Gemma's Journey

by Beryl Kingston

  GEMMA’S JOURNEY

  Beryl Kingston

  To Dr Robin Luff and

  the staff at the rehabilitation

  centre at Crystal Palace.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  A Note on the Author

  Chapter 1

  It all happened so quickly. Which shouldn’t have been a surprise because everything was happening quickly, the train hurtling along the tracks at such speed that the wheels squealed, the carriages groaned and the passengers were jerked from side to side, their heads lolling like puppets.

  Ever since she stepped aboard at East Croydon, Gemma had been sunning herself in her corner seat, watching idly as the London terraces flicked past the window in their long familiar rows. She knew she looked cool and elegant – designer jeans, Italian boots, neat cream body with a suitably low neckline, casual scarf, leather jacket, new gold earrings, old gold medallion – but her thoughts were spinning, caught between two impossibly contradictory needs – to get herself thoroughly psyched up for the audition and yet to appear relaxed and in control. Now, suddenly flung from the pressure of the moment, she looked across to grimace at the woman in the seat opposite.

  ‘Making up for lost time,’ the woman agreed. She put a restraining hand on her son’s arm. ‘Mind what you’re doing with that Coke!’ Her warning was too late. The brown liquid was already slopping out of the can and streaming down the sides on to the little boy’s trousers. ‘Look at the state of you! I shall be glad when you’re old enough to go to school.’

  Gemma turned her head away, praying that he wouldn’t spill any of his wretched Coke on her new clean clothes. The train was racketing under a road bridge and the comparative lack of sunshine gave her a chance to check her reflection in the window. She’d been taking surreptitious glances at herself all through the journey. Not because she was vain – she was a bit vain, she had to admit, but no worse than most girls her age – but because her appearance was all-important if she was to make an impression on the casting director. This was her sixth audition since leaving drama school and, after five rejections, she was only too well aware that first impressions were half the battle.

  She checked the outline of her face, pale in the distorting glass of the window and as the train swayed, her hair swung across her cheek, thick, dark, straight, newly washed and beautifully cut. She’d spent an arm and a leg on that haircut so it had better be worth it. She still wasn’t quite sure about it, although her flatmates had all been very impressed.

  Jerry said she looked like the Snow Queen. ‘You’ll knock ’em dead,’ he predicted, adding with well-trained dramatic rapture, ‘Pale skin, heart-shaped face, brown eyes, black hair, mouth like Cupid’s bow, cute bum, great tits, this girl has everything.’

  Except you, she thought, but she was warmed by his admiration just the same. ‘You ought to be in PR,’ she teased, applying her third coat of mascara. ‘You’re wasted on McDonald’s.’ Since she’d told him their relationship was over, she’d teased him rather a lot, and usually by reminding him of his present low status. ‘Anyway, it’s a musical. Not a fairy story. A raunchy musical.’

  He wasn’t a bit abashed. But that didn’t surprise her. Nothing ever seemed to dent his self-esteem, not even working in that awful burger bar. In the three years she’d known him, he’d always been the same: brash, self-assured and impossibly cheerful, bouncing from job to job and bed to bed without the least sign of concern about either. There were times when she couldn’t decide whether his insouciance was admirable or annoying. Which was one of the reasons for ending their affair.

  But he certainly had the right touch when it came to big occasions. That morning he’d organised the other two to bring her breakfast in bed, complete with a red rose in a vase, and as she’d walked off down the road towards the station, long legs striding in her tight jeans, leather jacket slung over her shoulder, he’d thrown open the window and called after her to wish her luck. ‘Break a leg!’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she called back.

  And so she would. Her very best. This time she was going to succeed. She was on her way. She felt it in her bones.

  The train threw her against the window again. Such a filthy window. The corners were caked with yellow grime. Why don’t they ever clean these carriages? she wondered. It’s disgusting making us travel in all this … But before she had time to finish the thought, there was a crash like a building falling. She caught a glimpse of her fellow travellers startled and open mouthed, as she knew she was herself, then the carriage tipped and rolled over on its side, throwing her forward out of her seat on to the floor.

  Something hard and sharp hit her on the side of the head as she fell and there was a dreadful smell of burning. For a confused second, as she was buffeted about among carrier bags and other people’s arms and legs, she couldn’t think where she was and felt guilty, afraid that she must have left the iron on and that her flatmates would be cross. They were always cross when she left the iron on. But then the movement stopped and she came back to the present and put out her hands for something to grip. She touched an attaché case – where had that come from? – brushed against the rough moquette of the tumbled seats, but before she could find her balance and scramble to her feet again, there was a second and longer crash and, in a moment of total horror, another carriage loomed in towards her spreadeagled body in a blur of white, red and blue, huge and heavy and inexorable as a guillotine. It’ll cut me in half, she thought, and she struggled to pull her body away from it. But it was right on top of her and she was pinned under the seat and couldn’t move anything except her hands. She was so frightened she could hardly breathe.

