Dead Romantic

by Ruth Saberton

  “What it shows, Dr Carpenter, is that you were on the platform with the alleged attacker only ten minutes before the assault took place, which makes you the one person who may be able to confirm the identity of the suspect.”

  I sink onto the tatty office sofa. Stuffing oozes onto the carpet and a spring pokes me in the kidneys but I hardly notice. Instead I see in my mind’s eye the deserted platform, the skittering litter and the odd man with the scar who paused by the bench.

  “I know this must be difficult,” continues the WPC, “but we really need you to come to the station and have a look at an ID parade. You’re the only person who can confirm the victim’s positive identification of the suspect.”

  Cold sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. The air of menace that had radiated from the stranger had made me feel very uneasy. Why did he pass me by? The platform was empty, so what stopped him? Why did I escape?

  “Dr Carpenter?”

  “Sorry. I’m a bit taken aback. Of course I’ll come over.”

  The WPC gives me some directions, which I scribble onto my pad, but my hands are shaking so much that the writing looks like a drunken spider has staggered across the page. Once we’ve confirmed the destination and the time I need to arrive, I put the telephone down abruptly and start to chew the skin round my thumbnail. I’ve no doubt at all that last Saturday night I had a very lucky escape indeed. The question, though, is why?

  Suddenly my embarrassing afternoon seems like a very small issue indeed.

  * * *

  “Do you want a coffee, Dr Carpenter? You look very pale.”

  WPC Moore’s eyes are wide with concern. Placing her hand on my elbow, she gently guides me to a seat before fetching a pallid cup of coffee from a machine. I wrap my shaking hands round the cup and draw some comfort from the warmth.

  “You did a good job in there,” she adds.

  I take a sip of the tasteless liquid. “I’d have known him anywhere.”

  It hadn’t been difficult to pick the man I’d seen from the line-up of eight similar-looking men. They may all have had the same hair colour, height and build, but as I’d looked through the one-way glass I’d recognised him instantly. The scar, the set of his lips, the hairy hands; I have a good eye for detail and I could have picked that man out of a hundred others.

  “Why didn’t he choose me?” I wonder aloud. I’ve only been told a few details about the attack but it’s enough to turn my stomach. The poor girl who was assaulted will be in hospital for weeks and in therapy for a lot longer. All of a sudden my spotty pants trauma doesn’t seem quite so important after all.

  WPC Moore shrugs. “We’ve asked him that already. He told us you weren’t alone and that’s why he left you.”

  “But that’s nonsense! Of course I was alone!”

  She nods. “I know you were. We’ve got the footage to prove it too, as if there was ever any doubt.”

  A headache starts to beat above my right eye.

  “So who did he think I was with?”

  “He said you were with a young man in a leather jacket, with dark hair and green eyes. He was adamant about the eye colour.” She gives me a reassuring smile. “But please don’t worry too much about it. He’s obviously not well.”

  My head’s spinning. It’s still spinning twenty minutes later when I step out of the police station and into the evening gloom and drizzle.

  This has to be one of the weirdest days of my life.

  I shrug my bag onto my shoulder. The headache’s spread from my right eye across the whole of my forehead, where it thumps and thuds like something Susie would dance to. The scene from the Tube station keeps spooling past my vision and I watch over and over again the man’s slow passage along the platform, and see him pause alongside me before he continues his journey. I’m so very thankful he imagined I wasn’t alone. The thought of what could have happened makes me feel sick and shaky.

  I’ll never be able to work feeling like this. I’ll head home, take a couple of Nurofen and go to bed. With any luck Susie’s on a night shift and I’ll be able to have a hot bath in peace, and a good night’s sleep.

  Spotting a chemist just across the road I decide I’ll cross over, pop in to buy some Nurofen and then I’ll…

  There’s a scream of brakes as headlights blaze across the wet road. Hands bite into my shoulders, pulling me sideways, and wheels swish by so close to my face that I can smell the rubber against the tarmac.

  My head slams onto the road, fireworks shoot across my vision and I hear a high, unearthly screaming. I think it’s me.

  Big green eyes are staring down at me. A wide generous mouth makes an o of surprise.

