The Nurse by J. Corrigan (list of ebook readers txt) 📕

‘Why haven’t you ever mentioned this? A baby with Daniel… Why, Rose?’

‘It was a long time ago. Another life.’ Her arms are crossed over her chest, palms grabbing at each shoulder.

‘Did you lose the baby?’ She doesn’t answer, and he carries on. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not my place to ask. But your mum did mention something.’ He catches her eye. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. She said it was up to you to tell me.’

Rose only nods.

He moves closer to the table, his forearms resting on the surface.

‘Does that position make you think better, Theo?’

He wants to ask more about her baby, but he knows it will be futile. All in good time. He smiles. ‘Not really.’ He pulls at the lapel of his jacket. ‘Rose, what made you change your mind about seeing me?’

‘I trust you.’

‘And you can trust me.’

‘I had a visit from someone.’

‘Bella Bliss?’

‘Who told you that? I bet it was Don. He shouldn’t have divulged that information to you.’ Her tone is low and he detects some fear in her voice too.

‘I know,’ he says.

‘Bella told me things about my mother,’ she continues. ‘I wanted you to find out if they were true.’

‘About Marion keeping in touch with Daniel?’

‘She knows something. Something I should know. But Bella wouldn’t tell me what. She was scared. She’s so young… she reminded me of myself at her age.’

He nods. ‘What makes you think that what she said is true?’

‘She didn’t have to come.’ She reaches over the table, lays the palms of both hands on its surface. ‘Please… please stay with me on this, Theo.’

He grins. ‘How could I not?’ His grin slips. ‘There’s more than I know, isn’t there?’

‘There’s more than I know.’

‘I’ll stay with you.’ And he will. This is not about the story, or the money. Not any more.

‘Good.’

He heaves himself from the chair. ‘Time’s up.’

‘It is.’ She stands and holds out her hand.

He takes it and squeezes gently, but reluctantly unclasps when he sees the custody officer shaking his head.

Walking to the car park, he acknowledges that he’s in deep, in thrall to a convicted murderess – like those mad people in the States who write to diabolical killers on Death Row and then profess undying love for them. But Rose isn’t a diabolical killer. He’s sure of it. And he’s not one of those mad and deluded people.

He really isn’t.

31

Rose

Theo left a few hours ago, and now I’m sitting in the little room that backs onto the recreational area, one of the few spaces in the prison that has a window bigger than a foot square. It’s where I met DI Alison Greenwood, but today I’m waiting for Don to appear. I check the clock on the wall. He’s late. He often is for our sessions. And he obviously divulges things to people that he shouldn’t. Maybe Cathy is right about him.

Discomfort scuttles through my right breast. Not sharp, and not really a pain, and if I didn’t know what I know, I’d ignore it. I wait for it to abate. It means nothing. Only anxiety. It’s the thought of talking to Don, I tell myself.

‘Hi, Rose.’

I didn’t hear him come in. He sits down. He looks awkward, a little fraught, and I don’t know if it’s because of me or connected with other stuff going on in his life. Intermittently I feel sorry for Don – I have no idea why – but I suspect he doesn’t return the feeling. Today, though, my pity towards him is lean.

I watch him. Yes, he’s very uneasy, and preoccupied, perhaps feeling guilty that he disclosed Bella’s visit to Theo. When he finally looks at me, I try to give him a smile. I hate these sessions, but there’s no way out of them.

Don squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again and the concerned therapist appears. I’m relieved, because now we can get on and get this over with.

I know a fair bit about my therapist’s existence outside the walls of the prison. In our early sessions he said very little about himself, but it didn’t take him long to begin unburdening himself; he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. I’m good at asking the right questions – it’s a shame I didn’t have the same ability in my youth. I was so naïve when I met Daniel, although I didn’t think I was. I thought I knew it all. I thought I was sassy and streetwise. I thought Daniel Deane was a man I’d love forever.

My thoughts return to Don. He’s uncertain where he’s going with me. I’m not giving him much to work with. I can’t: Don is not the man to unravel the puzzle of my life. Theo has been honest with me about Natasha, and I appreciate that. There, I’ve said her name. I’ve even looked at the photo of her that Theo showed me. But it was as if he knew not to mention the child, and he certainly didn’t get out her photo.

I knew from Theo’s very first letter that he could, and would, help me. You can glean a lot from people’s written words, and even more from spoken ones. My skill at getting information dates back to taking medical histories. The root of any problem, physical or mental, is all in the history. And I should know. That I didn’t ask the right questions all those years ago hounds me, trails me. I wear it like a lead coat.

It was the embarrassment, horror, confusion, visceral hatred I experienced on the hospital unit with Abe lying unconscious that has led to this: sitting in a small room in a prison in Peterborough, talking to a therapist about a young man who has had his life ruthlessly taken from him. The emotions I felt that day on the unit and the resentment that penetrated me like a knife smashed, destroyed, annihilated me. Took away the last small remaining piece of me.

Don sighs, coughs and clears his throat. I think he’s