Three hours previously, Sylvia had been trudging the soggy countryside with Harry, increasingly hungry, while shed searching. The great sweep of forest surrounded them and since the tree branches were stark and open, it was possible to see for some distance. No manmade structure, neither cottage nor shed, neither barn nor hut, could be seen amongst the trees. Nor were they the type of trees to carry a tree house, nor offer a cave amongst the roots or in a hollow trunk.
“Come on, Harry love,” Sylvia called. “There’s nothing here and I’m cold and wet and tired and starving.”
“Clearly a desperate situation,” smiled Harry. “And I’m bored if nothing else. Let’s go. Careful down the slope back to the car.”
She was careful. Her boots were well made without slippery soles, and she reached the parked car, waved back up to Harry, and clambered in.
The crash came almost immediately. A dead tree standing, arms outstretched at the curb side, fell with a crackle and thunderous collapse onto the roof of the car. Harry’s car caved in, the windscreen shattered, the boot concertinaed, and the dark paint on the chassis splintered. Then there was silence.
The only sound was Harry’s panicked breathing as he hurtled down the slope, and the wind which whistled through the trees. There was no noise from the crushed vehicle. Sylvia could not even be seen.
He began to tug at the branches of the tree, shifting some, breaking off brittle parts of others. Clearly unable to do anything substantially helpful, he phoned the police, and for once, not Morrison. “A bloody great tree fell on my car. My wife’s trapped inside. I can’t free her. It’s drastic. The car’s a squashed mess. But she’s got to be alright. I couldn’t bear it if –,”
“Two cars are on their way right now, Mr. Joyce.” But Harry continued to tug at the tree, moving it an inch after each breathless attempt. Very, very slowly it began to move. He was yelling, “Sylvia, are you alright? Tell me. Are you alive?” but received no answer. Insensitive to his own discomfort and the bitter cold, he struggled in desperation. With a tug which he felt nearly cracked his ribs, he managed to break off a large piece of branch, levering it against the side, and then cracked the largest branch which reached to the road, by jumping on it, breaking it off at its joint with the trunk. At once the trunk became lighter and less cumbersome, and he returned to pulling, then hurrying around to the opposite side and pushing, relentlessly achieving one tiny inch of movement after another.
Suddenly he found he could see one sliver of the passenger side window, and peered in. The glass was broken. He forced in his hand, ripping his wrist open on the shards. He could see Sylvia and touch her. She was slumped forwards against the airbag. He could touch her cheek, and found it warm. Harry was sure she was still breathing. There was blood on the airbag, but he could see no more of her face and did not know what part of her was injured. And then, with whispered thanks and an enormous sigh of utter relief, he heard the police sirens.
Two cars, five policemen, and they were able to move the tree trunk, hurling it into the roadside They had already called an ambulance, and now, shouting and manoeuvring, they had the passenger door ripped from its broken hinges, the air bag now airless, and the unconscious woman slowly and carefully carried from the fragmented metal.
The emergency ambulance, its doors wide, took up the injured patient, stretcher bound, and the specialist medical team began the examination. Harry turned to one of the paramedics and begged, “It’s my wife. Can I come with her?”
The doctor in charge shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Come to the hospital.”
One of the policemen tapped him on the shoulder, “Come with us, sir. We’ll get you to the hospital. Your wife will be put straight into the emergency ward, I imagine, and you can talk to the doctors there.”
First time in a police car, and they kept the siren going, one car returned to the station, while the other delivered Harry to the General Hospital in Cheltenham, some distance away. There he was told to wait. Waiting in the corridor was like facing a firing squad. He could not sit still and marched the white tiles, head down, repeating the words, “She has to be alright,” so many times that he forgot what he was saying.
“She’s alright,” said the sister, trying to catch his attention. Harry wasn’t sure who had spoken, the nurse or himself.
“Sorry. Pardon?”
“Your wife, Mr. Joyce. She isn’t seriously injured. You’ll be able to see her soon, if you don’t mind waiting. The doctor will be out to talk to you in five minutes or so. Our emergency consultant, Doctor Boston.”
