Rope of Sand

by C F Dunn

  “There’s nothing there.” Henry straightened, rubbing his chin. “Is she usually this bad?”

  Matthew shook his head. “No, she isn’t,” he said slowly. “We’ll have to go for a modified cut-down.”

  Irritation and unease prickled at my patience. “Gentlemen, excuse me, but I am here and I am conscious – can you please tell me what’s wrong? And will you please get this thing off me, it’s hurting like mad.”

  Matthew came to. “Henry, if you would…?” The strap was unwound and removed. “You seem to be lacking veins this evening. It’s going to make it somewhat more difficult getting blood from you.”

  I looked for the familiar blue lines like the tributaries of a river that were usually quite evident in the crease of my elbow and running down my inner arm, but my skin looked smooth and clear. Even my freckles were less clearly defined than usual.

  “Oh. Is that so strange?”

  Matthew couldn’t disguise the dry smile. “For you, yes. You’re normally quite generous with your blood. We’ll have to use alternative means.”

  “Normally? But… but I don’t remember you taking blood before…”

  “You wouldn’t, you weren’t conscious at the time.”

  “What if you can’t get any now?” I wondered what they were planning, getting more and more jittery as the initial elation of the coffee was rapidly replaced by the negative side-effects.

  “Matthew’s never failed yet,” Henry said kindly, but that only made it sound more ominous. Matthew held out his hand and Henry gave him a scalpel. I swallowed nervously as Matthew swabbed my skin, the cold sterile wipe raising goose pimples on my exposed arm, and sprayed something even colder on the area. It began to numb immediately.

  Henry took the goosebumps for fear and put a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  “This is Matthew’s version of a cut-down. It’s quicker and less invasive, and it’s the only way we can get enough of the red stuff quickly. Look away if you don’t like blood, Emma. This won’t take long but it’s not pleasant.”

  “I’m OK with blood, Henry, it’s the needle part I’m not so sure about.”

  Matthew had a look of intense absorption as if selecting an area to pierce was a matter of divining. He angled the scalpel against my arm above my scar but below the crease of my elbow. A sudden revulsion filled me and I jerked my arm away. He looked at me, concentration broken. “Matthew, please not that arm.”

  He didn’t hesitate, moving to the other side, repeating the process of selection and swabbing, followed by the anaesthetic spray with quick, confident movements.

  Despite what I had said to Henry, I couldn’t bring myself to look and focused on the way Matthew’s dark eyelashes and the fine black line around his iris defined the blue of his eyes. I barely felt the tiny incision the blade made but I certainly felt what followed because it wasn’t like a needle at all: not the sharp jab of the inoculation, nor the stab of a blood sample being taken for medical insurance, but a cut and slice of my skin and the sensation of tearing and drawing as if he were pulling a vein out through the incision he had made. I bit the sides of my tongue to prevent an involuntary cry escaping. He raised his eyes to mine and anchored them while he continued the procedure, seemingly not needing to look. But I wanted to, I wanted to see what caused my blood to flow sickeningly through the needle like glue. He wouldn’t let me, intensifying his gaze until whatever he did became irrelevant, siphoning the overwhelming discomfort along with my blood.

  With a sudden realization, I understood what he was doing. Stop it, Matthew, I pleaded in my head, because I couldn’t find the words to say it out loud. It’s my pain, let me deal with it. I tried to move my eyes away from his, but an invisible line stretched between us as unbreakable as a steel hawser. I don’t want you to have this. Let – me – go, I silently implored, but he held on to me, sucking all sensation as surely as if drawing poison from a wound. And an answer, so faint that I didn’t know if it represented an echo of my imagination or a whispered thought: No.

  “Nearly done,” Henry said, his voice beyond my comprehension, close but a thousand miles away. “That should do it. Good job.”

  I felt a shift inside my head and a release that brought me back to my body. Matthew put a small wad over the incision, holding it firmly with his thumb.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Matthew could get blood from a proverbial stone,” Henry said, his back to us as he rapidly sealed small, plastic bottles containing my blood.

