‘And just how do you think I’m going to get him to the en suite in the first place?’ I asked sarcastically. ‘I think the height of the toilet seat is the least of our problems, don’t you?’
‘Well yes, I take your point,’ she said, somewhat sheepishly, then concluded swiftly: ‘To be honest, I really don’t think this is a suitable environment for someone with a disability such as your husband’s, certainly not at this early stage of his recovery.’
I thought - No shit Sherlock. I never would have guessed. Now maybe you can stop wasting my time.
Just over two weeks after further surgery on his pelvis, ankle and neck, which left him with a substantial amount of metal holding him together, Daniel announced that they were moving him to a specialist spinal injuries unit near Birmingham, a good two hours’ drive from our home. I was obviously concerned about the distance for visiting, but it was apparently the best place for him to get the support he needed and would mean a proper rehabilitation programme with an expert team. No more wearing adult incontinence nappies and festering in a hospital bed. They would teach him to manage everything in the best possible way and they would help him to make the best possible recovery. Whether or not that would mean being able to walk again, only time would tell. It was a relief to see that he was positive for the first time in a couple of weeks and he reassured me that he really wanted to do this for the sake of our future. Being apart for a while was a small price to pay, he said. Apparently, the specialists at the unit discouraged too much visiting anyway, as they wanted their patients to focus fully on their recovery, without distractions.
Things were looking up at last. While he was away at the unit, I could spend time getting everything ready for when he was able to come home properly.
I would stay strong and do whatever it took to support him through this.
The Miracle
The knock on the door was quiet, almost imperceptible. The waiter stood patiently, knowing better than to knock again. Employees at the five star Hillcrest Hotel were trained to be discreet. The man who opened the door was clean-shaven and dressed smartly in chinos and a Lacoste shirt, despite the fact it was barely 7 am.
‘Room service, Sir.’
The man stood aside, allowing him to place the tray on the table in the room.
‘Thank you,’ he said curtly, pressing a couple of coins into the waiter’s hand. There was no need for small talk.
The man did not sit down immediately, but walked to the window and looked down at the city below him. His face was impassive and only the tightly clenched fist of his right hand betrayed his inner fury. He looked at the page of newspaper cuttings and headlines he had saved.
Local businessman makes miraculous escape from helicopter crash
Miracle of helicopter crash survivor
There were two big problems as far as he was concerned:
The ‘miraculous escape’.
The man had been alone in the helicopter.
He had foreseen very different headlines in his mind’s eye. Something along the lines of:
Local businessman and wife die in tragic helicopter crash
The client would not be happy. People came to him when they were desperate, and desperate people tended to pay him a lot of money to make their problems disappear. His most recent client had been no exception. The brief had been very specific and the client had given him detailed information to work with. It needed to be made to look like a tragic accident.
He was as shocked as the journalists that anyone had come out of the mangled wreckage of the helicopter alive. Now, he had a whole new problem to deal with in the form of an angry client who would no doubt be looking for a refund. His T&Cs covered all that of course and he always insisted on a big payment upfront but, nevertheless, he could do without all the hassle. Worse than that, he hated failure. But, at the end of the day, he had done his bit, even if the outcome had not been the desired one. The client would just have to come up with a better plan, a more fool-proof one with fewer variables. Or maybe let him do things the way he wanted.
The man sighed and sat down at the table. He remembered he had been more than a little surprised when he met the client in person. Not the usual type he dealt with at all, but what did he care, so long as he got his money. In all honesty, he was not entirely sure his client had the stomach for all this.
Would they want him to finish the job, or would it be called off?
He thought it could go either way, although in his humble opinion, from what he had been told, the client had a very good reason for wanting both the targets dead.
A Diagnosis
Life is a storm. One minute you are bathed in sunshine, the next you are picked up by the waves as the clouds roll in, and dashed on the rocks.
Grace
They say bad news comes in threes. Bombshell number two was just around the corner and nothing could have prepared me for it.
The day after Daniel was transferred to the spinal injuries unit, I spoke to my mum on the phone. She sounded preoccupied.
‘I’m so sorry to tell you this now love, but we’ve had a bit of bad news ourselves. Your dad’s not well.’
Her words hung in the air and I felt the panic rising in me.
‘What do you mean, ‘not well’?’ I was scared.
‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ Her voice sounded shaky. ‘He’s got cancer of the oesophagus. We’ve got a meeting in two weeks' time to decide what they can do for him.’ There was a long silence while I processed this. Then the voice of reason kicked in.
‘Well, obviously they’ll operate and get rid of the tumour. Won’t they?’
I waited hopefully for reassurance, but there was none.
‘I just don’t know love. They won’t say anything for sure yet. Apparently, it’s very advanced.’
My world imploded all over again. Not my dad. Please God, not my dad. He had never smoked in his life, didn’t drink to excess and was as fit and strong as any man I knew. His affectionate nickname among his many friends at the sailing club, where he had been President for the last ten years, was Turbo Wellies, because of the boundless energy he expounded in everything he did.
This couldn’t be right. It had to be a mistake.
