One Minute Later

by Susan Lewis

  At that the younger ones threw themselves at David, who took them inside for drinks and snacks before tea.

  ‘What is it?’ Kat prompted Shelley.

  Shelley was still watching the men’s retreating backs. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied quietly, ‘but I have such a horrible feeling about this that I wish I knew how to bring them back.’

  By the time dusk started to settle over the fields there was still no sign of the men, and as Giles had left his walkie-talkie on the table, and neither Jack nor Nate had taken theirs, Shelley had no way to get hold of them. She rang Giles’s wife, Cathy, but Cathy hadn’t heard from them either, and she was just as worried, which wasn’t like the usually sanguine Cathy at all.

  In the end, unable to stand doing nothing, Shelley told Kat to stay with David and the children while she went down to the basement and took a key from a box on the topmost shelf of a wall cupboard. She used it to unlock the cabinet where Jack kept his shotgun. She’d never fired it in her life (nor had he, since learning how to handle it), but mindful of the premonition she’d had as the men had left, she needed something to bolster her courage if she was going out to look for them. Obviously she wouldn’t shoot anyone, that wasn’t her intention at all, but venturing out alone in the dark with nothing to help make a point, if necessary, didn’t feel like a good way to go.

  Twenty minutes later Shelley was in the Land Rover, driving gingerly through the narrow country lanes at the furthest perimeter of their land and keeping her eyes peeled for any signs of Jack and the others. The car’s windows were open to let in some air, along with any number of insects to buzz around her face like the irritating pests they were.

  The shotgun was on the passenger seat beside her.

  She was close now to where their fields joined with Giles’s, but there was no sign of anyone. The night was black; hedgerows and trees rolled in from the wings and disappeared again as the headlights passed by. A fox darted across the road in front of her and was gone almost before she hit the brakes.

  Quite suddenly, the road flooded with light. A car came speeding towards her, headlights blazing; blinding her. She swerved frantically into a ditch, but needn’t have worried – the other driver skidded into a hard left turn and disappeared through an open gate (that should have been closed), bumping and revving into one of their top fields. It was followed by another car, and another … She counted six in all, each with its headlamps blazing and music blaring.

  Quickly backing up onto the road she killed her lights and edged forward in a low gear, her heart thudding and ears straining as she pulled in close to the hedge. The music had stopped, but she could see torch beams moving about wildly in the night air and then she heard the sound of voices, shouting, threatening. With an unsteady hand she reached for the gun, got out of the Land Rover and moved silently into the field.

  The cars had been abandoned, some doors left open and interior lights still on. Ahead of them was an encampment of a dozen or more tents, all shapes and sizes. The voices were louder now, but she still couldn’t see anyone, so she crept closer, keeping to the shadows and praying that no one would spot her. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if they did; all sorts of scenarios were flitting into her head and none were good.

  As she peered round the edge of a tent towards the commotion, her stomach gave a lurch of fear. A truly ugly scene was under way with Jack, Giles and Nate at the centre of it, yelling, waving fists and threatening violence if the travellers didn’t move off now.

  Except they weren’t travellers, she realized, they were a bunch of drunk, arrogant youths who’d apparently set up camp in the field and were now showing off in front of their girlfriends, watching from the shadows, by refusing to budge.

  Recognizing the ghastly Bleasdale twins from Dean Manor, Shelley moved closer still, and as one of the obnoxious oiks began yelling threats that could (or should in her opinion) get his head blown off, she raised the gun, pointed it straight at him and yelled, ‘Get away from my husband or I’ll shoot.’

  To her dismay no one heard; so directing the gun skywards she pulled the trigger and almost came off her feet as the explosion tore through the night.

  Everyone froze.

  She took another step forward, aiming the gun at any yob who moved. She could hear voices muttering, ‘What the fuck?’ ‘Madwoman’ ‘Get out of here.’ Jack was gaping at her in astonishment, then ran swiftly to wrest the weapon from her trembling grasp before any real harm was done.

