The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two)

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  “No. Beer is fine,” she replies, taking another few sips. “There, better now. But is not good that you think Slovenia just like Slovakia. We are very different country, and there is not connection between two.”

  “It’s a bit embarrassing really, how ignorant us British are about our European neighbours. I think it goes back to our arrogance where we just assume everyone should speak English, and that Great Britain still rules the waves.”

  “Which is sadly inaccurate view. Such days I think long gone.”

  “Most people in the UK have heard of Poland, but the other Eastern European countries are still very mysterious. Very few people from here ever go there. I think nowadays, we just think that since more and more people from Poland want to come here that it can’t be very nice there, so we don’t bother to learn anything about those countries.”

  “I understand, but is not true. Poland is beautiful country, and so is Czech Republic and definitely Slovak Republic. Very beautiful. Have you heard of Tatra Mountains?”

  “No. Where are they?”

  “On border between Poland and Slovakia. Very beautiful. You should go there one day. Lots of skiing.”

  “Do you ski?”

  “Oh yes. We all learn ski when we are young.”

  The conversation begins to really flow, and soon I can sense that Slávka is as relaxed with me as I am with her.

  I like to listen to her talk, studying her beautiful face as I am slowly mesmerized by the lilting way her soft voice carves delicate patterns of sound between us, entranced by the quaint way she formulates her sentences, pulling together words that clearly make sense but which are not always accurate in their choice or use, and the way she misses out the word “the” or “a” every time I expect to hear one.

  “Is it difficult to learn English?” I ask her when a suitable moment arrives. “When did you start to learn?”

  She blushes a little, and I almost regret asking the question, except for the fact that I am genuinely interested in learning the answer and quite touched by her sensitivity and the way she blushes.

  “Sorry, my English bad. I only begin learn proper last year. When I get here I only speak few words, you know, ‘Hello? Goodbye? May I have cup of tea?”, but then I go English course everyday for three months and I must learn very quick.”

  “What, you came to Britain without being able to speak English at all?” I ask, thinking that she must be very brave. There’s no way I’d move to Slovakia if I couldn’t speak the language. “Did you come here with anyone else?”

  “No. I come by myself. No one else in Slovakia want come England then. I only doctor on whole bus! Now every bus has two doctors, three nurses, dentist and vet. Oh, and four plumbers!” she laughs.

  “It’s amazing that you can speak so fluently so quickly. You must have a gift for it. What other languages can you speak?”

  She puts her knife and fork down and starts to count on her fingers.

  “I think I speak five languages. Most people in my village do. There is Slovak, Russian, Carpathian, Polish, Czech, Ukrainian, and now bit of English. Wow. I am very clever girl! I speak seven languages…” she beams.

  “Wow,” I reply, incredibly impressed. “Seven languages. And you are a doctor? You are beginning to make me feel very stupid.”

  “Oh no,” she says, reaching across the table and briefly touching my hand. “I’m sorry. I am talking all about me. Now you must tell me about Scotland. You are also brave person to leave your country and come to England? Tell me about Edinburgh. I have not yet visit Scotland.”

  “I would like to,” I reply. “But once I get started on that topic, you won’t be able to shut me up,” I say, looking at my watch. “Slouka... actually, before I say anything more, can I just ask you how you pronounce your name properly? Am I doing it right?”

  “Yes. You say it right. Good pronunciation.”

  “How do you write it?”

  “I need pen…” she says, looking around the pub. Just then the waitress comes through the door to collect up some of the empty beer glasses from the tables, and I wave at her and ask if I can borrow hers.

  Slávka reaches across the table and pulls a napkin towards herself.

  “Look,” she says, “It is written like this…”, and I watch as she writes down the letters

  ‘S…l…á…v…k…a’

  “Slavka?” I read aloud.

  “No, how say before was right. We not pronounce letter ‘v’ same like English person.”

  “Slávka?”

  “Yes. Very excellent,” she smiles.

  “Ok, Slávka. Thank you... Slávka.” I say once more, practicing saying the word and picturing the spelling of her name in my mind's eye, trying to memorise it. “Anyway, Slávka, I was thinking that maybe when we are finished eating I could take you to a concert? There is this female singer I know…” which is how, two hours later we are both walking out of the Helen Boulding concert, having enjoyed the best gig I have heard her play yet.

  “What did you think?” I ask Slávka, hoping that she will have liked her as much as I do.

  “I think she is excellent”, she replies, “and I am very pleased you invite me and take me listen her this evening. Is much better than studying.”

  All evening long I have been dying to ask Slávka one question, and now I can resist it no longer.

  “Does your boyfriend not take you to concerts in London?”

  She turns and looks at me appraisingly before replying.

  “He used to. Last year. A lot. Always to theatre to see show or music. But not any longer. He go back to America.”

  “Do you still see him?” I ask, determined to get the answer.

  “No, but I think what you want for know is really if I have boyfriend now, or not? Yes?”

  “Eh, yes. Actually, that is exactly what I was wondering.”

  “Perhaps you should ask other question. Would I be now here enjoying myself so much with new man who stare at me on train, if I already have boyfriend?” she asks, reaching out and touching my hand very gently.

