The Last Knight
By Nicola S. Dorrington
Text Copyright © 2013 Nicola S. Dorrington
All Rights Reserved
For the oldest and youngest of my loved ones,
My Grandpa, George Dorrington, because he taught me the joy of telling stories
And
My nephew, James David Neville, because I want him to always have a little fantasy and magic in his life.
Chapter One
My trainers squeaked on the tiled floor as security cameras clicked and whirled in the corners, tracking my progress along the corridor. The astringent smell of bleach scratched at the back of my throat, but I fought the need to cough. I walked slowly, my fingers trailing along the white wall as though the physical connection could keep me grounded. My free hand clutched a little shrub sprouting red flowers. It was a gift that wouldn’t be appreciated, but I would deliver it anyway.
A distant babble of raised voices shattered the silence and my feet faltered. I froze, trying to make out the words. Only one voice stood out, pleading and begging for help, and the pitiful sound made my heart ache. Only a moment later the voices died away and silence crept back, somehow louder than the shouting.
“Miss Page?” The orderly escorting me stopped a few feet ahead and looked back.
Shaking myself, I started forward again, dragging my feet as we drew towards the door at the end of the hall. My stomach churned and bile rose in my mouth. Wrestling a crocodile was a more enticing prospect than taking those last few steps.
“Here you are, Miss Page.” The orderly stopped outside the door. “You can go straight in.”
I hesitated, staring at the plain white wood. There was no lock, but a small, square observation window sat at eye level. I kept my gaze averted as I took ten deep, steadying breaths before pushing open the door. A blast of warmth hit me, bringing a stale, musty smell with it, the kind of smell old houses have when they are unlived in and unloved.
“Who is it? Who’s there?”
A stranger sat in the armchair beside the window. Blonde hair hung lank and greasy around her face, and though her blue eyes were wide open I knew she wasn’t really seeing me. Another deep breath steadied the trembling in my legs, and I was able to take a few more steps into the room.
“It’s me, Mum. It’s Cara.”
My voice cracked, but I refused to cry. The one and only time I’d given in to the tears she had looked at me so blankly it broke my heart. The fact my own mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t, comfort me was too much for me to cope with. I’d been twelve years old at the time.
“Cara?” She frowned. “I know that name.”
Two steps took me across the tiny room, with its narrow, single bed, and I sank to my knees beside her chair, my fingers stroking her forearm. I couldn’t hug her, not when she would sit there as still and immobile as a statue.
“Yes, Mum, it’s me. Your daughter.”
I knew it wouldn’t help. It didn’t matter how many times I told her who I was; she still looked at me like she’d never seen me before. That was the hardest part. This woman, who’d given birth to me, didn’t even recognise me.
She blinked and looked away. “It’s cold. Why is it always so cold?”
The room was swelteringly hot, and she sat right beside the radiator. At least her body was by the radiator; her mind was somewhere else entirely. She’d been somewhere else for the last five years. I sometimes wondered what she saw. What had that small, sterile room become for her? I privately hoped it was somewhere beautiful, somewhere she could see the sky.
“I brought you a new plant,” I told her, placing the little green shrub in its yellow pot on the window ledge. “You need to remember to water it – or it’ll die like all the others.”
“I think I’d like the roast pheasant for supper tonight,” she ordered, not even glancing at the plant. “Please instruct the kitchens.”
“Sure, Mum, I’ll tell them.” Of course, I wouldn’t. She would get the same food as the rest of the residents at Snedham, but it was easier to go along with her fantasies. Why pheasant I didn’t know. She’d always been a vegetarian.
“I can’t stay long, Mum.” A ball of guilt felt like a lead weight in my stomach. I hadn’t even been there five minutes. Was that really all the time I could spare my own mother? I shook it off. I couldn’t stay, it was too hard. “I’ve got homework and things to do. But I’ll come see you next week.”
She didn’t seem to hear me. Her face was turned towards the window, but I knew that she was seeing something completely different. I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It had once been long and honey blonde like my own, now it hung limp and flat around her face.
“It’s my birthday, Mum,” I whispered, tears burning my eyes. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but the words slipped out. “I’m seventeen today. Can’t you at least say ‘Happy Birthday’?”
Nothing. She didn’t even look my way. Sobs clawed at my throat and I pushed back to my feet, rocking on my heels. Looking down at the stranger in my mother’s body, I wanted to scream and rage. I wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled; anything to get a reaction out of her. It wasn’t fair. I remembered the vibrant, beautiful woman she’d been once, and for her own sake, as much as mine, I wanted that woman back.
Instead, closing my eyes, I bent down and pressed my lips against the top of her head.
“I’ll see you soon,” I mumbled against her hair.
When the white door closed behind me I pressed my back against the wall. Sinking down till my butt hit the floor, I drew my knees up to my chin. Iron bands wrapped around my chest and hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I hated it. Hated how visiting made me feel, but the guilt that ate away at me when I didn’t was far worse. I dreamt sometimes of her coming home, normal and sane, but the doctors told me that was never going to happen. Mental illness wasn’t something they could cure, and the meds never seemed to work.
