Kitabı oku: «The Secrets of Sunshine»

To my family and friends

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

The Lilac Envelope

1. A Locked Heart

2. Pizza Boxes

3. Small Shoes

4. Pink Fridge

5. Angel House

6. Earring

7. Message

8. Chocolates

9. Green Bottles

10. Office

11. Sheet Music

12. Campfire

13. Carl’s Letter

14. Stitches

15. Mosaic

16. Swing

17. Dinner

18. Ice-Skating

19. Ghosts

20. Chains

21. Padlock

22. Biscuits

23. Pineapple

24. Swimming

25. Park

26. Bench

27. Family

28. Pigeons

29. An Unlocked Heart

30. Project Padlock

31. Wedding Day

32. Last Dance

33. Liza’s Letter

34. The New Bridge

Acknowledegments

Extract

About the Publisher

The Lilac Envelope

The night before

As he did often over the past three years, Mitchell Fisher wrote a letter he would never send.

He sat up in bed at midnight and kicked off his sheets. Even though all the internal doors in his apartment were open, the sticky July heat still felt like a shroud clinging to his body. His nine-year-old daughter, Poppy, thrashed restlessly in her sleep in the bedroom opposite.

Mitchell turned on his bedside lamp, squinting against the yellow light, and took out a pad of Basildon Bond notepaper from underneath his bed. He always used a fountain pen to write – old-fashioned, he supposed, but he was a man who valued things that were well constructed and long lasting.

Mitchell tapped the pen against his bottom lip. He knew what he wanted to say, but by the time his words of sorrow and regret had travelled from his brain to his fingertips, they were only fragments of what he longed to express.

As he started to write, the sound of the metal nib scratching against paper helped him block out the city street noise that hummed below his apartment.

Dearest Anita,

Another letter from me. Everything here is fine, ticking along. Poppy is doing well. The school holidays start soon and I thought she’d be more excited. It’s probably because you’re not here to enjoy them with us.

I’ve taken two weeks off work to spend with her, and have a full itinerary planned for us – badminton, tennis, library visits, cooking, walking, the park, swimming, museums, a tour of the city bridges and more. It will keep us busy. Keep our minds off you.

You’ll be amazed how much she’s grown, must be almost your height by now. I tell her how proud I am of her, but it always meant more coming from you.

Mitchell paused, resting his hand against the pad of paper. He had to tell her how he felt.

Every time I look at our daughter, I think of you. I wish I could hold you again, and tell you I’m truly sorry.

Yours, always,

Mitchell x

He read his words, always dissatisfied with them, never able to convey the magnitude of guilt he felt. After folding the piece of paper once, he sealed it into a crisp, cream envelope, then squeezed it into the almost-full drawer of his nightstand among all the other letters he’d written. His eyes fell upon the slim lilac envelope he kept on top, the one addressed to him from Anita that he’d not yet been able to bring himself to open.

Taking it out, he held it under his nose and inhaled. There was still a slight scent of her violet soap on the paper. His finger followed the angle of the gummed flap and then stopped. He closed his eyes and willed himself to open the letter, but his hands began to shake.

Once more, he placed it back into his drawer.

Mitchell lay down and hugged himself, imagining Anita’s arms were wrapped around him. When he closed his eyes, the words from all the letters weighed down upon him like a bulldozer. As he turned and tried to sleep, he pulled the pillow over his head to force them away.

1
A Locked Heart

The lovers who attached their padlocks to the bridges of Upchester might see it as a fun or romantic gesture, but to Mitchell, it was an act of vandalism.

It was the hottest year on record in the city and the morning sun was already beating down on the back of his neck. His biceps flexed as he methodically opened and squeezed his bolt cutters shut, shearing the padlocks off the cast-iron filigree panels of the old Victorian bridge, one by one.

Since local boy band Word Up filmed the video for their international smash hit ‘Lock Me Up with Your Love’ on this bridge, thousands of people were flocking to the small city in the north-west of England. To demonstrate their love for the band and each other, they brought locks engraved with initials, names or messages and attached them to the city’s five bridges.