  I think I am blushing.

  “And you? If you have ask me, then perhaps I allowed ask you same question?” she asks.

  I laugh, a little embarrassed by her directness but flattered by her interest in knowing.

  “No. I only got to London a few weeks ago, and to be honest, I don’t know many people here yet. Only a few people from work, my flatmate Guy, and his girlfriend Sal.”

  The sudden mention of Sal is accompanied by a rush of guilt. The whole evening I have not given a single thought to her or to Guy, and now I feel almost like as if I have somehow let Guy down. Earlier on in the evening when I spoke to him on the phone, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was going out on a date tonight in search of some happiness while he was suffering in such misery. Perhaps I can redeem myself…

  “What time is it?” I ask aloud, looking at my watch. “It’s almost ten thirty. How are you getting home ? Do you have time for a quick drink? I was enjoying your company so much that I forgot that I wanted to ask you a question about my friend Sal and her coma?”

  “I have time,” she replies. I am on late shift tomorrow. But it’s unfair. All night you ask me about me, and still you tell me nothing about you. You know everything about my family now, and why I here, but I know only you have sister Hannah, but nothing what you do or why you here in England!”

  “Aha…it’s part of my cunning plan”, I confess, pointing to a bar just across the road that looks much quieter than the place where Helen’s gig has just finished. “But that means you have to go out with me for another evening to ask me questions about my life, if you are interested.”

  “You drive hard bargain,” she laughs.

  .

  A few minutes later we are sitting down at a quiet table in the corner of the bar. They have just called last orders, so I am conscious of the fact that in less than thirty minutes we will be chucked out onto the streets. Slávka
is drinking a cup of hot tea, and I am just starting a pint of Stella.

  Slávka is sitting beside me on the upholstered leather bench beside the window, her legs almost touching mine. It is interesting to see that as the evening has worn on, we have both become more relaxed in each other’s company, and as we sit side by side on the seat, I notice how close we are sitting to each other. I can feel the warmth of her legs against mine. It is a good feeling.

  “So Andrew, tell me about friend in coma,” she asks me.

  I turn halfway towards her, tucking one of my legs under the other and sitting on it on the seat.

  “Sal is my flatmate’s girlfriend. She was in one of the tube trains that got hit by the terrorist bombs. She’s been in a coma since last Thursday. She’s breathing independently but wasn’t speaking or moving at all until about two days ago, when she moved one of her fingers. Then yesterday, Guy asked her a question and she moved two fingers. He thinks that she was trying to say something to him. Anyway, the doctor said that it was a good sign and that apparently it moved her a point up the ‘Glasgow Scale’. I wanted to ask you if you knew what the Glasgow Scale was?”

  “What has Doctor said?”

  “Not much. He just said that we should assume that she can hear everything we say to her, and that the sooner she wakes up the better.”

  “That is true. The longer she lies in coma without responding, I think probability of bad damage to brain is higher. Have they done scans…you know, MRI or CTI?”

  “Yes. Well, they did some scans, but I don’t know what they were. They said the results were good. No real signs of obvious damage…”

  “That is good…” she says, sitting forward in the seat and turning towards me, her face now quite close. As she begins to speak I notice that her whole demeanour has now changed. Before she was all smiles and laughter, but now Slávka has become serious and I can see that mentally she has put on her white coat and is now talking to me as Slávka the professional doctor. Something stirs within me, which I quickly recognise as admiration and respect: “...but we know very little about brain”, she continues, “…so even though test results good, risk of damage to brain is always possibility. Doctor is right to worry that longer she sleep, bigger is risk of damage to brain that last long time. You ask me what Glasgow Scale is? Well, I am not expert of neurological medicine, but I know that this is way for doctor to measure and try to…what is word…”, she reaches forward into her handbag, and for the first time this evening pulls out a little dictionary. “ Aha, yes, ‘describe!’. Yes, this is way for doctor to categorise or measure and describe level of coma of patient. Scale is based upon three things: Eye Opening response, Verbal Response and Motor response. This means that doctor look at ability of patient to respond to stimuli by movement of eye, or physical movement of hand, leg, head or any part of body, or by what they say or sound that come out of patient mouth. Is Sal able to speak or does she move eyes? Are eyes open at all? Please describe me in more detail physical condition of Sal.”

  So I spend the next ten minutes describing in as much detail as possible how Sal is, and how the only real signs of life so far are that she can breathe independently and has started to twitch her fingers in an apparent response to Guy’s questioning. She listens patiently, making a few notes with a pen on a beer mat that is lying on the table. I try to see what she is writing but it is in what I presume is Slovak and it makes no sense to me at all. When I have finished describing everything I know, she sits back in her chair and takes another sip of her beer.

  “Act-uaally,” she says, drawing out the last part of the word and turning a rather mundane sound into something rather cute. “From what you describe, situation is not so very good. Doctor for Sal is being optimistic, perhaps, and not trying alarm you. Although I not specialist doctor for brain, I know that on Glasgow Scale, Sal has not many points. She does not open her eyes, or make sounds at all, and only moves fingers, so is very low number.” She pauses. “I think also, that longer she not open eyes or remain in condition like this, that possibility of damage to brain is greater. It is important that she wake up from sleep soon.”

