I study her while I sip my milk, reflecting on what’s happened. I look around, trying to make sure no one’s listening in. At the table beside us is the man with the forehead scar who delivers the menus and timetables. He looks at me as his lips slap together. I turn back, lean closer to Dorothy, and whisper. ‘Another Bible verse. And Jones threatened me. It’s a mess, Dorothy.’
She sighs. ‘Be careful, I’m telling you. You need to be careful. I’m worried about you,’ she utters, her eyes darting around. A piece of me wonders if she’s actually concerned for me – or if she’s fearful that by associating with me, she’s opening herself up to some hatred as well.
I straighten my back as Oliver meanders into the dining area. He’s got Vivienne trailing beside him. The two glance over at me, Vivienne glaring and shaking her head. Apparently, Oliver’s filled her in. Just what I need – someone else to have an issue with me. Has Oliver told her the whole story? Does she know everything? I shudder at the thought of what secrets he could divulge.
I sink my teeth into my sandwich as Dorothy mumbles on and on about the card game on the timetable for today and the blanket she’s knitting for a great-grandnephew. I try to follow along, will myself to relax, but I can’t. I’m on edge, wondering what’s next – and terrified to go back to my room. Oliver came strolling in late. Could he have done something in my room in the time between me leaving and him entering the dining area? It’s possible. It’s certainly possible.
After lunch, I edge my way down the corridor until my fingers find the familiar 316. I tiptoe inside, staring at the empty room, desolate of life. I glance around and stare at the noticeboard. Nevertheless, there is nothing alarming. I sigh in relief, but some of the tension remains because I know it will happen again. It’s just a matter of when.
Before I can sit down and do a crossword or stare out the window, though, it happens.
A shriek. A scream. A woman yelling for help.
I shuffle out of my room as fast as my aching bones will carry me. Peering down the corridor, I see nurses dash into room 309, where a tiny, frail woman usually sits in her wheelchair. I don’t know her name. Did anyone ever tell me her name?
‘Help! Help me! He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming for me. Call 999. Someone call 999,’ she screams and cries. I follow the sounds, walking towards them to examine the commotion.
‘Don’t, no. I’m telling you! I’m telling you! He’s coming,’ she screeches. There’s a group of residents gathering and looking on, terrified. Vivienne and Oliver stand near the front of the crowd.
I study the room, nurses trying to move me along. I hear the stairwell door open, another nurse racing down the hallway. When my eyes process the sight, it’s too dismaying to even react to. I’m frozen in place, mouth agape, as I peruse the scene.
They hold her down as she flails about in her bed. The woman sobs in pain as tears crash down her cheeks. She’s come unhinged, her body whipping about like she’s twenty years younger. Her movements are so wild, she almost takes out a nurse. Her face is pale, stricken, and gaunt like she’s seen death itself. I want to look away, but I can’t, glued to her like some sick obsession. I need to know: what’s got her so frightened?
They restrain her and beg her to calm down until finally, a black-haired nurse steps forward with a needle. At the sight of it, the woman’s eyes bulge, her body manically jumping as she screeches in animalistic ways. They hold her, grabbing her arms, as the nurse attempts to stick the needle in. With her thrashing about, I fear the needle will bend or that the wrong person will get stuck. The nurse plunges the needle into the woman’s arm as they inject her with something. After what feels like forever, she stops screaming, and the tension in the room dissipates. I walk on, shaken, hoping to find Dorothy in the crowd. The residents scatter, and nurses usher everyone to activities or their rooms.
‘I love it when they stick ’em,’ a voice murmurs behind me. It’s raspy and deep, and when I turn, I realise it belongs to the man who delivers the menus, the one with the scar.
I stare up at his dark, feral eyes, his face aglow with what appears to be misplaced excitement over the scene. His words tarnish an already rusted, ugly moment. He holds my gaze for an uncomfortably long moment, and I shuffle away, shaken by the event. I find my way to the activity room and take a seat as a ballroom dance instructor tries to teach us the terminology for dancing. She even gets some of the able residents to join her in a few steps. I choose to sit in the back, though, stewing over Room 309. I’m so shaken by her outburst. How blood-curdling to be that upset but to have no one understand you. This place strips us of so much – too much.
