The Colour of the Soul

by Richard T. Burke

The blood drained from Steven’s face. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the sink. “I saw you die. You’re not real.”

  “My body died, but I’m still alive. You can hear me, can’t you?” A smile tugged at the lips in the reflection. The outline blurred and morphed until it resembled Frank at age ten.

  Steven stared in horror at the image. “No!” he screamed, slamming his forehead into the mirror. “Leave me alone!”

  In an instant, he was a child again. The years fell away like the sides of a mould, exposing a molten core of white-hot rage at his brother’s betrayal.

  Blood gushed from a gash to his eyebrow, streaking the reflective surface red as he flung himself forward a second time. Steven registered neither the high-pitched alarm nor the sound of running feet from the corridor outside his room. The door crashed open, and still he pummelled his fists into the grinning apparition.

  Strong hands seized him, holding him down, while the needle of a syringe plunged deep into his upper arm.

  “I killed you,” he screamed. His voice rose in pitch. “It’s not fair. You promised we’d stay together.”

  As the drugs took hold and consciousness faded, he managed one final sob.

  “I killed you.”

  THE END

  Author’s Notes

  Dear Reader,

  I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this book. If you did, I would be extremely grateful if you could tell your friends and leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads (or preferably both). Reviews are an important factor in helping to sell books and are especially important for independent authors.

  If you would like to receive a free copy of my next book, please sign up to the mailing list at www.rjne.uk.

  I would like to express my gratitude to my early reviewers and readers, including Brian, Marika and the members of my Facebook launch team. I have to reserve a special mention for Ross Greenwood who has been a great source of encouragement and advice—he is an excellent writer too!

  I am grateful to Lauren Cope Neppe and Niamh Lanigan Bonner who offered free guidance on the treatment of trauma in hospitals. Any mistakes I have made are entirely my own.

  The support of the administrators for the Facebook One Stop Fiction Author Resource Group (OSFARG) and The Book Club (TBC) are also greatly appreciated.

  All the above gave their time freely to help me with this book, and I am forever grateful.

  I must also thank my wife, Judith, and daughter, Emily, for putting up with the long hours of writing and editing.

  I have to confess to a degree of artistic license in Annalise’s recovery. I know that a two week recuperation period after spending a year in a coma is a remarkably short time, but I needed Annalise to get out of the hospital to develop the plot. The functional electrical stimulation I refer to in the story is a genuine treatment.

  The ability of certain people to see auras is one that has been widely discussed. You will even find pages on the Internet explaining how to see a person’s aura. Similarly, the statistic of up to one in twenty people experiencing some form of synaesthesia, albeit most in a very mild form, has been reported in academic papers. If you are a person who can see auras, I would be very interested to hear from you. There is a comments section on my website (www.rjne.uk) where you can tell me about your experiences.

  Several early readers expressed their surprise that in the UK, a spouse cannot be forced to testify against their partner except in special circumstances. The accused’s spouse can only be compelled to give evidence for the prosecution if the case relates to one of the following: an attack on the spouse, an assault or injury on a person under the age of sixteen or a sexual offence against somebody under the age of sixteen.

  If you enjoyed this book, you might like to try my novel Decimation: The Girl Who Survived. You can buy it on the Amazon website through this link: http://mybook.to/Decimation. A free sample chapter is included after this section.

  Thanks for reading.

  Richard T. Burke

  April 2018

  To read the author’s blog and to see news of upcoming books, please visit www.rjne.uk or follow him on Twitter @RTBurkeAuthor.

  Decimation: The Girl Who Survived

  Monday 3rd January 2033

  She sensed the contraction approaching like a breaker bearing down on a beach, and then it hit, engulfing her, crashing through in an implosion of bone and muscle. It seemed as if every sinew and tendon in her body was being stretched to its limit.

  “Just try to relax,” the midwife said, her voice muffled by the white surgical mask that hid the lower part of her face.

  “You’ve got to be bloody jok–”

  “Breathe, Antimone,” the girl’s mother interrupted, her face also partially covered by a mask. She brushed a stray strand of hair from her daughter’s cheek.

  The girl fought through the pain and forced herself to exhale through gritted teeth. Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, the tension eased as if somebody had loosened a band around her stomach. The white material covering her nose and mouth felt damp as it clung to her skin.

  The midwife glanced at her watch. “That was three minutes. I think we need to get her to the operating theatre.” She strode across the small white room and through the open door.

  Antimone turned her head to the right and met the anxious gaze of her father. He clasped her hand between his own, and she realised her fingernails had been digging deep into the flesh of his palm. She smiled gratefully at him, and he gave a gentle squeeze in return. The harsh ceiling lights reflected from a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

  “Don’t worry, Dad, it’ll be alright,” she said although she knew it wouldn’t.

  “It’s just so damn unfair,” he began, but before he could continue the midwife returned to the bedside.

  “The porters are coming now, and they’ll take you to the operating theatre. I know we’ve been over this before, but you know what’ll happen next?”

