Sharif Gemie is is a happily retired history lecturer who lives in south Wales, United Kingdom. Fourteen of his short stories and two of his flash fictions have been published, and this is his 3rd story published in The Quiet Reader. His first novel, The Displaced, was published in 2024. It’s about a middle-class British couple who volunteer to work with refugees in Germany at the end of the Second World War. You can follow Sharif on www.sharifgemie.com.
Mary hummed as her car sploshed its way through the puddles. She always liked this part of her drive into work — the road curved through a wooded hill, then cut through some fields. The sudden burst of open sky put her in the right temper to face the day. Even the gloomy talk on the radio didn’t lower her mood.
‘Have you ever seen anything like this before?’ asked the interviewer.
‘Well, no,’ replied a man with a strong Somerset accent. Mary smiled, imagining some yokel in a field. ‘I’ve lived here nigh fifty year and this little stream never hurt nobody. But now! Look at it! Flooded as far as the eye can see.’
Mary checked the clock on the dashboard: 8:47. She’d be on time.
‘There are now over two hundred and fifty severe flood warnings across the UK,’ said the radio announcer.
His words gave Mary a strange sense of satisfaction. She felt safe, cocooned in her little car, comforted by the regular beat of the windscreen-wipers and the warmth of the heater.
‘The latest predictions,’ continued the announcer, ‘are that very heavy rain will persist across the UK throughout the morning. The Met Office is advising people to travel only if their journey is essential. And now, with time coming up to eleven minutes to nine, we have a special report from flood victims in—’
‘Oh, stop it,’ said Mary, turning the radio off. Why couldn’t they talk about something cheerful?
One more curve and the road, shiny with rain-water, stretched out across the fields. Mary shifted into a higher gear, when— ‘No!’
Those weren’t puddles, they were rivers flowing across the road. She could feel the tug of water pulling her car to the right, hear it running past the door—but then, thank goodness, the car juddered up another two metres. She was out of it. She stopped the car and looked ahead. This had never happened before. It didn’t make sense: this was a flat section of road, not some steep dip in a valley. Looking through the clammy drizzle, she understood: the grey-green fields were absolutely water-logged and water was running off them, from higher fields on the left, down to the lower fields on the right.
She tried to remember how you were supposed to drive along water-logged roads. Don’t go too fast, but never stop. Wasn’t that it? Why weren’t you supposed to stop? She couldn’t remember. Should she turn back? She’d come too far. Mary shook her head, put the car in gear and pressed on. The next slight dip was just a puddle, no problem. Then a rise and she felt safe. Another dip: this was tougher, again she felt the water pushing her car to the right. Up and safe. She could see the trees now, marking the last section of road before the hospice. She tried to remember: the next section was just a slight dip, wasn’t it? Mary pressed on. No, no, no—the water was deep, too deep, this wasn’t safe. Fast-flowing currents ran past the door and the car pulled to the right.
No, no. The engine stuttered. It was hopeless, she shouldn’t have come, she’d have to call the emergency services, they’d take ages, her car’s engine would be ruined, would the insurance cover it? The car shuddered, the force of the water pushing it off the road. She imagined the car turning over and over, rolling into the mud. Come on, come on, she begged. The engine stuttered, the car seemed to groan, but she was out of the dip.
Holy fuck! Her heart was pounding. She drove to the shelter of the trees, stopped, caught her breath, let her heart slow. That was close. Too close. She’d almost been swept off the road. And if the car had flipped over…
She flicked the radio on: maybe that would calm her.
‘There are reports that a man has been swept away by flood water near the river Wye—’ said the announcer.
No, thought Mary and turned it off. She drove very carefully for the rest of her journey, trying to gauge whether each wet patch on the road was a shallow puddle or a newly-formed pool. Then she was out of the trees and felt a sense of relief as she saw the white concrete and glass of the hospice, shining in the rain. Entering the car park, Mary smiled: no problem finding a place today! The carpark was three-quarters empty. Most people had more sense than to drive to work today.