Large red-and-white signs that read No Padlocks studded the pavement. But as far as Mitchell could see, the locks still hung on the railings like bees swarming across frames of honeycomb. The constant reminder of other people’s love made him feel like he was fighting for breath. As he cut off the locks, he wanted to yell, ‘Why can’t you just keep your feelings to yourselves?’

After several hours of hard work, Mitchell’s trail of broken locks glinted on the pavement like a metal snake. He stopped for a moment and narrowed his eyes as a young couple strolled towards him. The woman glided in a floaty white dress and tan cowboy boots. The man wore shorts and had the physique of an American football player. With his experience of carrying out maintenance across the city’s public areas, Mitchell instinctively knew they were up to something.

After breaking away from his girlfriend, the man walked to the side of the bridge while nonchalantly pulling out a large silver padlock from his pocket.

Mitchell tightened his grip on his cutters. He was once so easy and in love with Anita, but rules were rules. ‘Excuse me,’ he called out. ‘You can’t hang that lock.’

The man frowned and crossed his bulging arms. ‘Oh, yeah? And who’s going to stop me?’

Mitchell had the sinewy physique of a sprinter. He was angular all over with dark hair and eyes and a handsome dorsal hump on his nose. ‘I am,’ he said and put his cutters down on the pavement. He held out his hand for the lock. ‘It’s my job to clear the bridges. You could get a fine.’

Anger flashed across the blond man’s face and he batted Mitchell’s hand away, swiping off his work glove. Mitchell watched as it tumbled down into the river below. Sometimes the water flowed prettily, but today it gushed and gurgled, a bruise-grey hue. A young man had drowned here in a strong current last summer.

The man’s girlfriend wrapped her arms around her boyfriend’s waist and tugged him away. ‘Come on. Leave him alone.’ She cast Mitchell an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, but we’re so in love. It took us two hours and three buses to get here. We’ll be working miles away from each other soon. Please let us do this.’

The man looked into her eyes and softened. ‘Yeah, um, sorry, mate,’ he said sheepishly. ‘The heat got the better of me. All we want to do is fasten our lock.’

Mitchell gestured at the sign again. ‘Just think about what you’re doing, guys,’ he said with a weary sigh. ‘Padlocks are cheap chunks of metal and they’re weighing down the bridges. Can’t you get a nice ring or tattoo instead? Or write letters to each other? There are better ways to say I lov—well, you know.’

The man and the woman shared an incredulous look.

‘Whatever.’ The man glowered and shoved his padlock back into his pocket. ‘We’ll go to another bridge instead.’

‘I work on those, too…’

The couple laughed at him and sauntered away.

Mitchell rubbed his nose. He knew his job wasn’t a glamorous one. It wasn’t the one in architecture he’d studied hard and trained for. However, it meant he could pay the rent on his apartment and buy Poppy hot lunch at school each day. Whatever daily hassle he put up with, he needed the work.

His workmate Barry had watched the incident from the other side of the road. Sweat circled under his arms, and his forehead shone like a mirror as he crossed over. ‘The padlocks keep multiplying,’ he groaned.

‘We need to keep on going.’

‘But it’s too damn hot.’ Barry undid a button on his polo shirt, showing off unruly chest curls that matched the ones on his head. ‘It’s a violation of our human rights, and no one can tell if we cut off twenty or two hundred.’

Mitchell held his hand up against the glare of the sun. ‘We can tell, and Russ wants the bridges cleared in time for the city centenary celebrations.’

Barry rolled his eyes. ‘There’s only three weeks to go until then. Our boss should come down here and get his hands dirty, too. At least join me for a pint after work.’

Mitchell’s mouth felt parched, and he suddenly longed for an ice-cold beer. A vision of peeling off his polo shirt and socks and relaxing in a beer garden appeared like a dreamy mirage in his head.

But he had to pick Poppy up from the after-school club to take her for a guitar lesson, an additional one to her music class in school. Her head teacher, Miss Heathcliff, was a stickler for the school closing promptly at 5.30 p.m., and it was a rush to get there on time. He lowered his eyes and said, ‘I’d love to, but I have to dash off later.’

