by J. A. Baker
‘Awful that, isn’t it?’ the woman continues, eyeing up the newspaper she has laid down on the table between them. She places her hands either side of the page to hold it in place, taking ownership of it, her eyes sweeping over the words, studying the screaming headline with wide outraged eyes.
Leah reluctantly glances at it. She is inadvertently drawn to the picture. The walls of the train lean in drunkenly. The floor seems to fall away beneath her. She feels her breath catch in her throat, a pocket of trapped air pushing at her from the inside; sharp and angular as it struggles to free itself.
‘Yes, awful,’ she replies, her head full of noise, her blood like ice as she stares at the photograph beneath the headline. She swallows down vomit and feels its burn as it travels back down, settling in the pit of her belly like a raging furnace. Her eyes mist over. She blinks rapidly to clear her vision, disturbed by this unexpected image.
‘Seems like there’s nowhere that’s untouched by these awful crimes.’ Rachel’s disembodied voice carries across the carriage, echoing in Leah’s head. ‘I mean this poor girl was in her bed when it happened. Imagine that, waking up to somebody standing over you with a weapon and then being beaten half to death while you’re asleep and unable to defend yourself.’
Leah shakes her head, stars bursting behind her eyes, her movements laboured as she tries to focus, to concentrate on what this woman, this Rachel person is saying. ‘Terrible,’ she manages to croak, coughing to clear her throat. ‘The whole thing is just beyond dreadful.’
‘Didn’t happen too far from here either,’ she says, her voice carrying a small amount of glee and morbid curiosity as she stares down at the grainy photograph of a crime scene, at the yellow tape cordoning off a property and the attention-grabbing headline – WOMAN BLUDGEONED IN BLOODBATH ATTACK.
Unable to hide her disgust, Leah turns and stares out of the window, everything now an indistinct smudge. Her heart stampedes around her chest arrhythmically. She swallows, suddenly wishing this journey was over, wishing sloth girl would go and sit somewhere else. Somewhere far away from her. This is a conversation she does not want to be having. That headline is no more than sensationalistic tabloid nonsense designed to lure in voyeurs; bloodthirsty readers who will stop at nothing to pore over every bit of grisly detail they can find about murder and rape and any other heinous crime that will brighten their day.
Slumping down in her seat, Leah blinks away the film of fog that covers her eyes and stares outside, thinking how weak she is. If only she had the courage to get up and move to another seat, away from the newspaper, away from the glaring headline that is twisting her stomach into a tight ball.
She closes her eyes, squeezing them shut, feigning sleep. Her mind drifts away. In the background, she can hear people chatting, discussing the recent murder while others talk endlessly about work, using esoteric language about the minutiae of their jobs. The incessant drone of their voices swirls around the carriage accompanied by the rustle of newspapers and the gentle hum of the train which in itself is a strangely soothing sound that lulls her into a meditative state. For a few precious moments, she can clear her mind. Everything feels calm, the air soft with a welcome sense of equanimity. For a while, Leah forgets. She forgets about Chloe and Jacob. She forgets about the shreds of the life she is leaving behind. She forgets about the family who forgot about her.
And that’s when it happens. A light rocking, her body swaying in time with the movement of the carriage, a rhythmic and recurring sensation, then an ear-splitting sound that cuts through the air like a bomb exploding. Next comes a deep thud that propels her forward, her body a tangle of uncoordinated limbs as she lands on a sharp object, her abdomen hitting the edge of the table with force. Leah whimpers, lets out a deep groan of resistance and collapses, her body crumpled. She is unable to think properly, to breathe properly. Everything is skewed, unfathomable.
More shaking and vibrating under her, around her, above her. A feeling that the walls are coming in, that the ground is disappearing under her feet. A terrible sensation that the earth is spinning wildly off its axis, taking her with it. She screams, is thrown forward again, clutches at thin air, finds nothing.
Then the grating and screeching of metal, the unbearable sound that causes her to shudder, making her skin crawl. And the shrieks, the soul crushing cries of terror. So much screaming, animalistic, feral. Terrified howling, cries of pain and dread, of confusion and fear.
