by Dani Atkins
And then I remembered. There was a payphone on the pavement just outside the old church. Or at least there always used to be. And the church wasn’t that far away, a mile or two at most, I reckoned. And worst case scenario, if the phone booth had been removed, I would at least be halfway towards the main town, where I’d be sure to find another one, or even hail a cab. Having a plan was like antacid on the burn of my panic.
With exaggerated slowness I began to step back towards the road which would lead me to the church. Although I wasn’t sure how far sound could carry in the night, I wanted to be as quiet as possible as I made my retreat from the station. So I didn’t risk dragging my case along on its casters but picked it up the handles instead. Carrying it might slow me down a little but the rumbling sound of the wheels would lead anyone straight to me like a tracking device. And even though it was cumbersome to carry so many things at once, I still kept my mobile phone open in my hand, trying it every twenty seconds or so, ever-hopeful that it would respond.
I can’t remember when I knew for certain that he was behind me.
I thought I’d been so quiet. Until I was some distance from the station I had lowered each foot into careful place on the pavement, effectively muffling the sound of my tread. Only when I felt positive that I was out of earshot did I break into a really brisk walk. I risked looking backwards on numerous occasions, never once seeing anyone. There were several roads that led away from the station. If he hadn’t seen me leave, it would be impossible to know which one I had taken. I had just begun to feel the vice grip of panic loosen its fingers from around my heart when I heard the noise. A light tinkling sound, followed by a rolling noise. As though someone had accidentally kicked a bottle into the road.
Standing statue-still, I strained my ears and my eyes. There were no street lamps on this stretch of road, they would not appear until I’d reached the church itself. And the leafy street, lined with thickly trunked trees, could provide a hundred hiding places for someone to conceal themselves, when the only light around was from an icy moon and a frosting of stars.
This was not the time for caution. I ran. And as I did I heard the sound of heavier footsteps begin to do the same. It was impossible to be certain but I was grateful to hear that the sound was not as close as I had first thought. Needing to know how much of a lead I had, I threw a backward glance over my shoulder and although I could still hear the heavy pounding on the pavement, I still couldn’t see anyone. I picked up my legs and drove myself harder.
I wasn’t particularly fit, I’d proved that already from my dash to catch the train, but it’s amazing the effect that pure adrenalin can achieve. I hadn’t moved this quickly since my school days, yet still I could hear the echoing pounding of my pursuer. I wasn’t breaking ahead, just maintaining the distance. I knew I couldn’t keep going at this pace, not for much longer. My shoes, designed for fashion rather than a survival sprint, had several times skidded on the rime of ice lying on the pavement’s surface. On one particularly icy patch I totally lost my purchase and felt my feet slide from beneath me. My arms cartwheeled in an attempt to regain my balance, and my case dropped with a thud to the pavement. Somehow I didn’t fall, but I left the case where it lay. Less than twenty seconds later I heard a crashing sound, and a loud cry. At least now I knew how far behind me he was. It was too much to hope he’d broken his ankle in the tumble, but even the idea of him being injured gave me the spurt of extra drive to keep going.
I wasn’t far from the crest of the hill. In the moonlight I could just make out the spire from the church. I was really close. I think I had half convinced myself that there would be no phone box when I got there. Everything about this evening had seemed to be set against me; so the exhilaration of seeing the kiosk a hundred metres or so up ahead at first felt like a beautiful mirage. My heart was thundering in my chest and my side felt as though it was being ripped open by a stitch, but I didn’t slow down. I hadn’t heard any more from behind me but I still needed time to get to the box and dial the call. 999. How long does it take to get through? Could I summon help before he reached me? Would I have enough air left in my lungs to speak at all? The only answer to any of these questions was to run harder, which I did, my thumb still convulsively pushing the redial button on my mobile, as it had done since I left the station.
I was almost there. My fingers were literally outstretched towards the handle of the phone kiosk when a handful of my coat was yanked viciously from behind me, and I went down. No arms came out to break my fall this time, and I hit the icy pavement hard, my head cracking painfully upon the ground. I fell with such force that I took him down with me, and I heard the thump of his stocky body crashing down behind me. I don’t think I was even aware of the warm sticky flow of blood from my head as I scrambled to my knees. No bones appeared to be broken, I could still move, and though I’d probably lost layers of skin off both my hands and knees I wasn’t even aware of the pain.
But before I could raise myself any further than being on all fours, a cruel vice grip caught my ankle and I was down again. I kicked back instinctively and knew from his cry my heel had struck him somewhere where it hurt. His grip fell away and I immediately attempted to crawl away, using my elbows and arms to drag me along commando-style. I had gone about a metre when he was on me again. His knee hard in the middle of my back. I could hear him muttering and swearing as he used his full body weight to hold me motionless. I felt the fight drain from me. I had tried and failed. My vision was almost obliterated by the fast-flowing stream of blood from my head, and I could feel myself begin to slide into unconsciousness. I wanted to fight it but there were no reserves left to draw upon. The man roughly grabbed the sleeve of my coat, the white fabric already stained with my blood, and yanked my arm up at an unnatural angle. He said one word, just one – ‘Bitch!’ – as his thick fingers found my hand and yanked off my engagement ring. The weight on my back was suddenly gone. And so, I realised, was the man.