Then he selected his next padlock to attack.

Towards the end of their working day, Barry sidled up to Mitchell and wiped his brow. He crouched and packed up his toolbox before staring at his mobile phone. ‘Brilliant, a lady I’ve been messaging can meet me for a drink.’

Since Barry had lost three stone at Weight Whittlers, he’d discovered the enticing world of dating apps and was now like a dog let off its leash. Mitchell had long since given up advising him quality was better than quantity when it came to women.

‘You have another date?’ he asked. ‘And we’re not supposed to finish work for another five minutes.’

Barry smiled proudly. ‘Five minutes doesn’t matter, and going out beats sitting on my own all night. Tonight’s lucky lady is Mandy.’ He side-glanced at his friend. ‘Maybe you should get back out into the wild, too. Start to live a little.’

Mitchell shuddered. ‘I’m fine as I am, thanks, just me and Poppy.’

If he ever thought about going out with someone new, his head spun: getting dressed up, meeting someone in a bar, making light conversation, laughing politely at their jokes, debating who was going to pay for the drinks, going through that excruciating moment when you might offer to see them again, moving in for a kiss or not. And that was on top of the babysitting logistics, because his few family members lived miles away. Before he even went on a first date, he could already picture first arguments, awkward silences and accusations at him for being emotionally frozen. And the line ‘I’m a single dad to a nine-year-old girl’ wasn’t an ideal conversation starter. He looked at his watch. ‘You go enjoy yourself,’ he said. ‘Have a pint for me.’

‘Will do,’ Barry shouted over his shoulder as he walked away.

Mitchell stared at his own trail of padlocks and at Barry’s petite pile on the other side of the bridge. A couple of lads from the Maintenance Team pulled up and began to shovel up the scrap metal. Mitchell gave them a wave and rushed off along the street that followed the edge of the river.

As he hurried, he didn’t notice the clustered rows of black-and-white Tudor shops, or the intricate carvings on the twin towers of Upchester cathedral, the tallest building that loomed over the medieval walled city. He didn’t stop to admire the glistening River Twine that gushed fiercely a few metres lower besides him, or the architecture of the five bridges that spanned it. He had given his own nickname to each of them.

The Slab was a drab concrete construction on the far side of the city. Built in the 1970s to ease traffic flow, it was more useful than attractive and, in Mitchell’s opinion, spoiled the aesthetics of its surroundings.

Vicky was the next one along, the Victorian bridge he and Barry had been working on that day. It had handsome stone arches and ornate panels depicting flowers and leaves. It connected the cathedral on one side of the river to the library on the other.

When he reached the third bridge along, his palms itched as he spotted dozens of fresh padlocks hanging there. This was the oldest bridge in the city, with parts of it dating back to the fourteenth century. Mitchell christened it Archie, because it had three pale stone arches.

The newest bridge had been commissioned to celebrate the centenary of Upchester’s city status. Due to open soon, Mitchell named it the Yacht. It was supermodern, all sleek white railings and thin white struts that looked like the laces of a lady’s corset, securing two tall white masts to the road.

He called his favourite bridge Redford, because of its red bricks. It was a sturdy construction, erected one hundred and fifty years ago. It might look dull and traditional, but it did its job.

As he crossed over Redford, the people he passed came at him in twos, like animals boarding Noah’s Ark. They laughed and kissed with abandon, and Mitchell picked up his pace, finding it painful to witness.

He still saw Anita sometimes, catching glimpses from the corner of his eye of her copper-brown curls in a crowd or a flash of her favourite tomato-red coat. Every time he felt as if someone had stabbed his heart. His breath would catch, and he’d crane his neck to look for her, desperate to see her one more time.

As he strode on, Mitchell noticed a woman standing in the middle of the bridge’s pavement. Her dress was vibrant, a daffodil yellow. Everyone else was heading across the bridge, but she was stationary, absolutely still, so people had to part and move around her. As Mitchell drew closer, he noticed her nose had a bump on the bridge that made him feel an immediate kinship with her. Her walnut curls reminded him of Anita’s hairstyle.

