The Colour of the Soul

by Richard T. Burke

  He lifted a sleeve and squinted at the face of his watch. Five minutes remained until the arranged meeting time. He had to admit to being slightly surprised. He had guessed that Catherine was the type to be early, but it seemed he was wrong. As he exhaled, his breath formed a vapour cloud in the frigid evening air. He stamped his feet to keep his circulation moving and pulled the woollen hat lower on his head. Where was she? It would be ironic if she stood him up after all the careful planning.

  A group of four, two boys and two girls, entered the pub, engrossed in a loud conversation. None of them paid him any attention. Despite the unseasonably chilly temperature, he could feel the sweat making the material of his shirt cling to his armpits. Maybe he should go inside and see if she was already there. He had been waiting in the cold for twenty minutes, but it was always possible she had arrived even earlier. The indecision gnawed at his brain. If he went in, he greatly increased the probability of somebody identifying him later. If he stayed here ... well, there would be other opportunities. It was best to stick to the plan.

  Another glance at his watch: seven thirty-two. Steven raised his eyes to the window and spotted the image of a girl in a red winter coat hurrying towards the pub from the opposite direction. A matching green bobble hat and scarf protected her head and neck from the elements. He turned so he could see her directly. As she approached, she brushed a strand of brown hair that had escaped the confines of the hat from her face—a face he had committed to memory. Her gaze focused on the sign above the door.

  Steven broke into a jog and arrived at the entrance just before the girl. He pretended to read the board then looked up as if seeing her for the first time.

  “Catherine?”

  The girl stared at him in surprise. “John? Is that you?”

  Steven grinned. “It certainly is. I thought I’d be late, but it seems my timing’s perfect. Nice to meet you.”

  He stuck out a gloved hand, and they shook awkwardly.

  “I think I’ve messed up,” he said, pointing at the chalk letters. “I should have checked beforehand. It’s going to be difficult chatting with live music blaring in our ears.”

  Catherine shrugged. “We’ve got half an hour before they start.”

  “I don’t want to get all warm and then have to go out in the cold again. There probably won’t be any seats either if there’s a band on. I know a quieter place around the corner. Why don’t we go there?”

  “Okay. Lead the way.”

  Steven offered his arm. Catherine hesitated for a moment then looped her arm through his.

  “I have to say your picture doesn’t do you justice,” he said.

  “How can you tell with all this gear on?” She laughed. “Anyway, you look nothing at all like your photo either.”

  “Well, it was taken a while ago—and I’ve grown a beard since then. Hopefully, I’m even more attractive in the flesh.”

  Catherine flashed a shy glance in his direction but remained silent.

  “So where do you normally go on a night out?” he asked.

  “I don’t get out that much, really. I sometimes go for a drink with my friends near the halls of residence.”

  “That’s right, you’re a student. Oh, hang on a sec, there’s a shortcut through here.”

  He stopped and pointed with his free hand towards a narrow alleyway.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice tinged with doubt. “It doesn’t look like it goes anywhere.”

  “It cuts off a corner, and I’m freezing to death. This coat isn’t as warm as it might appear. I wasn’t expecting it to be this cold in spring.”

  “Oh, alright then.”

  They turned to their right and walked past a large brown industrial waste bin that serviced the businesses on the main street. The alley jinked to the left by a high brick wall.

  Steven stopped, released Catherine’s arm and twisted her around. “It’s been nice meeting you. Now it’s time to say goodbye.”

  Confusion clouded her face. “I’m sorry. I don’t—”

  Steven’s gloved hands choked off the words as they closed around her throat. Her eyes widened in shock as she attempted to prise his fingers loose. The frantic scrabbling raised the edge of his woollen hat, triggering a flash of recognition. His grip tightened. He pushed her backward until she was up against the wall. Her mouth opened, but the only sound to escape was a choking gurgle as she tried in vain to fill her constricted lungs. She swung a foot at his shin in one last desperate attempt to break his hold, but the kick lacked power.

  He drew her towards him then rammed her skull into the brickwork. Her eyes rolled up in her head. Any semblance of resistance deserted her. He moved his face closer to hers and inhaled deeply. The faintest scent of a floral perfume rose from beneath her thick coat. He maintained his hold for a good minute after all movement had ceased.

  Eventually, he released her neck and allowed her body to slide to the ground. He pulled off his glove using his teeth and fumbled in his jacket for the cheap mobile phone. With trembling hands, he selected the camera function. The flash seared his eyeball leaving a dark after-impression on his vision. When he examined the screen, the girl’s lifeless eyes stared back at him. Just for good measure, he took another photograph then tucked the phone back into the zipped breast pocket.

  He replaced the glove, edged back to the industrial bin, and raised the lid. The stench of decay assaulted his nostrils. He returned to the girl and hoisted her over his shoulder. He staggered to the brown container and heaved her body inside. A fresh wave of foul smelling air arose from the interior, disturbed by the new addition. Lowering the top, he surveyed the alley to ensure he had left no incriminating evidence. Satisfied, he retraced his steps to the pedestrianised street.

