I could hear a muffled voice, a blurry-sounding Layla. ‘Mummph?’
‘Yes darling. It’s me.’
‘And me,’ called Joe.
‘Hurts,’ she whispered.
‘I know,’ I said, wanting nothing more than to reach through the car speaker and hold her. ‘You’re being so brave. Just hold on. We’ll be there soon. It’ll all be alright.’
There was a low groan of pain and Asmaa’s voice came back on the line. ‘I’ve taken you off speaker,’ she said. ‘She’s a bit out of it and she was trying to sit up when she heard your voice – I think that made the pain worse. But I’ll message you as soon as Iknow anything else. And when you get here, just call. We’re still in A&E at the moment, but if they move her, I’ll tell you.’
‘Thank you, Asmaa,’ I said, grateful beyond words. ‘It means so much to know there’s someone with her. Please do keep us updated and thank you. Thank you so, so very much. I’m sure your mother would be very proud that you’re…’
‘Okay,’ said Joe, cutting over me. ‘I expect Asmaa needs to keep her phone charged and we’d better let her go – so she can keep talking to Layla and see if there’s anything she needs.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. But thank you. And we’ll see you soon. Tell her we love her. Tell her we’ll be there and not to be frightened…’
‘Okay Mrs Harper. Will do.’
‘Thanks Asmaa,’ said Joe. ‘Bye.’ He ended the call and reached over to squeeze my hand tight. ‘We’ll be there soon,’ he said, his voice thick with unshed tears. I squeezed his hand back and we sat in silence as the tyres thudded over the tarmac beneath us, taking us closer to our daughter, mile by agonising mile.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘Jesus, look at this photo of Mum,’ I whispered to Joe, passing him the phone.
We were sitting next to Layla’s bed on the post-op ward. She was out of surgery and contrary to my worst imaginings still had both her feet, but she was very groggy, drifting in and out of post-anaesthetic sleep.
‘Whoa,’ said my husband. ‘Trust your mother to become the iconic image of the whole event.’
We looked at the screen together. A post had been shared by Ren from the local news website. The article featured a photo of Mum on the bonnet of the police car, legs akimbo, placard raised into the sky above her bandana-clad head in a stance reminiscent of Jean Valjean inLes Misérables. Behind her there was a blurry outline of Vivienne, and two of Ren’s other friends from the cabaret club, both resplendent in sparkling basques and colourful boas. Vivienne’s feathered headdress loomed like a glorious phoenix rising from the ashes of the protest and added another element of drama to the image, which was captioned the with headline:
Tensions rise as local pensioner arrested in connection with protest at library closure
‘Ohh. She won’t like being referred to as a pensioner…’ Joe said, peering at the image on my phone. ‘Bloody hell! It looks from that screenshot as though it’s been viewed almost seven thousand times!’
‘Yeah, and that was a couple of hours ago,’ I said, clicking the link to the news website itself, which now revealed more than thirty thousand views of my mother the criminal.
‘Thank god for David, hey?’ Joe glanced at the sleeping face of our daughter to reassure himself that she was still there and breathing. ‘Has your mum responded to the last text?’
I showed him the message thread. ‘Yes, she’s out of custody at least. I told her not to call and that I’d keep her updated about Layla. It’s late and I don’t want her up all night worrying.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Joe. ‘She’s had a pretty interesting day already, even by her standards. I expect she’s exhausted.’
‘Running on adrenaline and loving the drama more like.’
‘From the safe distance of home. Or did she go back with David after he came to rescue her?’
‘Mum?’ Layla’s eyes blinked open and then squeezed shut with the bright overhead light. Joe and I jumped out of our hard plastic seats, our faces vying for attention in her sightline.
‘Hi darling,’ I said, very quietly. ‘How are you feeling?’
She mumbled a bit and then started snoring softly. One of the staff nurses came to the foot of the bed and picked up Layla’s observation chart.
‘She awake?’ she asked.
‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘I think the anaesthetic’s still wearing off.’
‘She might be a bit disorientated at first. And a bit nauseous. I’ll come back in a second, check her temperature, but her BP and pulse look good.’ She made a note of the readings from the monitor quietly beeping beside us. ‘Can I get you a drink? You must be shattered, driving all that way.’
