Decimation: The Girl Who Survived

by Burke, Richard T.

“I – I didn’t bribe anyone. I don’t remember any of it, I was drugged.”

  “Drugged? That old excuse. You expect me to–” A shout came from the other side of the road. “You better watch your back,” the man growled before he turned and ran.

  “Who was that?” a breathless Jason asked. He held a cone in each hand, but one of them had lost the scoop of ice-cream and chocolate flake. “Are you alright?”

  Antimone shivered and folded her arms across her chest even though it wasn’t cold. “Daniel Floyd,” she whispered.

  “Daniel Floyd? What, the rapist?”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Christ, we better call the police.”

  Jason grabbed his phone from a pocket in his shorts and dialled. “Yes, it’s an emergency. Police, please.”

  As he described what had happened, Antimone spoke in a dull voice. “He said he didn’t do it.”

  “Hang on a sec,” Jason said into the phone then pulled it away from his ear. “What did you just say?”

  “He said he didn’t do it.”

  ***

  Antimone arrived home just after ten o’clock. The curtains twitched, and a face briefly appeared at the window before the front door swung open to reveal her anxious parents. “Let’s get you inside,” her mother said. Her father strode in the opposite direction to talk to the policeman who had helped Antimone out of the car.

  When Jason had made the call, the emergency operator, determining that they were in no imminent danger, had instructed them to wait where they were until assistance arrived. By the time an officer located them half an hour later, Floyd was probably miles away. They had been driven to Hunstanton police station and were questioned separately. Antimone had repeated several times everything she could remember about the man’s appearance and what he had said. The police had circulated Floyd’s description but admitted they had little hope of catching him with the town packed with holidaymakers. Afterwards, when the sergeant had asked if she wanted to travel home with Jason, Floyd’s words echoed through her head. I saw him come out of that bedroom looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Sensing her discomfort, the man had offered to give her a lift, and she had gratefully accepted.

  Several times during the journey, Antimone’s mobile had rung. Other than a brief exchange with her parents when she told them the police were driving her home, the remainder were from Jason. Until she got her thoughts straight in her head, she didn’t want to talk to him and so had rejected his calls. Now the phone rang again and Jason’s number appeared on the screen. Reluctantly she pressed the answer button.

  “Thank God. Are you alright?” he asked, the worry in his voice sounding genuine.

  “I’m okay,” she replied.

  “They said they were giving you a lift home.”

  “Yeah, I’ve just got back.”

  “So … um … Why didn’t you come back with me? You didn’t believe what that bastard said, did you?”

  “He said he saw you come out of the bedroom, and that I followed you moments later. Why would he say that?”

  “He’s just messing with your head,” Jason said.

  “I don’t know. I just need some time to think things through.”

  “Look, I promise you I had nothing to do with it. You believe me, don’t you?”

  Antimone ended the call without answering.

  Chapter 18

  Tuesday 3rd August 2032

  Mother and daughter waited in the interview room at Parkside Police Station in Cambridge. Two cardboard cups of cold tea rested on the industrial grey table. Antimone had allowed hers to cool without touching it and now nervously tapped her finger on the metal surface. She glanced up at the video camera in the corner of the ceiling and idly wondered whether anybody was watching them.

  The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, and a moment later Karen Atkins bustled into the room, carrying a file under her arm. “Good morning Antimone, Helen. Thanks for coming in.” She opened the file and read for a few seconds before raising her eyes. “It seems you had a bit of excitement yesterday, Antimone.”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “I’ve got your statement here, but I’d like you to go over what happened one more time.”

  Antimone recounted the events of the previous evening.

  Kat interrupted a couple of times to clarify Antimone’s words but mostly listened in silence.

  “I’d say you were lucky that Jason came back when he did,” Kat said when Antimone had finished.

  “I suppose.”

  “Have they caught him yet?” Helen asked.

  “No, I’m sorry. At this time of year the town’s extremely busy. He could be anywhere by now, but obviously we’ll keep looking.”

  “Do you think he’ll try again?”

  “I think that’s unlikely, but I’d recommend you take some precautions. Keep the doors and windows of your house locked and make sure you’ve got a phone handy at all times.”

  “He said he saw Jason and me coming out of the bedroom. What if he’s not the rapist?” Antimone asked.

  Kat considered her response before speaking. “The blood tests have been checked. There’s definitely no mistake there. He is the father of your child. Sometimes rapists blame the victim. You’ve got to remember this man’s a convicted murderer. You can’t judge his behaviour by the norms of society.”

  “He just seemed so – I don’t know – angry, I suppose. He accused me of framing him.”

  “Well, he has got a history of doing that. He claimed he was framed for his wife’s murder too. You’d be surprised how many prison inmates protest their innocence despite conclusive proof to the contrary.”

  “So you’re still convinced he’s the murderer?”

  “You mean rapist, right?” Kat asked.

  “Yeah. Isn’t that what I just said?”

  Helen put an arm around her daughter.

  Kat’s gaze alternated between the two. “Yes, I’m still totally convinced he’s the rapist.”

