Stations of the Soul

by Chris Lewando

  ‘Well, it’s scrapped now, sure enough.’

  So, the last of the victims had finally been identified. Somehow drawing a line under that one outstanding anomaly held a small hint of closure. It was amazing that no one had reported the old man missing, but that was a sign of the times. It wasn’t unusual these days for people to have been dead in their own home for weeks, discovered by neighbours only when the smell became unavoidable.

  The clutter in the incident room had probably reached its peak. There were folders on everyone who had been involved, statements from the living, from the families of the dead, and photographs that the families would hopefully never see. And there were officers reading through the files, over and over, looking for some kind of common link. Redwall didn’t think they’d find one. Despite his own attention to detail, he wondered if he was dealing with an anomaly: maybe someone had just done it for fun. A kid, even, not realising, until it happened, quite how impressive the result would be.

  ‘So, what now?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Good question.’ He pointed to the image, recently tacked on the wall. ‘That’s what Vanger came up with.’

  ‘Wow. Do we make it public?’

  Redwall perched his backside on the edge of a desk, and shook his head. ‘I don’t think Vanger’s lying, but he could have been hallucinating. He’d lost a lot of blood.’ His eyes focused on the image. ‘It looks like one of Botticelli’s angels. If we circulate that, we’ll look like idiots. Can you see the headlines?’

  ‘Whoever did that was no angel.’

  ‘No.’

  They were silent for a moment, contemplating the possibility of ever comprehending why anyone would do something so outrageously dreadful.

  Chapter 11

  Robin wrote The private diary of a cripple. Then he scrubbed a line through the words. The private diary of someone whose life was saved by an angel disguised as a nurse. Maybe she saved my soul, too. I don’t know yet. But she’s right. She gave her blood for me, and I am grateful. If I die, this is for Sarah Thompson.

  He found unexpected solace in writing. As no one else was ever going to read it, he allowed himself the freedom to write whatever he felt. About his anger, his frustration, his foiled hopes for a planned future. He wrote in detail what he recalled of the accident, the utter fear and helplessness and inevitability of what was happening. He described the youth who had peered into the wreck, his face glowing in the early morning sunshine. He described how he’d tried to get the police artist to draw him, and failed, yet whenever he closed his eyes, he remembered the pressure of metal on his face, the steering wheel column in his chest, and the youth’s smile, which wasn’t nice at all. He would know that face if he ever saw it again.

  He knew, now, that the pile-up hadn’t been an accident caused by mechanical failure or a momentary lack of concentration on the part of another driver. It had been caused deliberately, by someone the rags were calling the Stinger Killer. If the perpetrator of that monstrous event had wanted mayhem and death, it must have exceeded his expectations. But why would anyone do that? It was almost inconceivable that anyone could dream up the idea, send to America for the instrument, then actually do it. Apparently, there was not even some twisted religious conviction behind the act. It was looking more and more likely that someone had just done it for fun.

  His awareness of serial killers was second-hand: increasingly bizarre psychopaths that bounded in droves from the pages of detective fiction; religious fanatics who killed in the name of God, absolving themselves of the crime, like children saying He told me to; front page news of crimes committed by individuals for more selfish reasons. But it was almost inconceivable that a single man, a young man, would not only have deliberately planned this multiple pile-up, but acted on his twisted fantasy simply to watch it unfold. Maybe he was, even now, revelling in the death count, the mayhem, the continuing disruption to life and sanity for so many people. He added that if he ever found him, he would kill him. It felt good to say that, even if it wasn’t true. He didn’t know whether he could kill anyone in cold blood.

  And he wrote about Sarah, who’d saved his life in the ambulance, though it had been weeks before he had discovered that fact. There was a word for a person who had no humanity, but was there a word for someone who committed an act of such huge kindness? Heroine didn’t actually cover it. Philanthropic seemed to be more about the money. He wrote that he was having sexual fantasies about her, and apologised for this essentially human reaction, just in case she ever read it. When he allowed himself to imagine sex, his brain shut out all the other stuff, but any attempt to pander to his needs was accompanied by more pain than pleasure.