“Ah, Mr. Joyce, I’m afraid your wife has suffered a broken nose, two bruised eye sockets, five broken ribs, the left humours cracked the right tibia fractured, the right ulna fractured, the right hand has maintained numerous fractures, possible lung damage has now been ruled out but needs further investigation, major shock, and the patient remains unconscious.”
Harry stared at Doctor Boston. “And that means she’s alright?”
“Oh yes,” the doctor assured him. “No serious damage and no injury to the internal organs. But your wife will be in hospital for some days, I’m afraid. She needs rest. I imagine you do too, Mr. Joyce. A most unfortunate accident.”
“You could say that.” Harry flopped down onto the nearest bench. “Well, you did. Can I see her now?”
“We haven’t quite finished the plastering and bandaging, Mr. Joyce, if you wouldn’t mind waiting just a little longer. And we do need to monitor the heart function of course. Your wife has lost very little blood, but such an assortment of injuries must be carefully attended. I suggest you go down to the canteen and get yourself a cup of tea.”
Harry felt he needed a huge neat whisky, but he did as he was told and trotted to the lift. Having arrived by taxi, he now phoned to have the car towed while feeling a nausea heave of increasing guilt. He knew it was all his fault and he also knew that it wasn’t, but guilt, he decided, was the only way to make sense of it. Then he remembered what the victims of the Welsh Ripper must have suffered and stopped worrying about himself. He raised his teacup to the absent Sylvia and swore that he’d look after her in future.
He was permitted to visit her bedside half an hour later.
Sylvia was able to mumble, opened two massively bruised eyes, peered through the blackened skin and bloodshot pupils, grimaced, and muttered, “What a silly thing to happen.”
Harry sat on the bed but couldn’t take her hand, caress her cheek, or even kiss the top of her head. She seemed encased in plaster. “Well, we seem to spend more and more time in prisons and hospitals,” he said. “At least you’re in the hospital and not in the prison. And your doctor says you’re not seriously hurt, though there don’t seem many bones left unbroken.”
“Feet O.K.,” but the smile didn’t break through.
“Pain?”
“No.” She closed her eyes. “Drugged. Dopey. Sleep now.” She sank back against the two pillows and seemed within seconds to be deeply sleeping. Harry sat where he was for quite some time before he staggered up and got a taxi home to his own little house. He hadn’t been there for some time and there was still the ‘For Sale’ sign by the front gate. It was dusty and smelled of abandon, but he switched on the electricity at the box outside and sat heavily on his old armchair. He was so stiff from battling with the tree trunk, and so weary with panic and fear, he closed his own eyes and also fell asleep.
He dreamed of the dead crawling amongst the trees, their limbs shattered and tumbling. Amongst the shivering skeletons he discovered Sylvia and awoke crying. After a while, managing to get his brain straight, he staggered upstairs and had a scorching hot shower. Standing there naked for ten minutes or more, he felt the burning water scald him, the heat seeping into his joints and iron away the aches. Steam blinded him. The water was too hot but he adored it and felt cleansed. Without bothering to dress again, nor to dry himself, he staggered into the next room and went to bed. He was asleep again within minutes and this time he did not d
ream.
He went back to visit Sylvia in the morning and found her more alert but equally bandaged. Having brought her tulips from the nursery’s greenhouse, fruit from the limited supply at the local market, a magazine and two books, he dumped the lot on the bedside table and sat back on the edge of the bed.
“I hope you managed a good night’s sleep.”
“Sleeping pills on top of drugs. Never woke for three days.”
Harry grinned. “I bet you feel horrible,” he said. “Or do the drugs still make you numb?”
They did. “Numb. Dumb. D’you know,” she mumbled, “I can’t even remember what happened? I remember a thump. On my head. And then I woke up with a doctor shouting questions at me. I sort of asked him what he was doing in my bedroom, and to get out. But my voice was so garbled, he didn’t understand me anyway. Finally a nurse came and explained things. It must have been vile for you. I’m so sorry.”