  Chapter 19

  Saturday 25th December 2032

  Antimone stared at the pulsating patterns of the lights on the Christmas tree. Her parents had spared no expense to ensure that their last Christmas together as a family was special, but the atmosphere in the house was still sombre. In some ways they were trying too hard. The enforced joviality was wearing thin. The basketball-sized bump sitting on her stomach worsened her mood. The size and shape meant she had been struggling to get comfortable at night.

  The last few months seemed to have rushed past. Daniel Floyd was still on the run, and there had been no sightings since the day at the seaside. She suspected that the police had scaled back the hunt for the rapist but had heard nothing officially. Karen Atkins visited once a month to reassure them the search was continuing and that they would catch their man. No doubt the birth of the baby would stimulate a fresh burst of activity, but by then it would be too late for Antimone.

  Things hadn’t been the same with Jason following the incident at Hunstanton. It was clear he still felt aggrieved about Antimone travelling home without him and her failure to acknowledge his assertion of innocence. He had called twice since, but the conversations had been awkward and stilted, and eventually he stopped calling altogether.

  She had struggled to make friends at Oakington Manor so there had been little contact from her other classmates. The only person who might have fallen in that category, Erin Riley, had also called once. She had started by appearing sympathetic, but Antimone had hung up when she asked what the sex was like.

  True to her word, Jason’s mother, Rosalind Baxter, had arranged for her to give birth in the private hospital at Ilithyia Biotechnology. The midwife had warned them the contractions could start at any time, and Antimone’s father had prepared a holdall so they wouldn’t need to waste time packing when that happened. Once a month, Antimone attended the Ilithyia clinic for an examination and to pick up the next batch of pills. Her parents still c
lung to the hope that she might survive the birth, but she was realistic enough to understand that the odds were infinitesimally small.

  “Right,” Helen said brightly. She picked up a red, book-shaped parcel, tied with a turquoise–coloured ribbon, from beneath the tree. She read the label aloud although she already knew what it said. “To Antimone, with all our love, from Mum and Dad.”

  Antimone accepted the package and ripped off the garishly coloured paper to reveal a book. She turned it over to examine the title: ‘The 2032 Delhi Olympics and Paralympics: a Review’.

  “We know you couldn’t compete,” her father said, “but we thought you might find it interesting to look at the pictures.”

  “Thanks, Mum, Dad.” The gift was a reminder of a past life, one that no longer held much interest for her, but she knew they meant well. She had deliberately tried to avoid all contact with the Olympics but had relented when it came to her own event, the eight hundred metres women’s T54 wheelchair final. The British girl, whom she had beaten in their last two races, finished just outside the medals in fourth place.

  The present giving continued until a single brightly wrapped parcel lay beneath the tree. Most of the gifts Antimone received were frivolous and jokey. After all, what do you give a girl with less than two weeks left to live? she thought.

  Helen picked up the blue-wrapped package and searched for a label. “It doesn’t have a name on it,” she said.

  “I know, Mum. It’s from me to the baby. By the way, I want to call him Paul.”

  “Oh … um … well, should we open it now?”

  “Yes, please. I want you to see it too.”

  Antimone’s mother removed the wrapping and held up a large book with a multi-coloured, patterned cover.

  “Look inside,” she said.

  Helen placed the book on the coffee table and carefully turned over the jacket. Antimone’s father sat beside her, staring at the open page. Inscribed in neat calligraphic script were the words, ‘To Paul Lessing. Everything you need to know about your mother.’ Beneath the writing was a photograph of a smiling Antimone, proudly holding up a gold medal.

  “It’s a scrapbook. That’s what I’ve been spending my time doing the last few months. Turn to the next page.”

  Her mother did as instructed. An envelope was taped to the paper. Hand-written on it was the text, ‘To Paul, on your first birthday.’

  “I’ve written letters to him for every one of his first eighteen birthdays and one for his wedding day. You’re going to have to read the first ones to him until he’s old enough to read for himself. Make sure he doesn’t open them ahead of time. I’ve also included a whole load of other stuff, what music I like, the books I’ve read and masses of photos. I know a lot of it’s online, but this sort of tells a story.”

  Antimone watched as her parents slowly turned over each page. Tears streamed down both their faces.

  “Hey, I don’t want you getting it wet,” she said, smiling.

  “What a wonderful idea,” Helen murmured, staring at her daughter.

  Then she rose to her feet and hurried out of the room, her face in her hands, no longer able to hide the violent sobs racking her body.

  PART TWO: EVALUATION

  Chapter 20

  Monday 3rd January 2033

  Rosalind Baxter held the handset against her ear as she hurried along the corridor. “So which patient are we talking about?”

  She listened impatiently to the reply. “What? You’re sure? The sixteen-year-old girl in the wheelchair?”

  The other person responded affirmatively.

  “Well, get her down to the basement emergency ward immediately and the baby too, but keep them apart. And Julian, get Grolby to make sure those two goons from the mortuary don’t talk about this.”

  Anders Grolby was Ilithyia’s Head of Security. He was a blond-haired Swede who had been with the company for the past eighteen years. He had been discharged from the Swedish army in his mid-thirties after an incident in Iraq when a family of four locals had been shot dead. Fortunately for Grolby, despite the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, there had been no solid witnesses, and he had escaped prosecution.