***
My eyes blink open as my heart races. I pant for air as my lungs beg for relief. As my eyes dance over the darkness in the room, I come to, realising it must have been a nightmare.
Shaken and too afraid to fall back asleep, I reach over to the bedside table and tug on the lamp. I am getting ready to reach for my glass of water when my eyes flick over to the familiar photograph on my bedside table. I shudder, the sight of the photograph is a nightmare in its own right.
It appears that the glass has been removed, discarded somewhere, because the glossy photograph is exposed. And that’s not all.
Where Charles’ muscular build once was, a large black scribble violently rests. The strokes are so deep, some of the photograph has scratched away, white flakes in its place. His whole face, his whole body is scribbled out, like he doesn’t exist.
And then there’s me. I’m circled in red. It’s not just one circle, but dozens, overlapping in a haphazard, frantic way. Stray strokes dash across my body, but the target remains apparent. I begin to sob, turning the picture over, rocking myself on the bed. I can’t go on like this. I need to figure this out. I need to. It had to be Oliver, though. It had to be. He knew Charles. He hated me. This had to be him.
But why is he doing this? Does he want me to go mad, truly mad? Does he feel that would be proper retribution for what I did to him?
I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know. I rock on the bed, tears falling, falling, falling, as I stare at the lamplight reflected in the window. I rock until my back aches, my neck aches, everything aches because at least I can identify the source of that pain. At least I know what’s causing it.
***
‘I’m afraid to go to bed,’ I admit to Dorothy. She looks at me with tired eyes the next night when we sit in the community room watching some crime show.
‘What?’
‘I’m afraid to go to my room. Every time I do, there’s something awful there. I can’t keep doing this.’
She sighs, shaking her head. ‘This is so crazy. I do wish we could figure it out. Are you still convinced it’s Oliver? Because I don’t know, Addy, the way these things keep showing up, who says it isn’t Jones?’
I clutch my head with a shaky hand. We’ve spent the last few hours discussing all the occurrences, the clues. Jones is back tonight and, after a super-fast round of distributing meds, he took the stairs down, presumably to Floor Two, to continue his nightly romp. We are, for the most part, alone, a single female nurse making rounds periodically on Dorothy’s side of the floor, tending to some of the neediest patients over there.
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. It’s so bizarre. The notes. Now the photograph. I’m not imagining it, Dorothy. I’m not,’ I plead.
‘I know, love,’ she says, grabbing my hand. ‘Have you thought about talking to Claire?’
I sigh. ‘I have. But I don’t want to worry her. I’m also afraid that she’ll go to the staff, who will then take it out on me. Let’s face it. Jones doesn’t hide his disdain for us, but there aren’t many nurses here who would take kindly to patients complaining. I’d be in more danger, a real target of the people in charge around here.’
‘You’re right,’ she concurs. I nod, thinking about the situation in the room down the corridor the other day. Who’s to say that a complaint won’t land me in a sedatio
n stupor, which will only put me more at risk?
Dorothy shakes her head. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? It’s like we’re in some crime show of our own. Do you want me to walk you to your room? That way, if there’s something there, we can look at it together?’
I don’t want to be an imposition, but I also don’t think my nerves can handle one more frightening note. ‘That would be perfect, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. At least makes me feel useful. Now come on, let’s go see what the oddball left behind today.’
I stand from the chair, feeling a bit better that I’m not alone in this. At least she’ll be there to steady me when I find whatever it is. Still, my stomach aches with the knowledge that there will most likely be something. There’s always something.
I’ve thought about keeping watch, and Dorothy and I even tried it this morning. Dorothy kept an eye on the door of my room, staying in Room 315 across the corridor to chat with the woman in there – a woman who, like my old roommate, is essentially incapacitated. She stared and stared all morning, all afternoon. But nothing. It’s like someone knows when we’re watching. It’s like someone always knows.
‘Any word on the roommate situation?’ Dorothy asks as we trudge down the corridor, my heartbeat rising as we get closer to my room.
I shrug. ‘The day nurse said there might be some room swapping. Apparently, the Philip Lady is having issues with her roommate. Go figure.’
‘Well, damn, that’s not news you want to hear. There goes your quiet. Jesus Christ, you’re going to go bonkers for sure with that woman in your room. Then again, maybe if you have another witness, another set of eyes, it will be more difficult for Oliver and Jones to bother with you.’
I nod.
‘Too bad you can’t get transferred to another floor. Aren’t any of those old cronies ready to die on the lower floors?’
‘Dorothy,’ I chide. ‘You can’t express sentiments like that.’
‘I just did,’ she replies.
‘Besides,’ I add. ‘I doubt that would help. Whoever is bothering with me would still find a way.’
We pass Oliver’s room. I peer in. He’s asleep, or so it seems. I shake my head, marching forward, until we reach my room. Just as we’re peering around, looking for new clues, some loud footsteps echo down the hallway. The stride is fast and large, and as Dorothy and I turn to the threshold, we see Father Patrick in the doorway.
He’s shaking his head, twitching, his hands outstretched as they also quake. Slobber falls as he froths at the mouth, spewing insults.
‘You blasphemers. How dare you. Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain. Don’t even think about it,’ he yells, his voice harsh and grating as he looms closer and closer.
‘Sorry, we’re sorry,’ Dorothy shrieks, apologising, putting her hands up.
He points wildly at us. ‘Don’t do it again. You hear? You hear?’ Father Patrick’s in my face now, and I quiver under his goliath figure.
‘Sorry. We’re sorry,’ I say, not even sure what he’s talking about.
‘Absolved,’ he says, stoicism returning to his face as he looks at Dorothy with a raised hand.
But then he turns back to me, glowering. ‘You sinner,’ he barks at me, the words pointed as his eyes squint. ‘You dirty sinner. I know what you did.’
My heart pounds. It can’t be – it doesn’t make sense. Does it?
He stares at us a long minute, turns on his heel, and walks out of the room, crossing himself as he does. Dorothy and I stand in silence for a while.
‘What the hell was that?’ she whispers in a hushed tone.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know at all.’ But my stomach drops because maybe I do.
‘Do you think it’s been him? That maybe you were wrong? Maybe it wasn’t Oliver?’ she asks.
‘It can’t be. Oliver had to be behind the note in the book. The look in his eye said everything, Dorothy. I think it had to be him.’ The words swirl in my mind as I try to process the notes and the new development.
But then something occurs to me, and I wander over to the bedside table and open the drawer. I pull out the notes – the one from the book, the Bible verses. I’d stashed them in the Bible with my own notes, clinging to a paper trail to remind myself I wasn’t losing my mind. I spread them out on my bed, a hand moving to cover my mouth.
‘Oh my,’ I whisper, studying the handwriting on the different pieces of paper.
Dorothy screeches her walking frame over towards me. ‘What is it?’
I sink onto the bed beside the notes, staring up at her. ‘The handwriting. It doesn’t match. Look,’ I say, pointing towards the notes. Dorothy picks up one and then the other, squinting as she glances at them.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ she admits, looking over at me.
Realisation swirls in my head. Oliver might have written the note in the book, but he didn’t write the Bible verses. It was the priest. Father Patrick. But why? And how?
‘It’s been him. The Bible verses must be him. I’ve been wrong,’ I say aloud, the words becoming real as I utter them.
‘Why would he be leaving them for you? What did you ever do to him?’
I stare out the window into the courtyard. I think about all the things I’ve done, but quickly brush the sins aside. Father Patrick certainly doesn’t know. Does he? How could he? Did Oliver tell him? Why would he tell him? Why now?
‘Listen, we need to talk to someone. You can’t keep dealing with this. You shouldn’t have to. It’s ridiculous. What if Father Patrick had cornered us and physically assaulted us? We couldn’t fight him off, and Jones is God knows where. That flighty nurse on my side of the corridor is probably out for a smoke break and, besides, she wouldn’t be much help either. Someone needs to hear about this.’