My mother would never kiss me goodnight again. She’d never ask me how my day was. She’d never giggle with my dad about some inane thing that only made sense to them, or sing along to the 80’s pop music she used to love so much. My mother was a ghost, a phantom, barely even real.
With my face pressed into my knees, I let the tears fall.
I was still curled up crying ten minutes later when a gentle hand touched my shoulder and I looked up into a pair of deep blue eyes. One of the orderlies leant over me.
“Are you all right, Cara?”
It wasn’t a surprise that he knew my name. I’d been going to Snedham Hospital for Mental Illness once a week for nearly five years. All the staff knew me. He was new though. I glanced at the name tag on his chest. The name was just a blur through the tears but I recognised the blue badge of a volunteer. I’d never understood why anyone would choose to spend time in that place, but there were always a few of them around, doing the jobs no one else wanted to do.
“I’m fine,” I lied as he took my elbow, helping me to my feet. “Just…”
He glanced towards my mother’s room and nodded. “Is someone picking you up?”
“My Dad. He’ll be outside.” I didn’t feel like I needed an escort. “I know the way.”
He smiled. It was a very nice smile, a flash of white teeth against his lightly tanned skin. I realised he wasn’t much older than I was. “I’m sure you do – but I’m going this direction anyway.”
We walked together in silence to the communal waiting room at the entrance. It was a bit more colourful compared to the rest of the building. The couches were blue, and cheerful pictures hung on the walls. A couple of nurses gossiped at the reception desk and an old
er lady read a magazine on one of the couches. The nurses looked my way but I ignored them. I hated seeing the pity in their eyes.
“I’ll see you soon.”
I glanced at the young man at my side. He was watching me intently, a slight crease between his eyebrows.
“Sure,” I said in a low voice. Giving him a half smile, I crossed the waiting room and pushed open the outer door.
It was raining. It was January in England, so, of course, it was raining, I was just lucky it wasn’t snowing. I had no umbrella and no hood on my jacket. Tugging my collar up, I jumped down the two steps and jogged across the car park, soaking the bottoms of my jeans as I splashed through puddles.
Dad sat in his jeep, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He saw me coming and leant across the passenger seat to the door, pushing it open as I got there.
The engine rumbled to life almost before I got the door closed. Dad barely even looked at me as we peeled out of the car park, but as we reached the main road he finally spoke.
“How was she?” His eyes were still fixed on the road, but I could see the tendons in his neck as he clenched his teeth, his hands flexing around the steering wheel.
“You’d know if you went in to see her.” It was the same argument we had every time we left Snedham. The outcome was always the same, but we said the same things anyway. Like lines in a script, there was no emotion behind them anymore.
“I can’t, Cara, you know I can’t. It’s too hard.”
“And you don’t think it’s hard for me? She’s still Mum.”
“Yes.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “She’s still your mum, but she’s not my Elizabeth anymore.” He lifted one hand to forestall my usual reply. “Please, Cara, lets not do this today. It’s your birthday; I don’t want to fight with you. Have you decided what you want to do yet?”
I stayed silent, watching the misty, grey scenery fly by the window. We lived in the north of England, just south of Yorkshire to be exact, where the land seemed to stretch for miles. I suppose it could be beautiful, if I were in a better state of mind to see it, but all I saw was the bleakness of it. Endless rolling moors beneath a heavy sky, devoid of colour.
“We could go to the cinema – or maybe just go get a nice meal. Indian – your favourite.”
“You hate Indian.”
He smiled. “It’s your birthday. Or maybe you want to go out with your friends. I don’t mind if you do.”
I shook my head. “I don’t really want to do anything. Can we just go home?”
I felt his frustration. He hated it when I was like this, but I couldn’t bring myself to be happy, or cheerful. Outside the window the moors changed to the suburbs of the small town we called home. We lived on the outskirts, in a small, two bedroom, end of terrace house, built of dark red brick. The small front garden was mostly lawn beside the gravel drive, except for the dead rose bushes under the window. They had been Mum’s pride and joy once, when they’d bloomed in bright reds and pinks. Dad and I tried to pretend they didn’t exist, so now they didn’t bloom at all.
In the end, I let Dad order in a curry; it seemed easier than arguing with him. I even sat through Die Hard for the hundredth time. Admittedly, it was one of my favourite films. After all, you couldn’t go wrong with a bit of mindless violence. It was one of Dad’s favourite films from the 80’s – and for years he’d refused to let me watch it. I realised why pretty early on the first time when I heard the amount of swearing. But now Dad felt I was old enough and it was one of the things we shared. We didn’t share much. Normally we quoted it at each other as we watched, laughing at some of the more outrageous lines, but I simply wasn’t in the mood.
I just wanted to go to bed. To curl up under my duvet and forget it was my birthday. Forget that my mother didn’t even recognise me anymore, and yet another year of my life had passed by with Dad and I pretending everything was normal, even when it was anything but.
When Dad finally let me go up to bed I did exactly that. I only wished pretending could actually take away the pain.
