“You were right, of course,” he says. “We needed to move on. That was your forté, wasn’t it? Seeing the wood for the trees and doing what had to be done.”
“Are you happy, Geoff?”
I want him to be happy. I don’t want to be the bitch who ruined his life.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t hear, and frustration rises in me. I’m so sick of being stuck in this world of non-existence.
“I loved you, you know. Still do.” He looks tired. “And I know it wasn’t the same for you but—” he shrugs “—we gave it a shot. That’s what counts.”
He reaches for Faith-in-the-bed’s hand, and that’s when I decide it’s time. I’ve failed once before, but that feels like a lifetime ago. Since then I’ve worked so hard. I’ve learned a lot about my family and even more about myself. I know I love Nate so much it hurts. I also know he wants me dead, but that doesn’t change a thing. I love him. I know that not waiting for Nate was the biggest mistake of my life—and marrying Geoff came a close second. I can’t undo those mistakes, but hopefully—with openness, honesty, and a good helping of humble pie—I can begin to heal the hurt I caused them both.
And I can only achieve that if I do what I’ve need to do all along: reclaim my body and wake up.
I feel a moment’s hesitation. What if the Death Council still aren’t convinced I’m worthy of a second shot at life?
Enough of that negative talk. I shake off the inadequate feelings. This is Day Seven. Day Seven. My scalp tightens. I could be dead in a matter of hours. If this is my last chance to put right the mistakes I’ve made in my life, what am I waiting for?
Decision made, I don’t muck about.
I’m far better at moving than I was the first time I tried this, so positioning myself is easy. The nerve-jangling feeling of having my body invaded is every bit as bad as the first time, but I’m ready for it and cope.
But suddenly it’s harder to breathe. My chest feels heavy. Heart attack? I push back the fear, knowing I can’t afford to panic because that will make it ten times worse.
I try to breathe deep and slow, but my lungs are dancing to a completely different tune. I wrestle with my breathing, trying to regain control. Crap. I can’t. Fear tickles the back of my throat.
Easy, Faith.
Fine. I’ll hold my breath, calm down, then start again nice and slow.
I try to stop breathing, but I can’t do that either. I’m being forced to inhale and exhale. My heart pounds. Panic sets in. And then I remember the ventilator.
That’s what this is: I’m feeling the effect of the ventilator.
My panic subsides. And now I’ve relaxed, the enforced breathing rhythm feels less cumbersome. I’m coping again.
I align my body with Faith-in-the-bed, waiting for a click or something to tell me my legs are locked in place. Nothing yet, so I adjust my arms, shuffle my backside a little to the left, then lift my head and check. Yep, looking good. All aligned.
I lower my head—and that’s when the blackness descends. Deep, cold blackness with an insidious promise of nevermore.
My chest constricts, my lungs scream for air, and in the far distance I hear Faith-in-the-bed’s monitor beeping faster, faster, increasingly erratic.
Icy knowledge trickles through my veins, freezing me, squeezing me. This time it’s working, but Faith-in-the-bed wasn’t ready for me. I wasn’t ready for my body. There’s no light, no coming-home feelings; only total, asphyxiating blackness.
This isn’t the way it was meant to be.
Weakness.
Sorrow.
“Faith! Get out of there now.” It’s Gran’s voice, angry and urgent. “Right now, do you hear?”
Acceptance.
I feel a thwick of movement next to me and then her voice is right in—in—my ear.
“GET OUT NOW. Do it. Do it or die, Faith. I mean it. Fight this. Be an Osbourne and fight, dammit! Think of Tess.”
Tess. Tess.
And then I’m digging deep and fighting for my life, heaving great weighty boulders off my body, pushing past the chill that threatens to kill me where I lie, wrestling my way through quicksand and darkness and fear, with Tess my only lucid thought . . . must get back for Tess . . . need to live for Tess . . . battling through layers of murk, layers of me, until finally the darkness eases, the chill abates, and I’m rolling off the bed and back into my out-of-body existence.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
My heart slams into my throat, hauling me into raw-nerved, stomach-plunging wakefulness. I stare wildly around.
