If I Die Before I Wake

by Emily Koch

  I picked up the pile of imaginary notes about her from the memorised brown carpet tiles around my office desk, and put them in the imaginary bin, along with week-old banana skins, crisp packets, and chewed-to-death Biros.

  Over those weeks, the nights felt longer than the days. Lonely, and more painful than ever. My body experienced a series of excruciating cramps. My legs. My back. Arms, toes, hands. The muscles contracting and stiffening against the fabric of my thin pyjamas and the bedsheets. And as I lay there, unable to sleep, I thought about the person who had tried to murder me, coming back to finish the job. I was jumpy every time someone came into my room. What was taking them so long? It could only be a matter of time. I’d been here for more than eighteen months. If they came, there would be nothing I could do.

  23

  ‘… IT JUST MAKES you wonder if any of us is safe. Ever.’ Philippa had high-heel-clipped her way in, thrown a new bunch of flowers onto the table next to me, and was now telling Connie everything she knew about the police investigation, as Connie set up my food pump for the night.

  ‘Well, indeed.’ Connie gently rolled me over onto my back – obviously aware that she needed to treat me a bit better in front of my sister.

  ‘Then the liaison woman came round yesterday to see how we were, and she told us something that the other guy, the detective or whoever he was, hadn’t told us before.’ Philippa paced in her heels. Clip, clip, clip.

  ‘Oh yes?’ I heard the buzz of the controller for my bed as Connie raised my head and torso. The upper half of my body hinged upwards and forwards.

  ‘Apparently, the day Alex was out climbing, some birdwatcher was at the top, up by the Downs. And they saw someone right at the spot where Alex should have finished his climb. Standing there, right on the edge of the cliff.’

  The buzzing stopped and I felt Connie pull my bed sheet down and roll my pyjama top up to expose my stomach. I wanted her to stop, to let me concentrate on what Philippa was saying.

  Doing what? Watching me?

  Connie tugged sharply on the tube stuck into my abdomen, an inch or two above my belly button, causing an intense stab of pain. I felt coldness inside me as she flushed liquid through the tube into my stomach.

  ‘Anonymous tip-off, they’re saying. The birdwatcher. Didn’t leave a name.’

  ‘But what does that mean?’ Connie asked, out of breath from the effort of taking care of me. There was the sound of plastic being fiddled with as she attached my feeding tube to the pumping machine. ‘Did she explain?’

  For once in her life, Connie was proving useful – asking the questions I wanted answered. I heard a tap and the machine droned into life. The fourteen-hour feeding cycle had begun, and cool liquid started to trickle into my stomach.

  ‘No. That was it. She was definitely talking like this person that was seen up there was a suspect, although she didn’t come out and say it in so many words. I think she probably wasn’t meant to have said anything, so when we started asking more questions she shut down. What were they doing up there?’ Clip, clip, clip. ‘Meanwhile, that girlfriend of his carries on as if nothing has happened, as if he doesn’t exist. I told you she’s got herself a new man, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you did – shameful. I can’t believe it.’ Connie held my head forward as she fluffed up my pillows. This did not form part of her usual routine – it was all for show.

  ‘He loved that girl. Why, I don’t know,’ Philippa said.

  I didn’t know what made me angrier – her sharing details of my private life with Connie, or the way she had it in for Bea. I didn’t want my girlfriend to be with someone else, but I could understand why she was doing it. Why couldn’t Philippa?

  ‘If I see them together, I swear I don’t know what I’ll do,’ Philippa said. ‘I tried talking to Dad but he thinks it’s a good thing! I don’t know what’s got into him recently, it’s like he’s forgotten Alex is his son.’

  Clip, clip, clip.

  ‘I suppose I’d best be getting off.’ The door clicked shut and cut off Philippa’s voice.

  This was big news. Why had this tip-off birdwatcher guy only just come forward? Was that the only new information the police had?

  I knew the spot where twitchers congregated to watch for falcons. Had he been there? If so, I could see the ledge where this other person might have been standing, a ledge where several routes finished. Anyone could easily climb over the low mesh fencing running alongside the path at the edge of the Gorge. There was a good bit of land on the other side. It would be easy to look down at climbers beneath you. So someone was standing there, right at the point where I would have topped out when I finished the climb? What did that mean? People were always there, ignoring the danger of the cliff edge. It wasn’t unusual.

  There had to be more. For them to be talking about this person as a suspect, as Philippa seemed to think they were, they must have been doing something.

  Had they thrown something at me? Kicked me? Pushed me as I got to the top? What else could it be, for the police to be interested?

  One person was ruled out, if what Philippa said was true. Eleanor couldn’t have been at the top. I was leading the climb – she’d told me so. She was somewhere lower down on the rock, beneath me, waiting to follow me up.

  So who else could’ve known I was there?

  24

  ONE OF THE worst visits I had after finding out about the tip-off was when Bea brought in a selection of music for me.

  ‘I was talking about you to … a friend,’ she said, standing next to me, chewing her gum noisily. My face ached with the absence of her kiss. How long had it been since she’d touched me with any affection? But at least she hadn’t dragged the chair down to the end of my bed this time. Did that count as progress?