Her warm, familiar smile seemed to say, Oh, fancy seeing you here. But he was certain he’d never seen her before. He couldn’t help staring at her, as if catching sight of his own reflection in a shop mirror and doing a double take.

As they caught each other’s eyes, a wash of colour circled his neck, but he found it difficult to look away.

You’re still in love with Anita, remember?

Mitchell’s eyes fell upon the sweep of her collarbone and her shoulders, before stopping on the shiny thing in her hand. It was large, heart-shaped and glinted intermittently gold and then white in the late afternoon sunlight.

A padlock.

He gritted his teeth as the woman stepped towards the railing and stooped to secure her lock. After straightening back up, she tossed its key into the river and peered down at the water. She brushed her hair back with her hand then patted her ear. Her forehead furrowed and she spun around on the spot, searching on the pavement. She then looked over the railing at the narrow ledge on the other side.

Mitchell wondered what she’d lost, but told himself he didn’t have time to help her to find it anyway.

His view of her was obstructed by a young man carrying a large shiny shovel on his shoulder and a few other passersby. When he saw the woman again she was leaning over the railing on her tiptoes, reaching for something on the other side. Her fingers padded around and she raised a leg off the ground, pointing her foot to balance herself as if performing a ballet move.

A feeling of worry reared up inside him at her precarious position. ‘Hey, be careful,’ he called out.

His view was interrupted again by a large group of students traipsing along. When they had passed, Mitchell stared at the spot where the woman had stood. Except she was no longer there.

He saw a flash of her yellow dress through the railings, vivid in the rushing river below.

‘Damn,’ he said out loud.

And in that split second, all thoughts of Anita flew from his mind. He dropped his toolbox to the ground, ran and swung his legs over the railing with ease.

When the base of his back caught against the ledge on the other side, he knew a jolt of pain should accompany it, but Mitchell didn’t feel anything as he crashed down into the violent water.

2
Pizza Boxes

Mitchell had never been a strong swimmer. He hadn’t been that great at any sports or classes in school, except for physics, where he loved learning about fulcrums, loads and motion. He and Poppy used to enjoy swimming sessions together until recently, when she got out of the pool after a couple of lengths, arms folded. ‘I like swimming with Mum better,’ she said. ‘This isn’t as fun. You always set targets for me.’ And she hadn’t wanted to go to the pool with him since.

As Mitchell plunged into the river, icy cold water gushed over his head and plugged his ears. When he stopped sinking, he pushed upwards and broke to the surface with a gasp. He squinted and saw the woman in the yellow dress was twenty metres or so in front of him, being sucked along by a strong torrent. She flailed her arms, clutching at the air, before her head disappeared underwater.

People along the street at the side of the river slowed to stop and watch, gaping down at the crisis occurring in front of them. Mitchell was only vaguely aware of them as he kicked off his shoes and began to swim.

He arched one arm and then the other, kicking his legs as quickly as he could. After every few strokes, he fixed his eyes on the woman as she was swept along. ‘Hold on,’ he called out, spitting out the bitter water that filled his mouth. ‘I’m coming for you.’

He urged himself onwards, but although he was using all his strength, it felt like he wasn’t moving anywhere. He clenched his jaw as the river tugged him backwards, like it had strong arms wrapped around his thighs. The young man who drowned last summer had lost his battle against the currents that swirled forcefully beneath the surface.

Mitchell pushed himself to swim harder, trying to find a rhythm with his limbs. One-two, one-two, one-two. He lost all sense of the geography of the city. All he could see was greyness sloshing around him, and a circle of yellow fabric in front of him like a beacon.

Fear made him focus. The dread of not reaching her, not managing to save her, pushed him onwards.

Pain seared across his shoulders, and his throat tightened so much his breath was shallow through his nose. He told himself he was getting closer to her, mind over matter, but he wasn’t really sure.

After what seemed like forever, he spotted a fallen tree, split by lightning in a storm, that hung over the river at a right angle. The flow of water suddenly pulled the woman towards it, and spindly branches stuck out like daggers to greet her. Mitchell watched as she became entangled in them, and then she was gone from his sight.

