Page 78 of Forever, Maybe
Chapter sixty-one
N ell had just fired off her email when the phone rang. She sat back, staring at the screen, imagining her words hurtling through cyberspace, landing instantly in an inbox, the recipient clicking open, reading, reacting.
The ringing persisted.
She considered ignoring it. Holly had a way of sounding pitying these days—pitying and just a little bit smug. As if she’d seen it coming all along, the slow-motion train wreck of her employer’s marriage.
But it might be important. And she needed to talk to Danny anyway. Their marriage was over, but he had a right to know her final secret.
She picked up.
“Nell.” Holly’s breathless voice sent a prickle of unease through her. “Danny’s been rushed to hospital. There was a fire at the Hyndland shop and—”
“What?” Nell was out of her chair so fast she nearly knocked it over. “Where is he? Is he okay? Was he injured? Where have they taken him?”
The questions tumbled out in a frantic rush. Somewhere, distantly, Holly was telling her to sit down. Breathe.
Nell did neither. “Is he okay ? Where is he ?”
“The Queen Elizabeth,” Holly said, but Nell barely heard her. She grabbed her keys and bolted for the door.
The car, long overdue a service, refused to start. She pounded the wheel, swore at it, called it names she normally reserved for unworthy men and broken government policies.
Finally, the engine spluttered to life, and she reversed at speed, narrowly missing an oncoming car. The driver’s horn blared. She fired off a two-finger salute in response.
The Traffic Gods, however, were not on her side. Every light turned red just as she reached it. Roadworks appeared like malevolent obstacles, narrowing lanes, slowing her to a crawl.
By the time she reached the Queen Elizabeth, her nerves were shot. The car park, in all its overpriced, infuriating glory, was packed except for a single spot miles from the entrance. She sprinted, heart hammering, sweat beading at her temples, only to skid to a halt. A&E was around the other side.
Three ambulances clogged the entrance, paramedics unloading stretchers. None of them carried Danny.
She ducked past a team wheeling in a groaning patient and reached the reception desk.
The harried receptionist held up two fingers while finishing a call. The conversation dragged, seconds stretching unbearably.
“My husband—” The word slipped out before she could stop it. Ex? Nearly ex? What did it matter now? “Danny—Daniel Murray. Fire victim. Eleven-oh-one, seventy-three.”
The woman tapped at her keyboard, eyes scanning the screen.
“Yes. He’s awaiting triage through there.”
Nell exhaled sharply, bracing herself.
The woman indicated a double set of doors off the main waiting room. Nell hurried through and found herself in a corridor that ran alongside a space to the right where green curtains were pulled around various beds, and legs and feet visible beneath.
“Danny, Danny?”
No reply. A nurse, wearing an NHS blue tunic over navy trousers, slid between the curtains of the second bed and pressed his finger to his lips.
“Sorry, sorry,” she replied, this time in a whisper.
“Are you looking for Daniel Murray?”
Nell spun toward the voice, heart hammering. The nurse stood by a curtained-off bed, and through a narrow gap, she glimpsed a body stretched out on crisp white sheets.
“Yes—yes! Is he okay? I only just heard.”
The nurse beckoned her in. She stepped forward and gasped, one hand flying to her mouth.
Danny’s weak smile barely lifted one side of his face. Blood-streaked gauze clung to his cheek, stark against flushed skin. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, met hers. A black ankle brace gripped his left leg, and fresh bandages wrapped his right foot.
“What… what happened?”
His voice came out hoarse. “Someone took revenge on me… for being connected to Uncle Shane.”
The effort cost him. A violent coughing fit racked his frame, and the nurse was there in an instant, easing him upright, adjusting the brace, peeling back the gauze.
Nell swallowed hard. The gash beneath his eye was deep—three inches long, angry and raw. It would scar.
“He shouldn’t be talking,” the nurse said. “He inhaled a lot of smoke. I’ll see if the consultant is free.”
As he left, Nell sank into the chair beside the bed. Danny’s fingers twitched toward hers. She took his hand, gripping it tightly.
“I’m glad…” His voice was a rasp. “…you’re here.”
“Shush! Don’t talk.” The words rushed out, breathless, frantic.
“When Holly called, I thought—I thought I’d lost you.
And I was terrified . Because I love you.
I love you, Danny. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
Everything that’s happened, all the mistakes, all the hurt—it’s rubbish, and I wish I could undo it all, but I can’t.
I don’t care anymore. I just want you . I know this is unfair, I know you’re in a seriously weakened state, and I’m dumping all this on you, but—would you… could we…”
Footsteps. A throat cleared.
She jolted as the nurse and consultant materialised at the bedside, their timing impeccable.
Danny’s fingers tightened around hers. He turned his head, his gaze locking onto hers.
For a moment, she saw him as he had been—young, intense, eyes full of promise, a boy with big dreams and a heart wide open.
A beat. Another.
His lips curved into a stronger, surer smile.
“Yes.”