Another sickening groan. Metal against metal. Another violent movement. This one tips her sideways, sends her spinning, the blood in her head swirling and gushing. She yells out, her voice low and desperate as she slides backwards then upside down, her body pressed hard against a solid surface, her hands jammed up against plastic or glass, something cold, something immovable and sharp. Too much chaos to think properly, to work out what is happening to her.
She can’t breathe. Her lungs refuse to work, her throat constricts. Then the pain. So much of it. It pulses through her, wave after wave shrieking through her veins, biting at her limbs. Her eyes bulge, her chest heaves as a tiny pocket of air finds its way in. She tries to move but is held tight against something solid, something heavy and immobile. So hard to keep on breathing, to get enough air into her lungs. Oxygen. She needs more oxygen.
Moans and cries for help surround her, unearthly protestations; people begging, sobbing, howling. What the fuck just happened? She tries to move again, to look for the man with the laptop, for Rachel, the sloth woman. Where are they? Where is she? What the fuck is going on?
She tries to think straight, to fight through the thick veil of confusion. Not a dream. This is real. A crash. They’ve hit something at speed. Their train has crashed, come off its rails. Everything is broken and crushed, torn apart and burning. People are dying, possibly already dead.
Another sudden pain bursts inside her, an agonising ripping sensation that speeds through her diaphragm, cutting her in two. It’s unbearable. Horrific. Worse than anything she has ever experienced. Her head pounds. A strangulated cry escapes from her throat. She’s dying. Dear God. Oh dear sweet Jesus, she is dying. No other explanation for it.
Leah gasps and splutters, thick warm bile exploding out of her mouth, choking her. She coughs, gurgles, vomits, spits out the bitter fluid, trying to draw oxygen into her lungs, her chest wheezing with the effort of staying alive.
She waits, every second a minute, every minute an hour. Time stretches out before her, endless, infinite moments punctuated with pain. On and on and on… Everything is hopeless. She is choking, gagging. Praying.
An eternity. Too long. Everything is taking too damn long. Where are the doctors, the nurses, the firefighters? Anybody to get her out of here. Anybody. She just needs somebody to help her, to stop the searing pain that feels like knives are being repeatedly plunged into her stomach. Sharp blades, digging, gouging, slicing at her innards.
She’s dying. She feels sure of it. Help. She needs help.
Please God, don’t let me die. Not here. Not now.
Still nothing. No sounds. No more screaming.
Just emptiness. A horrible, lingering deathly silence.
It lasts for forever. All she can think of is how to breathe, how to keep her lungs working, to keep the oxygen flowing. In, out. In, out. She focuses what little energy she has on staying alive.
Seconds turn into minutes, minutes into an eternity.
She tries to count. Soon they will come. Somebody will help her. She gets to ten and keeps going. She continues to twenty and struggles to concentrate, to work out what comes next.
Agony. Not enough air… Thirty. Once she gets to thirty, somebody will arrive…
More time passes, an endless stretch of silence. She tries to ignore the pain, putting her efforts into staying awake, not slipping into unconsciousness, into a darkness that has no end.
Then at last, at long last, just when she has given up all hope, there are noises nearby. Sirens, voices, the crunch of heavy footsteps. Sh
outing, machines whirring, a high-pitched whine and the cumbersome creak and groan of metal moving, machinery tearing apart the carriage, metal fingers ripping their way through the carnage. Somebody is here. Thank God, somebody is here.
They’ve come to save her.
She tries to speak, to call out, to tell them that she’s close by, that she can’t breathe properly, that she needs air, but nothing comes except a stream of hot sticky liquid that fills her mouth, coating her teeth, settling in the recesses of her gums like warm oil.
A gurgling, gasping sound emanates from somewhere close by. She strains, listens and realises it’s coming from her, her feeble attempt at shouting for help, impaired by her injuries.
Time is meaningless as she waits, the last pocket of air leaving her lungs until she feels she cannot hold out. Nothing left. No more oxygen. Just a growing darkness. A pinprick of light disappearing behind her eyes, getting smaller and smaller, her vision tunnelled.