He leaned forwards and kissed her bandage, which was the nearest he could get to her mouth or cheek. “Don’t say sorry to me. I parked the damned car under a dead tree, so I have to say sorry to you.”
Sylvia managed to snigger, which sounded like a gurgle. “So we’re quits. And they’re very sweet here. One nurse found my ingrowing toe nails and did a quick surgery.”
Returning to Rochester Manor from the hospital, Harry explained to everyone who asked, and almost all the residents did, including David, Arthur and Francesco. He then reported to Lavender, joined Ruby for an explanatory cup of tea in the main living room, and hurried to Sylvia’s bedroom where he packed her least threadbare pyjamas, a very attractive blue nightdress which she’d never worn and kept for hospitals, and the brand new dressing gown he’d bought her for Christmas. He slung her favourite slippers, underwear and a full washbag in on top, zipped up the case, and after a very quick sandwich lunch, he took the case to the hospital. He bought some decent chocolate on the way and staggered into the little private ward with his arms full as always.
The bed was empty.
“Ah, Mr. Joyce,” said the nurse. “I’m afraid Mrs. Joyce is having a series of X-rays and MRIs. She was seen an hour ago by the specialist, Mr. Osman, who wasn’t entirely happy about some of the tests not being considered necessary. He’s authorised more. It’ll take quite some time. Indeed, all afternoon I think.”
“Bugger. I mean bother,” said Harry. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” He walked for a while, wondering what he was going to do with himself for a week or more without Sylvia, and then made a decision. Just past the hospital was a car dealership, and they also advertised hire cars.
Harry went in and hired a two year old Range Rover. He wasn’t rich, but he didn’t pay rent to anyone and he was about to sell his old house for a good price. With considerable pride in the first posh car he’d ever had to drive, he returned to the manor and parked with deliberation in an obvious spot. Too large really for parking or getting around Cheltenham, but it was only a hire car after all, and what he had mainly being doing lately was searching the countryside or travelling long distances to Wales and Leicestershire. The cost of the hire seemed perfectly justified and he went to sleep happily. He had no idea that Walter Rankling had telephoned, nor would he have cared had he known. He asked Lavender if Morrison had phoned, but Lavender told him no. Not a word.
Harry was content. But the following morning he first phoned the hospital to find out what had happened with all the tests, and whether his wife was able to receive visitors, and was told that a small splinter of bone had been discovered in the chest cavity, in a position which was dangerously close to perforating the lungs. The tiny piece of bone would have to be removed. Mrs. Joyce was about to be taken down to theatre. The operation was a simple one and would take only moments. Sylvia would therefore be back in the ward once she woke from the anaesthetic, and could receive visitors that afternoon.
“After lunch, I suggest, Mr. Joyce.,” said the nurse on the telephone. “Come at 1.30. That would be ideal;”
It was eight o’clock in the morning. Harry wondered what the hell he’d do, worrying himself sick about Sylvia, walking up and down without going anywhere, or sitting in the hospital cafeteria for hours.
Of course, he did have a nice new car.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The man stared glumly at his wife.
She asked, “So you didn’t touch the nice wine or the jam I gave you? All that work for nothing.”
“Maybe I will next time. I’ve gotta get away. Just don’t moan. It gets on my nerves. And you know what I’ll do when my nerves get on edge So best keep out my way.”
“So when are you going away next?”
“Soon. It’ll be soon. But stop asking so many bloody questions. I don’t like it.”
“Lunch is ready.”
“Piss off, woman. I’ll eat when I bloody want to.”
It had been well over a month since the last game, and he was feeling his guts twisted and his brain was drowning. Olga was whirling closer and closer. He had been out several times, driving to various places where he might pick up a passing stranger, or be able to stop some girl. Having tried everything, including practically falling over in front of some female’s car, and throwing stones at a windscreen from the little bridge above, he realised that no young woman alone would stop for anything at all. He was famous, and that tickled him. He thought it funny, but he liked it too. More power, more importance. But it made life difficult.