  An even uglier scene immediately flared up, with Shelley joining in the yelling and no one seeming ready to give way, until a couple of Terry Yarwood’s farmhands turned up with a trailer packed full of farm waste. As they dumped it over the tents Jack’s party roared with laughter, while the Bleasdales and their fellow yobs began gagging and spluttering obscenities that could still be heard as they pressed the protesting girls back into the cars and disappeared into the night.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking, bringing the gun?’ Jack laughed, as he and Nate followed Shelley to the Land Rover.

  ‘I was expecting travellers,’ she reminded him. ‘And you’ve been out here for so long.’

  ‘We were waiting for them to show up,’ he explained. ‘We’d already guessed it was kids so we decided to have ourselves some sport.’

  Rolling her eyes as if to say men! she returned to the driver’s seat, while he stowed the shotgun in the boot and Nate climbed into the back.

  ‘What are you going to do with all those tents?’ she asked as Jack got in beside her.

  He was grinning widely. ‘That’s a very good question,’ he told her, ‘and I do believe I have the answer.’

  He said no more, but the following morning around seven o’clock he took off in the farm’s forklift to meet up with Giles and Terry Yarwood in theirs. By eight they had shifted the stinking mass of an abandoned campsite over to Dean Manor’s gates, where they dumped the lot before returning to the farmhouse for one of Shelley’s scrumptious full English breakfasts.

  It was just after ten when Sir Humphrey Bleasdale rang. ‘I want that filth moved off my land,’ he roared down the line at Jack.

  ‘Speak to your sons, they’re the owners,’ Jack told him.

  Shelley could almost hear Sir Humphrey gnashing his teeth like some pantomime villain. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Raynor,’ he growled, ‘but mark my words, you’re going to find out.’

  In his usual insouciant way, Jack wished the old puffball a good day and put the phone down. It wasn’t the first time Humphty Dumphty, as the kids called him, had threatened Jack, or Giles, or any of the other farmers who didn’t pay obeisance to his superior status, and Shelley knew without doubt that it wouldn’t be the last.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  VIVIENNE

  Present Day

  Kesterly didn’t look any different from the way it always had as Gil drove them along the seafront in his silver Mercedes saloon. Vivienne hadn’t expected it to, but familiar as it was, it felt different. Everything did. She guessed a time would come when she’d be able to put the strangeness, the chaos and darkness of her feelings into words, or some order of understanding, but for now all she could latch onto that didn’t send her into panic was a bewildering sense of surrealism that made everything seem like an endless dream – or as though someone else had slipped into her skin to take over her life.

  Her mother was beside Gil in the front of the car. Vivi sat behind with Mark, her head resting on the seat back as she gazed out at the calm blue sky and crazily glittering sea. The tourists were out in good numbers, to be expected on a sunny day in early summer, and in a vague, disconnected way she felt glad for them. At least their lives didn’t appear to be in any sort of crisis.

  As they drove on she took in those who were picnicking or napping on the grass verge between the four lanes of the Promenade; others filled the cafés spilling onto the pavements, and still others, not visible from the car, were no doubt baking themsel
ves on the beach or paddling in the slushy waves.

  Did they realize how important it was to cherish every minute of every day?

  She was just learning the lesson herself, and still had a very long way to go.

  Almost two months had passed since she’d gone from being a perfectly healthy person (or so she’d thought) to someone who was only alive thanks to tireless and dedicated expert care, and the massive cocktail of drugs she was now dependent on. Learning what life was going to be like for the foreseeable future – no more work, limited and careful exercise, constant assessments, pain management where needed, special diets: the list was endless – had been a shock she hadn’t yet come to terms with, and she didn’t feel confident that she ever would. This was nothing like the life she had planned for herself. She was an invalid now, someone who could only survive on medication and the hope of a new heart. It was as though she’d suddenly become old. The worst of it might have been the advice to refrain from physical intimacy until she was strong enough to cope with the strenuous nature of it, but since she didn’t have a partner it was hardly an issue. And it was never going to be one, for what chance did she stand of ever finding anyone in Kesterly, or anywhere, who’d want to take on the hassle of a sick woman whose condition was only going to get worse, unless a miracle came along in the shape of someone dead so she could live?

