Whether sparked as a related memory to the gauze wrapped around her leg, or from the thirst that she'd just had a brief reprieve from, Beth's darkened world was soon lit up with the remembered vision of Angela walking up to the walkway in the playground.
“Come down here.”
Still chewing on the first bite of apple, Beth half-glanced at Angela to acknowledge she'd said something, and then looked away.
“Have it your way,” said Angela. She placed a small canteen on the side of the walkway and then tipped it over toward Beth. The water sloshed out into an ever-growing puddle, which inched closer to her. The thought of spending the rest of the day with a wet bum was enough to make her move, but not quick enough to prevent the water soaking into the hem of her dress while she used the wall to get to her feet.
This had already happened, but even as a daydream Beth could feel the anger that flowed through her once more. It was enough to make her want to go down the steps and slap Angela, not thinking or caring what would happen after that. But as soon as she got to the top of the steps her gut told her something was wrong. Beth felt two hands on her back, and she started to turn to see who they belonged to.
As if she didn't already know.
Susan shoved her as hard as she could, and Beth's fatigued legs gave way. Her hands went up and clutched for her enemy, but instead grabbed thin air. And then she was falling. Twisting. She didn't know how she fell; in her dream it was just as blurred and frantic as it had been at the time. But she relived the instinct to protect her head, thrusting her hands out in front and cushioning her landing as best she could. And then there was the intense pain of her shin as her leg scraped down the top corner of the low brick wall by the side of the steps.
When the world was still again, Beth was lying on her front and she lifted her head. She sniffed a gentle sob and her tired eyes grew hot with tears. Her arms stung, her hands burned, and when she propped herself up she looked at the dozens of black spots that covered her red palms; bits of stone stuck in her grazed skin.
She was faintly aware of a scream, maybe it was more than one, and she felt the need to roll over and sit up. When she did the playground was deserted, she was completely alone in the warm sun. The world had been silenced, and around her in the air was the perfume of rusting metal. Propping her leg up, she gazed upon the molten iron that was running down her leg. Its heat on her skin was distinct, and she was sure that were she to close her eyes she'd feel the course of every river, every drip.
Maybe it was adrenaline, or perhaps her anger, but something had managed to blind her to the aches and pains, and in their place was an oddly soothing calm. In a silent, empty world Beth saw what she wanted, and leaned forward to taste it.
Her stomach convulsed and she heaved. She grabbed the arm of the chair and leaned over the side, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. A string of saliva swung like a pendulum close to the floor, daring to bridge the rug to Beth's lower lip, but at the last second the band snapped and a large drop spattered on the floor and soaked into the fibers.
She sat back up and coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, finding just enough energy to get up and fetch a glass of water. She stayed in the scullery and leant over the deep square porcelain sink, until the nausea passed. When she felt able, she slowly made her way up the stairs and into her bed, letting the coolness of the sheets calm her nerves while an afternoon sun lit up her bedside table.
* * *
Beth opened her heavy eyes and stared up at the ceiling, with its thousands of minuscule shadows showing off its painted imperfections. It took her a few seconds to adjust, but she realized now that her room wasn't how she'd left it. The sun had set, but her curtains had been drawn and the blackout blind pulled down. From the far corner of the room at the foot of her bed, a dirty orange light illuminated the flowery wallpaper. There had been no lamp there before, and the one on her wonky bedside table was still present, though not illuminated. Wincing as her aches persisted, she propped herself up on her stiff elbows and looked down beyond her bed. The new light was one of the two table lamps from the sitting room, and its unfamiliar glow made everything seem surreal.
Something about the world didn't feel quite right.
Beside her the small clock ticked away. Nine-fifty. The time only added to the surrealism; she felt like she'd been asleep for more than just a few hours. She slid her wounded left leg under the sheets and off the side of the bed, followed by her right. Taking a deep breath, she stood up on the squeaky floorboard. But a pain shot through her bones and she collapsed back onto the bed. The floor squeaked again and the bedsprings creaked as she bounced, and through the quiet riot she heard someone step quietly up the stairs.
Her mother came in and closed the door gently, so as not to wake Oliver or Mary. She wore a sympathetic smile. “Hello, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”
“Bet—” Beth's mouth was dry and nothing more than a whisper escaped. She coughed quietly and tried to moisten her mouth. “Better.”
“There's some water there.”
Her mother gestured to the bedside table, and Beth took her silent advice. “I didn't hear you come in earlier.” Beth glanced at the corner.
“You mean with the lamp?”
Beth nodded.
“That was last night,” said her mother. Beth froze, glass in hand, staring at her. “You've been asleep for two days. It's Wednesday.”
That explained the confusion and displacement, as much as the profound emptiness in her stomach. As always, the thirst escorted the hunger.
“This morning, when I still couldn't wake you, I called the doctor,” her mother continued.
Beth jolted her head back slightly in surprise. “The doctor's been, too?”
“He came late this morning.”
“And?” asked Beth, anxiously. “What did he say?”
