If I Die Before I Wake

by Emily Koch

  ‘Obviously I’m not going to rush things. I want the girls onside first.’ He cleared his throat again, and put a hand on my shoulder. Squeezed it. Then he leaned his face against the side of mine, his rough beard scratching at my jaw and the plastic arms of his glasses feeling greasy as they slid on my cheek. ‘I hope I’m doing the right thing, Son,’ he said, into my ear.

  He was a good guy, my old man. I knew he’d come through for me.

  I had never told my family what I would want to happen if I became a vegetable. I had to hope my dad knew me well enough, and this showed that he did. It had taken a long time but, finally, death was coming for me.

  I exhausted myself after Dad left, trying to reconcile myself to the idea that I might die with Bea thinking I had cheated on her again. Surely she’d believe Tom when he told her I hadn’t? Eventually I was unable to defy the lulling whir of machinery from the building work outside my window and fell into a fitful sleep. There were no drills today, just the sound of trucks moving around, rubble being scooped up, dropped into piles elsewhere. The occasional unintelligible shout from one man to another. I imagined them, several floors below me, in their hard hats and heavy boots. They crept into my dreams when they yelled at each other: I dreamed they were talking to me and I asked them to repeat their muffled words. What? What did you say? Except they weren’t workmen in my dream. They were my climbing buddies. One of them was my belayer, controlling my rope, standing at the foot of the limestone face of the Gorge, fifteen metres below me as I climbed – up, up, up. They shouted to me: ‘Hhgbsh, mate. Tfshjd kishbro hey, Deano?’ What was that? I didn’t quite catch what you said. I was on my favourite route. The Crum. I had dreamed about this intimidating, but hugely satisfying, climb almost every day and night since my arrival in hospital. I could, quite literally, do it in my sleep. I knew all the holds, all the sketchy sections. I knew precisely where I’d have a chance to lean back and shake the lactic acid out of my pumped arms.

  The machinery hum outside the hospital morphed into the rush of traffic in my dream landscape – the traffic on the busy road behind and below me. I watched the cars race past: overtaking, undertaking. Then CRASH. A rock smashed noisily to the ground. I hadn’t noticed it drop from above me, but when I looked down I saw that it had narrowly missed one of my friends, and lay in two halves on the grass below. As soon as I saw it, and thought how lucky I was that I hadn’t been hit myself, the scenery started to fade away. The voices became the workmen’s once more; the noise of the traffic returned to its original owners – the trucks and lorries outside. As I came round, the smashing noise of the rock nagged at me. It had sounded familiar, unlike a rock cracking in two, more like –

  More like –

  The slam of the door.

  Is someone here?

  There were no other noises. I strained to listen. Nothing.

  No noises. But there was a smell.

  Spice. Smokiness. Aniseed. Very faint, but there all the same. And something stronger, burning in my nostrils – paint, and maybe something like white spirit.

  Quiet Doc.

  What do you want? You going to tell me how disillusioned you are with modern medicine again? Try and freak me out again by pretending to give me drugs?

  Nothing. He must have been looking at my charts.

  Go on, then. I’m ready for you. Do your worst.

  He still didn’t make a sound.

  No check-up this time?

  Nothing. The door slammed again, and I was alone.

  15

  I DROVE MYSELF mad trying to work out who the letter could be from. It had been bad enough when I’d received it – at least then I could do something about it, or distract myself. Now I had no escape and no way of solving the mystery other than using what I had in my memory.

  What else had Clare said to John that time she came over? He’d said it was difficult to understand most of it, because she was crying so hard. And when I’d arrived she’d just screamed abuse at me, most of which I had deserved. Had she said anything that could have implied she was pregnant? Maybe that was why she had been so upset.

  It didn’t add up. She wouldn’t have held back from telling me. She would have come out with it. But I couldn’t be sure of that – I barely knew her. I couldn’t even remember her surname.