  The horror of that was too hard to think about, so she didn’t.

  While being assessed for a new heart she’d read stories online about those who’d managed to get their lives back on track after the transplant, and who’d even gone on to greater things. There was no reason, she’d been told, for her not to be one of their number. There was no guarantee that she would be, either, for in amongst the many upbeat stories had been just as many – more, even – telling a much sadder tale: waits that had gone on for years only to end in death; mad dashes to a transplant centre to find the donor heart wasn’t suitable; post-operative immunosuppressive drugs causing cancer … The only good news in all this, as her mother saw it, was that she hadn’t been rejected for transplant, which could have happened, since some people were too sick for the procedure. If she were one of their number she’d know for certain that she wasn’t likely to make it beyond a few months. As it was, she probably wouldn’t anyway.

  Her mother had been there every day throughout the transplant assessment and the surgery, only a few days ago, to fit her with an ICD – implantable cardioverter defibrillator. There had been much discussion about going straight for a VAD – Ventricular Assist Device – and Vivi had prayed with all her might that it wouldn’t happen. She’d read much about that too, the open-heart surgery to attach the pump to the left ventricle and aorta with drivelines connecting her heart, through the skin, to a controller and batteries that she’d have to take everywhere with her. Plenty had been written by those who had one about the pain of it, the fear of it stopping, and the dreadful things that sometimes happened if it did.

  She’d wept with relief when the decision had been taken to hold the VAD in reserve for the time being.

  Gina had shared the relief, but Vivi had turned away when her mother had broken into a smile. She was glad her mother was there, but she couldn’t bear to see her clutching at straws that were little more than thin air. Nor did she want to see her fear and worry, nor how shattered and gaunt she looked as one setback was overcome, only to be replaced by another. This was obviously affecting her deeply, but there were times when Vivi had needed to wallow in her terrible, wrenching emotions alone. Surely running a marathon for such a deserving cause was a good thing, not something to be punished for, so why had it turned into this? It was small comfort – maybe no comfort at all – to be told that it would have happened sooner or later anyway. Her heart had been weakening for a long time without her knowing it, and now it was a virtually useless vessel of such pathetic performance that it could fail at any time. It was a pump that had run out of thrust, a muscle that was atrophying like a flower past its bloom.

  This time next year, or maybe even before that, there would very likely be an empty space where she was now, just Mark in the back seat of the car, an empty chair at their table, a bedroom that would no longer be used, someone they wouldn’t have to consider when they bought gifts and made plans. All that would exist of her would be the memories her friends and family shared, or maybe she’d be a ghost, moving amongst them unseen, unheard and unable to reach out and touch them.

  ‘It’s quite natural for you to be feeling blue and frightened right now,’ the psychologist had told her before she’d left hospital. ‘It’s a lot to take in, but you’ll find it becomes easier as you gain strength and your coping mechanism comes to the rescue.’

  ‘What if none of it shows up?’ she’d asked. ‘No strength, no coping mechanism, no hope even?’

  The psychologist hadn’t seemed to doubt that it would all kick in at some point, and probably sooner than she expected. He’d then talked about the counselling that would be available any time Vivienne required it.

  Reading reports from other heart patients, Vivi knew that the counselling promise wasn’t one to rely on. There had been too many cuts to the NHS budget to guarantee anything, least of all treatment for mental health when the costs of her physical needs were running into many tens of thousands of pounds.

  Why didn’t they save the money and let her go now? What was the point of trying to keep her alive when they already knew they were going to lose the battle?

