by Riley Banks
Time stood still.
Nancy watched with growing trepidation as Mr Harvey’s mouth moved from Charlotte’s mouth; as his hands began compressing her motionless chest. He repeated the process, over and over and over again.
Why wasn’t she moving?
Her skin was pallid, almost translucent in this light.
Did Zac do that?
‘Breathe, Charlotte, breathe,’ Mr Harvey said.
Lips covering hers again, he pumped life-giving oxygen into her lungs, watching the artificial rise and fall of her chest from his breath.
Nancy repeated the mantra in her head, begging her new friend to breathe, to do anything but die.
No, she can’t be dead. What is happening? Why would something this terrible happen here? God please, please don’t let her die. Please don’t let this happen.
Mr Harvey pounded his fist into her chest. ‘Breathe God damn it.’
And finally – miraculously – Charlotte’s stomach lurched as a violent, gasping shudder brought up an ocean of pool water.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
She sucked in clean, fresh air, the action causing her to vomit again. Her lungs burnt, like a volcano bubbling deep in her chest, and her head and throat throbbed like they’d been run over by a truck.
Charlotte drew another gulping mouthful of air into her lungs, and screamed in pain, feeling as if her insides were about to rip out.
‘Shh, don’t move.’
No problems. She couldn’t have moved even if she’d wanted to.
Her head felt like someone had funnelled a beach load of sand through her ear. Her arms and legs were as heavy as wood logs.
Other voices became apparent around her, muddled at first but growing clearer.
‘Over here. Yes… breathing… CPR…’
Strong hands touched her chest and the cold steel of a stethoscope tapped her skin. She moaned in agony, her chest on fire.
‘Will…be…okay?’
Was that Miranda? Her voice sounded strangled and weak, as if she were talking through a tin can over a line of string.
‘If you hadn’t come…’
Who is she talking to?
Stinging pain bit into her eyeballs as someone shone an impossibly bright beam of light into each of her pupils in turn.
Tears squeezed out, trickling and splashing from her cheeks into her ears and onto her shoulders.
She was wet.
Why? What happened? Why are they blinding me with light?
She had no memory of how she’d got here. It was if she’d simply woken from a deep sleep in agonising, excruciating pain.
She tried to open her eyes. They wouldn’t open.
Maybe she wasn’t awake. Maybe it was all a dream.
More tears squeezed from beneath her lids. Someone brushed them away.
‘We need to move her,’ one of the voices said. ‘Can you lift her?’
Charlotte was lifted into strong arms, her head pressed against bare skin.
She smelled aftershave. It was a familiar, comforting smell.
‘One of the bedrooms. Quick.’
‘Follow me.’
Open your eyes. Open them now.
They wouldn’t open.
Perhaps she’d been rendered blind.
Panic clawed at her chest. She didn’t want to be blind. She wanted to see colours, to witness beauty.
She fought with every ounce of strength to force her lids open, her head spinning and fireworks exploding inside her brain when her body obeyed.
Charlotte had no idea whether it was the movement, the ordeal or those eyes staring down at her with concern – or a combination of all three – that caused her to vomit again.
She didn’t have time to ponder it because the moment she did, everything returned to black.
It was a jarring oxymoron but the area that was moments ago in utter chaos was now deathly quiet.
The sombre journalists, the hugging and tears, housekeepers and maids handing out steaming mugs of coffee and cocoa – it bore all the earmarks of a memorial service.
The only sound came from the army of workers who had set about returning the pool area to its former beauty; mopping up the blood soaked path, hosing down the red stained grass, running industrial strength chlorine through the pool filter.
They went about their duties without words.
Jacobs stumbled upon this scene, his horrified eyes going straight to the blood stained water, feeling as if he’d been plunged into a slasher movie.
‘Jesus Christ.’ There was so much blood. Added to the poolside vigil, Jacobs was sure someone had died.
Trepidation danced along his spine.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. Just a bit of fun, that’s all he said. Spike some drinks, supply a few recreational drugs, encourage some hook ups.
He never said anything about getting someone killed.
Jacobs had worked for Bill Harvey for two decades.
Over that time, he’d seen some pretty hair-raising things.
Away from the cameras, politicians, celebrities and the rich and famous acted in a way normal people would find hard to believe. Homosexual trysts, affairs, drug taking, even orgies. It was so common Jacobs now found it boring.
But this week was different. This week, there were cameras. Plenty of them. Catching things that were usually off limits.
It was fun, in a slightly perverse way.
But right now, Jacobs wasn’t having fun.
Right now, he was terrified that this would all find a way back to him.
How far did his loyalty to Bill Harvey go?
I’m going to jail. No way Harvey won’t throw me under the bus for this.
Moving away from the frightened group of journalists, Jacobs pulled out his phone, hitting the speed dial button that had almost worn thin.
‘We need to talk.’
Chapter Twenty-One:
‘Here, take this tablet. It will help.’