Before the blackness descends, she hears something, a warped sound, distant – a voice, coming closer, getting louder until it’s right next to her, a deep resonant tone; urgent, reassuring.
‘Here! Over here. We’ve got someone.’
A figure leans close, a silhouette at first, then a face surrounded by a halo of light, like an angel. A saviour. Her saviour.
She feels her hand being held, thick strong fingers caressing her wrist. Then a man’s voice, strong, comforting. ‘I’ve got a pulse. Quick! I need some assistance. She’s still alive!’
2
‘How are your nightmares?’
‘Which ones?’ Leah is restless. Will’s talk of her nocturnal terrors makes her skin crawl. She has so many of them it’s too difficult to set one apart from the other and place them in order of dread.
She shivers, her eyes drawn to the pieces of abstract art that line the walls of his office. She wishes Will had chosen something different to decorate his workplace, something softer, less harsh, with indistinguishable soft lines and pastel colours. Something that would soothe her rather than making her feel on edge. She stares at the largest picture and closes her eyes against the wave of revulsion that slides around inside her mind. Some would call it vibrant, exciting, innovative; artwork with a backstory. It isn’t any of those things. It is a dark hulking monstrosity of a painting. The black ghoulish stripes that dance across the canvas combined with the vertical slashes of orange and red only serve to make her queasy and ill at ease. It’s overpowering; sharp and striking, not something to be enjoyed, but something rather, to be intimidated by. She is sure that Will would tell her that she should be in awe of it, that she should admire its strength and fear its power. She feels none of those things. Staring at it fills her with misery, a feeling of inadequacy, of being trapped.
She opens her eyes, turns away and stares down at her hands.
‘All of them. I take it you’re still having dreams about the crash?’ Will says lightly, as if they are talking about a grocery list or what to watch on TV and not the stream of disjointed visions that batter at her bruised and aching brain. It’s she who suffers them. How could he ever begin to understand how it feels to wake with such terror and despondency hanging over you that you can’t even remember who or where you are?
Leah nods, tears pricking at the back of her eyelids. She swallows, forcing them back. ‘Most nights I dream that I’m dying, that nobody came to rescue me and I didn’t make it out alive. My lack of memory doesn’t help. I still can’t recall what happened prior to me getting on the train or why I was even on it to begin with.’
‘Retrograde amnesia.’ Will says the words so casually, so lightly, as if it’s a commonplace condition and not something that leaves her feeling as fragile as a leaf floating downstream, spinning and swirling, at the mercy of the elements. ‘It’s to be expected after an accident, and yours was pretty traumatic as accidents go. That, coupled with lack of sleep from the nightmares will leave you feeling fairly delicate and vulnerable.’ He leans forward, his face coming into view out of the glare of the sunlight that is streaming in through the window behind him. ‘Have you been taking your medication? The tablets to help you sleep?’
‘They make me feel like a zombie. I can’t seem to win. They help to dull everything but the more I sleep the worse the nightmares become,’ Leah mutters. ‘It’s a vicious circle.’ She is lying to him. She cannot recall being given any sleeping tablets but going along with what he says is easier than railing against him. Will is a force to be reckoned with, a rock in her unsteady world.
He leans back in his chair, idly running his fingers through his hair. ‘And your painkillers? You’re still on them?’
She feels inclined to grab them, arrange them on the desk for him to see, to prove how hard she is trying at getting better. Reaching into her handbag she is dismayed to find them not there. Her heart skips a beat, her skin grows hot. ‘I must have left them at home. I’m pretty sure I take them regularly.’ She isn’t sure at all. She has no memory of any tablets but feels compelled to say the right things. The things that are expected of her.
Timed to perfection, the pain in her abdomen kicks in, sharp and raw as the day it happened. Will this ever end? She winces, takes a long breath, waits for the griping to dissipate, then gives him a thin tight grimace. ‘I wish I’d never got on that stupid bloody train.’