  And his senses were on fire. The hospital noise, which had previously been irritating, seemed to increase as the days went by, and was now almost unbearable. He longed for peace. Silence. Even the classical selection of music he’d uploaded onto his new laptop, enjoyed within the confines of headphones didn’t quite offer the escape he needed. With his eyes closed, he could still smell what was happening around him.

  When he’d got past his fury enough to rationalise that the only way to escape this hell was to walk out, he began to exercise. He’d pulled himself up on the bar they’d placed above his head. Two inches, shaking muscles, exhaustion. Three inches, four, then eventually his arms began to work properly, in spite of a weakened grip and nagging pains which, he was told matter-of-factly, would probably remain to plague him for the rest of his life.

  More, more, more, the physiotherapist had demanded, and Robin learned why. He leaned on the crutches he’d been awarded for his efforts, and examined his legs. The right one was noticeably thinner than it had been, inactivity having pared away the sculptured muscle, but it functioned more or less normally, now the simple break had healed. The left one he could hardly bear to look at, and without the strength in his torso, the heavy grip of his hands on the crutches, he would be in a wheelchair.

  When Sarah visited again, Robin was standing by the bed, having just hobbled down the ward and back again: never mind that it hurt. There was something compelling him to get up, get moving. He would be the first to admit that he was consumed by rage at his own damaged body and wrecked life, and the unfairness of it all. But almost as infuriating was the lack of personal freedom provided by his enforced incarceration.

  He turned towards the ward door as if he’d heard her walking along the corridor. It was no surprise when she entered, although, the last time she left, he’d known she hadn’t intended to come again. He wasn’t sure why. He wondered why she had. He’d fantasised about her, sure enough, but wasn’t sure of her motives. Was she part of his therapy, or was she truly interested in him? Whichever, he was pleased she’d come back. It wasn’t as if he had anyone else, except that annoying Vicar who trawled the hospital on a regular basis, suggesting he thank God for his deliverance. He told the man in no uncertain terms that it had been a team of humans, and Sarah’s blood that had saved his life, and if there were a God worth worshipping, he wouldn’t have allowed the accident to happen in the first place. But it was no use. The fellow rebounded with the rubber strength of blind faith.

  She walked towards him, now, with neither an amble nor the gait of someone in a hurry. He hungered for her. Their eyes met, and he physically jolted. Amused, he decided he was Beast in the fairy tale, and that his dangerous obsession was that of wanting something he couldn’t have. He certainly wasn’t going to transform into a handsome prince any time soon. She sat, almost primly, in the seat, while he heaved his damaged leg onto the bed as though it was a prosthetic.

  And that was the first of many such meetings. They discussed all sorts of things as Sarah helped him to recover the use of his own tongue: current affairs, books, music.

  With a considered opinion on almost everything, she was a conundrum. Bright enough to have a degree, be a doctor maybe, why was she a nurse? She fascinated him. He would almost say he was infatuated.

  ‘What happens when I get out?�
�� he asked, eventually.

  ‘Happens?’

  ‘Between you and me. Will I see you again?’

  One brow rose. ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Of course I do. I’m just not sure you’d want to see me. I don’t know if you’re truly interested, or whether I’m a project you have to see through the door.’

  He couldn’t tell her that his hopes were less than platonic, but the faint smile that hinted at the corners of her lips suggested she’d guessed. He flushed slightly. A man’s dreams were his own.

  ‘I think we’ll meet again. On more even terms.’

  ‘Not as cripple and nurse?’

  ‘I’ve never been your nurse, not since that first week, when we weren’t even sure you were going to live.’

  ‘No, that’s true. Why Intensive Care. Why at night? Are you a vampire?’

