by A K Reynolds
Anyway, the prognosis appeared to have been correct. If the medics had gotten it wrong, Charlotte would by now have told the police how she’d come to be injured so badly, and we’d all have had our collars felt.
Unless, that is, she’d recovered but chosen not to go to the police, and decided instead on a personal vendetta.
Could such a thing be possible?
It occurred to me that I ought to check on how she was doing. There might have been developments none of us had ever reckoned on – developments which were having life-shortening consequences.
I’d thought about Charlotte every day of my life since the incident, as I euphemistically referred to what had happened. I’d been racked with guilt and desperate to tell someone about it, and make a clean breast of things to the police. But the thought of Seth with his baseball bat put me off, as did the threat of being charged under the law of joint enterprise.
After leaving school I went to the University of Kent to study law, and eventually I qualified as a solicitor. What I saw, heard, and learnt, both on my legal courses and while practising law, convinced me the police were better kept in the dark about my part in Charlotte’s fate, no matter what demands my conscience might make. There was a distinct possibility – not to say certainty – that everyone present when Tony was killed and Charlotte disabled, would be charged. The charge sheet would include at the very least: murder, attempted murder, and grievous bodily harm. It added up to a lot of sentence. In the worst-case scenario which featured in my paranoid imagination, it’d emerge at some stage during the trial I’d committed another serious crime – I was a hit-and-run driver who’d killed a young man, and I’d be convicted for that, too.
I made a determined effort to put my fears to the back of my mind, and to investigate the possibility, however far-fetched, that Charlotte had somehow made a miraculous recovery and was out to get me and the rest of the gang.
‘Right, Jaz,’ I said to myself, ‘where do you start?’
The answer was obvious: at the hospital where she’d ended up. I had to find out if she was still hospitalised or if she’d been discharged.
11
Way Back When
When I remembered the seven, I remembered something else, too: I needed to take their lives to make them pay.
The loathing I felt towards them gave me a new energy. It made me desperate to get better and get my revenge. I looked forward to the day that I’d be able to gloat over their dead bodies.
12
Here and Now
I finished my half-pint of Crazy Jane and ordered another and another.
I should’ve been finding out what, if anything, Charlotte was up to, but I needed enough drink inside me to steady my nerves first. By the time they’d been steadied, I was thinking none too clearly, and it was tempting to carry on drinking all afternoon. Somehow I made myself stop and focus on my next move.
If memory served me correctly, Charlotte had ended up in St Thomas’ Hospital. A quick search on my mobile gave me the details and I clicked on the number. Seconds later, I was speaking to a man who handled calls.
‘Hello,’ I said, and realised I hadn’t taken the trouble to make up a convincing lie to get the information I needed. I had to think on my feet – luckily I’m a lawyer.
‘Erm – my name’s erm – Jackie Clarke. I think a cousin of mine is a patient here and I’d like to pay her a visit. Could you tell me what ward she’s on, please?’
There was an ominous silence. Then, ‘What’s your cousin’s name, Ms Clarke?’
‘Charlotte Hawkins.’
Another silence but when I listened carefully I could hear keys being punched on a keyboard.
‘Yes, we have a Charlotte Hawkins here. Ward thirty-five.’
My heart bounced in my chest. Why the news made me so excited I didn’t know. It could’ve been apprehension as much as anything else.
‘Thank you so much. Goodbye.’
I hung up. The thought struck me that if the Charlotte Hawkins in the hospital was the same Charlotte I knew at school, she couldn’t have drugged me and posted the baseball bat to me, far less have killed three men. Anyway, I had to find out. It might be a different Charlotte they had in there. Maybe – if I was to entertain every possibility – Charlotte had found a way to replace herself with a fake Charlotte and she was walking around causing mayhem.
Or maybe she was faking disability and sneaking out of the hospital to kill people.
It was unlikely, but it’d been done. I’d seen a news story in 2015 about a man who’d faked a coma to avoid going to court. He’d convinced doctors he had a mystery illness, and it was two years before he was found out. Even then, it hadn’t been medics who’d seen through his con – he’d been caught out by video footage which showed him shopping in a supermarket. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Charlotte was doing the same.
I stood up on legs which were only a little bit unsteady and headed for the railway station. It was about 2pm, the sky was a muddy sort of grey colour, and as I made my way through the crowded streets I felt as if I was being followed. Then I told myself I was being stupid – what Kylie had said had got to me, and I oughtn’t let it. God knows, Jaz, you have enough real worries to concern you without taking on any fake ones.
The train got me to Westminster in half an hour including changes. I arrived there seven pounds and fifty pence the poorer because of the fare, and headed in the direction of the hospital. Soon enough I saw it: a huge concrete-and-glass box rearing up into the grey sky. I made my way to the entrance and looked around. The place was vast, and I didn’t understand the signage, probably because my mind was in too much of a turmoil to interpret it. I sought help and saw a glass-walled reception area. Joining the long queue leading up to it, I noted an unmistakable smell in the air – an odour of disinfectant, mingled with, I fancied, serious illness.