Will smiles and exhales loudly, his nostrils flaring, his face appearing larger than ever as he places his hands on the desk. Leah can’t help but notice how clean his fingernails are, how manicured and pale his hands are compared to his liver spotted face. She wants to ask him why his cheeks are so mottled and florid, why there are large marks on his skin when he isn’t old enough to warrant having them. She guesses that he’s in his late forties, early fifties at a push – yet his expression, his speckled flesh, is that of somebody much older. Somebody who has lived and seen things. Perhaps he has. Apart from speaking to him here in this place where all they do is talk incessantly about her health and her endless litany of ailments, both physical and mental, she doesn’t know anything about him. He has a life, probably a family, a past she knows nothing about. She is an open book to him. Will is a stranger to her.
‘You know, the mind is a funny thing, both terribly fragile and yet incredibly resilient at the same time. At some point everything will come back to you. It just takes time.’
‘I’m still off work,’ Leah mumbles as she picks at a piece of loose cotton on her shirt sleeve. She feels like a small child, a miscreant caught doing something terribly naughty. Work seems like a lifetime ago. She can’t even remember when she is due to return. Everything is such a muddle, her logic in tatters.
‘Well, there’s no shame in that. You’ve been through a massive trauma. You just need to rest up, not be so hard on yourself and remember to keep breathing.’ He chuckles at his own words, as if they’re sharing a private joke.
Still picking at her sleeve, Leah remains still, waiting for his laughter to subside. She still has things she needs to tell him, odd occurrences, things she can’t explain. Things that worry her beyond reason.
In the lull, she interjects, her voice low and raspy. ‘I thought I saw my brother last week. I was on my way here and felt somebody watching me. When I turned, I could have sworn I saw him standing on the other side of the road staring at me. I let out a shriek, and then he disappeared.’
She waits for Will to respond, to come out with an explanation as to why she saw her dead brother in the middle of the street. Because she wants to hear it. She wants to be given a reason; some sort of medical terminology thrown her way to reassure her that she is not going completely mad. ‘My brother is dead. He died some years back. How can you explain this latest incident?’
His manner is suddenly serious, an authoritative air to it. ‘Now I know you might not want to hear this, or maybe you do, but obviously we both know it can’t have been your brother. What I do know is that the brain is a complex thing and perfectly capable of misrepresen
ting things, allowing us to see what we want to see and hear what we want to hear.’ Will coughs lightly and taps his fingers on the desk, a dull thrumming that pounds in her ears and fills the room. ‘What about the rest of your family?’
Scalp prickling, Leah drops her gaze to the joints in the wooden floor, focusing on the ingrained dots of dirt lodged in between each one, hoping Will moves on from this subject. Thinking about her parents makes her skin itch. Her head buzzes at the very mention of them, at that memory of that awful, awful day. She shakes her head, her lips pursed. ‘I don’t see them, haven’t done for many years now.’ Her eyes bulge with unshed tears. She blinks them back. Ancient history. Time to look forward, to drag herself out of the rut she has found herself in of late.
‘And you miss them?’ Will has raised his volume, upped his tempo, forcing her to sit up straighter and delve into her past even though every nerve ending in her body is shrieking at her to step away from this conversation, urging her to say nothing and leave it be.
‘Should I?’ Ice fills her veins; her words are sharp, dagger-like, as they tumble out of her mouth.
‘You’ve never told me why you’re estranged from them. Do you want to elaborate, or should we leave that subject well alone?’
Leah thinks about what a clever man Will is, how astute and shrewd he is, cornering her like this, getting her to open up about the rift, making their future conversation about her parents seem like a fait accompli as if this moment was destined to be. He’s a constant voice in her head, forcing her to confront her past, to think about those events and speak openly about them.
She shakes her head, shrugs listlessly, buying herself some time as a way of putting off saying what has always needed to be said. The lump in her throat is impossibly large, obstructing her windpipe. It’s a wonder she can still breathe, let alone speak. She takes a deep breath, does her best to unburden herself. ‘They no longer want anything to do with me. They lost one child and now refuse to communicate with their only remaining offspring. What sort of people would do something like that?’ Leah doesn’t mention Maria. There are only so many family matters she can bring herself to speak about.