If I Die Before I Wake

by Emily Koch

  I carried on walking through, towards the back of the house. My feet paused on the tiled kitchen floor, which always felt cool underfoot. There was a table on the left where we would sit to have dinner, with a vase full of pink lilies on a crocheted mat in the middle of it. I saw the big seat Philippa and I used to fight over. The boiler on the wall. Pine cupboards. And there, on the right, by the gas hob, stood my mother. She turned to smile at me, stirring beef stew in the saucepan in front of her. Then she turned away again.

  Out of the kitchen and then doubling back on myself to the left, I was in the back room. Tiled floor, again. Full of things; junk, you might call it. The big stereo that was outdated now. My old sports equipment: hockey stick, cricket bats.

  I walked into my dad’s study. On the wall was his volcano calendar, which Phil and I had given him several years ago and he’d never taken down, pinned open at April and showing a huge ash cloud exploding out of a volcano somewhere in Papua New Guinea. Behind the glass door of a display cupboard was his collection of rock specimens. His prized possession was a slice of beautiful Cotham Marble which he once told me he had found and polished up when I was just a baby. ‘Not easy to find, this,’ he had said to me, proudly. ‘And you only get it round Bristol.’ I used to love stroking the smoothness of its surface and looking at the detail in it – its patterns like a perfect landscape painting, complete with rows of silhouetted elm trees and ploughed fields. I opened the door to reach in and pick it up—

  ‘Thank you, Alex,’ Dr Sharma spoke through my headphones. The thrumming of the MRI stopped. ‘That’s it for now.’

  Did you see anything?

  My head was hot, and I could feel the adrenalin pumping through me.

  Has it worked?

  As they pulled me out of the scanner and took the headphones out, I heard Dr Sharma whistling.

  Please, tell me. You saw my brain working, didn’t you?

  He sounded happy. Didn’t he?

  A door clicked open and I was wheeled out into another room where I could smell something sweet – Pauline, waiting to take me back to the ward. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  Dr Sharma stopped whistling, and sighed.

  ‘Same as last time.’

  28

  WHEN THE MAN came in, I was distracted. He interrupted a vigorous training session I was putting myself through. I’d moved on from sound to movement. I had already tried to flex each muscle in my body in turn, or at least every limb, toe and finger, eyelid and lip, and now I was focusing on two small areas. Perhaps I could build strength if I concentrated my efforts.

  It had been a bad night, after the scan. I had nearly lost faith again. How could they not have seen anything? Last time, I had deliberately not done anything they’d asked me to do. I had evaded their scanners and tests. This time, I had done everything I was told. I’d really gone for it. Why could they not see that?

  Unless: I never had any control over any of it. When I thought I was resisting their tests, my actions had been pointless. They wouldn’t have been able to see the truth anyway. They couldn’t detect my brain activity. Something was preventing them. My brain wasn’t working right, or their tests weren’t working right. Hadn’t Dr Sharma said they were unreliable?

  But as I heard the sounds of the hospital getting ready for a new day, I’d dragged myself out of my self-pity – it wasn’t going to get me out of here. There had to be another way round this; it was simply a matter of methodically trying different things. So, after moving through my body, here I was, focusing on the little finger of my right hand, and my left eyelid. One part for each side of my body, in case my condition affected one side more than the other. I concentrated so hard on trying to move each of them that I became slightly delirious, and started to hallucinate that they moved.

  When the man walked in, I was abruptly pulled out of my reverie. I assumed it was a man, from the roughness of the breathing. He said nothing. It didn’t sound like Dad, or Tom. I smelled the strong burning scent of Deep Heat rub, and I got the feeling of someone watching me intently.

  Sweat started pricking my underarms. What if it was him – the guy who tried to kill me? Finally here, to finish what he started.

  Who are you?

  He didn’t speak. It wasn’t a doctor or a nurse – I couldn’t hear any chart-rustling. No one approached the bed.

  Say something. Who are you?