Thank God. My adrenalin rush gradually abates. I’m alive. Exhausted, but alive.
And alone, it seems. Geoff has gone.
I shiver, remembering the heaviness, the darkness, the fear, the inevitability of it all. That was close. Too close.
Although Gran’s not here I can feel her presence. She’s hovering at the edges of my mind; keeping an eye on me, no doubt. And who can blame her? She told me not to try it again, I didn’t listen, and then she had to race in and save me. How she managed to do that with Creepy Guy watching her every move I have no idea.
Sorry, Gran. I won’t do it again, I promise.
I hope she didn’t ignore Creepy Guy and do it anyway. He might revoke her parole for something like that, and who knows where she’d end up?
My gut rolls.
I send out the silent question, Are you okay?
I think she is. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part.
I’m still probing, listening, hoping she’ll reassure me with a visit, when the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My scalp tightens. Nate. He’s coming.
I merge through to the corridor and, yep, it’s him, striding my way, his eyes drilling into my door.
Panic parches my mouth. I swallow. Right now I’d give anything to be able to down a glass of water. Or scotch.
The nurse who tinkles a ‘hello’ at him gets only a cursory smile, which isn’t like Nate at all. Shite. He’s a man on a mission, and that doesn’t bode well for me.
I quickly merge back into the room. He marches in and stands there, hands hovering at his hips like a cowboy in a western, surveying the room through hooded eyes. What’s he looking for? Somewhere to stash his weapon?
My heart thuds, and even that feels ominous to my adrenalin-fuelled senses.
At last Nate relaxes. He takes a deep breath. Shakes his head, shoves his hands in that black leather jacket he wears so well, and gives a rueful smile.
It’s a knife-twist in my heart. That smile is like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day. Bastard.
“I keep thinking I’ll see you,” he says, the smile in his voice.
Another head-shake, and before I realise what he’s doing he about-turns and finds me in the most invasive way. Both of us gasp. He stops dead, pales.
I close my eyes, trying to still the cacophony of emotions he’s aroused. I don’t want to remember that night, these feelings. I need to forget it all, because he’s a killer. My killer.
“Faith,” he murmurs, in that come-to-bed voice of his. “Hi.”
He goes into the bathroom and flicks on the light. I hover in the doorway, watching him.
“I went for a walk, and everywhere I went I kept seeing you. I feel like I’m going mad.”
“Maybe you are,” I murmur, brave because I know he can’t hear me.
Clearly he wants to chat. I’m not sure I do, but when he shuts the bathroom door I merge through anyway.
“Right. Let’s do this,” he says, as if nothing’s changed, as if he’s still the man who’ll save me.
And maybe, in his mind, nothing has changed. Maybe he thinks that by killing me he is saving me. Maybe he really is that crazy.
Anger rises in me. I clench my fists. What a jerk. He knows full well I heard Geoff’s accusation as well as his own blasé response—every sickening, blood-chilling word. He knows I know. And he doesn’t care. For him this is business as usual. That shows just how dange
rous he really is.
Nate turns the hot tap on full, foot tapping against tiles as he waits for the steam.
Like I’m about to engage in a little mirror talk with my murderer. I fold my arms, my own foot beating a defiant tattoo.
“Hello?” he asks.
He waits a few moments then continues. “I’m going back to your place for another look. The balcony, especially. I’m sure the cops are missing something.”
Ha! The only thing they’re missing is the red herring Nate’s about to plant.
My stomach drops. What if he succeeds? What if nobody’s there and he sneaks in and suddenly Geoff’s ring or whatever turns up in some incriminating corner? Nate’s got that kind of brain. Resourceful. Sneaky. He’ll think of something, and then—
Crap. Then we’ll all be screwed. Not just me; all of us. I’ll be dead, Geoff will be in jail, and Tess will be packed off to foster parents and a life of misery.
