is this café. That’s the only solid relationship I’m in need of.’
Tess is never going to change her stance so I know once we’re done with this frippery she’ll let me stick with my own stance.
I don’t really pay attention to what the people in the photos look like. What interests me is where the picture is taken. Both backdrops are as boring as each other; both profile images are selfies taken on a sofa. It’s a good job Tess is doing the selecting, otherwise not enough candidates would make the cut. Whatever happened to taking a photograph outside? To adding a bit of interest to their context? But I’m not going to complain. I want to get this done. One less experiment to worry about. And even though there is a small fragment buried deep within me that would like to be proved wrong, I’ll also be glad to finish the one hundred and get back to a life of singledom. It’s the only way I know how to protect my heart. To never let it fall in love in the first place.
8
Clive
Clive shouldn’t have danced. He realised it within about thirty seconds of removing the wires. He’d scared the girl for starters, the loud beeping sounds making her flee.
But more than that, it had signalled something. If a man was well enough to dance around as if he was in a ballroom, then surely he’d reached the point that he was well enough to speak to the police.
The policeman who’d introduced himself as PC Doyle was waiting at the end of his bed and suggested they go somewhere more private.
‘Do we have to do this?’ Clive attempted one more plea.
‘We just need to build a picture of what happened. Anything that you can remember may be of use to us.’
Clive swallowed, as if his grief could be pushed down, but he knew this was something that wouldn’t go away by trying to ignore it. ‘If we have to.’
The only upside was going somewhere else. He was fed up with these four walls where no one needed to know his business. With any luck he might suss out where the exit was.
It was disappointing to only be taken round the corner to what must have been the ward sister’s office. Clive had been hoping for some kind of adventure and they’d barely had a stroll.
‘Take a seat,’ PC Doyle offered when they were in there. ‘One of the nurses is going to join us.’
It was the ward sister. Clive didn’t like the ward sister. She’d told him too often she didn’t have time to talk to him and chastised him as if he were a child after he’d performed his foxtrot.
‘Can it be another member of staff?’
‘I am the most senior member of nursing staff on the ward. No one else is free at the moment to come and listen,’ she said as she entered the room.
‘You’ve been too busy to listen since I got here. So please go and swap. Just because you’re in charge of looking after me doesn’t mean you get to learn all the gritty details of my life as soon as a police officer turns up.’ He didn’t mean to be grumpy, but he was finding with certain people it was a necessity. He could imagine the ward sister discussing him with her husband over dinner even though it was against patient confidentiality.
‘Is it possible to have someone else?’ the police officer pressed.
It was nice to know at least someone was on Clive’s side.
Once the ward sister was replaced with the male nurse who was far more attentive, Clive felt more at ease. Not that anything about this would ever be easy.
‘I’m sorry to have been a pain,’ Clive said when everyone was settled. ‘It’s, just, she puts me on edge. I’m sure she’s a perfectly lovely person, but ever since she pointed out she had a degree, like it somehow made her superior, I’ve not been a fan.’
‘I just need to hear your version of events, Clive. There’s nothing to worry about,’ the police officer replied. ‘In your own words, can you tell me what you think happened?’
The problem was it wasn’t clear in his head. He was able to recall the events, but he wasn’t clear of the order. All he knew with certainty was how it ended. He wasn’t sure how many days had passed since then. His guess was about a week.