Her mother's brow furrowed slightly. “He thinks it might be a combination of things, a form of fatigue or extreme exhaustion among them. It's still possible it's just an infection or virus. He took some blood, but the results won't be back for a few days.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and took Beth's free hand. “He said the only thing we can do right now is wait.” Her mother felt her forehead, shaking her head slightly. “It's just the damnedest thing. You don't seem to be burning up. If anything, you're cooling down.”
“So … it's not a fever?”
“I really don't know, darling. We just have to wait for the blood results.”
“But if it's not … what if it's permanent?” The tears began to well as she said the word, unable to stop the scenario of never again being sprightly from flooding her emotions.
“Beth, at this stage we simply don't know what exactly is wrong. But even if it is a condition and not a bug, we'll find a way to manage it.”
Beth nodded, but wasn't consoled by her mother's positive words. She'd gone to sleep with a fever or a cold or a virus, but had woken to the threat of having a permanent condition that would take away her sport, her running, and her freedom. Taking the glass from her hand, her mother placed it back on the bedside table and hugged her tightly, which made the tears flow more freely. But Beth's wakeful window wasn't wasted on her mother. As soon as she had her tears under control, her mother disappeared downstairs to heat up some soup on the stove. Hesitantly, Beth leant over the side of the bed and looked into the mirror on her dresser. She almost gasped at the pale face that stared back. A ghost. She looked as bad as she felt, worse even, and the reflection brought forth another flood of tears. She sat back and wiped her eyes with the rough blankets as the stairs creaked.
Her mother returned with a small bowl of vegetable soup and a slice of bread. Beth unenthusiastically bit into the stale cut and groaned at a sore pain in her gums. As if she wasn't already hurting enough. Her stomach gurgled in appreciation of the food, but it still wasn't satisfying the part of her that protested loudest for the missing something.
And then it wasn't l
ong before Beth felt the need for sleep drifting over her again. Her mother had begun to change the bandage on her leg, but she never saw the end result. Her mother's pitying expression was the last thing she saw, blurring into darkness.
* * *
Beth noticed the silence first.
Not simply that it was there, but rather, that it had changed.
Next was the smell. Something disgusting and so intense it felt like whatever was producing it had been shoved up her nose. Instinctively she breathed only through her mouth. The stench disappeared.
Then came the realization of the firmness of her bed. It was cool, even maybe a little damp. Beth opened her eyes, her unfamiliar surroundings forcing a cold sweat. She sucked air, catching a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth, and blinked, hoping the dark images before her would vanish.
They didn't.
Like two roads merging together, her sight and thoughts united in focus, and Beth looked out upon a vertical wall of liquid glass. Nighttime reflected off the rippling surface, as did a sliver of moon that looked to have been turned to catch falling stars. Lifting her head, she felt the weight of her hair pointlessly trying to anchor her to the bank as the scene rotated, so that the moon was in its rightful place above her.
Propped up on one hand, Beth's heart pounded. There was no lingering drowsiness now; she was awake. This was not a dream. Out ahead she could make out the dark tree line against the deep night sky, but the moon's glow was so slight she could barely see much else. Staring up, the celestial bodies blurred as her many thoughts whirled. She was torn between the need to get home to safety and the need to know how she had come to be wherever she was.
Getting to her feet, she found that the soft ground was still warm from her body and tried to squeeze up between her toes. She managed to make out a large patch of mud contrasting on her nightgown, and her fingers felt the dried mud on her face. Tentatively, she took tiny steps forward, and only needed a few before the cold water stung her toes. She crouched, cupped some water and washed off the dried muck.
She dried her face on her sleeves, refreshed now and more alert, and became aware of a sound that might have been there all along: a faint, distant hum. Its consistent monotone posed no danger from planes; instead, it kick-started Beth's investigative notions.
The buzzing came from behind her, while the dark outlines of trees around the lake suggested its size. She was sure the gentle noise was from searchlight generators, and that meant she could only be in Victoria Park.
Keeping the electrical hum on her right, Beth left the lake through the trees and emerged on open ground. Once in the grass she began to feel the odd small stone prod the soles of her feet, and relief washed over her when she stepped onto a track-like road. She moved towards Bonner Bridge, with the buzz of the generators fading behind her.
Beth's pulse steadied and her initial panic was long gone. Settling into a pace on a route that she'd walked a thousand times before, she made her way down St. James's Avenue, trying to remember how she'd gotten to the park. In blackout, the streets were as dark as the wilderness she'd left. What light she was given by the night sky might have been enough to see the white lines painted around the bases of lamp posts, but instead Beth walked absent-mindedly down the middle of the deserted roads. She winced now and then when a stone dug into the arch of her foot. Each time, she momentarily lapsed back to breathing through her nose. Though the smell lessened, it never seemed to go away completely.
She remembered her mother redressing her leg, the soup … that ghostly face in the mirror.
And then she stopped dead.
The fuzzy memory brought with it a realization: there was no longer any pain or aching. She wasn't tired, she wasn't weak, and the thirst—that relentless craving—was gone for the first time in weeks. If she focused, she could feel the slight ache of a bruise on her shin, but she hadn't even been limping. Something big had happened; she felt it in her guts, and it scared her.