I know she’s right, but I also know there’s no way we can turn Jones in. Even if he isn’t responsible for the notes, he would certainly be out to get me. What a mess.
‘I don’t know what to do anymore,’ I whisper, tears of frustration settling in my eyes.
‘I know, Addy. I know. Life’s so complicated, isn’t it?’
I nod, staring out into the abysmal night, noticing the figure across the way.
‘Dorothy, who lives in that room at the end of the corridor? I think it would be 300?’
Dorothy walks over to me and peeks out the window, her eyes trained on the window across the way. At the sight of her, the figure closes his blinds.
‘Oh, that’s the man who delivers the menus and the timetables. Sometimes they give him the post to bring around, too. Suppose he likes to stay busy, and since he’s one of the few who can still get around, they don’t mind the extra help. It’s not like the staff care too much if we get our menus and things anyways. Don’t know his name. He’s been here for a while. He keeps to himself, a real loner in every sense of the word. No trouble or anything. I don’t know his story. But he’s not much of a looker, if you’re in the market for someone, you know? Sorry to say, but it’s true.’
‘Oh, I’ve met him. When they were sedating the woman down the corridor, he made an odd comment about it. It worried me, to be honest.’
‘Really?’ Dorothy asks, her forehead wrinkled. ‘I’ve never really spoken to him. He really keeps to himself. Bizarre that he approached you.’
‘He’s always looking out his window when I am,’ I add, nonchalantly.
‘Probably just lonely. Of course, these days, maybe that’s a good thing. Wonder if he’s seen anyone go into your room?’
I shrug. ‘I doubt it. But I don’t know. It may be worth a try. Perhaps I’ll make a point to ask him tomorrow.’
‘Can’t hurt at this point. Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to stay with you?’ she asks, looking at me. I think about asking her to stay. It would be nice to have someone here. But I don’t want to impose. I’m sure she wants to get back to her room.
‘I’ll be okay,’ I reassure. ‘Besides, I’ve got the trustwort
hy call button, right?’ I tease.
Dorothy rolls her eyes. ‘I’m convinced it’s just for show at this point. All right, well, I’ll be in my room if you need anything. I’ve got a cosy chair in the corner. You could always sleep there.’
‘I may take you up on that someday,’ I reply. ‘A stiff neck might be better than, than … goodness knows.’
Dorothy nods seriously before offering a cheery wave and turning to slide her walking frame out the door. I sigh as she leaves the room and the isolation settles in once again.
I ring Claire in the hopes of having a proper chinwag, but she, of course, isn’t home. I leave a voicemail reassuring her that all is well and that my appointment with the cardiologist went just fine. Nothing to worry about. ‘I’ve got plenty of life left in me,’ I tell her.
When I’m in bed later, I roll onto my side, thinking about all that’s occurred. Do I really have plenty of life left to live? Given the circumstances, it may be a blatant lie.
Chapter 20
‘Did you hear?’ Dorothy asks the next day when I wander into the dining area.
‘Hear what?’ I ask, taking a seat.
‘The news. The floor is abuzz with the gossip. Well, okay, maybe just a few of my neighbours are talking about it. It’s bad, Addy. Really bad.’
‘What is it?’ I ask reluctantly, not sure if I want to know but also needing to hear it.
‘Someone on my end of the corridor, some woman, hurt her arm last night. She’d been pushing the call button over and over but no one came. She tried to get out of bed herself, silly woman, and broke it as she fell. When Jones finally got there – he must have been on one of his rare rounds because she couldn’t reach the button to call anymore – she was in bad shape. It’s hard to tell how long she was on the floor, but my guess is a long time. Jones got questioned about the whole thing, but he told the supervisors that the woman never pushed the button. He’s claiming she’s lost her mind.’
‘You’re serious?’ I ask.
‘Deadly. And the woman keeps insisting she pushed the button. She’s one of the quiet ones, so I’m certain she’s telling the truth. Jones, though, is selling some story that she didn’t push the button and that she’s been a real problem lately getting out of bed on her own.’
The One Who Got Away Page 15