  “You can see me!” I hear a voice gasp. “My God, you can really see me!”

  And then there’s nothing.

  Chapter 5

  Where am I? Did I fall asleep at work again? I really must stop doing that.

  I feel awful. What on earth was I doing last night to have a headache like this? It feels like Black Sabbath is playing a set inside my skull. Was I out drinking with Susie again? If I was, it must have been some night. My head hurts like hell and my brain seems to be swivelling; it’s making me nauseous.

  That’s it. I’m giving up alcohol. Forever. And ever. And ever…

  Or maybe I’ve got the flu? My mouth’s dry and my limbs have all the strength of overcooked pasta. My throat’s a bit sore too, come to think of it, and my neck feels unusually stiff.

  I don’t think I can face opening my eyes…

  Have I dropped off again? What time is it? For a second I just lie still while Ozzy Osbourne continues to play inside my cranium. I can’t ever remember having such an evil headache. It’s like someone’s trying to split my brain open with a chisel. I need to get out of bed and find some Nurofen.

  Wait a minute; that thought feels familiar. Wasn’t I looking for Nurofen when… when…

  No. It’s gone. Thought I was onto something there.

  My head hurts. Maybe just a bit more sleep?

  Ouch! Ouch! Who’s shining a light into my eyes? Even peeling open one eyelid just a fraction hurts so much that I screw my eyes shut again.

  “Cleo?” says a voice. “Hey, Dad! I think she blinked!”

  OK. So now I know I’m ill. I’m so delirious I’m hallucinating; that voice sounds just like my brother, Ptolemy. There’s no way Tolly would come all the way from Canary Wharf just because I’ve got flu. Not when there are stocks and shares and gilts to buy, anyway.

  Buying things. Wait! I try to force my mind to hang onto that thought. I was buying something. The memory surfaces for a moment then flickers like a silvery fish, diving back into the depths of my splitting headache.

  “It’s just an automatic response; you heard what the doctors said. Come on, son, have a break. Let’s get a coffee.”

  This dream is just getting weirder by the minute. The second speaker sounds exactly like my dad, except that Dad and Tolly haven’t been this chatty since Mum died…

  But I’m not going to think about that. If I can’t remember what it was I was doing moments ago then there’s no bloody way I’m going to think about stuff that happened when I was nineteen. I was going to buy something. I walked down some steps and then–

  Damn. All I can see now are pictures from ten years ago, so vivid they may as well be tattooed on my retinas.

  A plain wooden coffin covered in red roses, tears running down Dad’s cheeks, curling ham sandwiches and tepid tea, people mouthing platitudes…

  Mum’s empty study, dust falling through the air onto the precious books that she rarely used but so needed; Dad with his head on her desk sobbing. Relatives looking at me with awkward sympathy, patting me on the shoulder and saying “It’ll help to talk about it, Cleo.”

  That’s where they’d been wrong. In my experience, talking only makes things worse. Much better to bury it deep inside and think instead about degrees, masters and PhDs – and if that makes me a cold unfeeling bitch, as Tolly once p
ut it, then I guess that’s what I am. But at least I’m holding it together without the need for booze or the buzz of gambling on the money markets and buying fast cars.

  Fast cars. Wait!

  There’s a memory, more slippery than an eel coated in butter, but I grasp for it anyway. Yes! That’s it! There was a car, wheels passing by my face, strong hands on my shoulders pulling me out of harm’s way and shocked sea-green eyes holding mine.

  I was nearly killed and some passerby saved my life. I must have slammed down on the road like a tonne of bricks. No wonder I’m in pain. From what I remember I’m pretty lucky to be in pain. But where am I?

  Prising open eyes that feel as though they’ve been Pritt Sticked, I discover I’m in a darkened room and lying in a metal-framed bed. Stiff white sheets are pulled up to my chest, the starched cotton only slightly paler than my hands, and with a shudder I see that the back of my left hand is black with bruises fanning out from a cannula, and a drip is hooked up to my right arm. A machine bleeps rhythmically from a control panel somewhere above my head and the smell of antiseptic hangs heavy in the air. Closer inspection reveals that I’m wearing a plain blue robe and no underpants.

