Free The Beauty of the End by Debbie Howells

“I got that wrong. She kept the name Rousseau after her divorce. I was forgetting. I haven’t seen her in a very long time.”
    I’m bluffing. I’ve no idea where the Rousseau comes from, but I’m counting on the nurse not knowing any more than I do.
    She looks at me doubtfully. “I’m sorry, but under the circumstances, you should probably leave . . . Mr. . . .”
    â€œCalaway,” I tell her, wondering if there’s a Mr. Rousseau, and if so, is he here? Does he even know? “Noah Calaway. I know what’s happened to her. Will Farrington told me. I imagine he’s been here?”
    â€œNo one’s been here.” The nurse shakes her head. Then she looks at me with interest. “You know Dr. Farrington?”
    â€œYes. And I know how this looks, just turning up like this,” I say more confidently. “But I’m an old friend. And once she comes round, I’ll be acting as her lawyer.”
    The nurse looks uncertain. “Do you have proof?”
    I shake my head resignedly. “A driver’s license with my name on it.” Knowing how lame it sounds, I add, “You can call the firm I work for, if you like.” Rummaging in my pocket for one of Jed’s cards, finding there isn’t one.
    From the way she looks at me, I know that she’s not sure. That she thinks she should ask me to leave. But then she sighs. “It’s all right. I believe you. But you won’t be able to go in, I’m afraid. The police have someone with her round the clock. But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you? Being a lawyer.”
    â€œOf course.” I nod, but it had completely slipped my mind. She’s right, of course. With April a suspect, the police won’t be leaving anything to chance.
    Glancing around, the nurse lowers her voice. “Just a suggestion, but if by any chance the sister comes round, tell her you’re Mrs. Rousseau’s lawyer. It’ll save a lot of trouble. She’s along there, in bed seven.’
    I nod gratefully. “Thanks.”
    Guessing that it’s my connection to Will that’s swung her decision in my favor, I walk in the direction she’s pointed me in, until I reach a door on which there’s a number seven. It’s another tiny room with a slatted blind, and as I peer through, for a moment I think she’s mistaken. The woman in the bed is tiny, fragile looking, her skin like pale wax, her chest barely moving under the white sheet that’s pulled up to under her shoulders. Laid on top of it, one of her arms is threaded with lines that are plugged into the machines beside her.
    Even through the window, I’m overwhelmed with the sense that she’s not just unconscious. This woman’s dying. Her heart might be beating and her lungs inflating, but she’s too still, too empty of life.
    A dulled shade of the glossy red I remember, her hair is the most recognizable thing about her. Glancing away, shocked, I take in the robust presence of the young policeman sitting on a chair in the corner.
    â€œIt’s a pity you can’t go in and talk to her.” The same nurse, her voice quieter, comes from behind me. “Even when patients don’t respond, sometimes they can still hear. People who’ve come round, some of them tell us that hearing voices is what they remember.”
    â€œHas she opened her eyes at all?”
    â€œNot yet.” The nurse’s voice is gentle. “She nearly didn’t make it, you know.”
    But I know she’s telling me that even now, even though she’s alive, April may not make it. It’s in the spaces in between; what she doesn’t say, the tone of her voice. Then I feel her hand, light on my shoulder, before she quietly turns and walks away as a memory comes back, a day I haven’t thought of for many years, long enough ago that life was simple and untroubled, yet the images as sharp as if it