The doctor handed Miranda a tablet large enough to medicate a stable of horses.
‘What is it?’
‘A painkiller.’
He touched her cheek and she winced.
‘Oww. It didn’t hurt that much before.’
‘You have multiple lacerations and a broken cheek. You’ve had the benefit of adrenaline as well as pethidine and local anaesthetic. But believe me, when they run out, it’s going to hurt like a bastard.’
‘I didn’t realise he had hurt me as well.’
‘Adrenaline is a pretty powerful drug.’
Miranda’s hands shook as she lifted the glass of water to her lips.
She glanced across at Damon Harvey. He was a mess. Manic, red eyed, half crazed – like Rhett Butler in the scene where Scarlett lost the baby and seesawed between life and death.
‘You’re sure she will be okay?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘She is stable. We’ll know more in the morning.’
It had been a tenacious battle between life and death.
Charlotte had stopped breathing a number of times and now had an oxygen mask strapped to her face, the machine infusing vital life-giving gas to Charlotte’s air-starved brain.
The doctor checked the saline drip inserted in Charlotte’s left hand.
‘Hasn’t she already swallowed enough water?’
‘It’s for the sedative. She needs sleep to repair her body. You should get some sleep too.’
He was right. She could already feel her wits starting to scramble like eggs on a Sunday morning but she didn’t want to leave. Not with Charlotte still clinging so precariously to life.
‘I should… maybe I should stay with her.’
‘You have your own injuries to worry about.’
‘But she shouldn’t be alone.’
‘I’ll stay with her,’ Damon said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s fine. Go. The doctor’s right. You need rest too.’
Miranda thanked Damon, letting
the doctor coax her back to her room.
Now lying in bed, Miranda couldn’t sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Charlotte face down in the water.
Would she ever get that scene out of her brain?
Read for a while. That always calms you down.
She had a book in her bag though it was as far away from her usual romance trash as she could get.
Miranda would never have chosen it herself – she would have been too scared – but someone on the trip had handed her a well-worn copy of The Vampire Origins and told her she absolutely had to read it.
And they were right. It was brilliant.
But when she reached for her bag, it wasn’t there.
She gave the room a cursory glance but couldn’t see it anywhere. Maybe she’d left it out by the bar.
Go get it now. You can’t lose the printouts for Charlotte. There’s something there that’s important.
But her eyes were so heavy and her limbs had turned wooden and unwieldy.
It was so far back out to the pool.
Miranda allowed her eyes to close, sleep stealing over her like a blanket.
Damon collapsed exhausted into an armchair in the darkened room. It was an understatement to say it had been a long day. It had been the longest of his life.
Not even taking into account the first fifteen hours of the day, it was the last six that had really taken their toll.
The struggle with Wilson had been physical and draining, and Damon had the bruises to prove it.
Yet he couldn’t help wondering if things would be different if he’d been able to get to her faster.
Maybe she’d be awake now instead of lost in a coma.
Damon didn’t consider himself a praying man but he’d done more praying in the last few hours than he’d ever done before.
Now it was just a waiting game.
At least that bastard won’t get another chance.
He’d just sent Jacobs off to act on his behalf in pressing charges against Wilson. Charges for assault, grievous bodily harm and attempted murder.
Jacobs had also been ordered to organise a restraining order, to make sure Wilson couldn’t come within 1000 metres of any Harvey property or any of their guests.
Hopefully it would be enough. Damon knew what a PR debacle this could be. He’d seen the frightened faces of the other journalists and knew this might be ruinous for his family. He needed to give some kind of debriefing or statement to them all.
But his family’s reputation was one of the least important things on his mind. All he could think about was Charlotte.
He strained his eyes in the darkness but could not see her. He could, however, hear the encouraging hiss of the oxygen machine and reassured himself that if there were a problem, an alarm would sound.
He exhaled, the fatigue finally catching up with him. He closed his eyes, falling into a fitful sleep full of harrowing dreams.
Darkness engulfed her and she sank deeper into the water, beating her arms as she struggled to reach the top, to suck air into her lungs.
Each time she opened her mouth, cold water rushed in, choking her, drowning her, drawing her ever under the dark depths…
The scene shifted and it wasn’t water that filled her mouth but a sweaty hand, clamped against her lips. Rough fingers groped her young body. She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see who was touching her, or where? But no matter how tight she closed her eyes, the image of his face rose up like a spectre…
Just as fast, that ghostly apparition dissolved and her mother’s unseeing eyes stared up at her, the smell of vomit overpowering the tiny room, causing her to gag as she sat in the corner and cried…
Only to be replaced by her father’s face as she clawed at his eyes, causing them to bleed, screaming obscenities at him, throwing stones to drive him away, as he had driven her away…
Accusing words battered her.