  Even if I could work it out, it wouldn’t do me much good. I couldn’t tell anyone. And I was going to die soon, if I had my own way. I tried to tell myself to stop going over and over it. There was no point.

  But sometimes, even the self-torture of trying to make sense of it all was a better option than the reality of my hospital room. A few days after Bea had found the letter, I felt a slight shift in my bed. I had my suspicions that I knew what it was – which were confirmed when an alarm began to sound.

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  No. Not again.

  My mattress was deflating.

  I knew there wasn’t anything I could do – I just had to wait until someone noticed the noise. So I started on another element of the letter mystery – the baby in the photo. Did it look like anyone I knew? It was all made much more difficult by the fact that I couldn’t actually remember what the baby looked like. It was tiny, and it looked like it was still in hospital, in a plastic-looking cot. But beyond that, I couldn’t remember any facial features. Or hair colour. They all looked the same at that age, didn’t they? At least my attempts to remember took my mind off the imminent danger I knew was the other side of a flat mattress.

  My hi-tech airbed didn’t feel much different to a normal mattress, but by all accounts it stopped me getting the sores that some of the nurses were so worried about me developing. I once heard Pauline explaining to a new nurse. ‘See this plug here? Hmm?’ She rattled something. ‘If this comes out then the whole thing’ll deflate. As soon as the pump comes out, it starts beeping.’ She pulled at something and a noise started up. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. She rattled it again and the noise stopped. ‘Listen out for that. If we don’t realise in time, Alex here will end up right down on the metal. It’s like lying on concrete. It won’t take long for him to get a pressure sore.’

  ‘Shit,’ the new nurse said.

  ‘Exactly. We don’t want that.’

  I had never had pressure sores, but I knew enough about them to understand they would make my already poor existence considerably worse. I didn’t want to end up on the cold, hard bed frame, as I had when the cleaner dislodged the pump once before; that was bad enough, even though it had only been a few minutes before Pauline came in to fix it. The baby photo was going to have to keep my mind off that scenario.

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  I compared it to my memory of Clare, trying to remember if it had her dark hair and brown eyes. Did it look like any of the baby photos Dad had at home of me, or— I heard the door open, and a draught of vanilla hit my nostrils.

  Bea?

  She hadn’t visited for days.

  You’ve come back. Thank you. I’m sorry. That letter isn’t what you think.

  No kiss on the forehead. But no slap, either. Silence. I listened for the sound of her sitting down in the chair next to me, but it didn’t come.

  Say something.

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  She didn’t seem to notice the sound. If she did, she didn’t say anything. I could feel the bed slowly falling away beneath me.

  Can’t you hear that? Bea?

  ‘I don’t want you thinking you’ve got away with this,’ she said. She sounded tired, frayed.

  The chair legs scraped, but more than they usually did when she sat down. They grated on the floor for several seconds, moving away from me, down towards the foot of the bed.

  You don’t need to sit so far away. Please.

  She sighed again and I heard her body collapse into the chair.

  ‘Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.’

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  I thought I could hear the telltale rhythmic rustle of her
rolling a cigarette.

  You need to call one of the nurses.

  Her phone buzzed against the floor and I listened as she fished it out of her bag, paused, dropped it back in.

  Who was that?

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  Make it stop.

  How could she not hear the alarm? Maybe she didn’t know what it was.

  Another possibility suggested itself, but I couldn’t believe it was true. She wouldn’t, would she? Even if she was angry with me?

  Please tell me you’re not deliberately ignoring this.

  Her phone vibrated again, more insistently this time. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzz.

  She did something with her bag, and the buzzing noise disappeared. ‘Hi,’ she said. No, it’s okay. I can talk.’

  Who was it? She never took calls in my room.

  ‘I’m at home. Doing – doing work.’

  Why was she lying?

  ‘I did. They were useless. I ended up speaking to the same one who dealt with things after the accident. PC Halliwell.’

  Halliwell?

  ‘No, he was nice enough, just—’

  You’ve been to the police?