  Vivi’s eyes moved to her mother’s blonde head. The little parting that had appeared at the crown made her seem vulnerable, as though she was the one who needed to be taken care of. What the worry of it all was doing to her mother kept agitating Vivi, upsetting her a lot, making her feel guilty and frustrated, even angry and resentful at times. She didn’t want to concern herself with it, but as soon as Gina was out of sight Vivi’s overwhelming relief at seeing her go was quickly smothered by an almost panicked, childlike need of her.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she sometimes wanted to ask, but afraid of the answer she stayed silent. She wondered how much pressure the turmoil of her own emotions was putting on her heart, if the quick flare-ups of bitterness and anger, followed by painful, anxious surges of love and guilt, were damaging it further. Maybe it would be better if she and her mother weren’t together, and yet she couldn’t bear to think of how much it would hurt Gina if she tried to shut her out. Worse would be attempting to manage without her – of course she couldn’t – and all tied up in this terrible, tormenting tangle of feelings was the undeniable gratitude that she had a mother who cared. It wouldn’t be true for everyone in her position; they might not have a wonderful stepfather either, or a brother who was doing his young man’s best to navigate the thorny and explosive territory that existed between his mother and sister.

  Wanting him to know how much she appreciated him being here today, Vivi reached for his hand and curled her fingers around his. His grip tightened, but she kept her gaze fixed on the passing hotels and town houses with their hanging flower baskets and wide-open windows, too tired to turn her head to look at him. Later, when she was feeling stronger and they were alone, she’d tell him that he didn’t have to stay, that he shouldn’t stay. His exams might be over, but the plans he’d made to travel through Italy with friends for the summer must go ahead. Just because she couldn’t live a normal life any more was no reason for him to put his on hold. In fact, knowing he was out there making the best of everything the world had to offer would do far more for her than thinking of him wasting away at home.

  Wasting away at home.

  ‘Michelle should be waiting for us,’ Gina said over her shoulder. ‘She wanted to get a few things in and make sure everything was all right with the house before we got there.’

  For the first time in her life Vivi felt no pleasure at the thought of seeing her oldest and probably dearest friend; she wasn’t capable of feeling very much about anything right now. It was hard to imagin
e any kind of hope or enthusiasm swooping in to rescue her from the cloying, debilitating pessimism that was stifling her.

  Rachel, the specialist cardiac nurse, had said, ‘We’re adding antidepressants to your medication …’

  ‘No, please, not more pills …’

  Rachel’s hand went up. ‘It’ll be much harder for you to regain energy if you’re feeling depressed. In fact it could be impossible, and that’s not what we want. When it comes time for the transplant you’ll need to be in as good shape as possible or it can’t happen.’ When it comes time for the transplant. It was good of Rachel to talk about it as if it were a foregone conclusion, when they both knew it wasn’t. It was far more likely that a suitable donor wouldn’t be found.

  At this moment Vivi doubted she’d ever feel strong or happy again. She seemed even weaker than she had at the start of it all, but she realized that the sedation to implant an ICD probably still hadn’t fully worn off. It was a nifty little device – that was how the cardiologist had described it – that now sat just below her collarbone and was connected to her heart by a couple of wires that had been threaded through a vein to their destination. Its purpose was to monitor and record all arrhythmic activity in her pitiful heart, and to deliver a good electrical thump to get things going again should they come to a stop.

  Ingenious, even miraculous, considering that it also allowed the dedicated cardiac team to monitor her remotely. This meant they could check on her at any time of the day or night – apparently it was going to happen each night – via an Internet connection plugged into the phone line next to her bed, and she wouldn’t even know it was happening. They’d be assessing everything from her heart rate, to her blood pressure; to the effect her medications were having on the struggling performance. She’d asked if they could programme it to make her a cup of tea in the morning, and they’d all dutifully laughed.

  Anyway, it was quite possible she wouldn’t be aware of the device once she got used to the discomfort in her shoulder, but if a major incident occurred she’d definitely know it.