but the one Mrs Dixit thought of as kind but serious. The nurse didn’t mention the smell, and neither did Mrs Dixit. She wondered if you got used to scents like this, working at a hospital. But no, you could never get used to something like that, she decided. Could her husband smell it? Mrs Dixit watched him for a moment. His mouth was slightly ajar.
When the nurse left, Mrs Dixit moved closer to his bed. She placed her hands on Naveem’s cheeks. The skin was hotter than she expected, and oily, as if he’d been sprayed with a clammy protective covering. She slid her fingers towards his nose, bunching the waxy skin on his cheeks and making his lips pout comically, grotesquely, letting them go as soon as she realised what she’d done. She did not step away though, not yet. Instead, she slowly hovered both hands near his eyelids, resisting the fear he might sense her presence and grab her by the wrists. She needed to see his eyes, it was a physical compulsion, she almost wasn’t in control anymore – dark brown, yes, but what kind of dark brown? Were his eyes a uniform colour, or faceted with green, with grey, or even specks of gold? Carefully, she placed the tips of her fingers on his lower and upper lids, and gently prised them open. There was nothing, only a terrible white blindness. She gasped, taking a step back. The moment she did so, the answer came to her, making her feel ridiculous. His eyes were just the same, they’d simply turned backwards, rolled in their sockets. For a split second, she considered how she might encourage them forward – without hurting him of course – until she finally understood she’d gone too far.
She thought about going somewhere for dinner by herself, but the slight nausea as a result of the hospital smell had dulled any appetite.
Later, in bed, she couldn’t sleep. Mrs Dixit had always prided herself on not taking up too much space. She was a small woman, and it was a large mattress – when Mr Dixit shared it with her, they barely ever touched. It was a sign of respect, allowing each other space. Tonight though, the mattress felt too big. Formidably so. She pulled the blankets up and wrapped them under her feet, so she was snugger, but it didn’t feel snug, it felt messy. Mrs Dixit turned on the lamp and made the bed again. It was strange to slip into freshly made sheets, with the bed warm, as if some other person had been there only moments before. She lay in her bed, which suddenly didn’t feel like hers anymore, as if the true owner would return and find Mrs Dixit lying there, and she realised this was exactly the kind of strange thinking the policemen would have been concerned about on their welfare check earlier.
Sighing, she took the notebook and pen from her bedside table and stared at the blank page. After much deliberation, she wrote down ‘Camden Market’ but crossed it out immediately, before turning the lamp off again and trying once more to sleep.
8 days since the accident
The next morning – it was a Leap Day, in fact – Mrs Dixit was guiltily trying to guess her husband’s laptop password for the third time, when there was a knock at the door.
Mrs Rampersad stood in the hallway, jingling her car keys in the air. ‘Where to?’
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Mrs Dixit, pleased, before remembering her manners. ‘How did it go yesterday on the high street?’
Grunting, Mrs Rampersad shook her head.
‘No one takes initiative anymore. If you do, you’re branded pushy. Pushy? I don’t want to be like those Jehovah’s Witnesses, lurking outside train stations. If I’m gonna flyer, I’m gonna flyer, you know what I mean?’ Mrs Dixit imagined what she’d do if she was walking down the high street and Mrs Rampersad tried to make her take a flyer. Probably dash into a shop until the coast was clear. ‘People don’t know what’s good for them!’
Mrs Rampersad kept her boxes of flyers stacked in the shared hallway, much to Mr Dixit’s constant annoyance. Mrs Dixit would always take a peek. ‘On the wicked, God will rain coals of fire and sulphur! Psalm 11:6–7’ ‘You will never succeed in life if you try to hide your sins! Proverbs 28:13’ ‘Even the Demons believe–and shudder! James 2:19’. Not exactly crowd-pleasing stuff, especially with the accompanying poorly photoshopped images of pitchforks