  ‘Recognised me, weirdly. Considering it’s been so long.’

  Halliwell. Wasn’t he on the Holly King murder investigation? I was surprised he’d wanted anything to do with my case – we hadn’t exactly hit it off when I’d questioned his methods.

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. She’d have to notice my body sinking lower soon.

  ‘He took me into one of the interview rooms, and I showed him my diary.’

  Is that Rosie on the phone? Your parents? Or him?

  ‘No … he said not to worry. Like I was imagining it all.’ Her voice rose. The more she talked, the angrier and more tearful she became.

  Sounds like the arsehole I remember.

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  ‘He looked uncomfortable, like he was embarrassed on my behalf.’ She wobbled on the final word. ‘He didn’t believe me. Just told me to keep writing it all down.’

  She paused, took a deep breath. Sniffed.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m trying.’ Another breath. ‘He said to go back if anything more happens or if I get a better idea of who it might be.’

  Footsteps. She must have stood up. She walked round the room as she kept talking.

  ‘Before I left he said he needed to talk to me again soon, bring me in for a chat, because they – what were the words he used?’

  Her footsteps stopped, and she continued to speak more slowly, as she tried to remember what he had said.

  ‘Because they have concerns about Alex’s accident.’

  Concerns?

  ‘No, that’s all he would say.’

  What kind of concerns?

  ‘The only thing I can think of is that they’re looking at the equipment again. I thought they’d ruled all that out.’

  My face grew hot as my mind raced, trying to work out what this meant. First, the visit from the police here in hospital several days ago. Then Eleanor, preparing to go over her statement. Now this. Then I felt coldness cutting into my back, in bars across my spine, arse, legs. I’d hit the bed frame.

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  Bea, I need a nurse. Now.

  ‘Okay. I know, I’m trying.’ She took another deep breath. ‘Something good. It’s hard – I can’t think of anything.’

  My mind flickered through a series of time-lapse images as I imagined bedsores waiting to form along the lines of the frame beneath me. I knew from what the nurses said that the damage could be done surprisingly quickly – an hour was all it took, they had said. I saw redness, deepening, eating into my flesh. I’d managed to avoid them so far. I didn’t want this added pain.

  ‘The only thing is my work. That’s the only good thing in my life, you know?’

  She sniffed.

  ‘Seriously? You’ll find it boring.’

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  ‘Okay. I’ve had this big commission for the Wall Street Journal. I can’t believe they want me. They want watercolour illustrations of five different kinds of burger.’ Bit by bit, her voice calmed down. Her breathing returned to normal. ‘They’ve sent me the copy for the article and there’s loads to go on. They’re talking about all the salads you can have – so there’s the reds, greens, purples … lettuce, tomatoes and red cabbage in coleslaw. It’s bright. Then cheeses, bacon, pulled pork …’

  I listened as she went on, letting her words take me away from my discomfort as I lay on the unforgiving bed frame. Her descriptions made me feel hungry and brought my grey world to life. I loved it when she did this – talked about what she saw. The colours and the patterns in her work. The way a street looked when she walked down it. The sunset she’d seen when she drove home from a hospital visit. She somehow knew what I needed. I clung to her descriptions and fleshed them out.

  I imagined her sitting at the desk in our flat. She had a spotlight lamp bent over her workspace, a little plate smeared with paints to one side, a jam jar of water, sketches everywhere, a laptop open with images or words to work from.

  Colours layered upon colours. I imagined running my fingertips over the texture of the thick watercolour paper she used. I saw her, with faint smudges of paint on her face. But her face, when I saw it, was not clear. I couldn’t completely remember it or its features. When Mum died, the same thing happened. After a couple of years I couldn’t bring her face into my mind. That was easy to fix – I pulled out a photo of her. I couldn’t do that now – not for Mum, not for Bea.

  In my imagination I could make out Bea’s expression, though. She was sad. Tense. Scared. My imagined world fell away and I returned to the present moment.

  Bea? I wish I could be there for you. Keep you safe.