  Matthew took his thumb away from my arm, immediately replacing it with what looked like a glorified plaster, avoiding my eyes. He took my hand and placed it firmly over the patch. “Keep the pressure on it; you’ll be fine in a minute.” He rose and began writing indecipherably on a sheet of paper, with Henry next to him, penning corresponding numbers on the little bottles as the list on the paper grew to about a dozen lines. As each bottle received its number, Henry put it carefully in a padded bag the size of a child’s large lunch bag and, when the last one went in, zipped it securely shut.

  Completing the list, Matthew held it out to Ellie. “Take these for analysis without delay, and when that’s done I want you to run the results through Eve.”

  I hadn’t seen her come in. Now she stood by the unlit fire staring at Matthew as if he had asked her to walk across coals. She sounded uncertain. “Sure, but Eve?”

  “Now, please, Ellie. Send the results through to me here immediately you have them. Phone me when you have the first one.” She nodded dumbly, taking the bag from his outstretched hand, glancing at me with a subdued apology, before leaving and shutting the door behind her. “Harry, retrieve the coffee cup Emma used from your grandmother before she washes it, and keep a sample of the coffee as well. And tell Joel to drive carefully,” Matthew added, before the boy left to follow his sister.

  “Eve?” Henry asked, casting a sideways look at me. “Do you think there’s a connection? Why would there be?”

  Curiosity gnawed as Matthew studiously avoided me as he packed items away in his bag. “I have to explore all possibilities, Henry, however remote they might seem.” He turned back to me, lifting the edge of the plaster. “That’s going to be fine. How are you feeling?”

  “Puzzled.”

  “Apart from your insatiable curiosity that is, how do you feel?”

  “Buzzing. Fizzing. I’m not sure. A bit sick I suppose, and light-headed… definitely light-headed.”

  Matthew put a hand under my jaw and turned my head so that the light from the desk lamp shone full on my face. I blinked in the strong light and brought up a hand to shield my eyes.

  “No problem there,” Henry commented.

  “No, none,” Matthew agreed. “Tell me exactly what happened – right from the moment before you drank the coffee – every detail, and I mean every detail, Emma, whether you think it relevant or not.”

  His eyes were earnest and dark and I knew that what he asked must be important, but my head had begun to thump and, if I closed my eyes, I could see snow falling and tyre tracks disappearing flake by flake but it wasn’t falling as heavily now and it would stop soon and what a ridiculous way to spend Christmas Eve, I thought, and even worse, to ruin everyone else’s, making this whole episode doubly embarrassing. And I’m thirsty – very thirsty – and my tummy is grating and frankly, I’ve had enough and if it weren’t for the audience I would be very tempted to have a good howl about it all like I did when Emily Carter stole the stone hand-axe Grandpa had given to me to take in to school. She never did that again, the sneaky moo.

  A soft touch against my neck brought me back to the present as Matthew brushed a wisp of hair behind my ear. “Emma, are you finding it difficult to concentrate?” I nodded. “Henry, if you wouldn’t mind getting Emma some water and a piece of dry toast, please, I think that might help.”

  And I felt ratty. “You took blood without my consent,” I grumbled, referring to my earlier comments about my willingness or otherwise to be tapped
for blood like a maple for its sap.

  Matthew breathed out but it was more like a sigh. I marvelled at the way he kept up with my erratic thought processes, although at the moment, process was too precise a word to place on the acrobatics my mind was playing.

  “You were unconscious, Emma, and anyway, would you have withheld your consent if I had asked?”

  “Probably not. But I thought there was plenty washing about without you taking more.”

  He crouched down next to my chair so that our eyes were level. “Remember Staahl?” I felt my face screw at the memory. “Indeed, how could you not. Well, you said he licked you when he cut you with the knife – you had an open wound on your neck as well as your arm.” I felt disgust contort my face. “So I ran a few tests to make sure he hadn’t infected you – hepatitis – that sort of thing.”