‘Mary! You made it!’ Harrie at reception sounded surprised.
‘Morning.’ Mary tried to sound casual, as if she regularly conducted amphibious exercises in her car. She swiped her card on the reader on Harrie’s desk.
‘The stories I’ve heard! People who tried to drive in and gave up, people who aren’t coming in.’ ‘It wasn’t easy,’ admitted Mary.
‘Didn’t you see the announcement on the website? Staff advised us not to come in.’
‘Our broadband slows down in rainy weather.’
‘I stayed here overnight. A lot of the girls did.’
‘I had to go home because of Em,’ explained Mary.
‘You missed a real drama.’ Harrie smirked. ‘The electricity cut out just after midnight.’
‘No! But isn’t there a back-up generator?’
‘There is—but it was flooded or drenched or something. We had no power for about half an hour. Bob had stayed over, thank goodness, but he was going wild, trying to get the generator to work.’
‘And—the patients?’
‘All okay.’ Then Harrie frowned. ‘All okay, except Mrs K.’
‘Oh.’
‘She—she went during the power cut.’
‘But—I thought she’d been given a few days more.’
Harrie screwed up her nose. ‘Those predictions—they’re never really certain, are they?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Mary picked up her card and turned to go.
‘Oh and Mary—’ Harrie clearly had one more piece of good news for her.
Mary turned back.
‘The hall’s been flooded, so—
Mary finished her sentence: ‘—so today’s commemoration ceremony has been cancelled.’ Harrie nodded.
‘I came in specially for that!’ said Mary. ‘Some of my old clients were going.’
‘I don’t think they’d have come in, anyway. But so many of the girls are away: I’m sure there’ll be things for you to do.’
‘Spose so.’
Mary felt oddly deflated. Her water-borne adventure, all for nothing. She should’ve stayed at home. Would Em be okay? She headed for the canteen, which seemed more crowded than usual. Looking round, Mary realised that most of the people there had stayed overnight and were having breakfast. There was Ayesha, who shared her office, tucking into what looked like a full English.
Mary got a coffee and walked to Ayesha.
‘Hi Ayesha! I had one hell of a journey into work.’
‘Yeah?’ Ayesha continued eating.
‘Yes, the road had turned into a raging river.’ Mary sat down opposite Ayesha, disappointed that she showed no interest in her saga. ‘But look at you: full English!’
‘I stayed overnight—slept badly. That power-cut and all the trouble afterwards woke me up.’
‘Harrie said that Bob couldn’t get the generator to work.’
Ayesha put her knife and fork down. ‘It was chaos, absolute chaos. People running about, up and down the corridors, shouting, flashing torches and lights from their phones… And when the power came back, alarms went off, lights were flickering, monitors beeping… No one could sleep through all that. I stayed awake for hours.’
‘And so—the full English…’
‘Yeah, I need all the carbohydrates I can get.’
Ayesha started on her second slice of toast.
‘I heard about Mrs K,’ said Mary. ‘That—that wasn’t because of the power-cut, was it?’
Ayesha stared at her. ‘Of course not. A saline drip doesn’t need electricity.’
‘But the consultant said—she had a few more days…’
‘They can’t be certain, can they?’ Ayesha spread more butter on her toast. ‘Whatever happened, she wasn’t wired up to anything vital. It wasn’t the power-cut that did for her.’
‘So there’s no chance of a claim against the hospice?’
Ayesha shrugged. ‘Can’t see it meself.’
Mary thought for a moment. ‘What about her daughter? Does she—does she know?’
Ayesha shrugged her shoulders. ‘Must do. Harrie or someone would’ve contacted her. I expect it was a relief.’
Mary nodded. ‘It’s all over.’
‘Exactly. There was plenty of warning, we all knew it was going to happen. And that poor girl’s been carrying the load, hasn’t she? What’s she called? Miranda?’