That was what it had all been for? The damned diamond ring? Had all this happened just because I’d worn the ring while travelling? And I wouldn’t even be able to identify my attacker, because I’d never seen his face. It might never have been the man from the train at all.
The darkness around me seemed to be growing thicker and I felt as though I was teetering upon the edge of a dark hole. A faint thrumming noise sounded by my ear, and I thought at first it was the rush of blood until the truth pierced through my consciousness. It was a ringing tone. Somehow my hand had never lost its grip on my phone, and finally my compulsive attempts had at last achieved success.
‘Rachel, are you there?’ The voice sounded tinny and small and very far away indeed.
‘Help me…’ I cried out, and then the blackness sucked me under.
5
They sedated me. I suppose they had to, although it seemed crazy waiting nearly two days for me to wake up, only to put me straight back under again. And the more I struggled and begged my dad not to let them do it, the more panic and concern I could see mirrored in his eyes. As the consultant barked sharply worded instructions to the nurse to prepare the sedative, I was still pleading with my dad to explain how he had got well again so quickly, and when he wouldn’t reply, shaking his head helplessly in confusion, I only became more distressed. It was quite a relief when the drug they inserted into my IV flooded into my system and my lids fell closed.
My eyes flickered open sometime later, and although the room was darkened, it seemed to be full of people. I could hear hushed whispers from voices that were tantalisingly familiar. My eyelids felt leaden, too heavy to open more than the merest slit. I couldn’t really make out who was in the room, just four or more tall shapes, all darkly clothed I thought, or perhaps they were all just in the shadows. Sleep reclaimed me.
I briefly woke for a second period some time later on that night. The group of people, whoever they had been, were now gone. I had absolutely no idea what time it was but the room was in total darkness except for t
he small pool of light directed down towards a chair pulled up to my bedside, in which my father sat sleeping. There was an open book lying across his lap, and an empty food tray on the unit beside me. I correctly guessed he had not left my side all day. From his slightly open mouth a soft snore emitted with each indrawn breath. He looked tired and dishevelled… and yet still, unbelievably and impossibly, he looked completely well. I needed to speak to him; I felt desperate to find out what was going on, as nothing made any sense, but the struggle to stay awake was too much. Sleep overtook me once more before I could call out his name.
The clatter of a food trolley woke me the next morning. I blinked in protest at the surprisingly bright morning light falling into my hospital room.
‘Good, you’re awake in time for breakfast,’ my dad announced in an overly cheery tone. I was slow in turning my head towards him, hopeful that the strange episode of the previous day had just been imagined. He must have seen the look in my eyes as I once more took in his obvious good health, for his smile faltered a little. I felt a stab of absolute mortification. Had I actually been hoping to see my only parent still in the throes of his battle with a terrible disease? What sort of a person did that make me?
I tried to smile back.
‘G’morning,’ I mumbled. My mouth felt as though someone had stuffed it with cotton wool in the night.
‘How are you this morning? Are you ready for something to eat?’
I shook my head, the thought of food making my stomach roll in horror.
‘Tea,’ I croaked, my throat as parched as my tongue. I tried again with more effort. ‘Just some tea, please, Dad.’
His eyes never left me as I raised the utilitarian white cup to my lips and didn’t lower it until it was emptied. He seemed pleased to see me performing such a mundane function without incident or outburst. Was that a measure of my sanity? Didn’t crazy people drink tea?
‘Shall I see if the nurses can get you another one?’ I nodded, and was grateful when he left to pursue a second cup as it gave me a minute or two to collect my thoughts. He was gone nowhere near long enough for me to even begin to have sorted out my bewilderment. I drained the second cup and felt, physically at least, a little revived.
‘So how is your head this morning, sweetheart?’
‘Better, I think. Dad, what’s going on here?’
He looked uncomfortable, before bouncing the question back to me:
‘Going on here? What do you mean?’
‘Stop it, Dad. I mean it. What’s happened to you, and why haven’t you told me about it? Have they got you on some miracle drug or something? Are you in remission?’
The look on his face was tortured; he was clearly searching, and failing, to find the right answer to give me.
‘Rachel, love, I think you are still a little confused—’
I interrupted him, struggling to sit up more fully in bed, causing me to wince from what felt like a thousand bruises which I had no idea how I got. I tried to speak really slowly, articulating each word in a reasonable tone; the last thing I wanted was someone calling for me to be sedated again.
‘Dad, I am not confused; well I am, but not in the way you mean. Three weeks ago you looked… well, you looked absolutely terrible. The chemo had made you so sick and weak, and the weight you’d lost… well, just everything. And now… now it makes no sense, you look completely better.’