He thrust his face into the water, swimming harder than ever before. All he could see was blackness until he felt something sharp scrape his arm, and he was there alongside the tree. Next to her.

A section of her dress had snagged on a branch and the rest of it billowed around her.

He fought against the branches to reach her and took her into his arms. While treading water, he gently lifted her chin with his fingers. ‘Are you okay?’ he spluttered. ‘Can you talk?’

Her lips moved, but she didn’t reply. Her face was ashen and strands of her wet hair hung down over her eyes.

‘Try to hold on to me, if you can. I’m going to swim and get us both to safety.’

Mitchell unhooked her dress from the tree and managed to recall snippets of the few lifesaving sessions he’d watched Poppy have at the pool. He helped the woman to lie on her back and, after cupping his hand under her chin, he swam backwards, pulling her along with him.

Fortunately, he found a calmer current that assisted their movements.

The riverbank was lower on one side than the other, with a long grass verge in front of a series of waterfront bars. Mitchell headed towards them, his eyes intermittently flicking between the woman’s face and his destination.

‘We’re nearly there,’ he said. ‘Only a bit further. You’re doing so well.’

A few people stood, clutching pints of beer and staring at him as if he was competing in a swimming race. The edge of the river shallowed and Mitchell pushed himself forwards onto the grass and pulled the woman out of the water. She lay in his arms with the back of her head pressed against his chest. ‘You’re okay. You’re safe,’ he blurted with relief.

They stayed there together, his arms wrapped around her as the blazing sun warmed their cold bodies.

The woman’s eyes were shut, but her eyelashes danced against her cheeks and she smiled serenely.

This moment, being here with her, reminded Mitchell of the contradictory mixture of stillness and exhilaration he felt when Poppy was born, when he first held her in his arms. Anita had smiled at him weakly and he had wanted to burst into tears and laugh at the same time, as exhaustion, joy and responsibility sent his feelings into a tailspin. When he looked down at the woman, he pictured Anita with her damp curls pressed against her forehead. The closeness to this stranger, her body in his arms, was both tender and unnerving and his hand shook when he brushed her hair away from her eyes.

She squinted against the daylight. ‘What happened?’ she rasped. ‘Where am I?’

‘My name is Mitchell Fisher. You were standing on a bridge in Upchester, attaching a padlock. I think you dropped something and were looking for it. You leaned right over the railing and fell.’ He held his breath for a while. ‘You could have got yourself killed.’

She smiled weakly and reached up to take his hand. Their wet fingers entwined tightly. ‘I’m so clumsy recently. I don’t make a habit of this, honestly. I usually just knock glasses of wine over or forget my door keys.’

Mitchell liked how she managed to find humour in her situation. ‘So long as you’re safe. Do you think you’re ready to try to stand up?’

She crooked one knee, then frowned in pain. Her head slumped back against his chest. ‘Not yet.’ She looked up at him, and again he felt a tug of something for her. It caused more memories of Anita to trickle back and he didn’t want to think of her, not here and now. The shame he often felt could bury him like an avalanche.

‘I do know you, don’t I?’ she said.

Mitchell looked away. ‘I don’t think we’ve met before.’ He wondered if her fall was causing her confusion, but as he opened his mouth to reply, a hand clamped down on his shoulder. A man with a thin moustache and horn-rimmed glasses stood above him.

‘I’m a doctor. Can I help?’ the man said.

Mitchell nodded gratefully, and he slipped his fingers away from the woman’s hand. He cradled her head and helped her to lie down flat on the grass, then he shuffled backwards out of the way.

The doctor crouched down. ‘What happened?’

The woman swallowed but didn’t reply.

‘She fell into the river, and I jumped in to help her,’ Mitchell said.

‘How long was she in for?’

‘Ten or fifteen minutes, I think. I don’t really know.’ His sense of time had flown and his stomach plunged when his watch showed 5.40 p.m.