Occasionally yanked from her trance-like walk by stubbing her toes—and once from the startling call of an ARP warden a couple of streets over to “Put that light out!”—Beth finally reached the top of her street. Now her worries turned to what she'd find when she reached home. She had no idea what the time was, and could only guess it was late enough for everyone to be in bed. How else could she have left unnoticed?
Did I leave unnoticed?
What am I coming back to?
The moonlight faintly lit the houses on her side of the street. Creeping up to her front door, Beth saw it was ajar. She stopped outside and listened through the gap, but there was nothing. No light escaped either, so she slowly pushed the door open, stopping it halfway just shy of its creaking-point.
Slipping inside, she closed it and controlled the latch as it locked. The small arc of windows at the top of the door was painted black; once it was closed she only had her sense of touch to go by. She put out her hand, found the banister rail, and ascended the stairs. Keeping her feet to the outside edges of each wooden step, she managed to reach the top without a sound. Her bedroom was the first room, set at the back of their small house, and groping blindly she discovered her door had been left wide open. As she closed it gently behind her, she felt oddly comforted by a loud snore at the end of the hall, recognizing Oliver's trademark coming from her mother's room.
Beth fingered the light switch, but after spending so long in the dark thought better of it than to blind herself. Instead, she felt along the length of her bed and reached over to what would be a softer light on her bedside table, and with her eyes closed she switched it on. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The first thing she saw was a leaf in her hair. Turning, she fumbled for the latch of her wardrobe door, and caught a flash of bronze in its mirror as she opened it. She was lucky to still have an old nightgown, and pulled it down from the top shelf, flinging it onto her messy bed.
Sleepwalking. In her feverish state, it was the only reasonable explanation. It didn't explain how she was apparently cured of her fatigue, though. She sighed. The mystery would take longer to solve than it had taken her eyes to adjust to the light.
Beth turned back to the open wardrobe and closed the door. She gasped and stumbled back onto her bed. The springs creaked and the front of her gown pressed against her skin. It was cold, slightly damp and still heavy from the …
… mud?
Her hands began to shake as she looked down wide-eyed at the blood-soaked cotton that covered her.
A soft whine escaped and threatened to turn into a wail. Beth quickly and unsteadily got to her feet. The blood was tacky, and the gown stuck to her body. Her vision blurred as her trembling hand pinched the gown and peeled it away. Without thinking, she used the same hand to cover her mouth to smother her own whining, smudging blood on her cheeks as she forced herself to hold her mouth shut to silence the scream.
She breathed deeply, inhaling the fumes of aging blood, a tiny stream of it running down her right cheek. She lowered her hand slowly. Her heart felt too big for her chest as it thundered, and she stared at her bloody reflection and waited.
But the nightmare wouldn't end.
SIX
EVERY MORNING FOR THE PAST FOUR DAYS, the first thing Lynne had done after rising was open her daughter's bedroom door to check on her. Her heart sped up for only a few beats every time her hand curled around the handle, hoping that when the door opened Beth would open her eyes and say “good morning”. It was a futile hope and she knew it, so each morning she settled for seeing the blankets gently rise and fall.
Once again she crept along the dark landing. This would be the third day since Beth had last woken properly. Since Wednesday night she'd spoken nothing more than mumbled gibberish, and rarely at that. Last night Mary had found Beth unsteadily sleepwalking down the landing, but she didn't wake up, even when they'd practically carried her back to bed. Lynne had managed to swap shifts for the past two days to be at Beth's side, always ready with water. Today that responsib
ility would lie on Mary's shoulders.
Lynne took a deep breath, gripped the handle, turned it and pushed.
Blinded by the unexpected light streaming through the uncovered window, her free arm instinctively shot up in front of her face and she gasped. Her eyes adjusted quickly to find the room deserted. She heard a soft bang coming from the kitchen, as if the stove door had been closed.
With a rush of excitement Lynne raced down the stairs, through the sitting room and into the kitchen to find Beth at the table, crouched over a cold bowl of soup and staring up at her, like she'd been caught stealing precious jewels. The two held each other's gaze for a long moment, until Lynne's steel melted and she rushed to her daughter, suffocating her in an embrace, barely giving the girl enough time to drop the spoon back in the bowl.
The commotion brought Oliver and Mary down to an early breakfast, one that Beth seemed to enjoy far too much; she had already polished off the leftovers of the family's meal from the night before. Oliver was amused at his sister's lack of manners, but Lynne sat in silence after having eaten only half of what was on her plate. She looked carefully at her daughter, studying her. The initial joy that overwhelmed her had subsided, allowing her curious nurse's mind to take over.
Mary and Oliver were doing most of the talking, while Beth ate, nodded, and managed one or two words here and there between mouthfuls. Lynne knew that her own joy and relief should have been radiating from her. But so should Beth's. For someone who'd just woken up from what might as well have been a coma—at a snap of the fingers, it seemed—Beth didn't appear to be very happy about it. Lynne couldn't ignore the blatant peculiarities, either. Yesterday her daughter had been a pale, sleeping ghost; today—aside from a slight thinness—she was now looking strong and healthy, with her olive glow returned.
No Shelter from Darkness Page 5