  There was a faint hesitation. Maybe he’d trodden on a sensitive issue: a lost child, or something. Then she said, ‘It works for me, that’s all. I don’t sleep much. I like the peace, and I can handle it when people die. Some people can’t.’

  ‘I guess you get immunised to all that, after a while.’

  Her eyes flicked up in anger. ‘Are you immunised against your disfigurement?’

  The first sight of the stainless-steel brace, fitted from ankle to hip, its pins disappearing at intervals through the puckered, stitch-marked flesh of his leg had shocked him as much as it shocked strangers. He still hated seeing it.

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I get angry when people experience revulsion at the sight of this,’ his hand fluttered over his leg, ‘even though it’s not their fault. There was a time I’d have been the same. I’m ashamed, but I hated seeing people who were deformed or mutilated. The arrogance of youth, I suppose. Now I’m one of them, on the receiving end; but I don’t have to like it.’

  ‘No, you don’t have to like it. But it won’t always be like that. You have the chance to get better.’

  ‘Better?’

  ‘I didn’t say go back to the way you were before. But you still have a life ahead of you. Just a different one.’ She struggled for words, then said, ‘A more fulfilling one, maybe.’

  He scowled. He’d told her, with no little self-derision, about his previous ambitions, his life-plan. He wasn’t quite sure why he was exposing his inner self to Sarah. Maybe because she didn’t pity him.

  ‘So, when do you get out?’ she asked.

  ‘It appears the bones are knitting faster than anyone expected. The surgeon said my bones are almost pushing the pins out, something he’d never seen before. Like rejecting an organ, or something. So, the pins come out next week. They think I can manage to look after myself, soon enough.’

  ‘So, will you go back to the bank?’

  He grimaced. ‘Once it was all I wanted. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do.’

  But he wasn’t telling the whole truth. After reading about the accident on the internet, his knot of rage had funnelled towards a mission: he wanted to discover who had mutilated him and killed so many others. He didn’t know how he could succeed where the police hadn’t, but it was personal. Outwardly he was calm, but inside, he burned with a consuming desire for revenge. That fat detective in the grubby suit hadn’t believed him, that had been clear, so he was going to have to find the guy for himself.

  There was ceremony about his leaving the hospital in the end, and he didn’t have a chance to tell Sarah, though he guessed she’d find out sooner or later. If she cared, she’d come and find him. The offending pins had been removed, the exit wounds closing over, everything was going well, apparently. But his leg was a painful mottled lump of flesh, a dead weight to move. It would apparently take a couple of years before his muscles re-established themselves. At least with the pins gone, he could hide his scarred legs from view, but there was nothing he could do to hide his twisted face.

  It had been late summer when he crashed, and now, as he was driven down the lime avenues of the city streets, they were still in the grip of a damp winter, while fat buds hinted of spring. He felt vaguely guilty as the people-carrier sped through ordinary streets full of ordinary people, like a convict escaping from penal servitude, a child playing truant. Now, the world seemed very big and unfriendly.

  ‘OK, sport?’

  He glanced at the driver in surprise, then realised he was probably expecting him to freak out because of the accident. Strangely, actually being back on the road didn’t worry him as much as the thought of being there had. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘No problem.’

  The minibus pulled up outside his house. The tiny garden was a mess, but the house looked the same, as if he were simply coming home after a day at work. He heaved himself out of the sliding door, onto his crutches.

  The house emitted a waft of stale air. Or perhaps it just wasn’t hospital disinfectant. He whistled through his teeth with the terrifying relief of being free.

  The driver dropped his small bag of personal effects just inside the front door. ‘OK, mate?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Thanks.’

  He waved a salute of thanks as the driver left him there, alone.

  Limping about his house, making sure things were still where he had left them, he experienced a flood of relief that the house hadn’t been vandalised or robbed. There was a layer of dust on everything, but not so much as he might have expected. And it was warm. The central heating had no doubt been turning itself on and off the whole time. All his services were on automatic payments, despite which, since the insurance pay-out, his bank account was obscenely buoyant.