  She stabbed the end call button and waved a key-card at the reader on the wall by a door labelled ‘Biohazard – authorised personnel only’. The light on the box turned green, and the electronic lock opened. She barged through and strode down a passageway towards a lift bearing an identical sign. She jabbed the call button, pacing backwards and forwards while she waited for the doors to open. When they did, she hurried inside and stared into the red glare of an iris scanner. A display panel illuminated, and she stabbed a finger at the on-screen ‘B’ icon.

  The floor sank down beneath her feet and a second or two later pressed up again as the lift decelerated. She stepped out into a brightly lit, white corridor. The clacking of her heels echoed as she bustled towards her destination. One of the numbered doors opened ahead of her, and a white-coated doctor wearing a surgical mask emerged. She immediately altered direction to intercept the man.

  “Find Dr Perrin and tell him to go to the emergency ward.”

  “But I was just about to–”

  “I don’t give a damn what you were about to do. If you still want to be employed at this hospital tomorrow then locate Dr Perrin and get him to the emergency ward in the next two minutes.”

  The man said something, but she had already turned her back and resumed her journey. She took a left turn then a right and reached a set of wide elevator doors just as they opened. Two men wearing pale green overalls manoeuvred a trolley through the gap.

  On the trolley lay a girl with a white sheet drawn up to her chin. Wisps of damp hair framed an attractive but exhausted-looking face. A bruise was forming on the girl’s forehead. Her eyes alighted on Rosalind. “Mrs Baxter,” she croaked then broke into a cough.

  Rosalind ignored the girl and picked up the clipboard at the foot of the trolley. Her eyes scanned down the text, then she replaced it.

  “Mrs Baxter,” the girl repeated.

  “Just lie back Antimone. You’re in good hands. We’re taking you to an emergency room to make sure you’re okay.”

  “My baby.”

  “Your baby’s fine. We’re just checking it over.” Rosalind didn’t know whether her statement was true or not, but she figured it was better to keep the patient calm.

  “Can we …” interrupted one of the men.

  Rosalind waved a hand impatiently. “Yeah, get on with it.” She trailed behind the two men as they wheeled their cargo down the corridor then turned right through a set of swing doors. She followed them into a room containing four beds, only two of which held patients. An array of machines sat next to the head of each bed. A nurse who had been sitting at a desk making notes rose to her feet.

  “Mask,” Rosalind snapped, holding out a hand. The nurse hurried to a dispenser and handed her a surgical mask. “Get them out of here,” she said, sweeping a hand towards the occupied beds.

  “But these–”

  “Why the hell do I always have to repeat myself in this place?” Rosalind snarled. “I said get them out of here. I don’t care where you put them.” She turned to the two porters. “Get this patient into that bed there.”

  The two men positioned the trolley beside the empty bed, removed the sheet covering Antimone then slid her across using the under-sheet upon which she lay. She grimaced at the sudden movement.

  The arrival of a bald-headed man wearing a white coat and surgical mask saved the men from Rosalind’s wrath.

  “Nigel, about time,” she said.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, his gaze following the nurse who was busy disconnecting machines from one of the patients.

  “Let’s get these other people out of here, and then we’ll talk about it.”

  “Rosalind, these women are seriously ill. If you move them now they might die.”

  “Look,” Rosalind hissed, “You see that girl on the bed over
there? She just gave birth and survived. Now tell me which patient is more important. I don’t want any risk that she might get infected.”

  “My God. You’re serious?” His eyes bored into hers, his brain already whirring. Seeing no change in her humourless expression, he whipped around. “You two. Get this one to room two oh eight and the other to two ten. When you’ve done that, come back and take the machines with you.”

  He pointed at the nurse who was busy disconnecting equipment from the second patient. “She’ll tell you which ones they need.”

  The nurse completed her task and stood up. “Dr Perrin, what’s going on here?”

  “I want you to reconnect those two and keep an eye on them. This girl is a high priority, and we can’t run the risk of cross-infection. I want you to call Personnel right now and get more nursing staff down so there’s cover twenty-four hours a day. They must have the highest level of security clearance, at least an eight but preferably a nine.”

  “But what’s so special–”

  “Samantha,” Perrin interrupted, “Please just do as I ask. This is really important.”

  The nurse smiled tightly. “Of course, Dr Perrin. I’ll get right on it.”

  While the other members of staff busied themselves with their allotted tasks, the doctor strolled over to Antimone’s bed and picked up the clipboard which had been transferred from the trolley.

  “Hello, Antimone,” he said, staring down at the girl. “How are you feeling?” He held her wrist, measuring her pulse rate.

  “Like crap,” she replied. “Where’s my baby?”

  Perrin glanced towards Rosalind who shook her head. “We’re looking after your baby, but it’s going to be a while until we can bring it to you.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “No, just routine tests.”

  “And by the way, he’s called Paul.”

  “Of course. I see you’ve had a Caesarean. I just want to look at the stitches.”

  Perrin rolled back the sheet and carefully lifted the blood-spotted hospital gown. Rosalind edged closer to inspect the wound herself.