“Pix?” Nate stares at the steamed-up mirror. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”
I don’t want to answer. If I answer he’ll win yet again.
But if I don’t answer he’ll know I’m on to him.
I answer.
SORY. BZY.
“I was saying—”
I cut him off.
GD IDEA.
He nods. “Okay. Well, just so you know where I am. I’ll be back later. Meanwhile, if you need me . . .”
What? I’ll call him? 0800 KILLER?
He wipes a hand down his face. “Just . . . be safe, hon. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I draw a smiley face in the steam. In my head there’s a gun pointing at its head.
“This will soon be over,” he says, his voice low. “Everything will work out, I promise.”
My hands break out cold and clammy. ‘Work out’ as in ‘work out fine’, or ‘work out the way he’s planning’?
How do I stop him? How do I even have a voice? I’ve relied on Nate too much these past days. (Good grief, is it only days? It feels like a lifetime.) What do I do now he’s the bad guy?
Suddenly I feel a kinship for anyone who’s ever been thrown in a padded cell. Voiceless. Impotent. Scarily sane in a world gone mad.
I need someone else protecting me. Better still, police protection. Who can I tell? Who will be a voice for me?
Sylvia’s the obvious choice, being clairvoyant. And the obvious wrong choice, being Nate’s mother.
Who else, then? I got through to Nate so surely I can connect with someone else. But there’s no time for subtlety. It’ll have to be a hard hit.
Geoff? He’s already on to Nate, so he’ll take this seriously—but he hates Nate. Ask him to up the ante and he’ll likely kill Nate and be done with it. Which would solve precisely nothing. He’d get jail time, and where would that leave Tess? She’s already got her mum in a coma . . .
No. Not Geoff.
Mum? No. She loves Nate like a son. It’ll be hard enough for her to believe he’s my killer, let alone see him locked up.
Cynthia?
The thought makes me laugh. How mad would that be? Asking my husband’s lover for help.
My hands ball into fists, fresh tension running through me. Traitorous bitch.
“Traitorous bitch.” It’s Cynthia, seven years younger. “How could you? You knew I fancied him.”
Blinking. Trying to think. “Cynth, I had no idea. I would never have gone there if I’d thought . . .”
“But that’s just it. You didn’t think. It’s all about you.” Her drink slopping onto the table.
“I am so, so sorry.” Wiping away the mess quick-smart. Wishing I could wipe away the mess in my life as easily.
“Me too.” Her voice low, her hurt a palpable thing.
“I’d break it off with him but . . .”
Cynthia watching me, tense and angry and close to tears.
Knowing I’m about to lose her friendship. Knowing there’s never been an alternative.
“Cynth, he proposed. I’m pregnant. We’re going to be married.”
Back in the present, my self-respect shrivels. Who’s the traitorous bitch, then?
I can’t believe I would knowingly have stolen Geoff from under Cynthia’s nose. Yet apparently I did. Why? Was I that bad a friend? Or did I really not know she fancied him?
Abruptly, I shove my emotions aside. Day Seven, Faith. There’s no time for regrets or what-ifs or any kind of introspection. Do I ask Cynthia for help or not?
No is the obvious answer. Even without my latest revelation, I know she’s sleeping with my husband. She’s no best friend. And the flashback simply reinforces that. She’d probably be quite happy to let Nate end my life.
Not Cynthia, then.
Which leaves no one—except Tess.
No. I can’t do that. She’s only a kid. Imagine what it would do to her if she discovered Uncle Nate tried to kill Mummy.
But what would it do to her if Uncle Nate succeeded?
And today’s Day Seven.
Shite.
# # #
“Mummy!” Tess skids into the room, her eyes seeking me out, her exhilaration a wonderful sight to behold.
No, I definitely can’t tell her about Nate. It would destroy her.
“Hi, darling. How was school?”
She jumps up and down. “Great! And guess what?”
“What?”
“We’re going on a trip! And parents have to sign a permission thing, but you can’t and Daddy’s at work so Auntie Cynth says she’ll sign it.”