  Antimone stared out of the window at the dark clouds scudding across the pale grey expanse of the winter sky. This would be her last glimpse of the world outside. Her eyes slid across to a poster on the opposite wall. In the picture, three remarkably healthy looking patients in hospital beds surrounded a cartoon representation of a sneezing man who seemed far more unwell than any of them. ‘Always Wear a Facemask’ read the caption beneath, followed by the text ‘Germs Kill’.

  The midwife raised her voice. “Antimone, you know what’s going to happen next?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Antimone snapped. “You’re going to put me to sleep, cut me open and take the baby out. Oh, and I’m never going to wake up. Is that about right?”

  A flicker of irritation crossed the midwife’s face before she forced a tight-lipped smile. “We’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.”

  “They’re only trying to help,” the girl’s mother said.

  “Okay, I know,” Antimone said. “I’m sorry.”

  The midwife stepped outside the small room leaving the father, mother and daughter together, each counting down the seconds until the inevitable conclusion.

  “We’ll look after the baby as if … well, as if it were you,” her mother said.

  “I know you will,” Antimone replied. “Just don’t let him get anyone pregnant.”

  Her father made a sound that started as a laugh but turned into a sob.

  A metallic clanking noise drew their eyes to the door. Two porters dressed in pale green overalls entered the room pushing a narrow hospital trolley. The midwife followed a couple of paces behind.

  The taller of the two consulted a clipboard. “Are you Antimone?” he asked, pronouncing it An-tee-moan.

  “It’s Antimone,” her father replied. “Like the metal.”

  The man stared at him blankly.

  “An-tim-oh-nee,” her father repeated, stressing each syllable.

  “Nice name. Okay Antimone, if you could just pop yourself off the bed and onto this trolley, pleas
e.”

  Antimone made no attempt to move. The man turned to his colleague in confusion. “Is she …?”

  The midwife intervened before he blundered further into the minefield he was laying for himself. “She’s paralysed from the waist down, so you’re going to have to help her.”

  The man’s face turned a bright crimson colour as he consulted the clipboard once again. “I’m s-s-sorry.”

  The smaller man took charge. “You’re her parents, right?”

  Antimone’s mother and father responded in unison.

  “We’ll put a sheet underneath her then slide her over.”

  He manoeuvred the trolley alongside the bed and applied the brakes. Meanwhile, the midwife unfolded a sheet and laid it out, adjusting the girl’s position until she lay on top of it. In one swift movement, they transferred Antimone across. The taller man, his cheeks still glowing with embarrassment, removed the brakes and raised the sides.

  “Another one’s coming,” Antimone said.

  “Okay, we’ll wait here until it passes, and then we’ll move you,” the midwife said. “Don’t fight it, just let it come.”

  Within seconds, another contraction enveloped her. Her teeth ground together as she tried to ride the wave, her head thrown back. She groaned in agony. It was as if she was trapped in a machine that was testing the breaking point of the human body. Just as she felt she was about to snap, the pressure lessened.

  “Jesus,” she muttered. “What a way to die.”

  The midwife consulted her watch. “That was less than three minutes. We need to get her to that operating theatre quickly.” She led the way as the two porters wheeled the trolley along a corridor interspersed with numbered doors every few metres. Her parents hurried behind. They turned two corners before arriving at a room labelled ‘Operating Theatre 3.’

  The midwife addressed Antimone’s parents. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait outside during the procedure. It’s time to say goodbye now.”

  Antimone’s mother bent over and hugged her daughter. “I love you so much.”

  “I know, Mum.”

  Her mother could no longer hide her tears as her father embraced Antimone one last time. “You know we both love you. We couldn’t have wished for a better daughter.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  “You can watch through the viewing window if you want,” the midwife said, leading Antimone’s distraught parents away.

  Antimone brushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Despite the presence of the two porters, she had never felt more alone in her life. They pushed the trolley on which she lay through a set of double swing doors. A woman wearing a dark blue operating theatre gown, a light blue hairnet and a white surgical mask separated from the other two doctors and crossed the room. She consulted the clipboard and smiled down at Antimone.

  “I’ll be putting you to sleep. We just need to get you ready for the surgeon.”

  The porters turned away, the taller of the two giving Antimone a self-conscious wave.

  The anaesthetist positioned the trolley beside a rectangular platform covered in a green sheet and applied the brake. The two men halted their conversation, one moving to Antimone’s head, the other to her feet. On the count of three, they transferred her to the operating table.

  The woman removed Antimone’s surgical mask. In its place, she slipped on a black mask connected to a beige-coloured box by a snaking corrugated pipe.

  “Let’s just pop this on. We’ll let you know before we turn on the gas.”

  Antimone inhaled the smell of rubber and strained her senses to detect any change in the air hissing through the tube. The woman raised Antimone’s hospital gown, exposing her distended abdomen.

  A door to her left opened, and a man dressed in blue surgical attire entered backwards, his gloved hands extended in front of his body. He stopped by the operating table and peered down at Antimone through a pair of large, plastic-framed glasses.

  “The name’s Martin,” he said. “I’ll be the lead surgeon today. In a second we’ll put you to sleep, and this will all be over.”