  “I see. I can’t really complain, can I? It would be a bit ungracious of me in the circumstances.”

  He smiled. “Yes, it would,” and kissed my forehead.

  We both looked towards the door a second before it opened and Henry came in with a small tray in one hand, which he placed on the desk in front of me. “This should help settle you. It’s stopped snowing, by the way. It’s not too bad out there now.”

  I nodded in agreement, picking up the glass and drinking deeply. I had already drunk a third of the ice-cold water when I remembered to thank him.

  Matthew regarded me closely. “You heard Henry before he opened the door, Emma?”

  I finished the water, placing the glass carefully on the tray and already feeling better. I looked at him in surprise. “Yes, of course, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did, that’s my point – you shouldn’t have done. What did you hear?”

  I thought about it. “I can’t say what I heard exactly, I just knew he was there, if that makes sense.”

  “Not really, no. Tell me what happened earlier.”

  Henry settled into a chair he had drawn up opposite the desk, placing his hands in an arch as he listened.

  “I drank the coffee. I’d felt fine before, just a bit cross when I realized what Ellie was up to. That’s all sorted now; she and I have come to an unspoken understanding, so don’t make an issue of it – please?” Neither father nor son said a word. “After the first few mouthfuls I had the same reaction I had the last time I drank coffee…”

  “Which was when?” Matthew asked.

  “When I was last in Stamford. It was very weak – a latte – nowhere near as strong or as good as Pat’s, but I had the same rapid pulse, that feeling of… euphoria, I suppose you could call it. Not exactly a pleasant sensation, but I can see why people get hooked. And disorientation – I’d forgotten that, almost like being drunk – but that didn’t last very long. Anyway, this time everything changed after the second cup I drank: everything became accentuated, came more into focus. I could hear and see things I hadn’t noticed before. It was as if this fog had lifted that I had lived with all my life – a veil – like mist over the Meadows at home when the sun breaks through and you can see clearly again.”

  “And you’ve never had an experience like this before?” Henry asked.

  I shook my head. “Only a hint of that clarity, just the one time, in Stamford.”

  Henry looked down over the edge of his glasses at me and I could imagine him questioning a patient. “Forgive me for asking, Emma, but have you ever taken any recreational substances, especially hallucinates?”

  I shot him a reproving look. “Absolutely not. I’ve enough rubbish in my head without adding to it.”

  Matthew’s eyes tipped upwards in amusement for the first time since we had entered the study. “So you saw and heard things more clearly within the room?” he prompted.

  “Yes, but not just in the room. What I thought so odd was that I could hear – see – sense – the snow falling, and how fast it fell. And the weirdest thing of all…” I hesitated, not sure how, or even whether, I should mention it at all. Matthew read my reluctance.

  “It’s fine to speak in front of Henry, Emma.”

  “The weirdest thing…” I repeated slowly, “… I saw what Ellie was feeling, and I understood why she gave me the coffee. I knew what she was feeling and she knew that I knew. It lasted only seconds though.”

  “The amount of time Emma’s heart stopped, but not enough time for anoxia to set in?” Henry asked Matthew. I had forgotten that Matthew would have felt the beat of my heart cease as he held me close to him.

  “Perhaps. Did you have any pain at all, any discomfort anywhere, not just around your heart?”

  I tore a strip off the now cold toast. “None; if anything, I felt great.” But he already knew that; he would have felt it. “This isn’t just a question of my heart stopping, is it? I didn’t imagine what Ellie was feeling and nor was it a lack of oxygen, and…” I said severely, “… it certainly wasn’t drugs.” Henry held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “So, who’s Eve?” I bit a corner off the toast in the hope it would absorb some of the caffeine still running races around my system.

  The corner of Matthew’s mouth twitched. “E-V-E. It’s a computer program we’ve developed through which we run data. It saves a lot of time in analysis. You saw it when you visited the lab.” I caught the hint of something else in his voice but I couldn’t work it out. I wondered vaguely if I could have done so half an hour ago as the edges of my mind seemed to be closing in again, a shadow of what they had been, leaving me bereft of clarity. I mourned its loss.