  A cough. Definitely a man.

  It’s you, isn’t it?

  ‘I’m in. Nah, no problem.’ He spoke in hushed tones. An East London accent that I recognised.

  ‘Not much. Just lying there. Tubes and shit.’

  It was a young guy, someone I knew.

  ‘Mmm. Talked to the police press office on my way over. Nah. Not happy.’

  Press office. So you must be –

  ‘He said he was going to call Louise. Exact words were, “I don’t think your editor will want to jeopardise an attempted murder investigation. How are plans coming along for those awards of yours that we’re sponsoring next month?” Yeah, exactly. Tell Louise to expect the call. Don’t let her back down.’

  I placed the voice. It was Jacob, the new guy at the paper. I felt light-headed with relief.

  ‘Okay, hang on. Let me get my notes.’

  The familiar sound of a notepad being flicked through. Who was Jacob on the phone to? Bill?

  ‘The bit he was against us using were the quotes from my officer contact, the stuff about the tip-off and who they think did it.’ He paused. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  The birdwatcher tip-off?

  ‘Yeah, I got Jo back in the office, going through Alex’s blacks to see if there’s any stories in that year before he fell, or was pushed – or whatever happened. See if there’s anything in there that could have upset someone enough.’

  They were going through my old stories. Surely it was obvious – it must be the Holly King case.

  ‘She said there was that one time, that web comment – remember? The kid who threatened to kill Alex because he covered the court case about his mum being put in prison for dealing?’

  He was just a kid.

  ‘Okay, well. She’s still going through the rest.’

  What else has she come up with?

  ‘Obviously we thought about the Holly King case, but—’

  But what?

  ‘Exactly. The only person who might have it in for Alex after the campaign would be Barker, and he’s banged up.’

  Barker?

  ‘The dates don’t work. Barker was already in prison for that other assault when Alex was – well, when whatever happened to him.’

  The name was new to me. Was I following this right? Barker must be Holly King’s real killer. But he was already in prison for attacking someone else when I got hurt. Did that mean William Ormond had been freed?

  This was good and bad news, all at once. Good news that the paper’s campaign had paid off and that Holly’s murderer was being punished. Good news that he couldn’t be stalking Bea. But I’d lost my prime suspect. And the police weren’t likely to be inclined to help my case, given I’d been party to exposing their incompetence.

  Jacob coughed.

  ‘Okay, so yeah. The police are waiting. On the record, we’re allowed to say that they’re reinvestigating the circumstances of his accident. They don’t want us to call it attempted murder.’

  What are they waiting for? Why don’t they make their move?

  ‘Anyway, I’m here now. What do you think Louise wants? I can describe what it’s like, if you want. It’s fucking bleak. Hang on, I’ll send you a photo.’

  He paused. I heard a fake camera shutter, on a phone.

  ‘Got it? He doesn’t look good, does he? Shame – he was a decent bloke.’

  Don’t talk about me in the past tense.

  ‘Okay, so you want colour, detail, atmospheric stuff.’

  He paused.

  ‘Speak to who, the doctors? I don’t know – I could try, but won’t the
y call the press office?’

  The conversation was making me miss work. I was even feeling sentimental about Bill and his shiny head.

  ‘No, no family. Do you have a number for the girlfriend? I can call her after I get out of here.’

  Bea would hate that.

  ‘What do you mean? Why should Ollie do it?’

  Ouch. They wanted him to share his scoop.

  ‘Insensitive?’

  He no longer seemed to care about speaking quietly.

  ‘How do you know if you won’t let me call her?’

  He swore under his breath.

  ‘Fine. I don’t want a joint byline, though, guv. This is my story.’

  He swore again.

  ‘So what do you want me to do about what my contact told me? We running with it?’

  What did he say?

  ‘It’s just such a good line. I think we should risk it. Everyone is going to assume it was a bloke what done it. But my contact is adamant. The witness definitely saw a woman.’

  A woman?

  ‘Okay, yeah. Bye.’

