Читать книгу A Road to Nowhere - Bradleigh Munk - Страница 12

Chapter Seven

By the time they rolled me into the Royal London emergency room, I was sitting up, and the blood was down to oozing small drops, easily caught by gauze, held on by that stretchy tape used nowadays. “We should arrive shortly. Hopefully, you won’t have to spend much time here,” the EMT said. After rolling me in and a quick look over by the physician on duty, they took me down the hall to have several x-rays to confirm that there were no internal issues.

Returning to the examination room, Paige was waiting nervously, walking back and forth; when she saw me, she said, “Sweetie, you look like hell.”

Wincing in pain, I said, “Thank you. That was the look I was going for.”

Behind us, the doctor just shook her head, trying not to laugh. Then she got serious, saying, “We have some relatively good news. You have a couple of broken ribs, which will heal, and the bruising should fade over time. The one concern is that you have a slight concussion that you will need to keep an eye on. You are lucky to be alive. We are going to release you. However, if at any time you start to have excessive pain, come back in, and we will have a look.”

“That’s a relief,” said Paige.

Just then, a smart-looking woman dressed in the local police uniform knocked on the door before entering. “Good evening, I’m Constable Evans. Are you Bradleigh Munk?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Of course,” I said.

“I will try to keep this brief. I know you would like to get out of here. Can you describe the persons who attacked you?”

“I’m sorry, the only thing I remember are the dark hoodies the three were wearing. I couldn’t even see their faces.”

“Other than the hoodie, can you remember anything else about them?”

“From my vantage point, it seemed that one of them was very tall, perhaps six two, six three. the other two, probably five eight or nine.”

“Anything else that might help in identifying them?”

“No, I’m afraid I blacked out shortly after they dragged me down the sidewalk.”

“Very well, if you have anything else you would like to add, please give us a call. Here is my card.” With that, she turned and left the room.

Back at the hotel, on her way to valet, Paige dropped me off around the corner from the front entrance. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s not meet until eleven. You could use the rest. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you for picking me up. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

“I’m not sure how you can stay so upbeat. If it were me, I would be in the bar slamming back several glasses of hard liquor. See you tomorrow.”

As she drove away, I turned and walked around the corner to the front entrance, only to see a tall man hunched over and wearing a dark hoodie. Panic gripped me, and I quickly turned and hurried back around to the side entrance.

The next morning, while nursing a headache that just wouldn’t go away, Paige and I headed out to a local news outlet, for a quick interview. This would be my last; in another day, I would be returning to the US, ready for some rest and time to heal. The lady was pleasant; however, her smile (I suspected) was purchased at her local dentist—so white it couldn’t possibly be natural. The interview began differently due to the bruising on my face. After explaining the story of me slipping in the tub, she started in with the same questions all the other news outlets were asking: “Is Clark written about our local musician?” My standard response was always, “No, Clark is not based on Mr. Lewison. No, it’s not a gay relationship between Clark and Thom, and yes, I believe in my heart two men can have a close physical experience, where the two love and respect each other without condition or bias and not be sexual. Besides, Clark is not even from the same Bangor. He’s from Wales, not Bangor, Northern Ireland.”

Still looking at my blackened eye, she asked, “Is there anything you miss from the States, Mr. Munk?” This was a new question. No one had asked me this before. I had to stop and think.

“I would have to say, I miss peanut butter and ice.” I added, “Not together, of course. Peanut butter with mayonnaise, on thick slabs of sourdough bread, and ice for my drinks.” Looking as if she was going to hurl her breakfast, I continued, “It’s an acquired taste, something I grew up on.” Not convinced, she had them break for a commercial and quickly ran to the nearest bathroom. After we finished, I discovered that it wasn’t my recipe for the sandwich that made her sick; she had been pregnant for over four weeks and had the morning heaves.

Later that morning, I was at my last book signing; the lines were longer than normal, and we all tried to accommodate as best we could. I had turned away to look for any of our support staff to help and discovered that I was alone and facing a line that would take several hours to work through. Turning back to the line, for a slight moment, I was disoriented; the next person was standing several feet away. Looking over the counter, I noticed a young girl, perhaps only ten, sitting in a motorized wheelchair; she was trying to stand up with some difficulty.

“Please, you don’t have to get up,” I said as I moved around to greet her, pulling a chair from a nearby table. Sitting at her eye level, I asked how her day was going.

Full of life and excitement, she said, “I’m having a great day. I want to be a writer, just like you, when I grow up.”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

Continuing, she said, “My teacher told me that I would never be successful, because I can’t spell very well.”

Keeping my attention only on her, I said, “I wouldn’t let that get in your way. I am the world’s worst speller, and I couldn’t spell my way out of a phone booth.” Quiet laughter could be heard throughout the crowd. I thought to myself, She probably doesn’t even know what a phone booth is. When was the last time I ever used one? “If you have words that need to get out, you need to get them out. When I sit down to write, I just go until my mind is empty. Afterwards, I correct the mistakes using a Google search.”

Looking at me, smiling, she said, “Do you really think I could do it?”

“Of course, I’m guessing that you could be the next R. S. Franklin. That would give all of us a run for our money. Would you like me to sign your book?”

“Yes, please,” she said, smiling even wider.

“What is your name?”

“Beth,” she said.

“That’s a pretty name.” I autographed the book with, “To Beth, congratulations on your future success as a writer. Sincerely, Bradleigh Munk.” After I returned the book, she held it close to her chest and smiled widely. Her mother then turned her around and left.

As I was returning to the counter, the next person in line said, “Was a mighty nice thing you told her.”

“I feel we need to encourage, not discourage,” I said.

“Yes, we do,” the woman said. “Gotta keep them moving forward.”

The day ended around three, and as I was sitting with my bag, getting ready to leave, to my left I noticed someone standing several feet away. It was that man from the other night, standing with his dark hoodie, face covered, and just looking. Excusing myself, I quietly slipped through a side exit and caught the next taxi back to the hotel.