  “Does it take long to run these tests?” I asked, remembering with a niggle of guilt that Ellie and Joel were stuck in the lab at the college and that they both might very well be harbouring a growing resentment towards me for putting them there.

  Henry stood up, stretching. “Don’t worry about the kids, Emma. Ellie deserves to make up for what she did to you, and it’ll teach Joel a bit of filial duty. As for me, I’m too old to stay up into the wee small hours, so if you’ll excuse me… Do you need anything else, Dad?”

  I choked on the last piece of toast and Matthew patted and rubbed my back until I stopped coughing. “Sorry,” I spluttered, my eyes watering.

  “Don’t mention it.” Henry’s eyes crinkled. “It takes a bit of getting used to. It took Jeannie a decade.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Christmas

  I shuffled around in bed trying to get comfortable, the area from which blood had been taken still sore and intermittently stabbing, and the caffeine potent enough to keep me wide awake despite the sleep for which I yearned.

  I sat up, dumping a pillow behind my back, surveying his room as I waited for Matthew to return from wherever he had disappeared to ten minutes earlier. He had ensured that the radiator was switched on and had lit the fire before he left, both making inroads on the long-chilled air, but the room was otherwise neither loved nor lived in, and it had an air of abandonment despite the wealth of the furnishings. I sighed, and reached for the journal to pass the time.

  I had tucked it into my bag for quiet moments like these. The zip had made a buzzing sound like bees in a chimney as I lifted it out of my luggage and took the book from its protective bag. The last time I had seen it was in Matthew’s hands as he read through the night in Grandpa’s chair. We hadn’t discussed it since. This was the first opportunity I had found to read beyond his father’s death and before Nathaniel Richardson had taken his family to the New World.

  Making myself comfortable, I opened the journal, turning pages until I found the last entry that had referred to Matthew’s disappearance. I read on. Richardson had been concerned with the management of the estate as Henry Lynes’ health deteriorated and he sank towards despair. Matthew had been the sole heir and, without him, the estate should have been disposed of to the next surviving relative, which was his aunt – Elizabeth. The house and land did indeed go to her and her heirs, but there was a reference to some dispute over divers goodes that had not been resolved. Nathaniel said neither what ha
d happened to them nor what they were. I blinked and stifled a yawn. Reading between the lines, Richardson didn’t have much respect for Elizabeth Montfort, who in turn had little regard for the estate, and she had broken it up soon after acquiring it. This had been one of the main reasons why Nathaniel had left Rutland and sought a life elsewhere.

  Holding the journal open at that angle nipped the skin of my arm and, hearing soft steps on the landing, I put the book carefully on the table beside the bed for reading later.

  I was pulling the duvet over me as Matthew came back in, and I inched over so that he could lie on the bed with the covers chastely between us. He raised his arms and I snuggled into them.

  “Happy Christmas, Emma.”

  “Is it already? Happy Christmas. If I don’t spoil it,” I added. He poked me gently and I laughed. My arm twinged.

  “I’m sorry I can’t give you anything for your arm. I know it hurts, but we have to wait until the results are back.” He laid his hand over the tender area and it soothed under his touch. I nestled into him, listening for the comforting rhythm of his heart, and felt him tighten his hold as if he were afraid I would melt away and disappear.

  “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t hurt that much anyway. So, tell me, how did you do it?

  “Do what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. How did you take away that revolting sensation when you were extracting blood from me? It felt like you were… absorbing it somehow.”

  Matthew caressed the top of my head with his chin, not answering for a moment.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve never been able to do that before.”

  I pushed away from him so that I could study his face and he gazed back at me, solemnly. “Why not? Why now? Why me?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You heard me tell you to stop though, didn’t you, Matthew?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know that I heard your reply?”

  “I guessed you did – I wasn’t entirely sure.”