  Adrenaline continued to surge through his veins. A cloud of condensation formed as he blew out a shaky breath. Slowly, a grin worked its way onto his face. He thrust his hands into his pockets, lowered his head, and strode back to the car.

  Chapter 3

  Annalise sensed somebody standing beside the bed. Her eyes blinked open.

  “How are you feeling?” the consultant asked. He was a man in his late fifties with thinning grey hair. A pen protruded from the top pocket of the white medical lab coat he wore over a pale blue shirt. He picked the lint from his sleeve as he waited for Annalise to respond.

  She had been dozing fitfully since her transfer in the early hours of the morning. After a detailed examination, the on-duty doctor had been satisfied her condition was stable and arranged for her to be moved from the coma ward to a private room in the intensive care section of the hospital.

  “Well, my throat’s still sore,” Annalise replied, stifling a yawn. “Other than that, not too bad. Just a little weak, I guess.”

  “That’s to be expected. You’ve been inactive for a long time. You’d be in a far worse condition if it hadn’t been for the functional electrical stimulation.”

  “I’m sorry, the what?”

  “It’s something we’ve been trialling here for the past year. Basically, the equipment uses electricity to stimulate your muscles. There have been major advances in the technology recently, and you’re lucky to be one of the first to benefit. We attached it to your arms and legs while you were unconscious.”

  Annalise raised her eyebrows in surprise. “What? So even though I was in a coma, my body was doing exercise?”

  “That’s right. I know you’re still a bit shaky, but it means you’re in far better shape physically than we could possibly have expected without the treatment. Normally, at this stage of your recovery, you’d barely be able to move. Have you had any headaches?”

  “No, not really.”

  “I have to say, you’ve doing remarkably well given your case history. To be honest, we were beginning to give up hope you’d ever wake up.”

  Annalise caught a silent exchange between the consultant and her mother. Sophie Becker squeezed her daughter’s hand. She sat beside the hospital bed in t
he chair she had occupied for the last few hours. Dark, semi-circular shadows extended beneath each eye, and a tuft of hair stuck out from one side of her head. The black skirt below the grey cardigan now exhibited several prominent creases.

  “What do you remember from before the accident?” the consultant asked.

  Annalise frowned in concentration. “It doesn’t feel like a year, more like a couple of days at most. I recall going to school and arranging to meet Mark on the Saturday. That must have been on Friday. I have no memories of anything after that. You still haven’t told me what happened.”

  Sophie stared at her daughter in silence.

  “What is it, Mum?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m sure your memory will return when it’s time. You just need to concentrate on getting better.”

  Annalise returned the stare. “Why won’t you tell me what caused the coma?”

  Sophie broke eye contact, giving a slight shake of the head. “So, do you know why she had the cardiac arrest?” she asked, directing her question to the consultant.

  The man’s face took on a wary expression. “There appears to have been contamination of the fluids in the drip.”

  “What sort of contamination?” Annalise asked.

  He hesitated. “We’re still investigating, but I can reveal the investigative team found traces of Digoxin.”

  “Digoxin? What’s that?”

  “It’s a drug used to treat heart conditions. However, when administered in large doses, it causes an irregular heartbeat and can result in death.”

  “How did it get there?”

  The consultant scratched his ear. “We’re looking into that. The investigation is currently focused on the pharmacy where the solution was prepared.”

  “But if that drug hadn’t ended up in my drip, I’d still be unconscious, wouldn’t I?”

  “To be honest, we’ll never know. The brain is the most complex organ in the body and, much as we’d like to think otherwise, even specialists like me don’t completely understand how it works. Whatever happened, we should be thankful you’re awake.”

  A silence developed as mother and daughter digested the man’s words.

  Annalise cleared her throat. “So it could have been intentional?”

  The consultant folded his arms. “We don’t know that, yet. I suppose we can’t rule it out.”

  “Is that why there’s a guard outside the door?” Sophie asked.

  The man glanced at her in surprise. “Ah ... Until we discover all the facts, the management team decided to play it safe.”

  Annalise leaned forward in her bed. “But if there’s a guard, presumably somebody suspects it might have been a deliberate attempt to kill me?”

  “Like I said, that’s still to be determined. You really shouldn’t worry. If there’s any possibility a patient might be in danger, it’s hospital policy to increase security. It’s simply a precaution.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “They have been informed, but unless we come across evidence of tampering, I doubt they’d get involved. Our own team is best placed to investigate.”

  Sophie patted her daughter’s hand. “They won’t let anything happen to you.”

  The consultant read his notes then raised his eyes. “I think that’s everything. Somebody will be back to check on your condition tonight. I expect the physiotherapists are keen to start work with you as soon as possible. In the meantime, I suggest you try to get some rest.”

  “I feel fine,” Annalise said. “When can I go home?”

  “After a traumatic episode like the one you’ve experienced, you need to take things slowly. Despite the muscle stimulation, you’ve been confined to bed for almost a year, so it’ll take time to build up your strength. Luckily you’re young and healthy, so it shouldn’t be too long until you’re back to full working order. If there aren’t any complications, we should be able to discharge you in two or three weeks.”