‘Yes, Miranda.’
Ayesha snorted. ‘And anyway—Mrs K wasn’t the nicest of mothers. Remember what she said to me?’
Mary winced, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘Yes, I know…’
‘Remember?’ repeated Ayesha. ‘She didn’t want any of my sort near her. Hah! She was a nasty old witch.’
‘Ayesha! You can’t say that. It’s just—you know—some of these old people—they can be…’
‘She was nasty. Just plain nasty.’ Ayesha drank the last of her tea and looked at Mary.
Mary glanced round the canteen. People were finishing their breakfasts, picking up their trays, clattering them onto the stands.
‘Going back to the office?’ she asked Ayesha.
Normally, Mary liked sharing the little office with Ayesha. She thought of it as snug: just big enough for two desks and two computers. But, if Ayesha had a fault, it was her love of the radio. Left to herself, she’d draw up reports and reply to difficult emails with a background of constant chatter. Today, Mary was updating patient records, often looking at two or three files at once to find the most recent information. And all the time –
‘According to the Met Office’s most recent information,’ said the radio announcer, ‘this will be an unprecedented month, probably the wettest February on record. Over eight thousand people have been forced out of their homes and there are two hundred and seventy-eight severe weather warnings across the UK. And now, for the latest from Worcester—’
Mary couldn’t stand it any longer.
‘Ayesha! Turn that bloody thing off! I’m trying to concentrate.’
She regretted her words straight away: she didn’t argue with Ayesha. Why was she feeling so tense? It was that drive through the flooded fields—Mary now realised how close she’d come to a dangerous accident. Should she apologise? To her relief, Ayesha switched the radio off.
‘Turning it off isn’t going to make the flooding go away,’ was all she said.
‘I know, I know. But I’ve got to get these files updated and…’
Mary frowned. This wasn’t like Ayesha. She didn’t like being criticized for anything and usually Mary chose the most diplomatic phrases if she wanted her to turn the radio down. She glanced over: Ayesha was staring at a long list of names on her screen. For a few minutes, the sound of keyboards clicking filled the office. Then Mary heard steps coming along the corridor and two brief knocks on their door. What now?
Judy, the ward sister, let herself in before either of them had replied.
‘Have you heard?’ she said.
‘Heard what?’ asked Mary.
‘About Mrs K?’
Mary nodded. So it wasn’t anything sensational. ‘Yes, I know. She died during the power-cut.’
Judy’s eyes gleamed. ‘No, there’s more.’
‘What?’
‘There were marks round her face and neck. She didn’t die naturally. She was suffocated.’
Mary frowned. ‘What? You mean someone—someone killed her?’
‘Yes,’ said Judy. ‘At least, that’s how it looks. It’s been logged.’
‘But that makes no sense. She had—what?—just a couple more days left. Who’d want to kill someone who was about to die?’
‘I know. It’s mad. I can’t understand it. We’re waiting for Dr Peterson. Once he’s arrived, he’ll go through the documentation. And he wants you there.’
‘Me?’
‘Well, you arranged her care package, didn’t you? You know her as well as any of us.’
Judy left, beaming with the satisfaction of delivering bad news.
‘Hmmm…’ said Ayesha.
‘What?’ asked Mary.
‘With this flooding—will Dr Peterson be able to get here?’
Mary knew Dr Peterson’s office well. While she and Ayesha shared the proverbial broom cupboard, Dr Peterson’s office was vast. There was a fine Persian rug on the floor, framed certificates on the walls, a long row of bookshelves lined with impressive-looking medical tomes, two windows with views of the woods, a polished wooden desk and chairs for visitors. Whenever Ayesha visited, she came back fuming. You could get six of us in that room! she’d say. Ten! Mary had decided long ago that you needed to choose your battles. There was no point in getting angry for the sake of it.