  Jacob muttered more expletives. ‘Insensitive? He can fuck the fuck off.’

  The scribble of a pen on paper. Pages flipping over. I tried to remember what he looked like. Always smart, even in his footie kit. Took pride in his appearance. Flash gold cufflinks and a signet ring. Hair slicked back with Brylcreem. I listened to the sound of him moving around the room. What kind of story would they run? One of their own people in a coma, then it turns out it’s an attempted murder case – they’d go big on it. There would be pages and pages. Witness appeals. Colour pieces with details about the scene of the accident, interviews with friends and family. It was weird, being the subject of the story rather than the one writing it.

  And then, without a word, he was gone. The door snapped shut. I knew I should get back to my muscle exercises, but my mind was elsewhere.

  Definitely a woman.

  My assumptions about who was to blame were unravelling. Holly King’s murderer was behind bars and had been when I fell. The police’s main suspect seemed to be a woman.

  Was it really an ex who had done this to me?

  I’d come full circle – right back to the letter.

  Visits were all over the place. Tom and Rosie appeared at least twice a week – I hadn’t spent this much time in their company since being in hospital – and Eleanor seemed to come in more often too. Bea was here less. Then there were the random arrivals of people who had stopped visiting me months ago. ‘We saw it in the paper,’ said other climbing friends. Cousins. Even my doctors and nurses seemed to be different when they came to check on me. They must have been intrigued by the crime drama unfolding around this room.

  Only Bart kept up his usual routines, mopping my floor, singing to me, and saying nothing to suggest he had a clue what had happened in the outside world. But one evening, he wasn’t his usual self. He seemed agitated.

  ‘Hello, friend. Bart is here to clean room,’ he said as he walked in, but his voice was more rushed than normal. I smelled the same disinfectant, but there was no mopping being done. Instead, I could hear him muttering. ‘Where is it,’ he was saying to himself. ‘Where is the thing. Come on, where is it.’ He clattered around the room and I heard papers rustling, chairs moving.

  ‘Ah!’ he shouted, sounding immediately happier.

  The TV came to life, blurted and unfinished sentences and clips of music hitting my ears in quick succession as Bart apparently flicked through the channels. What was he after? He never watched the TV in my room. Then it finally settled, and I heard the unmistakable drone of crowds cheering, singing, shouting. Airhorns being blown. The voice of a football commentator, steadily increasing in volume and speed, ‘… in there! Flag’s up. Flag’s up, it’s not going to count but he doesn’t know yet. But Poland have not taken the lead …’

  Bart let out a small yelp. ‘Very, very exciting, my friend. Very exciting game.’ He sounded like a small boy – incredibly excited and tense. ‘They can’t let England score! No goals yet, my friend. No goals, no goals. Both ends.’

  What was it? I worked out in my mind what year it was, what competitions would be happening. The World Cup would be on this year. So what was this – a friendly?

  When I heard Bart sit down in the chair at my side, I knew my floor probably wasn’t going to be cleaned tonight. He stayed with me for what felt like a long time shouting at the TV, slapping a hand down on my bed every now and then, and muttering to himself in Polish.

  I couldn’t help but get carried along by his excitement. It felt like watching a game with my dad. Poor Dad. He hated having to watch his beloved Liverpool play with me. I suspected it was because he didn’t like anyone else seeing how agitated he got. Sometimes I would turn up anyway. Without fail, his face would drop as he opened the door. ‘Oh,’ he’d say. ‘I thought maybe you’d be going climbing this afternoon.’

  I couldn’t resist. It was hilarious to see him sitting right on the edge of the sofa, jumping up and down when a goal was scored, shouting at the referee that he was ‘no better than a cabbage’ (whatever that meant).

  Bart, however, seemed happy to have someone to sit with as he shouted encouragement at the TV. After only a few minutes I was rooting for Poland to win, too. As the game neared full-time, the commentators were sombre – it was still nil–nil and England hadn’t delivered. Typical England, they were saying. Some sparks of quality but not enough. Bart, on the other hand, sounded like he might be about to have a heart attack. He was very happy with the score. If he was like this for a friendly, how did he cope during a crucial qualifier?

