The Mother’s Lies. Joanne Sefton

a cuppa. She seemed to recognise that they needed a bit of privacy. The office smelt of mints and bleach, with just the faintest trace of cigarette smoke. I’d take one, Helen thought, if someone offered. She’d not smoked since her teens.

      The wall was decorated with a single, faded Monet print in a Perspex frame that reflected all the movement from the ward. Life didn’t stop because of a visit from the crash team. There were still bedpans to be dealt with, antibacterial protocols to follow and endless charts to be checked off and stuffed back into their clipboards.

      ‘She was bringing up blood, Helen.’ Neil’s voice was low, and he looked at the floor rather than her. ‘Not just a bit – it was just gushing out of her. Coming from her nose as well, even one of her ears at one point.’

      Helen thought back to the stains she’d seen on the bed. How awful.

      She just couldn’t understand it. There had been no suggestion of any cancer in Barbara’s digestive system. No one had mentioned any side effects or surgical complications that could look like this. And it had all seemed to be going so smoothly, completely ‘by the book’, as they’d all been saying yesterday. She didn’t know what to say to Neil. She was the one who had read all the leaflets, gone online; she was the one who was meant to know what to expect, and nothing had – nothing could have – prepared her for this.

      There was a niggling voice in her head that said maybe there was a reason for that. Could it be that this was something more sinister than a symptom or a side effect? Jennifer, whoever she was, had promised to make Barbara suffer. And Helen doubted she’d suffered anything in her life like the last few hours. What if the notes weren’t just empty threats? What if this time Jennifer meant it for real? Helen felt giddy. Was she putting two and two together and getting eleven? Or should she listen to the instinct screaming at her that this was anything but an accident?

      She reached out for Neil’s hand, and he let her take it, though his eyes remained fixed on the tight brown weave of the carpet tiles.