Judy was already there. She nodded at Mary and smiled, almost as if they were guests at a party. Dr Peterson was at his desk, leafing his way through a thick pile of documents held in a file. He looked up over his half-moon glasses as Mary came in and gestured with his hand to a chair.
‘Mary! Do sit down,’ he intoned.
Mary always liked how he sounded as if he was genuinely pleased to see her and how he made the offer of a chair sound like a special gift.
Dr Peterson flicked through another couple of pages.
‘Yes…’ he said to himself and then looked up. ‘Judy, Mary… Thank you for coming in at such short notice.’
He patted the pile of papers, as if worried that they’d get up and start barking if he didn’t keep them under control.
‘So…’ he said thoughtfully. ‘A nasty business. But let’s be clear about one thing. This will be investigated by the police, who’ll arrive later today. We must not go beyond our brief, we must not speculate. Understood?’
‘Of course, Dr Peterson,’ said Judy quickly.
Mary wondered what was the point of calling them into his office if they couldn’t say anything. But Dr Peterson was looking at her, so she had to reply.
‘Yes, I see,’ she said.
‘But,’ said Dr Peterson, ‘what we can do is make sure our documentation is in order.’ He patted the papers once more. ‘And then confirm the basic facts partly—I must confess—just for my benefit.’ He looked at them.
‘Certainly, Dr Peterson,’ said Judy.
Mary nodded.
‘So,’ began Dr Peterson, ‘we have—we had a patient, Mrs Kull—, Mrs Kush—
‘Kulischer,’ offered Judy.
‘Quite,’ said Dr Peterson. ‘A Mrs Kulischer, who died last night during the power-cut. She first came into contact with us when she was diagnosed with a terminal condition—a terminal condition, about-‘
He flicked through the pile of papers, but then looked at Judy.
‘Almost exactly two years ago,’ said Judy.
‘Precisely,’ said Dr Peterson. ‘So…’ He flicked through more papers. ‘She was then admitted to the hospice…’
Mary saw Judy getting ready to volunteer the information, but Dr Peterson found the right page in time.
‘…three weeks ago.’ He looked up and smiled at Judy. ‘And then—almost a textbook case. Heartbeat slows, day-by-day.’ He glanced at another page, screwing his eyes up to read it. ‘No signs of lung collapse, but I’d anticipated its commencement today.’ He tutted. ‘All very clear, very obvious. Her death was imminent, it’s certain. She had two, maybe three days left, at most. So why—’ He stopped reading and turned to both of them. ‘Why on earth would anyone…’
‘Is it certain she was suffocated?’ asked Mary.
Judy looked at her in surprise.
‘Absolutely certain,’ confirmed Dr Peterson. ‘No doubt at all.’
‘I was there,’ said Judy. ‘At about quarter to one in the morning, as the lights were coming back on. I checked on each patient in that ward and I could see it immediately.’ She sighed and then spoke with a new urgency. ‘Who could’ve done this? And why? Why? It wasn’t her time.’
‘Quite,’ said Dr Peterson. He nodded and then looked sad.
‘It was the wrong time for her to die,’ insisted Judy.
Mary glanced at Judy. She was surprised at the passion in her voice: she couldn’t recall when she’d last heard Judy talk this way. For a moment, they looked at each other. There was a flurry of raindrops on Dr Peterson’s two windows and Mary heard a car stopping in the carpark.
‘Is it certain that the power-cut wasn’t the cause of her death?’ she asked.
Judy shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. She wasn’t wired up to anything vital, just a drip.’
‘What about the CCTV?’ asked Mary. ‘That would show who came near her.’
‘It doesn’t cover everywhere,’ said Judy. ‘It’s just for the corridors and entrances. And, anyway—’
‘—anyway, Bob says the power-cut knocked out the CCTV as well.’ Dr Peterson shook his head. ‘It shouldn’t, of course, the system is meant to be fool-proof. But these floods! There’s a gap of about thirty minutes in the CCTV records.’