  Annalise groaned. “Two or three weeks?”

  “That’s extremely quick for patients who’ve been in a coma for any length of time. Without the electrical stimulation, it would have been months.”

  “I suppose. Aren’t you going to ask about the lights?”

  The man consulted his notes once again. “Ah yes. Dr Andrews mentioned you were experiencing distortion of your vision. Is that still the case?”

  Annalise glanced sideways, first at her mother and then the consultant. “They’re still there.”

  “Tell me what you’re seeing.”

  “Well, I’m picking up strange patterns when I look at somebody from the corner of my eye. It’s a shimmering band around a person’s head. It swirls about a bit. The best way I can describe it is like a ring of coloured clouds.”

  “What colour is the light?”

  “It seems to vary from person to person. Yours is a flickering yellow, greenish colour. Mum’s is dark blue, maybe a dark grey. When I looked in a mirror, I couldn’t detect any colours around myself.”

  The consultant scratched an ear. “Well, it could be several different things. As I recall, blurred or yellowish vision is one of the side-effects of Digoxin. Alternatively, it could be a carryover from the coma. You’ve probably heard of synaesthesia where people associate colours with other senses, such as smell, or even with specific numbers or words. You’d be surprised how common it is. Researchers have suggested up to one in twenty of the population may exhibit symptoms, albeit most in a very mild form.”

  “So what does it mean? I couldn’t see anything like this before.”

  “It’s probably nothing. If it persists, we’ll run some tests, but I don’t think you should worry too much. As I said, the brain is a complex organ. I’ll have a chat with my team and check whether any of them are more familiar with the condition than I am. If the only after-effects of your accident are a few colours at the edge of your vision, I think you can consider yourself very lucky.”

  A ping sound originated from Sophie’s handbag.

  “Your father and sister are in the car park,” she announced, glancing at her phone’s screen.

  “We’re about done here,” the consultant said. “Either I or one of my colleagues will check up on you later.”

  Sophie levered herself out of the chair. “Thanks, doctor. I’ll just go out and show them the way. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As the door closed, Annalise sighed in frustration. Whenever the conversation turned to the reasons behind her hospitalisation, her mother changed the subject. She suspected the sudden departure was part of a plan to brief the rest of the family before their visit.

  Annalise wracked her brains, trying to jog the recalcitrant memories loose. Events from the night before were relatively clear. She even remembered the plot from the book she had been reading before turning out the light. The Saturday, however, was a complete blank. It was as if somebody had wound the tape back to the start of the day and erased it.

  She leaned against the pillows and closed her eyes. Why couldn’t she remember? Obviously there had been an accident, but what were the circumstances? Her first thoughts were that something terrible had happened to Mark, but her mother had insisted he was fine.

  Annalise had been going out with Mark Webber for eighteen months. Fostered since losing both his parents in a car crash at the age of ten, he seemed far more mature than the three year gap in their ages might suggest. He had turned twenty-one a month before the date of her admission to hospital and finally inherited the trust fund left to him in the will. Within a fortnight of his birthday, he had moved out from his foster family’s home and into a luxury three bedroom flat.

  There had been excitement in his voice when he rang her on the Friday afternoon, but he refused to tell her more. He said he would pick her up from her house at ten o’clock in the morning and return her by midnight. She could recall with clarity the questions she put to him in the pub that night to make him reveal his plans, but he remained adamant she would have to wait un
til the following day to learn more.

  The sound of a whispered discussion broke in on her fruitless speculation. Were the voices those of her parents? She glanced towards the doorframe; a wedge of light seeped around the edge. Her mother couldn’t have closed it properly when she left.

  Annalise shuffled across the sheet and lowered her feet to the floor. She pushed herself upright. Her legs felt like spaghetti that had just been dipped into boiling water. The simple act of standing required a huge amount of effort. After only two steps, perspiration beaded her forehead. Resting one hand against the wall, she edged her way closer to the gap between door and frame. Halfway there, her trembling muscles could no longer support her weight. She allowed her body to sink to the cool tiles. Determined to hear what was being said, she crawled the remaining distance.

  “So, she doesn’t know?”

  Her father.

  “She can’t remember anything about the day of the accident, Dan. I think we should keep it that way for the time being.”

  “Well, she’s bound to find out eventually. At some stage, the police will want to interview her.”

  “They’ve been waiting for eleven months. I’m sure a few more days won’t make any difference. She’s been through a traumatic experience, and I don’t want to jeopardise her recovery.”

  “I’m not sure, Sophie. If the police aren’t already aware she’s awake, the hospital authorities will no doubt inform them pretty quickly. We may be unable to stop them talking to her.”

  “I don’t care, Dan. Our daughter’s recovery comes before everything else. I’m going to ask the doctors to restrict access.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Sophie, a man died. Annalise came back to us, but somebody else’s child is dead. I don’t think ...”

  The clanking of a hospital trolley masked the end of the sentence. The rattling sound persisted for a few seconds then fell silent. She strained to hear, but either her parents had moved away or the conversation was over.