  A friend? I’m not an idiot.

  ‘I’ve brought my iPod.’ I felt her put it on my chest and heard the quiet rattle as she untangled the wires of the headphones. ‘He says it might spark recognition in your brain, bring you round in a way that talking won’t.’ She spoke quickly and abruptly, like she always did when she was in a bad mood. Or upset.

  Dad had already tried music therapy, I wanted to tell her. The doctors recommended it to him months ago. Did they never mention it to her?

  ‘He suggested a few songs we could try,’ she said. Chew, chew, chew.

  What’s up?

  I’d known her long enough to know that gum meant she wanted a cigarette, which meant she was on edge about something.

  ‘I just need to know we’ve tried everything. I need to know for sure that you’re not—’

  Not conscious?

  Is that what was upsetting her?

  ‘Your dad’s on a mission. Says we’ve got to do something. But I can’t – you know – I can’t until I’m sure it’s the right thing.’

  Something wasn’t right here. If she was upset because of the thought of me dying, she would be more teary. More emotional. That wasn’t how she was talking. She was worked up about something.

  What’s happened?

  Minty breath fell onto my face as she leaned across me, pressing the headphones in so roughly that it hurt. Her touch jolted me after so long going without it – it was like electricity shivering through me. But I didn’t feel able to enjoy it.

  ‘So, here’s the first one,’ she said. Chew, chew, chew. ‘This band is playing in town next week. We might go. They’re not very well known. My – my friend saw them supporting this other group …’

  Indie rock filled my ears. It was too loud and hurt my eardrums. It was repetitive, catchy – I could see why they might like it. Once, I might have liked this kind of music, too. But not today. Never would I like this song. This song that he had picked.

  Worse, it was a love song. I couldn’t bear to think of them listening to it together, holding hands, singing the words to each other.

  ‘“You begged me to stay when I had to go,”’ a cocky kid with a Manchester accent sang each time the chorus kicked in. �
��“And you told me your name so I’d always know.”’

  Bea pressed the headphones in again, but I could just hear her speak through the music. ‘It’s his favourite.’

  Fuck you, dickhead. Fuck you.

  ‘No?’ Chew, chew, chew. ‘Let’s try this.’

  Hip-hop.

  Really?

  She knew I hated this kind of music.

  ‘We thought this one might jar you a bit, you know. The rhythms and the lyrics …’ Expletives filled my ears, drowning out her words.

  Heat was rising to my face. After so long feeling only overwhelming love for her, the unfamiliar anger sent a tremor through me.

  She watched me for a while longer, then I heard the faint sound of her sitting down in the chair next to me. The music continued loudly, through a random selection of tracks I didn’t want to listen to – each presumably chosen by her ‘friend’. It blocked out the rest of the noises in the room, until one of the headphones slipped out.

  Bea was muttering to herself. I hadn’t realised she was still talking until my right ear was released from its musical torture. I could hear the flickering of paper, too. Pages in a notebook?

  What have I missed?

  ‘… then yesterday … May twenty-seventh …’ She spoke slowly: her diary-writing voice. ‘… windscreen smashed … brick lying in road … both wing mirrors kicked off …’

  Her stalker? This was going too far. The violence of what she described shocked me.

  ‘… first I thought it might be the usual … students on their way home …’

  It’s too much of a coincidence.

  ‘… but mine was the only one targeted on the street … nothing missing, either …’

  She mumbled more words, scratched her pen on the page. In my left ear the track had changed to classical music of some kind.

  The heat came back to my face – of anger directed not at Bea this time but at whoever was making her feel like this. Her car must have been what was making her sound so agitated today.

  ‘… don’t know what they want from me …’

  It has to be your stalker. You’re not safe.

  ‘… police sent someone out last night … glad it wasn’t that Halliwell guy again …’

  Finally. So they’re taking it seriously?

  ‘… what’ll I get home to find next?’

  Don’t let it get to you. That’s what they want.

  ‘… freaking me out … keep thinking …’

  I’m sorry. I wish I could help.

  ‘… is it the woman who sent Alex the letter?’

  I think it’s linked to the letter, but …

  What did I think? Someone was trying to scare her. Or warn her. It had to be related to what had happened to me. But was that really down to a jealous ex of mine? There was no way of telling Bea about my suspicions about the Holly King case.

  Again, police evidence photos of the girl’s body flashed into my mind. It would be all my fault, if –

  If –

  Had I led him to Bea? Had he come after me, then had his attention drawn to her? If he’d known where I climbed he’d know Bea was my girlfriend. But why start to persecute her two years after trying to kill me?

  She sat at the end of my bed for what felt like a long time, in silence. The iPod kept on playing into my ear, shuffling through track after track. I didn’t know any of them.

  Please. Stop. Leave her. It’s me you want.

  Don’t hurt her.

  Please, I’d do anything.

  Come here, kill me if that’s what you want. But leave her alone.

  Eventually, Bea stood up, and went as if to pull the remaining headphone out. But she stopped briefly before she did so, and I could feel her eyes on my face.