  Where have my knickers gone? Actually, never mind my knickers; where’s my laptop? I’ve got months’ and months’ worth of notes on that; I can’t have lost them all! They’re irreplaceable! Maybe my clothes and the rest of my stuff are in the locker over by the door? If I can manage to swing my legs out of bed, fight this riptide of pain and maybe drag my drip with me, then perhaps I can check it out?

  OK, Cleo. On the count of three, then: one, two–

  “Hey!” A cool hand lands on my shoulder, gently pushing me back onto the scratchy pillow. “Take it easy! You’ve had a really nasty accident. There’s no way you’re up to moving about yet.”

  A young man is staring down at me. He’s ridiculously good-looking, with sharp cheekbones, floppy dark hair and sparkling jade eyes in a crinkly face that must smile a lot. Stubble sprinkles his strong jaw and he smells of a delicious citrusy scent.

  “Where am I?” I ask. Gorgeous-man heaven? Susie will be so jealous.

  “You’re in hospital. You had a nasty bump on the head,” the mystery guy explains. I guess he’s some kind of doctor. “You’ve been unconscious too, so try to keep calm.”

  I’m in hospital? Wow. That must have been some bump to the head. There would have been an ambulance and everything. Tentatively I raise my fingers to my temple and feel something prickly.

  “Stitches,” explains the man when my hand recoils. “They had to take you into theatre. Brace yourself: you’ve had surgery.”

  “No way!”

  He nods then sits next to me on the bed. The cloying antiseptic smell is replaced by that lovely tangy aftershave. His hand brushes my cheek; it feels blissfully cool in contrast to the tropical hospital atmosphere. “Do you remember anything that happened?”

  I close my eyes and see again the busy rush-hour traffic. I’m running down the steps towards the chemist across the road; there’s a hideous screech of brakes, hands on my shoulders and a flash of jade green as my head slams onto the tarmac.

  My eyes fly open.

  “You saved my life!”

  He looks exceedingly pleased. “You did see me. I knew it!”

  “It’s the last thing I remember before I woke up here,” I say. “You shoved me out of the way of that car, goodness knows how. You must be my guardian angel.”

  “Um, err, yeah.” He blushes and runs a hand through his hair, leaving a few clumps standing to attention. “I guess you could put it that way.”

  I struggle to sit up. What do I look like? Is my hair a mess? Make-up all over my face? I wouldn’t normally care but this is the man who saved my life and I think the least I can do is make an effort to look human. God, I hope my hospital gown isn’t gaping.

  “I’m Cleo Carpenter,” I hold out my hand but this yanks at the drip. Annoyed, I give it a sharp tug and instantly an alarm starts to wail. Oops, I don’t think I should have done that.

  “Look, Cleo,” he says, “I should really tell you something–”

  “Too right you should! You saved my life and I don’t even know your name!”

  “I’m Alex. Alex Thorne. You don’t recognise me?”

  Just as I’m about to ask Alex why I should recognise him, the door swings open and in comes my father, spilling coffee all over the floor and with his bearded chin practically splashing into the cup when he sees me sitting up.

  “Cleo! You’re awake! Look, Tolly! She’s come round.”

  Am I still unconscious? I guess I must be because here’s my workaholic brother hard on Dad’s heels, his bespoke shoes and Turnbull & Asser shirts totally incongruous with the NHS starkness. The sunshine peeking through the blinds suggests it’s the middle of the day too – and we all know Tolly doesn’t leave his merchant bank until the pubs are kicking out.

  I’m dreaming, then. My handsome rescuer and concerned family are nothing but a fantasy. But ouch! The jabbing needle in my right arm doesn’t feel much like a dream. The blood welling up into the tube around it looks pretty real too, as does the nurse who’s shining a light into my eyes. Any minute now she’ll say they have ways of making me talk…

  “Just sit still,” she says, putting down the torch and fiddling with the drip. “There’ll be a sharp scratch–”

  “Ouch!”

  “All done.” The nurse flicks a switch on the control panel and the wailing alarm is silenced. “How do you feel?”

