Someone Else's Skin by Sarah Hilary

me.’
    ‘It was you. I’m trying to find out why. You said you didn’t want him to die.’
    ‘I didn’t. I don’t.’
    ‘But you stabbed him in the chest with a knife.’
    ‘I panicked!’ Hope’s eyes swivelled away from Marnie.
    ‘Why did you panic, Hope? What did you think was going to happen?’
    She waited, but Hope stayed locked inside herself, one fist in her hair, the other balled against her chest. Marnie was acutely aware of the tattoo the doctor had described. Below Hope’s right breast. A heart with an arrow shot through it. Her skin itched with empathy. ‘Had he used a knife before? To threaten you? To hurt you?’
    ‘No. No .’
    ‘Where did the knife come from?’
    ‘From – home. He brought it from home.’
    An ordinary kitchen knife. The kind everyone has at home. Marnie told herself to concentrate on the woman on the trolley, not to let her mind stray in the direction of memories. ‘The knife was yours. Yours and Leo’s.’
    ‘We bought it from Peter Jones, when – when we were first married.’
    ‘How was Leo able to bring it into the refuge?’
    ‘He – hid it in the roses.’
    Somewhere in the hospital, an alarm shrilled.
    ‘He hid the knife,’ Marnie repeated, ‘in the roses.’
    ‘They’re my favourite. Yellow roses.’
    The roses were an empty gesture. Why couldn’t Hope see that? Five years ago, on behalf of the Met, Tim Welland had sent a wreath. Lilies, a sickly topspin of decay, like a scented candle in a pathology lab. Marnie had hated lilies ever since.
    A trolley bumped down the corridor outside the private room.
    ‘Why did Leo bring the knife to the refuge, Hope?’
    ‘For me,’ Hope whispered. ‘To make me feel safe.’
    Marnie pinched the bridge of her nose. This conversation was . . . insane. ‘Leo brought a knife to a women’s refuge to make you feel safe.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did it make you feel safe?’
    Hope didn’t answer.
    ‘Can you look at me, please? Hope.’
    Hope lifted her head, a fugitive coldness in her stare. Resentment. Because Marnie was forcing her to confront the truth about the lies in her marriage?
    ‘That’s better. Thank you.’ She gave her a supportive smile. ‘Did Leo hand you the knife, is that how you got hold of it?’
    ‘Yes. He said I didn’t know these people. There were all sorts in there. Like a prison, he said. There’s always violence in prisons.’
    ‘He gave the knife to you, and you took it.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then what happened?’
    ‘Then . . .’ She wedged the flat of her hand under her nose. ‘Then he held out the roses and – I was going to smell them. They looked so beautiful, perfect, only I scratched myself on a thorn . . .’ She put out her left hand, searching its fingers, showing Marnie the scratch on the pad of her ring finger, looking bewildered. ‘It didn’t even hurt. I hardly felt it, just a scratch, but I panicked. I panicked.’
    Her eyes flew wide. ‘I stabbed my husband because of this!’ Thrusting the scratched finger at Marnie. ‘A pinprick! Nothing! Why? What sort of person does that? It was nothing – a scratch! How could I? How? ’
    Marnie took her hand. ‘Hope . . . who can I call? Is there someone you’d like here with you? Family?’
    They’d asked Marnie the same question, five years ago. She hadn’t been able to think of anyone, not easily. Only Ed Belloc, and it was his job. She was afraid he’d come as a professional, rather than a friend.
    ‘I don’t have any family.’ Hope shrank, as if the outburst had stolen what was left of her strength. ‘They died. Dad when I was little. My mum . . . last year. Cancer.’
    ‘I’m sorry . . . How about friends?’
    ‘Simone . . .’
    ‘From the refuge?’
    ‘Yes. If she’ll come. I know she’s scared.’ Hope pulled her hand from Marnie’s, to wipe at her nose again. ‘I haven’t any tissues; they were in my handbag . . .’
    ‘Simone’s scared . . . of leaving the refuge?’
    Hope nodded.