Eventually I reached the head of the queue. A middle-aged male receptionist with grey hair, grey stubble, and green-framed spectacles stood before me, behind a glass screen. It had a rectangular hole in it. I spoke into the hole, beads of perspiration breaking out on my forehead. Was the unnatural level of heat in the place responsible? Or was it the stress I was feeling?
‘Can you tell me the way to ward thirty-five please?’ I asked.
He gave me a grin which was meant to be reassuring but did nothing to make me feel serene – not his fault. Then he pointed to his right.
‘That way, straight along the corridor, lift at the end to floor three. You should find it easily enough from there.’
‘Thank you.’
I turned and walked along the corridor, feeling deeply apprehensive about what I might find. I felt almost as guilty about Charlotte’s injuries as if I’d inflicted them on her myself. I didn’t want to have to face the results of what I thought of, in some ways, as my own handiwork, even though it wasn’t. There was nothing I could’ve done to stop it, but I shouldn’t have been there. What’s more, having gotten myself into that situation, I shouldn’t have run away with the others, and left Charlotte for dead. I should’ve called an ambulance and the police, to make sure she got prompt medical attention. For all I knew, it could have made all the difference. If I’d called an ambulance, maybe she would have been in a better state now.
And of course, Seth and Kylie, her attackers, had gotten clean away with it, and it was all down to me.
I entered the lift, pressed the button, and got out at the third floor, narrowly avoiding a bed being pushed by a porter, because I was too preoccupied to watch where I was going.
‘Watch your step, madam,’ he said. ‘You’ll cause an accident if you’re not careful.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, avoiding the eye of the elderly patient on the bed who was giving me a filthy look.
Before me was a large rectangular landing with corridors leading off it. One of them was sign-posted ‘Wards 30–35’. I made my way down the corridor under the glare of the artificial lighting – i
t had no windows to speak of – and pushed on the door of Charlotte’s ward, number thirty-five. It wouldn’t open. That was when I saw two further signs: ‘Press buzzer for admission to ward’ and ‘Please make sure you use antiseptic handwash before entering and leaving the ward’.
I pressed the buzzer then doused my hands liberally in handwash, and rubbed them together until it dried, feeling distinctly like Lady Macbeth as I did so. And, just like Lady Macbeth, I found I couldn’t wash off the stain of my guilt.
A click told me the door had been unlocked, so I opened it and proceeded through the corridor beyond, stopping at the nurses’ station to ask for further directions.
‘Charlotte Hawkins?’
The nurse on duty, a young woman with earnest blue eyes, glanced up from her papers and said, with a sideways nod of her head, ‘Room eight, over there.’
‘Thank you.’
When I got to room eight I saw Charlotte’s name clearly written in felt tip pen on a whiteboard next to the door. All I had to do was push the door open and see, for the very first time since the incident, what my victim looked like – if indeed she was my victim. If she wasn’t, then it was just possible Charlotte Hawkins had somehow made a miraculous recovery, and was going after everyone who’d taken part in turning her into a comatose wreck.
I grabbed the steel handle and slowly pushed the door open, hesitating before stepping through. When I did, and let go of the door, it closed on an automatic catch with a loud click which made me jump.
Classical music was emanating from a radio. It sounded like Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number Twenty-one. The window was open at the far side of the room. A gentle wind briefly rattled the blind. Ahead of me was a bed, and in it a prone form. Could it be? I moved closer, hardly daring to look. Above the head of the bed, slightly to one side, a small handwritten placard informed me for the second time that the patient was Charlotte Hawkins. I approached until I was standing over her, my heart beating wildly. When I looked down at her face, I felt so weak I could’ve keeled over.
The patient’s eyes were closed and she was wearing a peaceful expression. But who was she? Did I recognise her? She looked different, but she would, wouldn’t she? The last time I’d seen her, I’d been in my mid-teens, nearly two decades ago. I’d changed since then, and didn’t doubt she had, too.
‘Charlotte,’ I whispered. Then I said her name out loud: ‘Charlotte.’
Her eyes opened, she looked up at me, and I swear to God there was recognition in those eyes. I stepped back in horror, as, beneath the covers, her body started moving.
I half turned to flee before realising she was moving because her bed was equipped with a special mattress to prevent her from getting bedsores.
When I turned back to Charlotte, the peaceful expression she’d had before was gone. In its place was something else. It looked like – and I didn’t want to admit this – fear and loathing.
I should’ve left then, so as not to cause her any more distress, but didn’t. Instead, I put my own needs first. I pulled up a chair, the legs squeaking on the tiled floor as I did so, sat next to her, and held her hand.
‘Charlotte,’ I said, ‘it’s me, Jasmine. I’m sorry I haven’t visited before. You’ll never know how much I’ve wanted to, and how sorry I am you’re… you’re – how sorry I am about what’s happened.’
The expression on her face softened, or so I thought, and I felt her hand grip mine.
‘My God,’ I said. ‘You know who I am, don’t you, Charlotte?’
She didn’t reply, not in any way anyone could have understood. She opened her mouth and a sound came out of it, a hoarse whisper, nothing more than a collection of meaningless vowels, ‘Aaaahuuuooo.’
