by Mark White
‘He told me that too, although I’m not sure I believe him. My head feels like it wants to explode.’
‘Give it time.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
Sergeant Calloway ignored the sarcasm. When it came to engaging in small-talk, he was almost as incompetent as Doctor Graham. ‘I need to ask you a few questions about yesterday. I’ll try to be as brief as possible. Do you have any objections?’
‘No, although to be honest I can’t really remember what happened. It all seems so hazy.’
‘Well, fortunately I have some information which should help jog your memory.’
‘Really? What information? I didn’t see anyb-’
‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Can you talk me through everything that happened, from the moment you boarded the train to the moment you woke up in this place. And don’t leave anything out. It’s often the minor details that are the most important.’
Sam’s mind raced as he desperately thought of what to say. How could he tell Calloway about what happened on the bridge? How could he tell the truth when even he didn’t know what the truth really was? He knew full well that what he thought he heard yesterday couldn’t have been real. He wasn’t that stupid. He’d had time to think about it overnight and had convinced himself that hearing his dead sister’s voice and seeing that dark figure standing by his father’s grave were due entirely to the stress he’d been under since seeing Sarah and Tom walking out of that hotel together. What else could explain how an otherwise rational man could lose his mind almost overnight and start seeing and hearing things? He was in shock, plain and simple. Shock, depression, anger: understandable emotions given the circumstances.
‘I was travelling back home to London, whe-’
‘Where were you travelling from?’
‘Durham. My mother lives near there. I was visiting her.’
‘Okay. Go on.’
‘As I was saying, I was on my way to London. To begin with, my carriage was practically empty; the only person near me was an old woman sat across the aisle. That all changed when we got to Darlington. We were joined by a rowdy group of football fans, most of whom were either drunk or well on their way. I didn’t think too much of it until one of the group – he couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old – started showing off in front of his mates by hurling insults at both me and the old woman. I guess he was trying to wind us up. Anyway, the old woman said something that embarrassed the boy and he went for her. I couldn’t believe it. Luckily there were too many people standing between him and her, so he was forced back into his chair. He was about to go for me when a train guard walked in and took him away. That was the last I saw of him. I got off at York, waiting ‘til everyone else had gone. The last thing I remember was walking over the passenger bridge to get to platform eight.’
‘You don’t remember what happened on the bridge?’
‘No.’
‘That seems strange.’
‘I know, but it also happens to be true.’
‘Were you followed onto the bridge? Was there anybody behind you? Did you hear anything?’
Sam winced as a shot of agony pierced his skull. ‘Please,’ he said, covering his eyes to block out the light and to help him lie more convincingly. ‘I don’t remember anything else. It was dark, I was tired. I didn’t see or hear anything.’
‘Well, the good news is you don’t have to remember.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The miracle of modern technology, Mr Railton. We have it all on camera.’
‘What?’
‘Your assailant may have been sufficiently light-footed to have sneaked up behind you without you noticing, but he evidently didn’t notice the two security cameras at either end of the bridge.’
‘I was attacked?’
Sergeant Calloway laughed. ‘Come on, Mr Railton! How else do you think you ended up in hospital covered in bruises? I don’t mean to alarm you, but you should take a look at yourself in the mirror. You don’t get that way by tripping over your shoe laces.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Sam said. ‘I didn’t see anyone. I swear I didn’t see anyone.’
But you heard someone, didn’t you Sam? You heard someone, and you felt someone. Or something…
‘No!’ Sam screamed, causing the pounding in his head to increase even further. By now the pain was so strong that he could feel himself on the verge of crying. He just wanted to sleep…to block it all out.
Sam’s sudden outburst caught Sergeant Calloway off guard, causing him to push back in his chair and almost tip it over. Moments later the curtain was pulled back to reveal a concerned-looking Nurse Sanchez. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, leaning over to feel Sam’s forehead. ‘You’re burning up,’ she said, taking the jug from his bedside table and pouring some water into a flimsy, plastic cup. ‘Drink this.’ She inserted the end of a digital thermometer into his ear, raising her eyebrows as the display flashed 39.4C. ‘I better fetch you something for that temperature.’ As she stood up, she acknowledged Sergeant Calloway and said: ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think Mr Railton needs to rest now.’
‘Understood,’ replied Calloway, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
‘Wait,’ Sam said, reaching out and grabbing the officer’s arm. ‘Who was it? Who attacked me?’
‘Well, that’s what we need you for, Mr Railton. When you’re ready, of course. But we showed the CCTV footage to the train guard and he told us that it was the same boy who tried to assault you on the train. Seems like he wanted to finish the job. Must have known you were on your way to London and waited for you to cross that bridge.’
‘Shit. I think I remember telling him that’s where I was heading.’
‘It seems a fairly clear cut case, but I’m going to need you to come down to the police station to identify him. When you’re well enough, that is. We’ve got to tread carefully where kids are concerned…be double sure, if you know what I mean.’
‘If you don’t mind?’ Nurse Sanchez said, returning with some medication. ‘Mr Railton needs to rest now.’
