pain, talking to her, reading to her, playing music to her. Others had taken their turn supporting her through the first difficult steps towards regaining some of what she’d lost. Others had been there for her while Carol had busied herself elsewhere.
No doubt Tony would have some clever explanation for her inability to face Chris. But it wasn’t complicated. It was guilt, pure and simple. Chris’s fate was what had lain in store for Carol. She’d dodged the bullet. And as with Michael and Lucy, someone else had paid the price for her determination to see justice done.
Carol swung the sledgehammer through the gallery floorboards in a steady rhythm to accompany her thoughts. She’d paid heed to George Nicholas’s suggestion about the beam and she’d set a ladder against the gallery and attacked it from above. Strictly speaking, scaffolding would have been a better option, but that exceeded her DIY skills and she was determined to see this through herself, no matter how long it took. She was done with getting a man in to solve her problems for her. She paused for breath, chest heaving with the effort, sweat running down her back.
Her encounter with George Nicholas kept cutting into her familiar mantra of guilt and shame. It had reminded her that there was a world beyond her self-regard. A world she used to inhabit. A world where people sat round tables and talked together, drank together, laughed together. She’d had a place in that world and she suspected walking away from it was not entirely healthy. She’d deliberately set herself apart so she could begin the process of healing. But how would she know if she was getting any stronger if she lived like a hermit? Reluctantly, she reminded herself she’d tried that once before and it hadn’t been the answer. What had brought her back to life had been engaging with the world.
Maybe it was time to start again.
The closest Carol had ever previously come to a police convalescent home was sticking a twenty in the collection box at social events. She had no idea what to expect. When she’d called Chris’s Police Federation rep to check her whereabouts, she’d half-expected her to be back home. ‘She’s at the convalescent home in Ripon,’ the helpful rep had told her. ‘She’s working with the physios there on her range of movements. Scar management, that sort of thing. They wanted to keep her in hospital longer, but because we were able to provide specialist care, she’s been able to start living a more normal life.’
Carol cringed inwardly at the words, unable to imagine how anyone would begin to cope. ‘Has there been any improvement in her sight, do you know?’
‘I believe not. They’re talking about lining her up with a guide dog. But that’ll be a bit down the road.’
Carol thanked her and ended the call, wondering whether she had the strength for this. But building a bridge between her and Chris was the first step to regaining her humanity. She’d called ahead to ask about visiting times and been told that visitors were expected to leave by nine o’clock. So she’d finished work in the late afternoon, showered the sweat and dirt away and put on one of her business suits for the first time in months. She stretched the process out as long as she could, taking time out for a large glass of cold pinot grigio. Then another. But finally there was nothing for it but to set off across the rolling green landscape to the tiny cathedral city.
The convalescent home was on the edge of town, not far from the ruined grandeur of Fountains Abbey. It was hidden at the end of a twisting drive, obscured from sight by a shrubbery that looked mature enough to have been planted by the original owners of the sprawling Victorian villa that formed its heart. There were modern two-storey wings on either side of the main house and small chalets dotted the fringes of the wide lawns, all linked by well-groomed paths. Lights burned in several windows, but the
No doubt Tony would have some clever explanation for her inability to face Chris. But it wasn’t complicated. It was guilt, pure and simple. Chris’s fate was what had lain in store for Carol. She’d dodged the bullet. And as with Michael and Lucy, someone else had paid the price for her determination to see justice done.
Carol swung the sledgehammer through the gallery floorboards in a steady rhythm to accompany her thoughts. She’d paid heed to George Nicholas’s suggestion about the beam and she’d set a ladder against the gallery and attacked it from above. Strictly speaking, scaffolding would have been a better option, but that exceeded her DIY skills and she was determined to see this through herself, no matter how long it took. She was done with getting a man in to solve her problems for her. She paused for breath, chest heaving with the effort, sweat running down her back.
Her encounter with George Nicholas kept cutting into her familiar mantra of guilt and shame. It had reminded her that there was a world beyond her self-regard. A world she used to inhabit. A world where people sat round tables and talked together, drank together, laughed together. She’d had a place in that world and she suspected walking away from it was not entirely healthy. She’d deliberately set herself apart so she could begin the process of healing. But how would she know if she was getting any stronger if she lived like a hermit? Reluctantly, she reminded herself she’d tried that once before and it hadn’t been the answer. What had brought her back to life had been engaging with the world.
Maybe it was time to start again.
The closest Carol had ever previously come to a police convalescent home was sticking a twenty in the collection box at social events. She had no idea what to expect. When she’d called Chris’s Police Federation rep to check her whereabouts, she’d half-expected her to be back home. ‘She’s at the convalescent home in Ripon,’ the helpful rep had told her. ‘She’s working with the physios there on her range of movements. Scar management, that sort of thing. They wanted to keep her in hospital longer, but because we were able to provide specialist care, she’s been able to start living a more normal life.’
Carol cringed inwardly at the words, unable to imagine how anyone would begin to cope. ‘Has there been any improvement in her sight, do you know?’
‘I believe not. They’re talking about lining her up with a guide dog. But that’ll be a bit down the road.’
Carol thanked her and ended the call, wondering whether she had the strength for this. But building a bridge between her and Chris was the first step to regaining her humanity. She’d called ahead to ask about visiting times and been told that visitors were expected to leave by nine o’clock. So she’d finished work in the late afternoon, showered the sweat and dirt away and put on one of her business suits for the first time in months. She stretched the process out as long as she could, taking time out for a large glass of cold pinot grigio. Then another. But finally there was nothing for it but to set off across the rolling green landscape to the tiny cathedral city.
The convalescent home was on the edge of town, not far from the ruined grandeur of Fountains Abbey. It was hidden at the end of a twisting drive, obscured from sight by a shrubbery that looked mature enough to have been planted by the original owners of the sprawling Victorian villa that formed its heart. There were modern two-storey wings on either side of the main house and small chalets dotted the fringes of the wide lawns, all linked by well-groomed paths. Lights burned in several windows, but the
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