Was she trying to talk to me? If so, was she being friendly, or expressing her hatred of me? It was impossible to tell.
‘I want you to know I had no idea you’d be in the park that day, and I never wanted you to get hurt. I didn’t do anything to you. I just watched. I know I should’ve done something to stop it, but it all happened so quickly, and in any case, I was too scared to stop it, even if I’d thought to. I should have been a better friend to you, Charlotte.’
‘Aaaahuuuooo.’
There it was again. What did she mean?
‘I’m so sorry. I ought to go now, Charlotte. Goodbye.’
As I got to my feet the mattress made a creaking, breathing noise, and first raised, then lowered her legs with a wave-like motion. I retreated to the door. When I’d opened it I gave her a final backward glance and a pathetic wave, noticing when I did that her eyes seemed to be fixed on me. The knowledge chilled me to the soul, and I hastily made my way to the ground floor. As soon as I got outside I realised I’d been damn near holding my breath all the way to the exit. I stopped and breathed deeply, bending at the hips as if I’d just run a quick 400-metre race.
So that’s it, Jaz. Charlotte couldn’t be involved in the killings. Whoever’s after you, it’s not her. It must be some nutter Seth was involved with, just like Kylie said.
I headed back to the railway station, and, via two changes, ended up at Crystal Palace where I walked home. I couldn’t remember if I’d stocked up with booze, so on the way I made further inroads into my credit limit by visiting the eight-till-late and buying a couple of bottles of red wine. Then, just in case two wasn’t enough, I bought a third for good measure.
If you’re going to die, I reckoned, you might as well look death fearlessly in the eye with a drunken smile on your face, and a glass of something in your hand strong enough to toast him with.
Back at my house I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was 5.09pm Where had the day gone? I put two wine bottles in my cupboard, noting it already had two in it, and placed the third on the table. 5.09pm was as good as any time to have a drink in my view. I unscrewed the top and poured about two-fifty mil into one of my best wine glasses. If Seth’s enemies came round to get me tonight, they’d have it easy. I’d be too busy getting drunk to run away. But at least I’d die happy, sort of.
Thursday 5 April began with a hangover. When I got out of bed I felt sick, and had to rush to the en suite bathroom to throw up. It told me I’d had my money’s worth the night before. Being hungover and throwing up my guts wasn’t altogether a bad thing. It stopped me from feeling anxious, at least for a while, because I was preoccupied with feeling ill.
I donned my dressing gown and unlocked the bedroom door, cursing the lock for being a minor inconvenience I’d rather not have to deal with while suffering from the mother of all hangovers, and descended the stairs.
I started feeling anxious again almost as soon as I got to the bottom of them. There’s a door from my kitchen, leading, via a small utility room, to my tiny back garden. The handle on the door was a bit stiff. I’d been meaning to get it fixed for ages, but never gotten round to it. I noticed the handle was down. I knew that whenever I used the utility room, I was always careful to force the handle up, because it wouldn’t spring up of its own accord. As the handle was down, it could only mean someone else had been in my utility room. I pushed open the door, and saw the small window set in the outside door leading from the utility room to the garden had been broken. Glass was everywhere, all over the floor and worktop. The door itself was shut. When I tried it, it was obvious a very unprofessional burglar had smashed his way in. It must’ve been a noisy operation carried out late at night, but I’d been too trolleyed to hear it.
I went back indoors to check what had been taken. My iPad was missing, that was all, so far as I could see.
I’d left an unfinished bottle of wine on the worktop. It pained me to pour it down the sink, but I did, just in case the burglar hadn’t really wanted my iPad, and had only taken it to make an assassination attempt look like a burglary.
My iPad had an app which meant that the person who’d stolen it could look at my E-mails without knowing the password. I went online and closed down the account. There weren’t any other security leaks I could
think of. The E-mail address wasn’t linked to my bank account.
I called an emergency service and organised a UPVC glazing specialist to come out right away to secure the door and fix the glazing. While waiting for him to arrive, I cleared up the mess of broken glass my visitor had left.
The repairman came and went, and by late morning the damage had been fixed, and I’d taken a shower and had a couple of mugs of strong coffee. That was when the full horrible reality of my situation came back to me yet again and I had a panic attack. I remembered something about breathing through a paper bag, and I happened to have one in a kitchen drawer, so I clamped it over my nose and mouth and used it like an oxygen mask for a minute or two. It eased my panic just enough that I was able to function. I still felt lousy though.
What are you doing, Jaz? You’re sleepwalking to death, that’s what. You ought to be figuring out a way to survive. Put on your thinking cap for God’s sake and do some figuring!
I made a third mug of strong coffee and sat at the kitchen table with it, then grabbed a notepad and pen and put them on the table in front of me.
Jaz, I told myself, you have to become a private eye. You have to use all your skills – everything you’ve got – to figure this thing out and turn it round, and protect yourself, and maybe even – think the unthinkable – stay off the booze.
I wrote some names on the first page of my notepad then crossed out the first three of them and put a question mark next to the fourth:
Charlie Duggan
Stuart Foss
Seth Delaney
Jasmine Black?
Danny Scott
Mike Stone