His dearly loved face looked so troubled as he studied me, his eyes beginning to well with tears.
‘Rachel, I am completely well.’
‘How can you have been cured so quickly?’ This was all just too much to absorb. My father began to reach for the bell push above my bed.
‘Perhaps we should ask if the doctor could come and see you again now.’
‘No!’ I shouted, my voice thick with the frustration I knew was on my face. Shaking his head sadly my father lowered his arm from the emergency button and let his roughened fingers reach for and encompass my hand, patting it soothingly.
‘I haven’t “been cured”, Rachel, because I’ve never been ill in the first place. I don’t have cancer and I can’t imagine why you thought I did.’
The nurses had come in then, one to remove the breakfast tray and another to help me to the bathroom. In truth I was glad to be taken away. For some reason my father was hiding what had happened to him from me. My sluggish mind, still addled from the sedative, couldn’t think of a single reason why he was keeping such a thing secret.
I was grateful for the nurse’s assistance in the sparse white-tiled bathroom. Thankfully, my IV had been removed sometime during the night, and although unencumbered by having to wheel a tripod around, I still couldn’t have managed either the short walk down the corridor or the removal of my hospital gown without assistance. With the ties undone, the nurse turned on the shower and, after establishing that I felt confident enough on my feet to be left alone to wash, she slipped out of the room.
Under the surprisingly forceful jets of water I tried to clear my mind of its endless questioning, but it refused to be still. And even the innocuous act of washing myself threw up further unanswered puzzles. An unperfumed white bar sat waiting in the soap dish, but it wasn’t until I began to revolve it slowly between my palms that I noticed the grazes upon them.
I washed off the coating of suds and turned them thoughtfully this way and that under the spray from the shower. Both hands were equally grazed, as though I had fallen heavily and tried to save myself. But for the life of me I couldn’t remember when or how I had done this. I did remember falling to the ground beside Jimmy’s grave in the churchyard, but I had landed upon grass, not concrete. The only possibility I could come up with was that I must have grazed them against a headstone when I had finally collapsed. The progression of that thought left me wondering who it was who had found me in the cemetery and brought me to hospital. In the light of the larger more puzzling questions, I was happy to let that one go.
I wished there had been a mirror in the small utilitarian washroom, so I could see if my face bore any signs of injury, for as I soaped and rinsed the rest of my body, I found several other places that were both grazed and bruised. Again they all looked too raw and angry to have been sustained in anything less than a very hefty fall. I was beyond puzzled. I appeared to be covered in injuries where there should be none, while my father had an illness that had simply disappeared. I wondered if Alice had felt this confused when she had fallen down the well into Wonderland.
Still trying to resolve the irresolvable, one idea suddenly occurred to me as I dried myself briskly on the rough hospital towel. Perhaps the reason my father wouldn’t admit to his illness was because his treatment hadn’t been legal. I almost threw the idea out as preposterous. He was so honest, I couldn’t even remember him getting so much as a parking fine in his entire life. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made – in a totally nonsensical way. Maybe he was paying privately for some unlicensed medication or treatment forbidden in the UK. And if that was the case, well then he’d probably have to lie in order to protect whatever secret trial or doctor had helped him.
As I waited for the nurse to return with a clean gown, I felt happier to have found a workable solution to the mystery. Very probably, when away from the confines of the hospital, he would confess it all, when it was safe to betray his secret without others hearing. And as for secrets, well I had been hiding a pretty big one of my own from him too: the recurring headaches. I just hoped I would be able to find the time to speak to the doctor in private about the symptoms which had precipitated my collapse by the church.
As she took my arm to help me back to my room, the nurse supplied another surprising piece of information.
‘I’d better warn you that you have a police officer waiting in your room to talk to you now that you’re awake.’
I stopped mid-step and turned to the young nurse in consternation.
‘A policeman? Why? Whatever for?’
She gave me a cu
rious look, as though amazed I could ask such a thing.
‘Well, they obviously need to get all the details about what happened by the church the other night.’
I looked back at her dumbly. What happened by the church? Were the police really so light on crime in this area that they had sent someone to question me about trespassing in the churchyard late at night? Was that really even a crime at all? It wasn’t as though I’d been vandalising the graves. Surely I wasn’t going to be charged with some petty misdemeanour? How much weirder was this day going to get?
In my wildest of dreams, I could never have guessed.
The policeman was seated half out of sight behind the door of my room. Dad had clearly been talking about me, judging by the guilty way in which he shut up like a clam as soon as I appeared at the threshold. In my peripheral vision I took in a dark uniform as the policeman rose to his feet.
‘Rachel, hon, the police need some information from you, but don’t look worried… look who they sent.’ He sounded as triumphant as a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, and I turned for the first time to look at the officer.
The room swayed; I knew my face must have drained of all colour. I reached out blindly for the doorframe, knowing it wasn’t going to be any use. As I crumpled to the floor, in a swoon worthy of any Victorian gentlewoman, I had time to say just one word: