Читать книгу Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard - Страница 13

Chapter 6

The feel of it came first: a slick and clammy dampness on my skin. I tried ignoring it for as long as I could, lying there in the murk – but enough of my mind had surfaced for me to realise that I wouldn’t make it to the morning – not now. I was soaked in fresh sweat: fever-sweat, like the onset of flu. And sooner or later I was going to have to peel myself off the bedclothes, pick my way through to the bathroom and wash it off.

So it might as well be sooner, I decided glumly; waited another few minutes, and finally forced myself upright. And with that movement, the scales fell from my eyes.

Daylight filled them; but a dull, damp daylight, like the reflection from wet pavements. And everything was gone: the bed from beneath me, the bedroom around. I found myself out in the rain, beneath a bleary sky – cold droplets striking my startled face, and rolling down like tears.

I was in the middle of a building site: a field of grey earth and gravel against the city skyline. The downpour had turned much of it to mud. The nearest buildings were all gaping shells; whether half-built or half-demolished I couldn’t tell. The rain pressed home the atmosphere of this unfinished place: the sense of dripping desolation.

Pools and puddles were swelling in the mire around me, bubbling beneath the downpour.

I clambered breathlessly up, already sopping wet. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t reassure me; my stomach felt as hollow and sore as if I’d fasted for a week. This place looked like a war-zone – a killing ground in Eastern Europe – and it felt like one as well. Those tread-marks in the mud had been left by bulldozers, of course; but the watchful sniper-silence of the buildings was not so easily shrugged off. I backed away from them, stumbling; shivering – and then a sound came rasping through the stillness, and I swung around to look.

Still nothing to see, but the noise came again almost at once: a grim, metallic scrape. It sounded like a shovel. Like someone digging, just over a rise in the ground to my right.

For a moment I just stood there, getting wetter; gnawing nervously at my thumb. The shovel-sounds continued in a broken rhythm – and at least they meant that somebody was working in this waste ground.

So why didn’t I want to even see him?

But the buildings were giving me the creeps as well; I was becoming convinced that someone was lying up in one of them, and staring balefully out at me.

It was that thought that finally drove me up over the rise. Better the devil you see than the one that you don’t …

The digger was there on the other side – and closer than I’d thought: head-down over the shovel. Dressed all in soiled and sodden black, like a vagabond undertaker. And it was Razoxane.

I gasped – and her head snapped round.

The scene winked out before her face had fully registered – but as I dropped back through the dark towards my sleeping body, the palest after-image of her expression followed me down. No more than what I’d glimpsed; but I sensed a dreadful anger there – as though I’d stumbled onto something I was never meant to see.

I almost whimpered with fear … and realized I was back in my bed. My nice warm bed. The shock was almost physical – as if I really had plunged from a dizzying height, with only the mattress to break my fall.

You’ll come down to earth with a bump, my girl: that’s what Mum used to say when she scolded me. One of these days …

I tried to open my eyes. They wouldn’t.

‘Jesus, we’re losing her …’ someone snapped.

There was sudden consternation all around me: a frantic sense of movement overhead. Even as I lay there, helpless, I heard that voice and others overlap; the words seemed frighteningly familiar. Then someone’s fist slammed down onto my chest, and my eyes sprang staring open.

Even in that first, winded moment I knew I was in hospital – but not as a nurse. Not this time. The glare of striplights was mostly blocked by overhanging bodies, and faces peering down at me; a tight-mouthed doctor to the fore. But I was the one in bed now. And as the crushing pain continued, and filled my chest, I realized I was dying.

The doctor put his hand on my heart, pressed his other palm down over it, and began compressing – hard. It hurt. Cardiac massage means squeezing the heart between sternum and spine, and now I knew just what that felt like. I wanted to groan out loud; I found I couldn’t even grimace. Not a muscle of my face would move.

Someone else – the anaesthetist? – forced my slack mouth wider, and shoved an airway deep into my throat; I almost gagged. The pumping went on. I felt a needle pierce my arm, as sharp as a wasp-sting – but the pain was nothing compared to the panic. My chest was still on fire; there was the bilious foretaste of vomit in the back of my mouth. But worst of all was the icy feeling that I had only seconds left to live …

‘… defib …’ someone said; then: ‘Clear … ?’ The figures drew hastily back even as I felt the cold metal paddles – slick with jelly – pressing down against my smoothed-out breasts. Then the defibrillator buzzed.

And the agonising jolt brought me fully awake.

At last. At last. I was gasping tearfully for breath – and drenched with sweat. Nick had woken, and his arms were round me, holding tight. And as his instinctive, sleepy mumbling grew clearer and more comforting, so at last I let myself relax. My heart kept up its whamming for a minute or two longer, but that was almost a joy: proof positive that it wasn’t going to stop.

‘God, Rachel …’ I sensed his smile then, in the dark. ‘You were making more noise than when we were awake …’ He brushed the damp hair off my forehead. ‘Bad dream?’

Very bad. I gave a quick, wordless nod.

I let him cuddle me for a while longer, then peered over at the alarm clock. Just gone five. No chance of any more sleep this morning; I’d be getting up anyway in an hour. And I wasn’t about to lie here, cold and greasy, and count the minutes.

‘I’m just going to take a shower,’ I whispered. ‘Sorry I woke you.’

He murmured something, his hand sliding down my back as I got up. I heard him settling down again as I went through to the bathroom, and shut myself in with its hot, bright bulb.

For more than a minute I wavered between the shower and the toilet bowl. My stomach felt close to overspill, and even the short walk across the landing – naked in the dark – had sluiced it round some more. I waited until it was fully settled before venturing behind the plastic curtain. Then I just turned and turned the tap, until the spill became a downblast.

I stayed under it for ages. Soaped and scrubbed; shampooed and soaked. And little by little I felt myself becoming clean. But when I closed the tap again, and the roar of water dripped and dribbled into silence, the ghost of Razoxane’s face was still there in my mind. And so was the fear of her rage in my belly: as indigestible as lead.

Oh God, I didn’t mean it, I found myself thinking even as I reached for my towel. I didn’t want to see. And now I’ll forget it, Razoxane: forget it ever happened. Promise …

And maybe she heard my thoughts: sensed them from wherever she was now, out there in the night. But even if she did, I knew she wouldn’t believe my promise. Because neither, of course, did I.

I was still a bit shaken by the time I got to work – but a busy morning helped fix my mind on the here and now. Routine stuff, but plenty of it: infusions to change, effusions to aspirate and measure, observations to record. I wrote up my nursing notes in a stark spill of light from the X-ray box as Murdoch – just out of Theatre – discussed fresh films with his juniors. Then it was on to the unit round, providing casenotes and commentary as each patient’s progress was reviewed. Our newest, a bloke in his sixties, was still distressed and disorientated; not least because the ventilator patched into his throat left him unable to speak. I took time to comfort him as best I could; trying hard to understand and answer his gaspy, voiceless questions.

All of a sudden it was nearly half-past twelve.

‘Doesn’t it just fly when you’re enjoying yourself …’ Jean observed drily, on her way to the sluice to empty a bedpan. I couldn’t help a wry little smile at that; but it was true enough.

And after lunch, in the slacker time of shift overlap, I’d be doing Sue’s appraisal: a review of her professional development. Something else to get my mental teeth into. And maybe we’d get round to discussing whatever it was that was bothering her, as well. Someone else’s troubles to consider, for a change.

‘Sure there’s nothing else?’ I asked casually. I knew I was nearly there.

In my office with the door closed, we’d started off formally enough – but after an hour of honest, friendly discussion, we’d both relaxed a lot. I found I’d drawn both legs up under me where I sat, almost without realizing. And Sue’s initial apprehension had largely faded. But still she hesitated at the question; not quite meeting my eye.

‘Fancy a Polo?’ I prompted, reaching into my drawer. I felt for the packet – and found that metal spinner waiting there. It chilled my fingertips; but I managed to keep my smile in place, and fumbled out the mints.

She nodded, and reached over to pick one. Still smiling, I watched her face: and wondered. Like me, she was clearly trying to put something dark behind her; but whatever it was still kept her awake at nights – I guessed as much from the weary pallor of her features. She looked like she hadn’t slept for days. This afternoon she’d made an effort: done herself justice, and come over well. But even then, there had been moments when her mind was somewhere else again.

She wanted to talk, I knew; and didn’t want to. An equal balance. It was down to me to tip it.

‘I’m always happy to listen, Sue,’ I told her quietly. ‘Professional or personal, it doesn’t matter. And sometimes it helps to talk, it really does.’

Sue shrugged. There was a pause.

Then, still looking down, she whispered: ‘Rachel, I’m so scared.’

Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t quite that. Domestic problems, perhaps, or money worries – but not fear. I leaned forward, frowning: concerned. ‘Suzy. Scared of what?’

A few suggestions skittered through my head even as she paused again. Unplanned pregnancy. Positive smear test. Even unprotected sex with a stranger. I didn’t much fancy coping with any of those.

She swallowed. ‘I have to tell someone, Rachel. I have to. And … maybe you’ll understand … Being religious and all …’ When she glanced up at me again, she looked on the verge of tears.

I waited.

‘We were just fooling around,’ Sue continued, her voice still low. ‘Me and a few of the girls on my corridor. We’d been to see a show, we got back late … we were talking. Just sat around in the top-floor common room, talking. About ghosts and things like that, at one in the morning. And then … just for a giggle … Gill suggests we have a seance.’

She paused again, uncomfortably: watching for my reaction. I just nodded her on.

‘Well … we’d had a bit to drink, and we thought, why not? Safety in numbers, and all that. So: we laid out one of those ouija board things, with a glass and all, and … Have you ever tried one of those, Rachel?’

I shook my head quickly.

‘No, well, you’re lucky. Anyway, we all put a finger on the glass, like you do, and we started …’

Something cold had started creeping up my back, towards the nape of my neck; but I managed to keep my expression neutral – like a good Samaritan. I knew Sue lived in one of the old residential blocks annexed to the hospital; I could almost see the scene before me. Everyone sitting round the table in that upstairs room, the empty mugs and cigarette-stubbed saucers cleared away. Just the circle of makeshift letters in their midst, now – and the upturned glass.

‘It moves, you know. By itself. It really does.’ She was suddenly insistent – as though pre-empting any show of scepticism. She needn’t have bothered, though; and I think my face told her so, as much as my nod did. I believed her right enough.

‘So anyway … we were asking questions, and it was spelling out answers – really slowly. And then, while we were thinking what to ask next, it started to spell a word of its own.’

She stopped.

‘Which was?’ I ventured, against my better judgement.

Sue hesitated a moment longer. Then: ‘Wampir.’

I blinked. ‘Spelled … ?’

She spelt it out almost cautiously, as though afraid someone would hear her through the door. Or the wall. And I leaned back, still frowning – but beginning to see a glimmer of light now. A glimmer of hope.

‘Listen, Sue … You’re sure it wasn’t one of your mates winding you up?’

She shook her head – quite calmly. ‘Oh, I’m sure, Rachel. Because as soon as it had finished, it started again. Only harder.’

The glimmer began guttering.

‘And then again, and again, just the same word. Wampir. More and more violently, as if something was coming closer all the time.

‘And then the glass just shattered.’

I was so absorbed by this point I actually winced.

‘And that really freaked me out, Rachel,’ Sue finished quietly. ‘Well, all of us, actually. And now … I just keep thinking, what did we really do? And what might happen next?’ She’d managed to keep the threatening tears in check through all of this, but the catch in her voice now showed how close the dam was to bursting.

‘Oh, Sue, Sue …’ I reached out for her hand, and took it tightly in my own. ‘How long have you been bottling this up for, then?’

She sniffed. ‘About … a week.’

‘Well listen … The best thing you could have done was tell me about it: not just let it fester inside you. We can look at it together, now.’

I could feel her returning my grip: it’s a good job nurses have short nails. She moistened her lips, looking like a girl fifteen years younger than me, rather than just five. ‘Do you … believe what they say about … evil spirits and things getting out during seances?’

‘Um …’

Yes.

‘… I think it might have happened sometimes,’ I said carefully. ‘But I don’t believe anything like that can really hurt you, Sue: not unless you let them. And the very fact that you’re worried means you don’t want that.’

She gave her head a miserable little shake.

‘You’re right to think it’s dangerous,’ I went on. ‘But I think you’ve been lucky. I’d tell your friend Gill the same thing, if I were you.’ She had let her eyes drop, and I freed one of my hands to lift her chin up and meet them again. ‘It’s all right, Sue. Really. I’m glad you told me – and you’ll feel better for it. You wait.’

She smiled damply back; and I felt a moment’s inner satisfaction at the sight. Hardly your average appraisal session – but it had achieved its objectives nonetheless.

I tried to ignore the lingering discomfort between my shoulder blades. Damp patch. Cold spot. An awareness of what might have happened, when Sue and her friends had started to unpick the edge of darkness …

‘Do you … think it could have been a real vampire?’ she asked after a moment; a bit more objective now. Interested, even.

I smiled faintly. ‘No, I don’t. I don’t believe at all in vampires, Sue. Whatever it was you picked up was just trying to scare you, that’s all.’

‘Well, it bloody well succeeded.’ She gave a final little shudder, and settled back. Some of the weight had lifted already, I could tell. ‘Thanks ever so much, Rachel. I really needed to talk.’

‘No trouble.’ I gave her hand another squeeze before letting go.

We tied up the interview’s last loose ends; already preparing to get back to the hands-on business. But at the door she paused, with her hand on the handle, and glanced back once again.

‘Rachel … Could you give us a thought tonight?’

I nodded once. ‘I will.’ And she went on out.

A shabby Victorian nurses’ home; a high winter night. She’d need to know she wasn’t alone: that someone else’s thoughts were with her in the silence.

I knew it was the closest she’d go to asking for a prayer.

Time for me to re-emerge, too. Back into the fray. But not quite yet. I sat looking down at the word that I’d doodled, and imagined – though I struggled not to – a voice without a throat, speaking out of the darkness. Slurred and distorted by the distance and dead air.

Wampir. Wampir. Wampir.