The Truth by Naomi Joy

Author:Naomi Joy [Joy, Naomi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781789543766
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2019-09-04T16:00:00+00:00

Blog Entry

11th December, 4.00 p.m.

I am writing from the antiseptic four walls of my hospital room. I’ve been a patient at the privately owned Elizabeth Anderson Hospital for just under a week and already the regimented daily routine is ingrained in me; breakfast at eight thirty, check-ups from ten, lunch at twelve, visitors from two, dinner at six. Now I know why Anthony was visiting here the morning I tailed him: he was casing this place in preparation for my arrival, probably pre-paying them a tidy sum to keep me in for as long as possible. I put in a request for a change of location – they have another building in south London – hoping to catch Anthony off guard, but it’s been denied. And so my imprisonment goes on.

I shake my head and free myself from the thought of being trapped here forever. I look out of the window at the grey and grisly sky, then at the TV which plays pictures overhead, on mute, at the sad black-handed clock hanging on the opposite wall, an ever present reminder of how much time I’m wasting stuck here. It ticks two minutes past four as I look up, but it could have been three, or five, or seven: it makes no difference.

My surroundings are unfamiliar but not unfriendly, the ward is always busy with nurses who walk and talk at supersonic speed. The other patients are mostly elderly, as though they decided en masse to migrate here for the winter – Probably makes sense just to move in, Doris, I’ll be in and out all season otherwise. They move around the ward like giant slugs wearing oxygen masks, lugging IV drips behind them. Dodging in and out of the nonagenarians’ glistening trails are this afternoon’s visitors. You can spot them a mile off: first by their age, second by the worried looks on their faces, third from the ‘I don’t want to be here’ thin-lipped smiles.

I come face to face with my parents’ version of that very combination now as they open the door to my room: Mum’s in her favourite fleece – a lemon yellow number with a poppy on its breast pocket – and Dad’s clad in a festive jumper that features a Christmas tree strapped atop a car. They come in and Mum raises her hand in a quick wave and points her finger to her phone – glued to her right ear. She hides her worry better than most. Dad remains mute as he greets me with a hug and we both sit in respectful silence as Mum finishes her call, clenching the phone under the right side of her jaw and picking up the dead flowers from the vase next to me, emptying the wilted stems and stuffing it full of a new bunch of cut-price blooms. She nods and agrees into the mouthpiece and affects a cutesy tone peppered with girlish giggles as she speaks. I can tell she’s talking to Anthony. I

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