Free Thursday's Child by Clare Revell

H’main.”
    “No. Deraj sounds much better. And if it gets cold, it can sleep in your room. Not going to let it melt all over my carpet.” Niamh watched in surprise as Jared hurried inside with the plates. She sat there, really not sure what she had said, but was suddenly sure Deraj and H’main were snowmen and not clouds.
    After a several minutes he came back out. His eyes were red rimmed. Had he been crying? “I need to get going. I’ll see you tomorrow. I should be home around nine thirty or so in the morning. Assuming we don’t get called out just before hand over. Can I get you anything before I leave?”
    Niamh shook her head. He hadn’t brought the ice cream, but she no longer fancied it. “I’ll be fine.”
    “Let me help you upstairs and put the TV on in the bedroom. I put a patio chair in the shower for you, and a bin liner to put the cast in. Your towels are the navy blue ones hanging in the upstairs bathroom.” His strong arms surrounded her as he picked her up and carried her.
    She slid an arm around his neck. She knew he wouldn’t drop her; he did this for a living.
    The bedroom was bigger than she’d imagined, and the bed itself was soft as he settled her onto it. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. If you need anything, call me. Or Liam said you could call him. All the numbers are programmed into your mobile phone. Your laptop is here, you never log out of anything, so you don’t need to worry about passwords for your email, social media pages and so on.” For a moment it looked as if he was going to kiss her, then he straightened. “Goodnight.”
    “Goodnight. I hope work goes OK.” She watched him leave, picked up the remote and turned on the television. Assuming she really had lost ten years, she shouldn’t have a problem finding something to watch.
    She glanced at the laptop. Email? Social media pages? It was as if he was talking a foreign language. She hadn’t much cared for the new fad of electronic mail. A handwritten letter was far more personal than something typed and sent over this new internet malarkey. That was one thing she hoped didn’t catch on. The personal phones, however, would be a good idea. Especially in her line of work.
     
    ****
     
    Jared sat at the table in the canteen, his hand curled around a mug of tea and a plate of cold spaghetti bolognaise on the table in front of him.
    Skippy looked over at him. “Hey, if you’re not hungry, can I have that?”
    “Go for it.” Jared pushed the plate over to him, shaking his head as Skippy attacked it with gusto. “Doesn’t your wife feed you?”
    Skippy laughed. “She does, but I hate to see good food go to waste. So what’s up, mate? Is Niamh still in hospital?”
    “No, she came home this morning.” He took a deep breath. “But, she doesn’t know who I am. She remembers nothing of the last ten years. If she were dead, at least I could mourn her, but this? That car crash took my wife and left me with a total stranger. How am I meant to just turn off my feelings and stop loving her now?”
    “You don’t, you daft drongo.” Skippy’s Australian accent came through sharply. “You give her time. Date the sheila all over again. Charm her, make her fall in love with you and maybe as she does, she’ll remember you and all you’ve done together the past nine years.”
    Jared looked up, his cup dropping to the table. He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. Dayna . What if she remembered Dayna or found the photos? Losing their daughter had almost killed her.
    It had killed their marriage.
    Could she survive reliving that night again? Could either of them?
     
     
     
     

7
     
    Jared let himself into the house just after nine thirty. It had been a quiet night, although he’d have preferred a busy one. Then he wouldn’t have worried about Niamh. He wrinkled his nose. Toast? Had Niamh gotten up and made her own breakfast?
    “Hello?” He hung his jacket on the coat hooks and took a deep breath.