll follow you,’ Johnny promised, as the doors slammed shut and the van drove away.
But the idea of getting a taxi to Belfast made Muiria and Clifford almost shriek with shock. ‘The cost. You could be looking at sixty pounds!’
‘More, hai. And the same back again.’ After a long, thick pause, Clifford said, ‘… There aren’t any taxis. There’s one in the town. But he won’t come up here. We had a – a …’ Nervously Clifford looked at Muiria for the right word.
‘Disagreement. One of you could drive to the hospital. That lassie there.’ She pointed at Nell. ‘She drank almost nothing. She must be near sober. Are you?’
Nell nodded.
Jessie seemed hurt. ‘Why are you sober on my birthday?’
‘I’m not really a wine person.’
‘She drinks cider.’ This came from Liam, who sounded slurry and almost accusatory.
‘I’ll come too,’ Ferdia said.
‘Johnny will go.’ Jessie overruled him. ‘Ferd, you’re only a kid. Ed needs his brother.’
‘Ed needs his wife. And I’m not “only a kid”. I took care of Cara. I’m going.’
‘He’s right,’ Johnny said. ‘Ferdia should go.’
SIXTY-ONE
Dr Colgan marched down the corridor in Belfast’s Royal Victoria Hospital and crooked a finger at Ed, who hopped up from the moulded plastic seat. They’d been waiting for almost three hours, three long hours in which their costumes had generated interest from all but the most badly injured of patients in the waiting room.
Full moon tonight?
Break-out from the nut-house?
The nineteenth century called. It wants its clothes back.
‘Just the husband,’ the doctor said, as Nell half rose from her chair.
Ed followed Dr Colgan into a makeshift room behind a curtain.
This was exactly the sort of room where they broke terrible news. But if Cara was dead wouldn’t Nell and Ferdia be here too?
The percentage of deaths from bulimia was 3.9, Ed knew. In other words, very rare. But someone had to be in that number …
‘Sit down.’ The doctor was harried but sympathetic. ‘She’s stable, she can leave soon, just the paperwork. So, Mr, ah, Casey, did you know your wife was bulimic?’