‘Of course,’ replied the Sergeant, placing a business card on the table next to Sam. ‘I’ll be in touch sometime tomorrow. If, in the meantime, you feel well enough to come down to the station, you’ll find my number on that card. The boy’s been charged, but we won’t be able to hold him forever.’
‘Okay,’ Sam said. ‘I will.’
‘In that case, Mr Railton, I’ll say goodbye for now. Nurse,’ he said, smiling at Nurse Sanchez as he brushed past her to leave…a little too close for her liking.
‘Take these,’ she said, handing Sam two capsules. ‘They’ll help bring your temperature down. And try to get some rest. They say sleep is the best medicine.’
‘I thought it was laughter,’ Sam replied, taking the pills from her and flushing them down his throat, wincing as he swallowed.
A few minutes later he felt himself drifting towards unconsciousness, thankful for the opportunity to temporarily escape his troubles. As he slipped away, blurred images of the boy on the train floated across his mind. The boy was laughing at him, taunting him, mocking him; his face gradually becoming clearer before morphing into that of his sister, Lucy, who grinned at him with a wicked smile that revealed a mouth full of broken, jagged teeth. Sam groaned and stirred as he tried to shake off the image, only for it to change again: now it was the dark outline of the dark figure from the churchyard. It had no definition, no discernible features. Except one. Perched on top of the figure’s head was some kind of hat. An old-fashioned hat with a wide brim and indented crown, like that worn by the gangsters and spivs in the old Hollywood movies from the fifties. Sam concentrated as hard as he could to see more, but there was nothing.
Only the hat. A shabby, torn, brown hat.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sam awoke five hours later to find his wife sitting in the chair by his bed. She flinched when she noticed him staring at her, almost dropping the book
she was reading. Sam smiled, pleased that he’d taken her by surprise. He still had the headache from hell, but seeing Sarah helped ease the pain. In spite of everything, it was so good to see her. Even though he was surrounded by professionals whose job it was to look after him, he’d been desperate for some real company. Someone who wasn’t there because they were being paid to be.
‘Hello, Mr Sleepyhead,’ she said, closing her book and placing it on the bedside table. ‘How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Something to eat, perhaps?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I wouldn’t mind some help sitting up.’
‘Of course,’ she said, jumping to her feet, pleased to have something to make her feel useful. ‘You know,’ she said, placing her hands under his arms and hoisting him into an upright position, ‘when I walked in here and the nurse showed me to your bed, I had to check the nameplate twice to be sure she hadn’t made a mistake. Have you seen what they’ve done to your face?’
‘Thanks. With that bedside manner, you should have been a doctor.’
‘I’m sorry, but you look awful. You look so different.’
‘Well, I’m afraid it’s me. Could you pass me some water, please?’
‘Sure. Here you go,’ she said, handing him a cup.
‘Thanks.’
‘I got here as soon as I could. When they told me what happened…I…’ She took a Kleenex from the box by his bed and wiped her eyes. Sam smiled and gently placed a hand on hers. It was good to know she still cared for him. He could have taken the opportunity to rub salt into the wound by blaming her for everything that had happened to him, but he didn’t want to. He wasn’t angry or bitter. He was just glad to see her.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ he said, feeling anything but. It wasn’t so much the bruising: sure, he was sore all over, but the Tramadol was doing a decent job of numbing the pain. More than anything else, it was the throbbing and stabbing inside his head that troubled him. It was like he was suffering from the world’s worst hangover.
‘Have they told you how long they expect you to stay in here?’
‘No. It all depends on my progress.’
‘Okay.’
‘Where’s Max?’
‘He’s staying with Gracie. From what the nurse told me over the phone, I thought it probably best that he didn’t come with me. I hope you don’t mind?’
‘No, you did the right thing. Is he alright?’
‘He’s okay, considering.’
‘Have you told him about us? About why I went to see my mother?’
‘Not yet, no. I wanted to talk to you first.’
‘Come up with a plan of action, you mean.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Why did you do it, Sarah? Why d-’
‘Not now, Sam, please? Not here. You need to focus on getting better. Believe me, I’ve been desperate to talk to you ever since you left, but I think we should wait until we’re alone, don’t you?’
Sam sighed. ‘Fair enough. But there’s one question that can’t wait.’
‘What is it?’
‘I need to know if you’re in love with Tom.’
Sarah looked at him and nodded. It was a fair question, and had the shoe been on the other foot, it would have been the first question she too would have asked. Love…that intangible emotion that trumps all others.
‘No,’ she said, keeping her eyes fixed on his as she spoke. ‘I don’t love Tom. I never have. There were times when I thought my heart might have been heading that way, but love? No, I never loved Tom the way I loved you. The way I love you.’
Sam closed his eyes and fought back the tears. He held out a hand towards her, which she took in her own before moving closer and gently resting her head on his chest. ‘I can hear your heart beating,’ she whispered, squeezing his hand.
Sam moaned, pain coursing through his head. With his free hand, he ran his fingers through her hair. ‘It’s beating for you,’ he said, no longer able to hold back the tears. ‘It always has.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘How’s that apple pie going down?’