  ‘… okay. Tomorrow?’ She was still on the phone.

  ‘Bye.’

  Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. The machine hadn’t given up.

  I heard Bea, at last, moving towards the foot of the bed. Rattling the box that controlled the mattress. ‘That’s not normal.’

  She must have noticed the bed, then, and she said, ‘Oh God, that’s not right. I’ll get a nurse. Wait there.’

  At least she still cared enough about me to not want me to be in pain. Maybe all was not lost between us.

  A squeak as the door opened, and a click as it shut.

  I lay there, left alone with my thoughts for a minute. What concerns could the police have? Maybe it didn’t matter. I was still here, still unable to speak to the people I loved. Unable to move. Unable to wash myself, go to the toilet. Nothing could change that.

  But the news had shaken me. I lay waiting for a nurse to come and re-inflate my bed, listening to the ambulance sirens outside on the road ringing out like warning alarms.

  Feet squeaked in – rubber soles against lino.

  ‘Oh, great. How did this happen?’ Bitchnurse Connie sounded as chirpy as usual.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Bea said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t touch it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Connie had her ‘friends and family’ voice on. The profanity-free, less-abusive one that I didn’t qualify for. ‘We’ll sort it out.’ She huffed and rattled the pump. The beeping stopped, and a soft whirring noise started up again as the mattress began to inflate. ‘There we go.’

  ‘Actually, while you’re here, I wanted to ask a few questions, about who visits him.’ Bea sounded brisk, businesslike.

  ‘You as well? A lot of interest all of a sudden in who comes and goes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The police were in the other day, asking the same thing. Don’t ask me why. God knows, I tried my hardest to find out.’

  What have my visitors got to do with their investigation?

  ‘I wonder why that was.’

  ‘If I knew, I’d be the first person to tell you.’ I didn’t doubt it. Connie wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to spread a juicy bit of news. ‘Now, I don’t think I could tell you ever
y single—’

  ‘No, of course. I just want a rough idea. Anything you could tell me would be helpful.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do what I can, dear. Of course I will.’

  I could have retched. This woman disgusted me. Could no one see through it?

  ‘Do any other women visit him?’ Bea asked.

  ‘Let’s see. Vis-it-ors.’ Connie drew out her last word, exaggerating the effort it took her to think of an answer. ‘There’s his sister, and the aunt. The one with the cakes. Sometimes she brings a friend.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Bea was impatient. She started picking at her nails. Tck. Tck. Tck.

  ‘There’s the friend, with the boyfriend – Rosie, is it? And the skinny blonde girl.’

  ‘Eleanor. No other women?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘What about children?’ Tck. Tck.

  ‘Children? No, never seen any kiddies. Why do you ask?’ The sniff of more gossip perked Connie up.

  ‘You can’t think of anyone else that you’ve not mentioned? It’s important.’

  ‘Only men – his dad, and that good-looking chap—’

  ‘Tom. Yes, know about him. It’s women I’m interested in.’ Bea sighed. ‘Never mind. Thank you.’ Tck. Tck. Tck.

  ‘Any time, dear.’ A few squeaky steps and the door opened.

  ‘Wait – one more thing,’ Bea said. ‘You wouldn’t want to hazard a guess at why the police were sniffing around? Even if it’s just a hunch?’

  ‘Maybe it’s the same reason as you? You didn’t say why you were asking.’

  Bea didn’t take the bait. ‘Maybe.’ She sounded dubious, and I could tell what she was thinking. The police didn’t know about the letter. Whatever they were up to, it wasn’t trying to find out if I had a bit on the side.

  Connie must have realised she wasn’t going to get any more out of her. The door shut.

  I heard Bea sink back down into the chair in its new position at the end of the room.

  ‘You’ve covered your tracks well,’ she said. Tck. Tck. Tck. ‘I’ve asked everyone. Your dad. Tom. I’ve emailed everyone who got in touch after the accident. No one knows anything.’