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