Dad had been one of the top road cyclists of his day, racing hundreds of miles all over the Yorkshire Dales and hills of Derbyshire and he still kept himself super fit. The photos, medals and trophies in the house were a testament to his success. He was fiercely determined and competitive, striving to be the best at whatever he did. I always told myself I would be happy if I had inherited even a little bit of that fighting spirit of his. Dad was never ill. He was always there for me and I needed him so badly right now. This couldn’t be happening. It just didn’t make any sense. It was so bloody unfair!
But it wasn’t a mistake.
The GP, who worked in the same practice as my brother Jeremy back home in Northumberland, had listened to his symptoms of heartburn and difficulty swallowing and referred him immediately to an oesophagogastric consultant. Scans showed there was a 12-centimetre tumour in his gullet and it was marginal as to whether or not it was operable. The one big thing in his favour apparently was that he had the heart rate and fitness level of a much younger man. Jeremy made sure he was seen by Professor Garrett, the top man in the department. He was world-renowned and I put all my faith in him, certain that he would come through for us and fix Dad.
The meeting to decide on a plan of action was held in the Professor’s small office at the end of Ward 36 of the Queen Alexandra hospital. I sat beside my brother and parents, staring intently at the man I had already placed firmly on a pedestal, as he explained to us that Dad would need six months of chemotherapy to try to shrink the tumour, followed by an operation just before Christmas if all went well. That was all I needed to hear. He was telling me they could do something. They were not giving up on him. They would operate at Christmas and my dad would be ok again.
Daniel had only just b
een moved to the spinal injuries unit and I did not want to pile any more problems onto him of course, but I had to tell him about Dad’s illness. He was wonderfully supportive, despite his own problems and I loved him all the more for it.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said stoically. ‘I’m in a great place here, with the best possible chance of a good recovery. I just need to concentrate on working hard in the gym and do my physio sessions. Your dad needs you now, much more than I do. Go and spend as much time as you can with him and your mum.’
‘But I want to be there for you as well. I’m not just going to abandon you,’ I said, determinedly.
I had never felt so torn.
‘Don’t be silly. Besides, the last thing any of us needs is the added worry of you driving up and down the motorway, completely exhausting yourself and risking having an accident. You need to stay strong and look after yourself through all this if you’re going to be any use to your mum and dad.’
He took my hand and looked concerned as he continued.
‘Seriously, I’m fine. I have plenty of support here. Everyone is great. It really helps to be with other people in the same situation as me and see how much progress some of them have made. The doctors here have said there is every chance I will recover movement in my legs, as my spinal cord wasn’t severed in the accident. They can’t promise I’ll be able to walk again, but I’ve decided one hundred percent I will. Positive mental attitude counts for a lot you know.’
I felt so proud of my husband at that moment. His dogged determination and optimism convinced me that, if anyone could come through this, he could. We would all be okay.
By the time December came, Daniel was making truly miraculous progress and had exceeded the expectations and predictions of all the doctors. Despite his protestations, I had made the arduous three and a half hour journey from my parents’ house to see him religiously every two weeks. He was ready to be discharged from the spinal injuries unit and amazingly, although he was still on crutches, he was actually able to walk a few steps. It was not yet possible for him to manage at home, but the wonderful staff at the unit had arranged a place at a half-way house nearby, where he could complete his rehabilitation. It was a kind of assisted living place apparently, with a fully equipped gym and physiotherapists on hand, so he would be able to continue all his exercises and keep checking in regularly at the unit.
It seemed he really was going to come through this and there was light at the end of the tunnel.
So far as my dad was concerned, the six months of gruelling chemo took its toll on him, but he was a fighter and at the end of it the doctors declared him fit enough to undergo the major surgery he needed.
He was admitted to hospital ironically on Friday 13th December. Mum and I took him in, kissed him and told him we would see him in the recovery room. We both refused to say goodbye. Although the wait seemed interminable, we were finally given the news that he was out of theatre and the operation had been a success, but a mere six hours later, elation turned to despair, when Dad suffered a massive haemorrhage and was rushed back into theatre for more surgery.
The hours and days that followed were some of the worst of my life, as we seemed to crash from one life and death crisis to another. Christmas Day was spent holding vigil at Dad’s bedside in the intensive care unit. He was not expected to make it. It broke my heart to look at my mum’s face, as she held his hand and chatted to him as though everything were normal. She would never give up on him and neither could I. Three days later, he was still hanging on in there. The doctors had not counted on his incredible strength of character and will to live. He was not ready to leave us and was determined to fight with every ounce of strength he had left.
The next few months were a roller coaster of highs and lows. One day Dad was making good progress, the next he was being rushed back into intensive care. The pressure was destroying my mum, who was not in the best of health herself. Daniel and I discussed it and agreed that I should continue to stay with her while things were so unpredictable. It seemed the most practical solution to an impossible situation.
Daniel was getting stronger all the time and was able to walk longer and longer distances, although he still needed the aid of a stick. He was even able to drive an automatic car with no adaptations and had bought himself a white Range Rover Overfinch, pimped to within an inch of its life by the prestigious Leeds based company, as it would be more practical than the Porsche. Charles drove a Range Rover so, of course, Daniel had always coveted one, but naturally, he felt obliged to try to upstage Charles by opting for the flashy Overfinch version. He promised to visit as often as possible, now that he was mobile again with his new ‘toy’, but I was not keen on him driving such a long distance so soon and made sure he understood there was no pressure from me. It was not an ideal situation, but our marriage was solid and we both knew it was not going to be forever.
Six months later, when Dad was finally given his reprieve and allowed home from hospital, I began to look forward to getting back to some kind of normality, totally unaware of the third bombshell lurking in the shadows, biding its time. And of course, I had no idea then just how convenient Dad’s cancer had been for Daniel.
A Dish best served cold
Lorraine
John sat on the balcony of the pretty little white-washed villa in the Algarve region of Portugal, reading his book. The late October sun still had lovely warmth to it and they would be able to sit outside there for at least another couple of hours. Lorraine padded barefoot across the cool tiles and silently handed him a drink, before sitting down opposite him, smiling. He was wearing the Panama hat she had bought him, knee-length chino shorts and a polo shirt. His skin was tanned and he looked relaxed, with his feet stretched out on the little table.
‘Thanks, Hun. I love the way you look after me.’
He blew her a kiss across the table and she smiled back at him.
‘Well, you deserve it. You’ve been so stressed about work recently. I’ve been worried about you especially after all you went through with the accident. Let’s just enjoy spending some quality time together. We both needed this little break. I might even give you a special massage later….’
‘Ooh, now you’re talking…. Why wait until later?’ he asked, sniggering in anticipation.
‘Because it’ll be so much better if you have to wait for it,’ she purred.
Lorraine was toying with him, like a cat with a mouse. The best part was he had absolutely no idea. He was bumbling along in blissful ignorance and when the apocalypse finally came, he would have no clue what had hit him.
She had known about John’s betrayal and lies for nearly nine weeks. He had got up one morning to go into town after a particularly exhausting session the night before. He had left her in bed, but more importantly, and very unusually, he had also left his iPad on the bedside table. After half an hour she could no longer ignore the incessant pings of incoming messages that were tormenting her and making her headache worse. She reached across to silence the tablet, but the partial messages that appeared on the screen caused her to sit up abruptly, all thoughts of her hangover forgotten. The messages of irritation, some of them in capitals, left no room for doubt in her mind. The sender of the messages was becoming increasingly frustrated at his lack of response, referring in particular to the fact that his nine-year-old son was ill.
What the fuck was all that about?
The messages were all signed off with kisses, despite the obvious annoyance of the sender.
Lorraine clenched her fist tightly and fought hard against her impulse to smash the place up. Instead, she messaged John with a shopping list to keep him out of the house for a while longer. Then she called her brother’s friend, Marcus, who was a genius with computers and bragged that he could hack into pretty much anything. She was going to need his expertise. John was obviously cheating on her but, with the help of Marcus, she would be able to join up all the dots.
Her mind drifted back to her Sec
ondary School days and the same humiliation and rage she had felt when she found out her boyfriend, Theo, was cheating on her. She recalled the feeling as the red mist descended and she realised she was losing control. She had flown into a blind fury and rushed at him, screaming, when they were alone in his house one afternoon.
It was true that he had been shocked and stumbled backwards, falling and hitting his head on the hard kitchen tiles. It was also true that she had seized the opportunity to grab him by a fistful of his hair while he was still dazed, lifting his head as high as she could and smashing it back down hard onto the unforgiving tiles, but she left that bit out when the ambulance and the police arrived. Poor Theo regained consciousness after several weeks, but never recovered sufficiently to tell anyone the full story. The damage to his brain was permanent, they told her, as she collapsed in floods of tears.
She learned that day that she was actually very good at lying. She had initially anticipated serious repercussions for her part in the incident, but there were none. Everyone believed her tearful version of events and she was even referred to a counsellor to help her cope with the trauma of what she had experienced.
She snapped her thoughts back to the present. That was all in the past and she was not like that anymore. She had learned a few more subtle tricks since those days.
Nine long, torturous weeks she had had to keep up the pretence with John, carrying on as if nothing were wrong. She had been determined to get all her ducks in a row before letting the cat out of the bag, so she had painstakingly maintained a façade of normality, while tirelessly plotting and scheming behind the scenes. She had been meticulous in her scrutiny of all the information she could lay her hands on and Marcus had proved to be a very useful ally indeed. Thanks to him, she had gained access to pretty much everything on John’s computer, iPhone and iPad and it had all been painstakingly copied to a backup device of her own. She had gone through everything with a fine-tooth comb, realising with mounting anger what a fool she had been. In a file named Rosalie, she found the paperwork for their narrow boat, all in his name, although it was her money that had paid for it. Furious at the discovery, she immediately produced a new bill of sale, transferring it to her name with a forged signature and then promptly sold it from under him. The deal was all done through word of mouth. A reduced price of twenty-five grand for a quick cash sale.
Twenty Years a Stranger (The Stranger Series Book 1) Page 10