Judy looked up. ‘Plenty of time for someone—’
‘Judy!’ warned Dr Peterson. ‘We agreed: no speculation. The police will want to go through all that. But—the thing that baffles me is: why? I just don’t understand it. Did she have any money?’ He looked at Mary.
‘She was a widow,’ answered Mary. ‘When her husband died, three years ago, she inherited about £60,000. But with her condition…’
‘The usual story,’ said Judy.
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘Her house needed to be adapted and then there was live-in care to pay for…’
‘And after all that?’ asked Dr Peterson.
‘Last time I asked, she had about £400 left.’
‘No property?’
‘She rented her house.’
Dr Peterson laughed grimly. ‘No one gets killed for £400.’
No? thought Mary. Maybe not. She realised that Judy and Dr Peterson were looking at her.
‘Her daughter, Miranda, took on more and more,’ said Mary. ‘Thanks to her, Mrs K only needed minimal support from professional carers. My main input was to make sure they knew their options.’
‘Did anything change after Mrs K was admitted onto our wards?’ asked Dr Peterson.
Mary thought for a moment. ‘Not really. Miranda came every day to see her. I saw her yesterday afternoon, she knew that the end was near. I tried to make sure that she was ready…’
‘And was she?’ asked Judy.
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘As much as you can be. She’s seventeen or eighteen—a good person, a strong young woman. Clear, well-focused, not given to panic… Mature for her age. Ideal, really.’
‘Are there any other relatives?’ asked Dr Peterson.
‘Just one son. He moved to Argentina years ago and rarely comes back. I think—I think he had problems with Mrs K. He wasn’t planning to come back for—for the end of her life.’
‘Can’t see them fighting over £400,’ said Dr Peterson and looked at Mary, who shook her head.
‘Well, the documentation’s in order, the facts are clear, now we must wait for the police. But please remember: we must not speculate.’
Ayesha had wedged the office door open—the heating was always too hot in winter. Mary could hear the radio as she approached.
‘Nothing was prepared, nothing.’ It was a woman with a Welsh accent. ‘We’d known for years that this could happen, but nobody listened to us. And now—well, this flooding’s the wake-up call we needed—’
When Mary came in, Ayesha looked up and turned the radio off.
‘Well?’ she said.
Mary shrugged. ‘Nothing. Dr Peterson told us not to speculate.’
‘Very useful.’
Mary sat down, thinking over what she knew. ‘I feel sorry for Miranda. What will she think when she finds out? After all she’d done for her mother—for it to end like this…’
‘They didn’t get on that well, Mary.’
‘No?’
‘I heard them arguing a few days ago. I mean, I wasn’t snooping, but they were shouting so loud, you could hear it all along the corridors.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘I couldn’t tell. But Miranda was angry, really angry. She was trying to get her mum to agree to something. They stopped once they realised I was in the corridor.’
‘I thought they got on,’ said Mary.
There were two rapid knocks on their door and they turned to see Judy there.
‘Mary: it’s the police.’
‘Are they here already?’ Mary began to get up.
‘No, no, just the opposite. The floods—they can’t get in. They need a tractor. They’ll be at least another couple of hours.’
‘I see…’
Judy smiled, nodded at Mary and walked away.
‘If the police can’t get here,’ said Ayesha, ‘then you shouldn’t try driving home.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Mary. Something else occurred to her. ‘I’d better phone Em—make sure she’s okay.’
Mary walked back to the café. As she’d expected, it was almost empty now. She got a coffee, then phoned her daughter, Emma.
‘Hi, Em. Did you get to college alright?’
‘Of course, mum.’ Emma spoke with the world-weary patience of a teenager who was used to round-the-clock hi-quality mumming. ‘It’s a big bus, it just sailed through all those puddles. No problem. What about you? Did you get to work okay?’
‘I’ve only got a small car. It wasn’t—it wasn’t easy.’
