. When had they ever gone without food for over two weeks? What did they know?
She had a morphine drip too, which helped a bit, though they were scrupulously careful not to overfill it. She operated it with her left hand, punching the button when the pain became too much. Her right hand was cuffed to the bed. The nurses bloody loved that, speculating in loud stage whispers about what she’d done. Killed her baby? Killed her husband? They really were enjoying themselves.
And then – God help her – then they’d let her mother in. She went berserk at that, shouting and screaming until her bewildered mum had to retreat on doctor’s orders. What the fuck were they thinking? She couldn’t see her mother, not now. Not like this.
She just wanted to be left alone. She would concentrate fiercely on the things around her, staring at the intricate cotton weave of her pillow case, gazing for hours on end at the hypnotic, glowing filament in her bedside lamp. That way she could zone out, keep her thoughts at bay. And when a vision of Sam did spring up from nowhere, she would hit the morphine trigger and for a moment she’d drift away to a happier place.
But she knew in her heart that she would not be left in peace for long. Demons were circling her now, dragging her back to the living death she’d left behind. She could see the police hovering outside, waiting to come in and question her. Didn’t they get that she never wanted to answer those questions? Hadn’t she suffered enough?
‘Tell them I can’t see them.’
The nurse who was busy studying her charts looked up.
‘Tell them I’ve got a fever,’ Amy continued, ‘that I’m asleep…’
‘I can’t stop them, love,’ the nurse replied evenly. ‘Best get it over with, eh?’
She could never suffer enough. Amy knew that really. She had killed the man she loved and there was no way back from that.
‘Tell me how you got out of the pool, Amy?’
‘A ladder.’
‘I didn’t see a ladder there.’
Amy scowled and turned away. Pulling the hospital blankets up round her chin, she receded into herself once more. Helen regarded her, intrigued. If she was lying, she was a bloody good actress. She shot a look at Mark, then continued:
‘What sort of ladder was it?’
‘A rope ladder. It was dropped down just after I…’
Tears stung Amy’s eyes and she dropped her head to her chest. There were mild burns on the palms of Amy’s hands. Consistent perhaps with someone scrambling up a rope ladder? Helen gave herself a mental slap – why was she even considering the possibility? Amy’s story was insane. According to her, they’d been picked up on the motorway, drugged, abducted, starved – and then forced to commit murder. Why would anyone do such a thing? On the face of it, Amy and Sam were two good kids, but the answer to this awful crime must lie within their own lives.