  “OK,” I say. Actually, I’m not sure to be honest. I feel weird, not quite like myself.

  The nurse is unconvinced. “We’ll send the doctor to have a look at you. In the meantime, can I get you anything?”

  I consider asking for my knickers but this is a bit too embarrassing in front of the green-eyed stranger, never mind my dad.

  “My laptop?” I say eventually.

  “Cleo! Absolutely not!” Dad marches to my bedside. “You’ve been unconscious for forty-eight hours! The last thing you need to do is worry about work.”

  I’m horrified. If I’ve been unconscious for forty-eight hours I must be really behind.

  “He’s right,” agrees my rescuer. “There’s more to life than work.”

  I can’t think what, but my head’s starting to pound again and it seems easier just to ask for a glass of water and gulp down a couple of mouthfuls.

  “How are you feeling, darling?” Dad asks. “You gave us such a scare.”

  “My head aches, but I think I’ll live.”

  “You might not if you catch a superbug. How clean is it in here?” Tolly’s peering distastefully at the room through his designer glasses, as though he can see MRSA tap-dancing towards my sick bed. “Maybe we should move her to the Nuffield, Dad?”

  “I don’t believe in private healthcare,” snaps my father.

  “It exists, believe me,” Tolly says through clenched teeth. “And you can have Sky there.”

  “It’s fine, Tolly; I can live without Sky,” I say hastily. The last thing I need is my dad and my brother having a full-scale row about socialist principles. For a pacifist, Dad can get pretty violent when challenged.

  Tolly looks doubtful. He’s probably having withdrawal symptoms from Bloomberg as we speak.

  To distract them before things get ugly I say, “Dad, Tolly, I want you to meet Alex. He saved me from getting run over.”

  Alex is looking awkward. “Really, there’s no need.”

  “There’s every need! If it weren’t for you I’d have died. You’re a hero, Alex.”

  I reach out to touch his arm but somehow my fingers seem to slither right through his sleeve. That’s weird. My vision must be funny from the bang on my head. “Seriously, Alex, we really can’t thank you enough. Can we Dad?”

  But Dad and Tolly aren’t looking at Alex. They’re staring at each other, Dad mouthing “concussion” and shaking his head in a very rude manner.

 
Charming.

  “Hello?” I say, impatiently. “Alex saved my life! At least thank him.”

  “We can’t, Cleo,” Tolly says slowly. “There’s no one here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! He’s right here sitting next to me!” Honestly, a girl gets knocked out for forty-eight hours and her entire family flips. Embarrassed, I turn to Alex to apologise.

  But Alex isn’t there.

  “Where’s he gone?” I look around wildly. The window’s shut and there’s no way he could have pushed past Tolly and Dad without being noticed. Where’s he hiding? Under the bed?

  “Christ, don’t fall out!” Tolly shoots forward and grabs me. For a second the room dips and rolls sickeningly. “Your brain’s come loose, sis. There’s nobody here.”

  “But there was!” I shake my head and my brain really does swivel in my skull. Where’s Alex gone? I can still see him vividly: his laughing green eyes and smiling mouth hover in front of me like something from Alice in Wonderland. He can’t just disappear. “He was here! He saved me from falling under a car. I remember that bit really clearly.”

  Dad and Tolly exchange a look.

  “What?”

  Dad sits at my bedside and takes my hand in his. “Sweetheart, no one saved you from that car. You tripped on the kerb and fell sideways.”

  “I fell sideways because Alex pulled me out the way!”

  “Cleo, that really wasn’t how it happened! There were witnesses who made statements; even the driver said you were alone when you fell over. There wasn’t anyone else involved.”

  I clutch the bed covers. My knuckles glow through the skin, even whiter than the sheets.

  “But he was here! I saw him.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Sweetheart, you’ve had a really nasty crack on the skull. The doctors said you were extremely lucky not to have done more damage. You’re bound to be a bit muddled for a while.”

  I stare at my father. I don’t feel muddled. Alex was here. I know he was. I could see him.

  “Hallucinations are quite usual after a head injury,” Tolly states without looking up from his BlackBerry. “You just need some rest.”