‘But you’re okay?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I am. But look: I won’t be able to come back tonight.’
‘No problem, mum.’
‘And no funny business while I’m away.’
There was a pause and Mary could imagine Emma smiling to herself.
‘Of course not, mum.’
‘Do you remember Miranda?’ asked Mary. ‘Mrs Kil… Kulischer’s daughter.’
‘Yes… Yes, I remember her. She’s older than me. In the year above me. We used to hang out a bit. She had to leave college, didn’t she?’
‘Does she get on with her mother?’
‘Yes, yes, of course she does. She does so much for her, doesn’t she? But—well, now I think about it—’
‘Yes?’
‘There was something. Miranda’s boyfriend, I think that was it…’
‘And?’
‘Well, Mrs K didn’t like him.’
Mary thought about this for a moment.
‘Did you ever meet him?’ she asked Emma.
‘No, no… Don’t think so. But, mum, why are you asking all these questions?’
Mary sighed. ‘Something’s happened, something bad has happened. Mrs K has died.’
‘Oh. Oh dear. But: it’d been coming, hadn’t it? It’s not a surprise.’
‘No, of course. Look, I’ve got to go now. I’ll phone you this evening.’
‘Sure, mum.’
Mary looked out the café window. The rain had stopped and some weak sunshine played over the carpark. She felt—she felt unsettled, what with that dreadful drive and now all this about Mrs K. Something was wrong, she was sure. She’d thought Miranda and her mum had been close.
But… She felt a pain at the back of her neck, as if a headache was coming on. Mary looked at the trees, remembering the track she’d discovered. A walk would do her good, it might clear her head. Why not? She could go for thirty or forty minutes without anyone noticing. She kept a pair of wellies in her office and it would be at least an hour before the police arrived.
Ten minutes later she was striding up the road above the hospice. This felt better: a bit of sun and fresh air, at last. But when she got to the track that led through the woods, she found it was water-logged. A tree had fallen, close to where the path began and the trees around dripped steadily. Mary shook her head. What a shame! It was too wet, she’d only slip and get mud on her clothes. Go back to the hospice? She decided to follow the road round and down into the valley: she’d keep an eye on the time and, anyway, Judy would text if she couldn’t find her in the office.
After just a few paces, she saw that the road was like a river. Water was running off the wood and draining away along the lane. Nobody would be able to drive here: no wonder the police visit was delayed. Mary stuck to the curb and walked carefully.
It was an odd business. Who’d want to kill someone who was about to die? Mrs K had been slipping in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, sometimes comatose. Her life had been reduced to a few regular medical interventions each day. Yesterday, she’d still been capable of recognising people and talking to them. Maybe she would’ve lasted a few more days. Who’d deny her those last few hours? Why?
Ayesha seemed unconcerned about the whole thing. Of course, she wasn’t directly involved, because… Mary stepped over a deep puddle and continued along the road. She imagined Mrs K’s last moments: the hospice in darkness, the nurses running up and down the corridors, the panic and the worry they must have felt for the patients… Anyone could have sneaked into the wards at that point, that’s what Dr Peterson had stopped them saying. She imagined some nasty, spiteful Harold Shipman type, imagining he could play God and decide whether Mrs K could live or die.
The road curved down and Mary saw a pile of cars, some pushed to the side of the road by the pressure of the water, some more carefully parked. One was upside down, its four wheels gleaming in the wet. That could have been me, thought Mary. Hope the people got out in time. It’ll be ages before anyone can come up here to tow them away. All those cars—ruined, I suppose, complete write-offs.
But… Ayesha—what’s going on there? Tucking into her breakfast. Not arguing about the radio. She seemed—lifeless, uncertain… Something more than a bad night… And whenever I mention Mrs K! She’s bitter, really bitter. Happy to see the end of Mrs K. Ayesha should take a more balanced view. It wasn’t personal, it was just some of those old people… They’re used to… They don’t mean… Of course, I wouldn’t like it if it was me… But Ayesha… She must feel… She must feel…
Mary came to a sudden stop. Oh. No, no. I mean, I know Ayesha’s angry, but… She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t… She was there last night… It could’ve been her. She could have done it.