‘Awesome,’ Max replied, shovelling another giant spoonful into his mouth.
‘Good,’ Gracie said, enjoying seeing him appreciate her baking. She rarely had a chance to cook for anyone these days; her late husband, Ted, used to joke that a man should marry a woman not for her looks but for her skills in the kitchen. She’d respond by clipping him around the back of the head with a towel or a cushion or whatever else happened to be close at hand, but his sexist wit hadn’t stopped her from churning out dish after dish of delectable home cooking during their forty-seven years of marriage. Old Ted had died with a smile on his face and a belly like a huge oak barrel.
When Sarah had phoned Gracie to ask if she would look after Max for a couple of days while she travelled up north to see Sam, Gracie had immediately sensed that something was amiss. Later that evening, when Sarah had called by to drop Max off on her way to the train station, she’d refrained from going into the details of what had happened. Instead, she’d muttered something about Sam having had an accident; that it was nothing serious, but that all the same she needed to see him and make sure he was alright. Gracie had known she was lying but hadn’t pushed for the truth. It would come out in the end. It always did.
‘Aunt Gracie?’ Max said, licking the last drop of cream from his spoon.
‘Before you ask, you’re not having any more. I’m not having your mum and dad come back here to find you in bed with an upset stomach.’
‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’m stuffed.’
‘Good. So what’s on your mind?’
‘Is there something wrong? I mean…something wrong with mum and dad?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I dunno really. I guess I’m just worried about them. I heard mum crying in her room the other night. She probably thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. She seemed really sad.’
‘Did you ask her why she was crying?’
‘No. I didn’t want to. But now she’s gone to see dad without me and I don’t know why. You don’t think dad’s in trouble, do you?’
Gracie sat down opposite him and smiled. She held out her hands, which he automatically took in his own. ‘Oh, I don’t think you need worry yourself too much,’ she said, circling the palm of his left hand with her thumb. ‘You’re mum and dad are going to be fine.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘at least not for sure. But I do know that your parents love each other very much, and that counts for an awful lot. You’re a very lucky boy to have two such loving parents. I never did.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. My father was killed during World War Two; he was a Flight Lieutenant for the Royal Air Force. He was shot down on September 13th, 1943, while flying over Germany in a Lancaster Bomber. I was eight years old at the time and had been sent to live with a family on a farm in the Cotswolds until the war was over. My mother, who was still living in London, sent the family with whom I was living a telegram. She couldn’t afford the train fare from London. Nobody had any money in those days. It was Mr Cransworth, the farmer, who broke the news to me. I remember it so vividly: it was a warm, sunny afternoon; I was playing outside with a couple of the other children when I heard my name being called from the farmhouse. As soon as I walked into the house I knew what had happened…I could tell by the look on Mr Cransworth’s face that my father was dead. Imagine that: you’re eight years old, away from home, away from your mother, and some strange man is telling you that your father has been shot down and killed in a foreign land.’
‘That must have been terrible.’
‘Believe me, Max, it was. The worst part, apart from my father dying, was that I couldn’t even speak to my mother. Neither she nor my surrogate family owned a phone. It was another three months before she had the money to come and see me. Three long months without being able to hold her or have her tell me how much sh
e loved me. The family did as best they could, but I was one of eight other children living on the farm, so it couldn’t have been easy for them.’
‘What did you do? How did you cope?’
‘I didn’t, at least not to begin with. When it became apparent that my mother wasn’t planning on coming to see me until after Christmas, I withdrew into my shell and kept myself to myself. And that’s when I saw him.’
Max’s eyes widened. ‘Who?’
Gracie smiled, trying not to frighten him. ‘My father.’
‘But…I thought you said he was killed in Germany?’
‘He was.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Okay,’ she said, dropping her smile and pushing aside the empty bowl that stood between them on the table. ‘I think you’re old enough to hear this.’ She coughed, clearing her throat. ‘You do know why people come to see me, don’t you? Clients, I mean.’
‘I think so. They come to you with their problems and you try to help them. You use tarot cards and rune stones and stuff like that.’
‘That’s more or less it. While some people like to focus and dwell on the past – on what might have been – I think it’s fair to say that most of us are looking to the future and are more concerned with what might be waiting for us further down the road than what’s already been and gone.’
‘And that’s where you come in. You can see the future.’
‘Not all of it, but parts of it, yes. Parts that might be important to people. And for most of my clients, a little bit of guidance is enough to send them away happy and more confident about what actions they should take. But once in a while, someone comes to see me because they want to speak to a loved one who has passed away – a parent, or sibling, or maybe even a child - and that just happens to be something I can help with too.’
‘You mean the spirits.’
‘Yes, the spirits.’
‘My dad doesn’t believe in any of that. He says you’re just making it up to earn some extra cash.’
‘I know, and he’s certainly not the only one. It’s very easy to be sceptical about such things, especially nowadays when it’s far trendier to believe in a scientific, evidence-based approach to solving life’s conundrums. I suppose you can’t really blame people for thinking that way; if I were like them, I’d probably feel the same. But, for whatever reason, I’m afraid I’m not like them.’