  “But how do we make her wake up?” I ask, alarmed by what she is telling me. Why has the doctor on the ward not told us all about the Glasgow Scale?

  “That is not easy. Doctor is right that you must talk with her, and try and wake up memories from past, or ask her questions. If she is responding at your friend’s questions by moving fingers then we know that she can hear what people are saying with her. That is very good. I think that you and friend must try think of ways so that you make her want so she wake up,…so then Sal want fight for her life, and also fight with her own mind so she make herself wake up.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Maybe Sal is listening to you, can hear you, and trying already open her eyes. You must make her want try harder.”

  “Should we tell her that she is dying, and that unless she does open her eyes that she will die?”

  “Hmm. No. I do not think this is good idea. Maybe you scare her too much. Perhaps good if you say you have present for her, and please open eyes, or you have something for show her, …please open eyes… Sorry, I not know what tell you exactly, but you must think of ideas about what you should say when you go visit her.”

  Just then, a big burly man in a black suit bends over our table and invites us almost rather rudely to leave the pub, reminding us that it is time to drink up. As he walks away, I breathe in deeply and sit back against the wall.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask rhetorically. “What do we say to her to stimulate her enough to force her to want to wake up and open her eyes?”

  Slávka gently puts a hand on my knee, “I am sorry Andrew. Sometimes Doctors are not able for helping very much. Unfortunately, now I feel I am just plumber, not magician.”

  Slávka does not move her hand, and without really thinking about it too much, I place my right hand on top of hers, squeezing her hand underneath. I look into her eyes, and I see genuine compassion pouring out of them. She smiles.

  “Thank you, Slávka.” I reply, looking through her eyes into the Slávka beyond, and immediately sensing that she is a very warm, caring, gentle and kind person.

  There is something about this woman, something very special indeed. She is smart, intelligent, attractive, patient, kind, and funny. Throughout this evening, she has made me laugh an awful lot. I sense that Slávka is looking back at me, also searching deep within me, trying to learn as much about the man who is Andrew and who is now sitting gently holding her hand.

  Neither of us makes any attempt to speak, both recognising that we have moved from simple conversation to a moment of deep intimacy where words are superfluous. I feel a warmth swelling within my chest, and my lips curl up in reply to her infectious smile. A single thought fills my mind: ‘I like this woman. Very, very much.’

  Such moments are rare in life, and when they do occur, they should be treasured and made to last for as long as possible. Unfortunately, this realisation is sadly not shared by the idiot bouncer who once again leans forward into our space and says rather abruptly, “Can you give me your glasses please and move outside?”

  .

  As we stand up and walk through the door out into the street, I think that we are both conscious that something important just happened between us. Outside, we stand on the pavement for a moment, facing each other, each nervous of what to say or do next.

  I realise I am shaking a little bit, both from nervousness and excitement. She is standing close to me, and I feel an incredible urge to take her in my arms and hug her, to hold her tight against me, and to place my cheek against hers.

  Then for the third time in five minutes, the bouncer continues in his vendetta to ruin my life, by stepping out of the pub and saying “Excuse me,” as he encourages us to move further away from the door so that he can retrieve the pub’s billboard signs from the pavement and take them back inside.

  We
both shuffle along the pavement a little, before turning to each other again, not wanting the moment to dissipate.

  “How are you getting home?” I ask her.

  “Wimbledon Park. From here I catch the train from Waterloo for Wimbledon.”

  “Me too, I get the train from Waterloo to Clapham Junction ..aha! That’s why I see you on the train into Waterloo in the morning…” I reply as it dawns on me that we are almost close neighbours. Relatively speaking.

  We start to walk together towards the tube station side by side, our arms brushing against each other, but neither of us making the bold move of reaching out to hold the other person’s hand. My heart is racing, and I feel what I can only describe as wall of electricity between us. Not a wall or a barrier that separates, but a more like a tide that flows back and forward between us.

  I look across at her, and she laughs, reaching across and slotting her arm through mine, gently resting her head against my shoulder.

  “Okay, now we must hurry,” she says. “Or we miss last trains home.”

  .

  --------------------------

  .

  On the tube ride south to Waterloo, we make small talk, both of us still nervous to admit the attraction we feel for each other. We talk about the gig tonight, and I ask Slávka what she thought of Helen’s music, and which was her favourite song.

  All too soon we are at Waterloo, and I walk with Slávka to the train platform and wait with her for our train to come. Unfortunately it arrives too soon, and when we get on, I ask her if we can stand by the doors rather that sit down, since I have to get off at the next stop.

  Again, more nervousness, two people dancing around the flame of mutual attraction, but neither trusting themselves to make that next step.

  Then suddenly we are at Clapham Junction, and I have to get off. The doors open, and I reach forward to her, impulsively touching her hand, but not man enough to do anything more.

  I look at her, her face so beautiful, her eyes sparkling so brightly, and I freeze, stumbling with the words and not knowing what I should say or do next…