He had tried the pins over and over. He had cut one of his arms open in the bath and enjoyed the strong sting and the flow of blood. He had played with that for an hour until the water was so cold and sticky, he was forced to climb out. Twice he managed to get back to the shed, but he was working long hours and that left him little time for amusement. At one shop he found a fake police badge, but the girl he tried to convince he was a plain clothes copper just laughed in his face and said it was the sort of thing kids played with and no one believed.
Olga sat on his shoulder, tearing at his ear. He felt her claws grind into the flesh of his neck and throat, she spat black fire which sizzled against his face, and the weight of her made him feel sick. This wasn’t a pain he could enjoy. This was the misery of failure, and the deep depression of weakness. Once again he knew himself to be an ugly freak, weak, without power, without friends, without hope. Olga was eating him.
His wife worked nights, which helped get her out of his way but still gave her time to do the important things like cooking and ironing. Rarely, on her nights off when he was at home, he’d tried a quick shag. But long ago he’d accepted that he couldn’t do it unless he was already in sublime erection, excited by blood, brutality and the delicious sensation of inflicting pain. His wife always cringed and shivered a bit and sometimes that helped, but not often. He’d more or less given up with her. They called it impotence. But he called it waiting for the right moment and the right person and the right place.
Once again he contemplated suicide. It was, he supposed the logical answer. Knowing for certain there was no life after death, he could relish an empty nothingness. It felt soothing in his imagination, floating like a feather on a non-existent wind. He began to plan the way he should do it. Pain wouldn’t matter. He’d relish a little and was far too experienced to give himself too much. He had no gun and wondered if he should get one. A shot straight into the ear might be the easiest way to go. He knew nothing about poisons and they could be too slow. He relished pain, but not agony nor a long drawn out deterioration. He imagined the puking bilious ravages of toxins on his guts, Piss on that. What he wanted were a few twitches, and then gone. He decided to buy a pistol.
Then he changed his mind. Olga wasn’t going to get the best of him yet. Instead he booked in sick at work and phoned a hooker.
She didn’t turn up. Olga flew back, her great shining black wings outspread, enclosing him, shutting him off from light and warmth and control. She taunted and threatened him, snapping, spitting and hissing. He shouted at
her, swore and threw the beer can. Downstairs his wife, hearing him, stood shivering and frightened. But he didn’t look at her when he left the house, striding out and slamming the front door. He climbed into his car and drove off, exceeding the speed limit. The last thing he needed was a speeding fine, but at the moment he didn’t give a shit for that.
Stopping around the next corner, he pulled his phone from his pocket, called the dating service he’d rung two days previously, and told them the slut had never turned up, and he was furious. “I want a fucking girl. And I want her now. I’m just down the road and she can meet me there. I’ll take her back to my place and I’ll pay well. Just get the bitch here on time.”
This one turned up.
Fletcher woke without comprehension. He lay in pain, but did not know why. He could hardly move, and didn’t understand that either. Most of his body was cold and numb and without sensation, but his legs burned with pain. He tried to call out, but discovered that he had no voice. When someone came to the side of the bed, he looked up. His sight was blurred but he thought he recognised his father. He managed to ask, “Dad? Where am I? Am I sick?”
The man answered but Fletcher couldn’t make out the words. He thought he might be dreaming. But when he closed his eyes he saw wildly blazing flames, an inferno, rushing towards him. And, absurdly, he feared it. He couldn’t understand why he disliked this so much. It was his fantasy, his desire, his road to pleasure and to feeling alive. Yet suddenly it felt like his road to death.
Gradually he remembered that he’d wanted to die. Yet he couldn’t remember why. Then he remembered the shock and violent surprise when he discovered that the flames he adored could be brutal, and that he was not immune to the agony of burning. But when he screamed, someone stuck a needle in his arm and he fell asleep again.
She was small and had once been pretty. Long bleached curls partially covered her extremely low neckline, but she was older than he liked, and he was a little disappointed. Yet having already waited so long, he wasn’t going to turn down his first opportunity.
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