  ‘Come on, boys,’ he yelled. ‘Where you gone? Where you—’

  He stopped short, and I heard some noise in the corner of the room by the door.

  ‘Just going,’ he said quickly, and the television went silent. ‘Just leaving. Sorry – just having quick break with—’

  He tapped my arm.

  ‘Alex,’ Pauline said. ‘You were having a quick break with Alex?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Alex.’ Bart shuffled around the end of my bed, clearly embarrassed to have been caught slacking. ‘Must go, leave you in quiet.’

  Where was he going to watch the last few minutes up until the final whistle? More to the point, how was I ever going to find out what happened? I heard him wheeling his bucket out of the room.

  ‘Thank you.’ This was Bea’s voice; she must have walked in with Pauline.

  The door slammed shut.

  ‘Should he be watching the football here?’ Bea asked Pauline.

  Suddenly, my eyes opened a little. The vision in one was partially blocked by the pillow squashed against the side of my face, but I was still able to watch Bea walk back and forth in front of me.

  ‘I’ll have a word,’ Pauline said. ‘Let’s see this photo, then.’

  ‘It’s on my phone, not the best quality …’ I could just make out Bea’s shape in front of me, bending over as she went through her bag. ‘Do you think I would be allowed onto the maternity ward, to take a look? Or could you get me a bracelet?’

  Why do you want to go to the maternity ward?

  She sounded excited, more buoyed up than I’d heard her in a long time.

  ‘Let me look,’ Pauline said. ‘We might not need it. I used to work down there, I should be able to tell you what you need to know.’

  What did Bea need to know?

  The two of them stood hunched together, presumably looking at Bea’s phone. What had she found?

  ‘I had to hand over the original to the police but thankfully I’d already taken this.’

  ‘Oh bless, it’s a cute baby, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Bea’s voice faltered. ‘But I need to try and work out who its mother is. It could really help with—’

  ‘Can you zoom in?’

  ‘Yes. See, that’s the thing. Back then, when I found it, I didn’t have such a good phone so I couldn’t do all of this. But when I move
d all my files onto my new one I noticed I could zoom much closer in and sharpen it up, and look – if I put this filter on it, you can just make out these letters here – see? “L.A.”?’

  L.A? I couldn’t remember any text in the photo. Where was it? On the cot?

  ‘Yes, I see. Hmm.’

  ‘So what do you think? Is that where they’d write the hospital name? The mother’s name? Or what?’

  ‘It could also be part of the baby’s name,’ said Pauline.

  ‘Is there no way of being sure?’ Bea asked. ‘From its position on the bracelet?’

  Pauline sighed. ‘I’m sorry, my love. I don’t think I could say for definite. It’s not that clear.’

  ‘Could I not get one, to look?’

  ‘They won’t let you down there.’ Pauline sounded genuinely sorry. ‘And to be honest, I don’t think you’d get much more. It would depend on the hospital, the midwife, any number of things. And look, it’s handwritten – I think they might have computer-generated ones here these days.’

  I heard a smack: Bea’s hand against the wall, or windowsill. Pauline seemed to move towards her again, comfort her.

  ‘I’m sorry, my love. I’m sure they’ll work out who did this to him.’

  ‘I thought I could have gone back to the police with something, something to make them listen to me,’ Bea said.

  L. A.

  There was only one name that might fit, out of the list I had come up with so far. And even that relied on it being the mother’s name visible on the bracelet, not the baby’s and not the hospital’s.

  L. A.

  Clare.

  29

  THE NEXT DAY, Philippa walked in, mid-conversation with Pauline.

  ‘… police say when they called?’ Pauline asked, as the door whined open.

  ‘They’ve arrested someone,’ Philippa said. Clip, clip, clip.