His attention snapped back to Poppy. She was at school and he was very late. He’d also left his toolbox on the bridge. ‘Sorry, I have to go,’ he said to the doctor and the woman.

Mitchell stood up and took a few unsteady steps along the grass verge in his soggy socked feet. He hunched away from the well-meaning pats that rained down on his back. When a couple of mobile phones appeared, he resisted the impulse to bat them away.

He told himself the woman would be fine. She was with a doctor.

Heart thumping, Mitchell thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and tugged out his own phone to call the school. But the screen was blank and tiny bubbles emerged from the camera hole.

He limped to where the grass verge ended, made his way back up onto the street and headed towards Redford to quickly look for his toolbox. When he reached midway along the bridge, he stood in the rough spot the woman in the yellow dress had fallen.

He searched frantically around for his tools and his shoulders sagged when he realized they’d gone, perhaps stolen.

When he looked back over the railing, he saw the woman and doctor were heading in his direction. The sun made her wet dress shine like gold, and a thought struck Mitchell like a lightning bolt.

I don’t even know her name.

He looked at her again and his pull towards her was magnetic. But she was over thirty metres away from him, and he had to get to the school.

He would rush past and ask what her name was.

He had to know.

He turned and saw a cyclist whizzing along the pavement towards him at great speed. Pizza boxes were piled high on the handlebars. Mitchell tried to jump out of the way, but the bicycle smashed into him, knocking him to the ground.

As boxes went flying in the air, Mitchell heard the thwack of his own head on the pavement. Pain bloomed and his vision blurred. Someone shouted for an ambulance, and legs surrounded him like trees in a forest.

When he strained to raise his head, a hand pressed his shoulders back down.

Mitchell wasn’t sure how long he lay there for, but through a set of fleshy knees in long khaki shorts, he thought he saw the swish of a yellow dress.

Then he closed his eyes and everything went blank.

3
Small Shoes

While he was out cold, Mitchell dreamed.

It was another kiln-hot summer day where the air shimmered and people gathered in the pub for shelter from the sun. A woman with copper curls pushed in next to him at the bar.

‘A pint of cider, please,’ she said, even though it was Mitchell’s turn to be served. She glanced at him and pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, sorry, you were next?’

He shrugged, a little irritated. ‘It’s fine.’

‘No, it’s not. Really. The barman was cutting into a lime and the smell always reminds me of this holiday I went on to Ibiza in my early twenties. It was supposedly cool to drink beer from a bottle with a slice of lime sticking out of the neck. Even though I didn’t like the taste, I drank it for a whole week and…’

Mitchell laughed despite himself. ‘I once forced myself to drink the same thing at a barbecue because my friends liked it.’

She returned his smile. ‘Anyway, what I’m trying to say is sorry, and can I get you a drink?’ When he started to protest against her offer, she jokingly placed her elbow in front of him. ‘I’ll get this,’ she said to the barman.

She wasn’t his usual type, with a round face and messy red hair when he was usually attracted to brunettes. But when she grinned at him, he liked how her eyes crinkled at the corners in a fan shape.

Mitchell asked for a cider, too, and they carried their drinks outside together, grumbling about the hot weather, and sat down at the only free table. She told him her name was Anita and she was waiting for a friend who was always late.

She raised her glass at him. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ He clinked his in return.

When Anita pressed her lips against the glass, she savoured every sip of the fizzy amber liquid as if it was the finest champagne, and Mitchell realized he actually fancied her. She was the kind of person who could find adventure in the simplest of things.

A delicious sensation tingled in his chest as he thought about where their conversation might take them both.

Mitchell closed his eyes as he drank his cider. However, when he opened them again, his glass had vanished from his hand. The table and the pub were no longer there. Anita had gone, too.

He woke up and found himself woozy and sore, lying on a hospital bed. There was an electronic beeping sound to his right, and a cannula tube taped to the back of his hand. He wore a starchy, patterned gown and a wristband with his name on it.

He forgot about his dream and tried to sit up. ‘Poppy,’ he cried out.