  When Jaws battered herself noisily through the cat flap and wound about his legs crying piteously at having been abandoned for so long, something broke. Robin clutched the sink, leaned over and cried with great gulping breaths of self-pity. It was the first time he had cried.

  Then the door buzzer sounded.

  He wiped his face, took a deep breath, and opened the door to Mrs Brinman, the widow from across the road.

  ‘I saw the car,’ she said, her face collapsing into pity. ‘I fed Jaws when you didn’t come home. Then I found out you’d been caught up in the accident, when that police guy came to your house. He gave me your spare key. Just in case.’ She held it out.

  ‘Thanks for feeding Jaws, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘It was the least I could do, once I heard…’

  ‘I’ll reimburse you for the cat food.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I get you anything? I can bring over a dinner, later, if you’d like?’

  ‘Thanks, but I can manage,’ he said, wondering why a dose of neighbourly goodwill had him itching to punch her. ‘One of the hospital volunteers is going to bring round some shopping in the morning. But thanks, again.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, backing off. Maybe she’d seen the fury lurking behind his bland words. ‘My telephone number’s by your phone. If there’s anything I can do.’

  However pleased he’d felt on leaving the hospital, it wasn’t easy to adjust. The complacent young man who had left this house half a year ago had returned shocked, weakened, and confused.

  The noise and routine of the hospital, the incessant bustle of it all had seeped into his being. There, he’d been fed and watered, told what to do, and it had irritated the hell out of him. Here, he was his own boss again, and couldn’t think what to do with the freedom. His own home, for which he had craved, turned out to be a lonely place.

  There was a mountain of paperwork piled by the front door, which took him a few hours to sort through. He was amazed at the sheer volume of sales junk that had accumulated, but in the end, there was very little that needed attention. He had been very thorough in his attention to detail, before. Almost insanely so. Had he been that anal? It was strange to imagine that the young man who had been here before was actually himself. He grimaced, realising just how vast a battering his life philosophy had taken. It was hard to rationalise the wayward thought, but maybe some good had come out of the ac
cident, after all.

  He checked his bank account again. He realised that if he was very careful, he might never have to work again. Well, he wouldn’t have any trouble buying a car. It wouldn’t be as up-market as the one that had been scrapped, but somewhere along the line, the need to have a status symbol car had vanished, too.

  A couple of days of looking after himself exposed how weak he still was, how much further he still had to go. Jobs like cooking and washing up were tiring, but climbing the stairs or making a bed were marathon tasks.

  The hospital volunteer called for his shopping list, and although he had almost decided to refuse help, the fact was, he needed it. Before coming home, he’d thought about contacting his erstwhile manager. He’d been sure he could convince them he was fit and ready for work, but now realised, not only would be not be able to sit at a desk for more than an hour without passing out from the pain, he didn’t want to. Not that they’d give him his old job back, anyway. That was long gone. He wouldn’t be offered a client-facing job ever again; political correctness be damned. The new seam that twisted his face into a sardonic grimace saw to that. No, he’d be offered a new and exciting opportunity in some cubby hole behind the scenes, crunching numbers. When he really analysed it, returning to work didn’t seem like a goal worth pursuing.

  Before the crash, he’d had energy and a planned destination. Even in hospital he’d been motivated, if only to leave and get on with his goal of finding the perpetrator of his misfortunes. Yet, how could he do that, if the police couldn’t? Without that driving sense of purpose, life had become empty in pretty much every way.

  He thought about Sarah more than ever, desperate to experience the warmth of arms around him, a soft voice protesting love, even if she didn’t mean it. But was that all he wanted from her? He thought not, but could she truly be interested in a man with serious psychological issues, and a face likely to make kids cry? She’d been his only visitor over the last few months, but it had been easy as she worked at the hospital. Would she come and find him at home? Would she even want to?