  Shattered glass showered down on her, hitting her face and shoulders and tumbling into her vision like green hail. The grinding and crashing went on. It was so loud it made her ears ache but even through the noise, she could hear people screaming and a child screeching ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ over and over again. There was a terrible pressure on her legs, a great weight forcing her down, and below that, a new and awful pain burning and throbbing. She knew she was trapped and that she ought to try to get out, but she seemed to have lost all her energy. And understanding grew in her mind at last, like something huge and black and obscene, and she knew that she was in the middle of a rail crash and that she was injured and that she was passing out.

  For a while she drifted in and out of consciousness as if she were far out at sea, borne up and down by immense waves, almost beyond caring. Then she became aware that a child was somewhere nearby and that it was crying in terror. And she remembered the little boy with the Coke can and made a great effort to open her eyes and call out to him. She was lying on her side hemmed in with broken spars and bits of seat and luggage rack. The underside of the other carriage had come to rest
at a precarious angle, massive and threatening, a mere six inches from her face. Her mouth was so full of dust that her voice was little more than a croak.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she managed at last. ‘I’m here.’ But she was looking at the crumpled mass of metal above her and thinking, if it falls it will crush me. I must be sensible, she told herself. There’s no point in panicking. And she turned her mind to the child. If I’m frightened, he must be terrified, poor little thing. ‘It’s all right. I’m here.’

  She couldn’t be sure he’d heard her but at least he stopped crying. The dust swirled before her eyes and she could hear people groaning but it was all unreal, as if it was happening in a dream, as if she wasn’t really there. The only reality was the threat of that crushed carriage. She made another great effort and turned her head so as not to look at it.

  There was a very long pause. Then a little voice called, ‘I want my mummy!’

  He’s still alive, she thought, and she tried to moisten her mouth to call out to him again. But she had very little saliva and it took a long time. ‘Can you hear me?’ she croaked.

  And he answered her. ‘Yes.’

  That was better. Having someone else to look after gave her a focus. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Where are you?’

  ‘Not far away,’ she said, trying to reassure him. She was surprised by what an effort it took her to speak. But somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that you had to keep injured people talking. She couldn’t remember why, but she knew it was important. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jack,’ the voice said tearfully. ‘I want my mummy. I can’t see my mummy.’

  ‘It’s all right, Jack. She’ll be all right.’ It wearied her to talk as if she were pushing a weight off her chest with every word. I’ll have to take it slowly, she thought, pace myself, be sure to get enough breath. What a good job I studied voice production. ‘I expect – she’s been – pushed – a bit further along. – We’ve been – sort of – thrown about.’

  He was weeping again.

  She moved her one free hand, in what little space there was, and tried to wipe the dirt out of her eyes and mouth. Her fingers came away red with blood but she was too numb and weary to respond. ‘People – will soon – be here,’ she said, keeping her voice calm. Please God let them be! It was awful being trapped. Awful thinking you could be crushed to death at any minute. ‘They’ll – get us – all – out.’

  ‘Will they?’

  She had less and less energy and it was getting more and more difficult to breathe but she made another effort. ‘Yes. I promise.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. – You’ll see,’ she said, blinking. The air was still full of dust, swirling in front of her eyes. Where was it all coming from? ‘There’s – lots – of houses. Someone – will dial – 999.’

  But then the ache in her left foot suddenly became a searing pain that rose into her leg in terrible, unendurable waves, each one more severe than the last. Christ! Dear sweet Christ, make it stop. But it didn’t. It went on and on rising higher and higher until it had reached her chest and she had to struggle to endure it, drenched with the sweat of it. She knew she was making the most dreadful groaning noise, and that she couldn’t stop it. It was too urgent and primitive for that, as if agony was pushing the sound from her throat. There was nothing in the world except pain. Make it stop! she prayed. Please, please, make it stop!

  Then she was unconscious again.

  Chapter 2

  ‘I must say I do like the autumn,’ Dr Quennell said. ‘It’s such a peaceful season. Restful.’ He was standing by the window of the men’s surgical ward in St Thomas’s Hospital, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the Thames at the familiar sunlit façade of the Houses of Parliament and the long line of yellowing plane trees facing the river.

  ‘You can have it,’ his patient said rather sourly, shifting in his chair. ‘Give me the summer any day.’ He was uncomfortable to be slummocking about in his dressing gown at eleven o’clock in the morning and shame was making him tetchy.

  ‘Late September,’ Dr Quennell went on happily. ‘Leaves changing. Pace of life slowing. Everything peaceful. Even here, right in the city. Sun still warm. Can’t beat it.’

  ‘You’re showing your age,’ his patient mocked. He had known Dr Quennell for more than twenty years and teasing was their principal means of communication. He rubbed the grey stubble on his chin and felt ashamed of that too. You degenerate a bit too quickly once you’re in hospital. ‘Getting old, that’s what’s happening to you. Same as me.’