A bag with an Upchester Hospital logo sat on a chair beside his bed and he could see his clothes were folded inside it. On top of the small table next to him, his keys, wallet and mobile phone were sealed inside a plastic bag that was foggy with condensation. He stretched to reach for it, but realized a nurse was pointing a finger at him from the end of the bed.

‘Leave that alone,’ she ordered.

Mitchell tried to sit up again. ‘You don’t understand—yow!’ A pain shot down his spine and he screwed his eyes shut.

‘What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?’

Mitchell opened one eye and took in the nurse’s blue uniform, tight black curls and steely brown eyes. ‘Sorry, but I need to get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’m late to get my daughter from school. She’ll be worried…’

‘Even if you have a dinner date with the queen, I’m not letting you go anywhere.’ Her name badge said Hello My Name is Samantha and it made her sound friendlier than she looked.

He clawed at the neck of his gown. ‘I’m absolutely fine, honestly.’

‘That’s for me to say, not you. As it stands, your oxygen levels, temperature and blood pressure are okay. You’ve had a CT scan, and the good news is you’ll be fine.’ She tapped the side of her own head. ‘You’ve had a couple of stitches.’

Mitchell felt like he’d been battered with a meat tenderizing hammer. He reached up to feel the spongy softness of gauze taped above his right ear. ‘Poppy’s only nine, and she has a guitar lesson. What time is it?’ When he saw a wall clock displayed 7.25 p.m., his insides cramped. ‘I have got to go.’

He imagined Poppy staring expectantly at her watch as the other kids were picked up from the club and she was left behind. She’d be twitchy, frightened even. Exactly the same as the fateful day Anita didn’t arrive to collect her.

‘You need to calm down,’ Samantha ordered. ‘Won’t her mum have things covered?’

Mitchell wondered why she’d assume this. He tried to reply, but the words stuck in his mouth. ‘No. She’s…’

Samantha crossed her arms expectantly.

‘There’s only me.’ Mitchell looked down at his hands. ‘Poppy’s mother… well, she died.’

Samantha unfolded her arms and fiddled with her name badge. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll find out what I can.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘Please.’

He’d never fully settled on how to describe Anita. She wasn’t his wife because they weren’t married, and they’d never got engaged. The word partner sounded like a business arrangement, and soul mate was too soppy. Girlfriend was too young, and the mother of my child suggested Poppy was the result of a one-night stand. He usually called her Poppy’s mum.

If he ever had to explain his circumstances, he often found himself consoling people, rather than the other way around.

‘You weren’t to know…’

‘I’m sorry to tell you…’

‘It’s one of those things…’

What he really wanted to say was, ‘Imagine being told you’ll never feel sunshine on your skin ever again. That’s what life is like without her. And every minute and hour of each day, I feel like it’s my fault she’s no longer here.’

But he kept this to himself.

He tried to picture himself as an armadillo, curled up against the world and displaying an armoured shell. Even though three years had passed, he still needed this protection.

Samantha returned a few minutes later. ‘Your friend Barry Waters is listed as an emergency contact at the school. I understand he picked up your daughter and took her to her music lesson.’

‘But that will have finished…’

‘That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.’ Samantha passed him a small paper cup that contained two round white tablets. ‘Are you allergic to paracetamol? Do you feel sick at all, or dizzy? Any memory loss? Do you know where you are?’

‘In prison?’ He eyed the pills with suspicion. ‘I’m totally fine, genuinely. Do I really need to take these? Don’t I have to sign something to agree to it? What are the rules about these things? I just want to leave.’

She looked at him disparagingly. ‘Just take the tablets, please, Mr Fisher. You’re not going anywhere until I say so. Those are my rules.’

Half an hour later, Barry arrived. He wore faded double denim and his chest hair spewed out from the open neck of his shirt. ‘I’ve seen you looking better, mate. You feeling all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Mitchell strained forward. ‘But how’s Poppy? Is she okay? Was she upset?’