Mary shook her head and walked on slowly. Ayesha’s not like that. She’s a caring person, a professional, she’s been working as long as me… But if she felt hurt? She does feel hurt, after that sort of thing, I know that, I’ve seen that… If she felt hurt, she could hit back, couldn’t she? Did she…
I’ll have to tell the police. But I don’t know anything, it’s for them to identify suspects and all that. It could have been anyone last night, anyone. I’ll say nothing, it’s not my business, I don’t know anything. But I share an office with her! I’ll have to see her again and again, maybe for months… I can’t sit next to some bloody Harold Shipman type, I just couldn’t… And I couldn’t let one stay in the hospice. So I’ll have to talk to the police, it would be confidential, no one would know—but if Ayesha found out!
Mary followed the road round another curve and then stopped. There was another marooned car, on the other side of the road, stuck on a little dry island with water gushing all around it. Somehow, it looked familiar. There was someone in it—there were two people in it.
‘Are you okay?’ called Mary.
The passenger door opened and, to Mary’s surprise, Miranda stepped out. She looked grey and tired: she must have slept in the car overnight. For a moment, she stared over Mary’s head at the trees behind her and then she turned to look at her.
‘Hi, Mary,’ she said cautiously.
‘What happened?’ asked Mary. ‘Were you caught by the floods? But I saw you yesterday afternoon, the rain wasn’t so bad then and all the roads were still clear…’ Then she remembered. ‘Do you know? Do you know what’s happened to your mother?’
‘I know.’
‘So Harrie told you?’
‘No, I knew before then.’
‘Someone else contacted you? Judy?’
‘Mary, I know, because I was there.’
Mary frowned. ‘You were there? No you weren’t, you visited yesterday afternoon, I saw you.’
‘I went back later. The hospice allows 24-hour visiting, remember?’
‘You went back? Why? Oh. Oh, Miranda, you don’t mean, you don’t mean—’
Miranda nodded slowly. ‘It was me, Mary.’
‘You! But… why?’
Miranda looked away from Mary, stared at the trees dripping water, then turned towards her. ‘For two years I’ve given up everything for that woman. I gave up my course at college, I gave up my job, I gave up my friends…’
‘I know, Miranda, it wasn’t easy for you, I wish you’d had more support…’
‘You said it yourself, Mary: we were lucky. My mum had money. Without that…’
‘I got you a Marie Curie nurse for the nights, she helped your mum into her chair in the morning…’
‘Yes, yes, Mary. I’m not blaming you. But during all that time, there was only one person who really helped me. Do you know who?’
‘No…’
Miranda turned round and called into the car.
‘Ahmed! You’ve got to get out. There’s no point in trying to hide.’
A slim, tall, Asian man got out of the car. He had one of those carefully-sculpted beards that Mary disliked. He smiled awkwardly, then waved at her.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘You did it!’ Mary yelled without thinking.
Ahmed frowned, then said quietly ‘No, no…’
Before Mary could say anything else, Miranda started talking in a clearer, firmer voice that echoed over the water flowing down the road.
‘When it all started, my mother promised me half the money she’d inherited from my father. That would’ve been nice, but you know I wasn’t doing it for the money, I really wasn’t…’
‘I know,’ said Mary.
‘I did it because I had to, because I was there and there was no one else. And I gave up everything, just to look after her…’
‘She appreciated it, Miranda, she really did…’
Miranda sighed and looked straight at Mary. ‘No, she didn’t. She took it all for granted. I gave up everything, all my friends. Only one person stuck by me.’ She waved her arm towards Ahmed.
‘I didn’t do much,’ he said.