  ‘True,’ the doctor agreed cheerfully. But he didn’t really believe it. He was only just sixty, for God’s sake, and although he might be in the process of taking early retirement, there was too much strength in him to consider himself old – strong hands, strong heart, strong features, strong opinions, good strong head of hair. Middle-aged, maybe, but certainly no more.

  ‘Where’s that nice son of yours, then?’ his patient asked. ‘They’re late this morning.’

  ‘No. They’re here. They’re in with Sister. They’ll be doing the rounds presently.’

  ‘You must be proud of him. Following in your footsteps.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Quennell said, turning from the window. ‘We both are.’ Proud enough to hang about in the ward on a fine autumn morning just for the chance of a few words. ‘He’s a good boy. Has his faults, naturally. Don’t we all? But a good boy.’

  There was a flurry of activity at the other end of the ward. That’s not John Barnaby, surely, Dr Quennell thought, charging out of Sister’s office like that. But it was. Something must be up.

  It was Nick who enlightened him, striding down the ward towards him, white coat flapping, young face full of importance.

  They exchanged information in the rapid shorthand of a father and son engaged in the same profession.

  ‘It’s an alert.’

  ‘Bomb?’

  ‘Rail crash.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Wandsworth Common. Just outside the station. Mr Barnaby said to tell you.’

  The message was delivered casually but in fact it was an official call for assistance. Andrew Quennell was one of the many local GPs who were trained for these emergencies. ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ his son echoed. ‘See you there, then.’

  So much for peace and quiet, Andrew thought, as Nick strode off to join his team. That’s what comes of eulogising September. But then his mind jumped into top gear and began to work at speed because he knew how important it was to get to the scene of the crash as soon as he could. Treatment given in the first hour after an accident – the time they called the golden hour – could make the difference between life and death. He said goodbye to his patient – quickly – and called his wife on the mobile as he walked to his car.

  ‘I was just going to phone you,’ she said. ‘Your call’s just come through. I gather it’s pretty bad. There was a newsflash on the radio.’

  He eased into his car and switched on the ignition. ‘I doubt if I’ll be back in time for surgery. Tell Grace.’

  ‘Take care, Drew,’ she warned.

  It was sensible advice for although a combination of height, broad shoulders and strong features made him appear solid and dependable, he was an impetuous man and given to impulsive action.

  ‘You know me,’ he joked, as he slipped the car into gear.

  She joked back, her voice loving. ‘Exactly!’

  But this wasn’t a time for caution. As soon as he reached the common, he could see from the scale of the response that this was a very serious accident indeed. Some of the emergency services had already arrived, others were approaching, sirens wailing, and the police were in action wherever he looked. They had already removed the sightseers, re-routed the traffic and pulled down the railings near the crash site. Now they were organising the arriving ambulances into a queue all along Nightingale Lane.

  He parked
where he was directed, put on his emergency jacket, and walked quickly across the common, taking in the details of the crash as he went. Six coaches of a northbound train were lying on their sides and two others had skewed across the oncoming track and been hit by a second train. Wreckage was piled on either side of the second engine and there were two carriages impacted on one another, the white sides of the broken coaches striped with grease and blood.

  Although he knew that what he was seeing was the organised confusion of a major alert, at first shocked sight it looked like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. There were people everywhere, with more running in from the common as he was himself, and they all seemed to be brightly coloured: firemen, bold in their yellow helmets and trousers, cutting into the fallen coaches; doctors and nurses and paramedics in fluorescent jackets or waistcoats, lime green, yellow and orange, bending over the first casualties; the injured themselves, sitting between the tracks, stunned, bloodstained, bandaged, grimed with filth and wrapped in scarlet blankets. The men and women from the St John’s Ambulance were already there too, distinctive in their black and white, rapidly bringing in equipment – and there were policemen everywhere, ominous with body bags, their walkie-talkies in urgent use. But it wasn’t until he was walking towards the severed coaches that he caught the first scent of the horror that awaited him. The crushed coaches looked appalling but the smell that rose from them was worse. It was the hot, sickly-sweet stink of the abattoir, the alert that had risen into his nose when he reached the lorry on that awful day in Cyprus. But there wasn’t time to think about that. There was barely time to react.

  John Barnaby, Nick’s orthopaedic consultant, appeared out of the confusion, as unruffled as though he were simply doing his rounds. ‘Ah, Drew, there you are! We’ve got two major injuries in a very tight space, kiddy about four and a young woman. Both trapped.’

  Andrew followed his old friend.

  ‘The Fire Brigade are cutting the kiddy out,’ Mr Barnaby went on. ‘Todd’s with him. The girl’s the tricky one. As far as we can see she’s pinned by the legs. I’m going through the other side, once the kiddy’s out. We might be able to cut in that way.’