  ‘Alex?’ She rested her fingers on my ear. ‘Nothing …’

  She removed the headphone and I heard her drop the iPod into her bag.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Her footsteps padded away from me, towards the door.

  Be careful. Please.

  I imagined her journey through dark streets. I saw her arriving home to find her door kicked in and a masked man with a knife, waiting for her. Pushing her to the floor, cutting a gash in her cheek. Tearing off her clothes. Raping her. Leaving her for dead in the bedroom.

  The vividness of it convinced me I was having a premonition, or a vision of the present. My heart pumped fast, my underarms felt damp and drops of sweat rolled down my temples from my forehead.

  I can’t—

  I gasped for air. Choked on the saliva pooling in my mouth.

  I must have exhausted myself after several hours of panic. I found I was asleep, trapped in the same vision – watching from the corner of our flat, trying to help her, trying to shout to her but realising that saline drip lines bound my wrists and ankles, and the sponges used to clean my mouth were stuffed into it, gagging me.

  When I woke up I was shattered.

  I lay there, waiting for someone to come in and tell me Bea had been found.

  25

  YOU NEED TO go to her flat.

  I wanted to scream at the nurses every time they came in.

  Bea is in danger.

  ‘Time to clean you up, Alex.’

  You’ve got to get her some help.

  ‘Let’s turn you onto your side, shall we?’

  There’s nothing I can do.

  ‘We need to get rid of some of that phlegm in your throat for you.’

  She’s dead. Bea is dead.

  ‘Fucking donkey. Look at this mess.’

  She’s dead. It’s my fault.

  This went on for what felt like days on end. The only visitors I had were hospital staff. Bea lay lifeless and cold on the floor in her flat. When would they find her?

  By the time Rosie and Tom next visited I was furious that nobody cared enough to notice her absence. Tension and aches plagued my body.

  Why haven’t you checked on her?

  Rosie sat in the chair on my left, and from the direction of Tom’s voice it sounded like he stood next to her by the window. When they walked in, the smell of food hit me – spices, meat, salt, fat. The torturous smell of meals served to other patients on the ward came and went every day. But this seemed stronger, closer. They must have eaten just before coming in.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about him,’ Rosie said. ‘How could someone do this? There’s a guy in one of my classes who looks like him. Red hair. Freckles.’

  ‘Huh.’ Tom cracked his knuckles.

  Don’t worry about me. What about Bea? Why haven’t you been to see her?

  ‘It could have been you,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve been over this. Whoever was behind this, they were after Al. For whatever reason.’

  Leave. Go. You’ve got to go and find her. There might still be time.

  ‘I can’t get it out of my head, though.’ She paused, changed tack. ‘Oh crap … did you bring forks?’

  ‘Yep,’ Tom said.

  ‘Feels a bit strange eating in here.’

  I heard a plastic bag being crumpled, followed by several pops that coincided with a new, intense smell wafting over to me.

  ‘Where’s the peshwari naan?’ asked Rosie.

  ‘You didn’t ask for one.’

  ‘Don’t you remember me saying not to get a plain one?’ She sighed. ‘Never mind.’

  Was this really happening? They were going to eat an Indian takeaway in front of me. The food smelled delicious. My mouth watered. I was already thirsty, as always, and now my stomach rumbled jealously.

  How can you do this?

  Through mouthfuls of what I imagined to be tender lamb bhuna and perfectly spiced pilau rice, charred tandoori chicken and sweet mango chutney, they carried on chatting.

  ‘When does Bea reckon her car will be sorted?’ Tom asked.

  ‘A week, if she’s lucky? They could only start on it this morning.’ Rosie stopped, swallowed.

  Relief flooded me. Bea was alive. There had be
en no one waiting for her that night when she got home from hospital. I felt my muscles relax slowly, starting with my shoulders, moving down my spine to my legs, as if I’d downed a shot of neat whisky.

  ‘So is she going to the police again?’ Tom chewed his food noisiliy.

  Rosie took a forkful of curry before she carried on, almost unintelligible. ‘This is the thing I don’t get … she did tell them about the car, but not about the phone call.’

  ‘Maybe she just hasn’t got round to it. It’s not even been twenty-four hours.’

  ‘No – she says she’s not going to bother.’ I heard cutlery scraping against plastic. I imagined wiping up the last bits of curry sauce and chutney with my finger. Rosie went on. ‘I don’t know … she says all this stuff is happening, but …’

  ‘What do you mean, “she says”?’

  No reply.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘It’s just that she’s – she’s acting in a certain way.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘She’s refusing to go to the police. Saying they’ll fob her off again.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Do you think there’s a chance that she’s making it up?’

  ‘Rosie Phelan! You’re meant to be her friend.’

  Why would Bea make this up?

  ‘I know, I know, but what if? It’s all so strange. She seems to think there are several people following her. She thinks the car being totalled is linked too, but that kind of thing goes on all the time round there. It’ll be students.’

  ‘But how would you explain that call? Phone rings as soon as she walks into the flat, and then the line goes dead – sounds to me like someone keeping pretty close tabs on her.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe she isn’t making it up, then. But she could be imagining it. She is under a lot of stress.’