Barry moved the bag off the chair and sat down. ‘No need to worry. The school called me when you didn’t show up and they couldn’t reach you. The hospital found some council ID in your pocket and rang me, too, to say you’d been brought in. I collected Poppy from school and told her you’d been in an accident but were fine. She was a bit shaken, though still wanted to go to her music lesson rather than for a burger with me. She had an appointment card with the teacher’s address on it.’ He reached in his pocket and handed it to Mitchell before looking around him. ‘God, I hate these places.’

Mitchell did, too. He refused to think about the last time he was here in the hospital with Anita. The memories were beginning to seep back and he tried to banish them by talking quickly. ‘Thanks. I’ve not met Miss Bradfield properly yet, just spoken to her on the phone.’

‘She’s really nice and said it’s no problem if you’re late to pick Poppy up. She’ll feed her, too.’ Barry leaned down and deposited a pair of shoes on top of Mitchell’s bedsheets. ‘I’ve brought you some dry ones.’

Mitchell turned one over. ‘Thanks. Um, they’re two sizes too small.’

‘They’re good shoes, though, got nice laces. I’ll leave them anyway. Do you know you’ve been on the local news?’

Mitchell gaped at him. ‘On TV?’

‘Online.’ Barry located a photo on his phone of Mitchell sitting on the riverbank dripping wet, his head bowed. ‘The reporter called you the Hero on the Bridge.’

‘That’s rubbish, anyone would have done the same.’ Mitchell pictured the woman in the yellow dress standing on the bridge, wearing her enigmatic smile. He wondered again why she thought she knew him. ‘What did they say about the woman? Is she okay? What’s her name?’

‘It only really mentions you. This stuff gets updated all the time, though.’ He put his phone away. ‘You really don’t need this drama in your life, do you?’

‘I’ve spoiled your evening and lost my toolbox,’ Mitchell said glumly. ‘You had a date lined up.’

‘Nah, it’s fine. I had a quick beer with Mandy before I got the call about you. She was nice, but…’ He squirmed. ‘I’m seeing Megan later. I’ve met her before, but it was messy. We had a great time, until her husband rocked up and wanted to take the party back to his place. Totally awkward.’

Mitchell stared at him in disbelief.

Barry held a palm up. ‘I didn’t go,’ he said defensively. ‘Anyway, I’m meeting Tina tomorrow. She’s an artist.’

The number of women’s names spilling from Barry’s lips made Mitchell’s temples throb. ‘Good luck, Casanova,’ he said.

Barry stayed with Mitchell a while longer before excusing himself to meet Megan. ‘I’ll ask around about your toolbox,’ he said. ‘Make enquiries.’

‘Thanks, the tools cost me a packet.’

After Barry left, Mitchell lay in bed, stewing and urging Samantha to reappear. When she eventually returned with a clip file and paperwork, she removed the tube from the back of his hand and stuck a plaster on it. ‘Yes, you do have to legally sign these papers to discharge yourself,’ she said and handed him a pen. ‘You have an appointment at the clinic here next week to have your stitches removed. I’ll give you a leaflet about concussions to read. Your back is bruised and might be sore for a while.’

Mitchell closed the curtains around his bed and sat down heavily on the mattress. His polo shirt still had patches of dampness and felt strangely stiff. After pulling on his trousers, he stuffed his keys, wallet and phone into his back pockets.

The realization of what he’d done was beginning to dawn on him.

He wasn’t a hero at all. He was a stupid person for putting himself in danger, when the outcome could have been a lot worse.

If he hadn’t felt a flicker of interest for the woman in the yellow dress, he would have walked on by and not seen her fall. He wouldn’t have spotted the padlock in her hands. Helping her had triggered a chain of events he wished hadn’t been set in motion.

A sob suddenly reared inside him, threatening to break out like a lion’s roar, and he gulped it away. He dropped Barry’s shoes to the floor and tried to stuff his foot inside one of them, even though he knew it wouldn’t fit. When he bent down to pick them back up, tears blurred his eyes and he clutched the shoes to his chest like a child with a teddy bear.

It was his job to put Poppy first and he’d let her down.

As he pulled back the curtain from around the bed and stepped beyond it, he took a pained breath.

When he shuffled off the ward, guilt clenched his gut that he’d been able to help a stranger, but not Anita.