‘You little bitch. You asked for it. You wanted it. You’re a useless, good for nothing little whore. Nobody wants you. You’re all alone. You filthy little bitch. You asked for it, didn’t you? You wanted him to touch you. You wiggled your ass in front of him because you wanted him. It’s your fault. All your fault…’
Then she was back in the pool, fighting, clawing, desperate for air…
Water racing into her lungs and all around blackness spreading…
Scream. Scream. Open your mouth and scream for once.
She clawed at the hand holding her mouth, or was it water?
Charlotte couldn’t be sure.
Whatever it was, she felt terror like she hadn’t experienced in years.
And then she screamed. A bloodcurdling, expression of ultimate pain and rage. It reverberated through the darkness, growing louder with every ragged breath she drew into her lungs.
And all the while, she knew she was suffocating.
Damon jolted awake, rushing to Charlotte’s bed.
Her head thrashed from side to side, her hands clawing at her own face, her body damp with sweat.
She wasn’t just frantic. She was hysterical.
He flicked on the light switch.
She had torn the oxygen mask from her mouth. Her scream was tinged with such terror it made the hairs on his arms stand up straight like soldiers at a march out parade.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, as if she’d just witnessed true horror or had peered into the face of a monster.
Damon placed his hand on her face, hoping to reassure her.
‘Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. Shh.’
He sat on the edge of the bed and put a tentative arm around her raised shoulders, hoping just to console her.
She opened her eyes, staring up at him in surprise.
‘Damon?’
‘I’m here. It’s okay. You’re safe now.’
She snuggled closer, pressing her face into his bare chest, repeating his name over and over again until it became a talisman to ward off evil spirits.
‘Hold me,’ she whimpered, a frightened child waking from a terrible nightmare.
His heart thudded, blood pounding in his ears.
He was scared his actions could be construed as inappropriate, like stealing kisses from a sleeping girl.
Time stood still as he fought a private battle but in the end, he closed his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace, her hair against his cheek, her skin against his.
He tried to place the oxygen mask back over her face but she turned to him, shaking her head.
For a long time he didn’t move but when he was sure she was peaceful again – that she was sleeping - his hand stroked her matted hair and caressed her cheek.
And after what seemed like an eternity, his fingertips traced the soft outline of her full lips.
In that instant, Damon knew he was lost.
Bill Harvey didn’t need a crystal ball to know what was going to happen next. He just had to know how to read people.
And Damon was among the easiest to read.
Always had been.
Ever since Paris, when he’d seen his son’s stolen glances, he’d known things would go this way.
The boy had a pathetic saviour complex he needed to indulge.
Whether he was rescuing sick animals or saving damsels in distress, he was as predictable as a fly to shit.
Wilson, on the other hand, had surprised him.
With two sexual assaults under his belt before he was even eighteen, Wilson was a powder keg waiting to explode. Most men would never invite a predator like Wilson to a press trip with vulnerable young women. But then Bill had never been like other men.
He didn’t flinch when he had ordered the deaths of Helen Baker and her journalist friend. Nor did he shy away from ending a young girl’s life in Sydney.
Bill knew Wilson would keep Burke under control.
He just didn’t expect he’d try to kill her.
Not this early in the game.
Burke would die – there was no d
oubt about that – but for the moment, she was of far greater use to him alive than dead.
A few more phone calls and Bill had a plan set in motion to ensure things continued to go his way.
Only the end game mattered, and with everything falling into place, it was bound to be one hell of a game.
Campagni looked up from his phone, his eyebrows raised at the message he had just received.
It had been two days since Baker went to ground, and just like his wife twenty years ago, he had not left the room for anything.
Even Kylie had given up trying to seduce him, content to watch cartoons and eat greasy pizza he’d ordered to the room.
‘I have to go, okay.’ He tossed a handful of crisp notes on the bed.
‘But we didn’t do nothing. Why ya paying me?’
‘Because you did your job, that’s why.’
He opened the drawer on the bedside table, removing the gun he’d placed there while Kylie was showering, screwing the silencer back in place.
She swallowed hard, her eyes moving from the gun to his face. ‘I don’t want to die,’ she said, tears glistening in the corner of her eyes.
‘Then I trust you won’t tell anyone about me. ‘
Another swallow. She gathered the money up, sifting through the $100 notes, counting more than twenty before she glanced up at him, a wide smile on her face. ‘I won’t tell a soul.’
He opened the door, showing her out into the hall. A second later, he followed her out, taking one final look back at Baker’s room.
Looks like you get a reprieve you lucky bastard.
Campagni had a mess to clean up.
Chapter Twenty-Two:
The harsh police station lights seared into Wilson’s swollen eyes. His arms were still tied behind his back and his shoulders and head ached like he’d been beaten with iron rods.
Three hours in a French police station had calmed the savage beast, and Wilson now felt more sorry for himself than anything else.
Worse, he couldn’t understand a word they were saying to him.
How could he answer questions if he didn’t understand what they were asking?