‘You couldn’t!’ said Miranda with surprising bitterness. ‘She wouldn’t let you. You weren’t allowed in the house. When you did the shopping, you had to leave it at the doorstep—’
‘She was like that?’ said Mary.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Miranda. ‘That was my mum.’
‘Well, she was old,’ said Ahmed. ‘Some of them find it difficult to change.’
‘Don’t make excuses for her,’ said Miranda. ‘She doesn’t deserve it. You did the shopping, you repaired my computer. I even sneaked you into the house once—remember?—to repair that door.’
‘I did what I could.’
‘For fourteen months, we haven’t had a night out together, not even an hour together…’ Miranda sighed, then looked at Mary. ‘I knew she wouldn’t leave me any money, we watched her savings drain away.’
‘I tried to help, Miranda,’ said Mary. ‘I did my best…’
‘I know, it’s not your fault, Mary. I don’t know whose fault it is! But, you see, in the end there was only one thing left that she could give me.’
‘What?’ asked Mary. She was puzzled.
‘Yesterday afternoon. I finally told her we were going to marry and I said that I wanted her to meet Ahmed, before she—she went. You know, she hadn’t even met Ahmed? I told her I was going to bring him back to the hospice.’
Ahmed shook his head. ‘It wasn’t a good idea.’
‘We argued about it throughout the evening, didn’t we? But I insisted. It was the one thing she could give me—her blessing for our wedding… We argued and then finally Ahmed agreed. It was late, but I thought, well, the hospice allows you to visit any time and she doesn’t really sleep anymore…’
‘It wasn’t a good idea,’ repeated Ahmed.
‘We drove along the wet roads, but they weren’t flooded. And I felt really determined and even—even happy. Because at last I’d get something back from my mum, not money, but something, as she’d accept me for who I am.
‘When I got to the hospice, I could tell straight away that something was wrong, as all the lights were out. But I knew the way to the wards and I took Ahmed along, using my phone as a torch. When we got there, she was awake.’
Miranda stopped and stared up and down the road. The water gurgled between them.
‘And you know what she said?’ she asked Mary. ‘You know what she said to me, the daughter who’d taken care of her for all those years? You know what she called my fiancé?’
‘She didn’t mean it,’ said Ahmed. ‘She wasn’t really conscious.’
‘Oh, she was conscious, alright. That was the real woman you were hearing. That was one word she always knew how to say.’ Miranda sighed. ‘I couldn’t help myself, I just couldn’t. After all those months, those years and that word was what she gave me. I just wanted her to shut up.’
Miranda looked down at the flowing water. A trace of sunshine emerged from the clouds and played on the ripples. Ahmed looked away.
‘You’d better leave,’ said Mary.
‘We can’t, can we? This bloody flood has trapped us.’
‘The water level’s dropping. Drive up onto the verge, get past that corner and then the road’s higher. It’ll be dry there.’
‘But what are you going to do? Report us?’
Mary stared at her, thinking over all she’d learnt, trying to arrive at a decision.
‘I haven’t seen you. Leave now,’ she told Miranda.
Miranda moved back to the car, but then turned round.
‘Can you forgive me?’
‘That’s not my job.’
Mary walked back to the hospice. She’d have to face the police soon. What should she tell them? She couldn’t lie. But did she have to tell them everything she knew? She couldn’t tell them about Miranda, she just couldn’t… No one had seen her talk to Miranda, she didn’t have to say anything.
‘Nice walk?’ asked Harrie.
‘Not bad. I went up into the woods.’
‘Must have been wet. The police are here now. They’re in the main meeting room.’
‘Really?’
As Mary walked along the corridor, Harrie turned on the radio that sat on her desk.
‘…after these catastrophic floods,’ the radio interviewer was saying, ‘it is clear that there are many lessons to be learnt.’
‘Lessons to be learnt?’ said the Welsh woman. ‘Lessons to be learnt? Oh, yes. But do you think anyone will do anything?’