  A surge of adrenaline made Antimone’s heart beat faster as the full implication of his words sank home: over, as in dead. Her life was moments away from ending. Despite coming to terms with her predicament, now that the time had arrived it was all happening far too quickly. When her mother had given birth, it had been a joyful experience. Now pregnancy was a death sentence.

  A faint hissing sound joined the beeping and humming of the assorted machines. Antimone’s eyes darted across the room in panic, attempting to identify the source. She sensed dampness on her face and stared up at several evenly spaced, white, circular plastic boxes on the ceiling, each of them emitting a fine mist into the room.

  “Nothing to worry about, just anti-bacterial spray,” the surgeon said. “We need to keep everything germ-free in here.”

  The woman who had fitted the black mask moved back into Antimone’s line of vision. “Right, we’re going to put you to sleep. Start counting aloud backwards from ten.”

  “Ten, nine …”

  This isn’t happening. I’ll wake up in a second, and it’ll all be a bad dream.

  “Eight, seven, six …”

  A sickly sweet scent invaded her nostrils. She experienced a brief sensation of nausea as her vision greyed out.

  “Five.”

  Antimone sensed the approach of another contraction but was unconscious before it took hold.

  ***

  One of the assistant doctors painted yellow-brown liquid across the lower part of Antimone’s stomach. The surgeon peered down at the stained skin and nodded his approval.

  “Cauterising scalpel please,” he said holding out a hand expectantly.

  Grasping the instrument like a pen, he made a confident incision horizontally across her abdomen. Like a well-oiled machine, the surgeon lifted his hand away as the doctor swabbed away the small quantity of blood that welled from the cut.

  “Spread the incision,” the surgeon said, using his left hand to open the wound from his side of the operating table. On the opposite side, the doctor used a metal instrument to pull back the layers of skin and muscle and expose her uterus. In his other hand, he held a suction tube that hissed and gurgled as he inserted it inside the cut.

  “Making the incision,” the surgeon announced. With a steady stroke, he drew the scalpel towards him in a straight line.

  “Okay, we’re in. Let’s bring the nipper into the world.”

  Both men used their hands to ease the baby’s head out. Within seconds, they grasped a slippery, screaming bundle of life and handed it to the doctor who had been waiting patiently at the side.

  “A boy,” the man announced although none of those present in the room paid any attention.

  The surgeon waited until his assistant had clamped the umbilical cord then severed it. The third man cleaned the baby and placed him in an incubator.

  The anaesthetist looked up from the readout on her machine. “She’s flat-lined.”

  The surgeon glanced up at the wall clock. “I see no point in attempting resuscitation. Call it at two forty-eight. There’s nothing more we can do for her.” He began the job of suturing the open wound.

  The row of stitches extended across a quarter of the incision when a repetitive chiming sound filled the room. The doctor closest to the flashing terminal strode towards it. “I’ll get it.” He swept a hand across the front of the screen.

  The image of a woman’s head occupied the display. “Mr Martin and Dr Carlson are wanted in operating theatre one as soon as they’re free,” she announced. “Emergency C-section.”

  “It sounds like we’re needed elsewhere, Dr Carlson,” said the surgeon, addressing the anaesthetist. He turned to face the two male doctors. “One of you can finish up in here. The other can assist me next door.” He strode away without waiting to see who volunteered to join him.

  The two men stared at each other. “I�
��ll sew her up,” said the doctor who had assisted Martin during the procedure, “but it all just seems a bit pointless when the pathologist is only going to open her up again.”

  “I know what you mean,” the other said, “but the dragon will fire you if you don’t follow procedure. In any case, the girl’s parents may still be watching through that window.”

  “Good point,” the doctor said turning back to the lifeless body. “See you later. Have fun.”

  ***

  The blue-gowned medical staff departed leaving Antimone’s body lying on the operating table. The doctor hurriedly completed the stitching job before rushing away to his next call. The faint hum of the machines was the only sound in the room. A thin film of moisture from the inactive atomisers in the ceiling coated every surface.

  A cough and then a low groan broke the stillness. The fingers of Antimone’s left hand twitched. Her head moved first to one side and then to the other. She sucked in a lungful of air but couldn’t seem to satisfy her body’s unconscious craving for oxygen until finally she was forced to exhale and draw in another deep breath. Sensations crowded in on her as she began the painful return to full consciousness. The reek of the anti-bacterial spray filled her nostrils and stung her throat as she inhaled. She ran the fingertips of her right hand down her arm, the skin feeling cold and clammy. Instinctively, she brushed her hand against the outline of the bump that had been a feature of her body for the past few months but snatched it away as she sensed the rough edge of the stitches through the thin hospital gown.

  Slowly her thought processes ground into gear. She moved her elbows back and tried to raise her head, but the excruciating pain as she tightened her stomach muscles forced her to lie back. Once again she probed the edges of the incision. The baby’s gone. Why am I still alive?

  In a rising panic, she inspected her surroundings.

  “Help! Someone, please help me!” she croaked, her throat muscles still sore from the exertions of the labour.

  She lay back, trying to goad her oxygen-starved brain into action. Her eyes scanned the deserted operating theatre. They think I’m dead. It could be hours until somebody comes. I’ve got to get help.