Sinead winced as the nurse began rolling the material up towards her knee. Resting her head on the pillow, she gritted her teeth and stared up at the ceiling; the painkillers were good, but she had to focus on a greyish mark to take her mind off the matter. She had been in A&E for two and a half hours before seeing a doctor. He’d taken an X-ray of her leg and told her she had a fractured tibia. After a further two hours, she’d been admitted to the plaster room.
‘How’d you get yourself into this fine mess then, Sinead?’ The nurse folded the stockinette just below the knee and continued rolling it back down the foot.
‘A car hit me, knocked me off my bike.’
‘That’s dreadful. You won’t catch me riding a bike in London. Not on your life.’
The nurse tucked in the surplus material at the toes then wrapped padding around Sinead’s foot, the ankle, and up her lower leg. Sinead’s hand gripped the side of the bed.
‘Did he get out and help you, the driver?’
Sinead shook her head. ‘I’d passed out. A lady walking her dog called an ambulance. She saw the car speed off.’
‘Did she get the number plates?’
‘No. She reckoned it looked like a drug dealer’s car with tinted windows, probably why it didn’t stop.’
‘Unbelievable, isn’t it? Just leaving you there with a broken leg. Wicked people.’
Sinead nodded in agreement. The nurse finished wrapping the padding. She pulled a pair of rubber gloves from a box.
‘And your bike – where’s that now?’
‘The front wheel was all bent out of shape. The lady leant it against some bushes.’
‘Maybe someone can go and collect it for you?’
‘I doubt it’s still there.’
‘An absolutely terrible day you’ve had, Sinead.’
‘Yeah. It’s not been the best.’
Sinead watched as the nurse selected a Plaster of Paris bandage from a plastic container and dipped it into a transparent bucket that had been filled with cold water. She removed the bandage, squeezed it, and let the water drain into the bucket. Then she applied the bandage in the same way, starting at the tips of the toes and working up to the ankle. The plaster felt cold and tingly. The nurse worked in silence for the next few minutes, concentrating on the task. She repeated the process with a second Plaster of Paris bandage. Sinead felt her encased leg getting heavier. The nurse moulded and smoothed down the cast with the palm of her hands. She rolled another stockinette over the cast and then trimmed off the excess with scissors.
‘Right then, Sinead. It takes about five minutes to set, but it won’t be fully set for twenty-four hours. Now you’ll need to make sure you don’t get it wet, okay? If you want a shower, you’ll need to wrap it securely in plastic and make sure it’s watertight. I’ll see if we have something you can take home.’ The nurse began tidying up. ‘And I’ll fetch you a pair of crutches. No one’s in physiotherapy at this hour, but I can show you the basics. It takes a few days to get used to them. Just keep practising – you’ll be grand.’
‘Okay, yeah. Thanks.’ Sinead looked at the clock on the walclass="underline" it was 11.05 pm. The nurse read her thoughts.
‘Is there someone coming to collect you? Boyfriend? Mum or dad?’
Sinead shook her head. The nurse looked at her with a trace of pity behind her professional facade.
‘No? That’s fine, don’t worry. I can call a minicab for you. All right then, Sinead?’ The nurse smiled reassuringly. Sinead couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I’ll just go and fetch those crutches for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Sinead whispered.
***
The minicab pulled up to the kerb. Sinead said, ‘Can you go up the driveway, please? I don’t think I’ll manage walking up there.’ She lay across the back seat with her plaster-encased leg stretched out into the footwell. The driver, who didn’t speak much English, nosed the vehicle into the empty driveway. Sinead was relieved to see that no car was there, which meant that Elliot was still away. She had no energy for more conversation. The driver stopped a few feet from the front porch.
Sinead opened the back door, grabbed the overhead safety bar, and tried in vain to haul herself up from the seat. The driver got out and rushed over to assist her. He removed the crutches from the back seat and leant them up against the side panel. With great difficulty, Sinead swung out her injured leg and shuffled along the seat. The driver put his arms underneath her armpits, and helped to lift her up. As they struggled to get her out and upright, Sinead had an inkling of how difficult life would be for the next six to eight weeks.
‘Thank you. Very kind of you. How much is it?’
He took the two crutches and passed them to her. Sinead slipped her wrists into the cuffs. ‘Eighteen pounds please.’
Sinead gave him a twenty-pound note from her jacket pocket. She wore green hospital scrubs on her legs; her jeans had been removed to accommodate the cast and were now cut up and folded inside her backpack.
‘I get change,’ said the driver as he went to the front of the minicab.
‘No, you keep it. Thanks for your help.’
‘You are okay…?’ He gestured towards the bungalow.
‘I’ll be fine. Thanks.’
‘Okay. Goodbye.’
The man got back in the cab and backed it down the driveway. Supporting her weight on the left crutch, Sinead swung her right leg out. The movement was stiff and unnatural as she advanced inch by inch. By the time she had covered the few steps to the porch door, the minicab had reversed out of the driveway and onto the road, taking the light from its headlamps with it. Sinead leant one stick up against the door, reached behind her, and slipped out of the backpack strap. In the dark, she fished around inside the bag until she found the house keys.
***
Steam billowed from the kettle spout and the power switch clicked off. Fighting exhaustion, Sinead leant against the counter and fumbled in a tin for a tea bag. She grabbed one and steadied herself against the counter. Holding onto it for support, she hopped over to the wall cupboard. She opened the door and strained to reach a mug on the second shelf. Every movement, every tiny manoeuvre, required a ridiculous amount of preparation and energy to execute.
As she returned to the kettle, Sinead felt the weight tipping on her left leg. Her balance shifted abruptly, causing her to wobble. She went to grasp the counter, and inadvertently released the mug. It dropped from her hand, hit the lino floor and shattered – ceramic shards rebounding off in all directions. Sinead stared blankly at the broken pieces. It would have to be one of Elliot’s – George Orwell’s 1984. She calmed herself. It’s okay. It’s fine. Just a broken mug. No big deal.
She moved carefully to the cupboard under the sink, grabbed the nearest crutch, hooked the rubber tip through the door’s bar handle, and levered it open. Then she poked the crutch onto the shelf, trying to hook the dustpan and brush. Half a dozen cans of polish, oven cleaner and disinfectant spray bottles fell down as she tried reaching for the dustpan at the back of the deep cupboard.
She felt tightness in her chest. Her fingers let go off the crutch and it dropped, clattering loudly onto the floor. A surge of emotion ambushed Sinead and she cried out; a yowl of anguish and despair. Her legs were buckling now. She gripped the counter, put her head down onto its cold marble surface and began to sob.
20
Miles rang the doorbell and waited precisely two minutes. The curtains were drawn, so there was no way of knowing who was inside the bungalow. It was early afternoon so Sinead would be out at work, but precautions were still necessary: his car was parked on the street around the corner. If, while he’d been away, anyone had come looking for Elliot Sheeny and scared off Sinead, he was ready to deal with the situation. If a stranger opened the door, Miles was an estate agent sent to the wrong address. Sorry to bother you – a mix-up at the office, they’ve given me the wrong address – well, sorry to disturb you and goodbye. A credible cover story was always worth having. But Elliot Sheeny had been a virtual recluse and he felt confident that no one would be looking for him.