The blaring siren of my alarm reverberated around my room, and I rolled over to smack the off button with the palm of my hand. I was already awake. I had been since four fifteen in the morning, when I’d woken, breathless, from a dream. Going back to sleep had been impossible. Instead I’d lain staring up at the cracked paint of my bedroom ceiling, dwelling on the dream.
It was still vivid in my mind as I struggled out of bed. They always were, replaying behind my eyes like a movie. At least no one had died in this one. The nightmares when someone died were always the worst, because I would then have to spend the next few days watching the news, waiting for it to come true. They always did. I knew it made me sound crazy, but I couldn’t deny it – not anymore.
For three years every dream, or at least every dream I remembered, the ones that woke me, had come true. It didn’t matter if it was as simple as the mark I got on a piece of school work, or as terrifying as seeing the most horrific traffic accident, I lived in anticipation of them coming to pass. And it was driving me crazy.
In the bathroom I turned the shower as hot as it would go and stepped in, hoping the hot water would wash away the dream. It didn’t work. But still I lingered there, my forehead pressed against the tiled wall, water pummelling against my back. Dad pounded on the door almost an hour later, shouting about being late. I knew why he was worried. If I was late for school again I’d be in real trouble, and I’d been in trouble enough recently.
I switched off the shower, the water was cold anyway, and hurried back to my room. It didn’t take long to get dressed. A lot of kids at my school complained bitterly about the uniform, but I loved it. It meant I didn’t have to think about what to wear. The black pleated skirt wasn’t flattering, hanging off my narrow hips, but at least we got to wear a shirt and a green jumper rather than the blazers and ties the other school in town wore. I didn’t even glance in the mirror. I knew what would be staring back at me. I didn’t need to look to know the dark circles under my blue eyes would be worse than ever.
Pounding down the stairs, I found Dad stood at the bottom, with my coat and bag in one hand and two pieces of toast wrapped in a napkin in the other.
“I can give you a lift if you want.”
I shook my head. “No, you’ll be late for work if you do that.” I shrugged on my coat and slung my bag over my shoulder. The weight of it made me wince but I grabbed the toast. “I’ll see you tonight.”
It was freezing outside, my breath rising in a cloud in front of me. An early morning frost had turned our front lawn silver. My feet crunched on the pavement as I turned off our front drive and onto the main road. Overhead the sky was a clear, cold blue, but at least it wasn’t raining or, worse, snowing.
The walk to school took twenty minutes, and apart from my nightmares it was the worst part of my day. Twenty minutes for me to dwell on the day ahead. I knew I had just over a year left at school but it didn’t make it any easier. There had been a time when I’d loved school, loved the chance to see my friends every day, but those days were long gone. Now school was simply a route out of town. If I got good grades in my A-Levels I could go to a good university and start over, somewhere no one knew me.
I turned a corner and the school appeared ahead of me; a long, two storied building of pale brown stone with a small car park out front and the playing fields invisible behind it. The high railing around it gave the whole place the feel of a prison. I was still at the end of the street when I saw the other students start flooding towards the doors. Swearing under my breath I broke into a jog. I’d never been the most athletic of people so I was panting before I’d got half way there. One of the teachers stood by the gates, watching me run.
“You’re late, Miss Page.”
“Sorry, Miss,” I gasped.
She pointed wordlessly towards the double doors into the main building and closed the gate behind me. They always locked it. I think they were worried we’d try and
make a break for it if they didn’t. I started jogging again and slammed through the entrance. I felt the door smack into something, and someone on the other side let loose a volley of swearwords.
I experienced a horrible feeling of déjà vu, one that was very familiar to me. At least I hadn’t had to wait too long for the latest dream to come true.
Chapter Two
Grimacing, I carefully eased the door back and peered behind it, making sure to keep a shield of wood between me and the other person just in case they decided on revenge.
A guy, in jeans and a leather jacket instead of school uniform, stood on the other side, pinching his nose and cursing under his breath. I did a quick check, but couldn’t see any blood, though his eyes were watering with pain. Reassured I stepped into the hall and let the door shut behind me.
“Damn. Does the new kid always get brained on his first day?”
I winced. “Sorry.”
He looked up and I saw his face properly for the first time.
“Hey, you’re the guy from…” I swallowed the rest of the sentence. I never talked about my mum at school.
“Cara Page.” He smiled.
“What are you doing here?” I knew it sounded rude, but I kept my home and school life very separate and seeing him there was an uncomfortable reminder. Then there was the fact that I was looking at him properly for the first time. I’d been a little distracted the first time we’d met.
The first thing I noticed was that he was tall. Really tall. At five foot seven I wasn’t exactly a midget, but he towered over me. Then there were his eyes, the deepest blue I’d ever seen, and framed by long, dark lashes. In fact, I thought it was decidedly unfair any guy had lashes that long. He was also more muscular than any teenage boy had a right to be, the muscles of his shoulders visible around the neck line of his t-shirt.
“Cara?”
I flushed, realising he’d answered my question and I hadn’t even been listening. In fact I’d practically been drooling. How embarrassing.
The Last Knight (Pendragon Book 1) Page 1