Inside me, a bitchy little voice is screaming, ‘No way!’ but I throttle it fast because what’s the point? I don’t want to kill Tess’s joy. Besides, it’s only a permission slip.
Tess dances around the room, then stops and looks my way. “And guess what?”
“What?”
Cynthia enters the room and Tess cleverly faces her to disguise the fact she’s actually talking to me. “I’m having a sleepover.”
“That’s nice,” says Cynthia absently, tapping at her mobile phone.
“Brilliant!” I grin at her. “When’s that?”
My insides quiver. Will I still be here to ask her how it went? A ball of grief jams in my throat.
“Maybe this weekend. Janie’s mum asked for our phone number and I remembered it,” she says with pride.
“Well done,” I tell her. “Your memory must be fantastic.”
“It is,” she says, the way kids do before society teaches them it’s uncool to brag.
Her eyes glow. “We’re going to sleep in our sleeping bags. And have a midnight feast. With torches and everything.”
She’s so excited she jiggles from foot to foot.
Cynthia’s excitement is underwhelming. “Sounds great. I just need to make a quick call to your dad.”
She lifts the phone to her ear. “Geoff, hi. Has that detective rung you?” . . . “Yes, about an hour ago. Lots of questions.” . . . “Mmm, a bit abrupt. But he’s like that.”
She pauses, looks at Tess. “You stay here,” she instructs. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Tess watches as Cynthia leaves, then turns to me. “Why do the policemen keep wanting to talk to us?”
My heart thunks in my chest. How to answer that? I cast about for an innocuous answer. Nothing comes to mind. “Well, when someone gets hurt the police need to know exactly what happened.”
“Why?”
I try to keep it simple. “It’s the same as what happens at school. If you get hurt in the playground it might be because you fell over and hurt yourself, but it might be because someone pushed you. And that’s bad, isn’t it?”
Tess nods, eyes wide.
I plough on. “And if someone pushed you they need to be told off so they won’t do it again, right? It’s the same here.”
Tess frowns. “So the police want to know if you hurt yourself or if someone was mean to you?”
“That’s right.”
Tess hesitates. “Mummy, did you real
ly fall off our balcony?”
The room grows eerily quiet. I swallow. “Who told you that?”
She twists her top around her fingers. “I heard Nan and Daddy talking. They said you fell all the way to the ground.”
“Yes, darling,” I tell her gently. “That’s why I’m here in hospital.”
“And . . .” Her voice wavers. “. . . Did you fall or was someone mean to you?”
“Oh, darling.” I hesitate. How much to say?
With a resigned sigh, I opt for an understated version of the truth. “Someone was very mean.”
She frowns. “Who would ever be so mean? And . . . why?”
“I don’t know, honey. But the police will find out and then whoever did it will go to jail.”
“But, Mummy . . .” She looks at me, concern all over her wee face. “What if the police don’t find the baddie and the baddie comes back?”
I open my mouth to speak, then close it again.
Good question.
I look away from her innocent, concerned gaze—but I can feel her watching me. Waiting.
I take a deep breath. “Tess, darling, I’m sure the police will find out who the baddie is really soon.”
“They’d better,” she says heatedly. “Because if they don’t, and the baddie comes back and hurts you even more, you’ll be dead.”
# # #
Cynthia comes back into the room, her phone call finished.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “Have you said hello to Mummy?”
“Yep.” Tess pauses and looks at Cynthia, head to one side. “Auntie Cynth, you’re Mummy’s best friend, aren’t you?
Cynthia smiles. “That’s right.”
“Can you see her like I can?”
Cynthia’s glances at the bed.
“No, I mean in the air,” clarifies Tess. “Floating and moving and stuff.”
Cynthia’s eyebrows shoot up. She says a slow, “No.”
“Oh.”
For a moment Tess looks crestfallen. Then she brightens. “She’s here right now. Over there.”
Tess points at me, smiling, and I return her smile. Cynthia dutifully looks my way, also smiling, though her eyes are loaded with disbelief.
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