When there was finally nothing left in her stomach, she stood, washed her hands and face, then scooped water into her mouth and swirled it around before spitting it back in the sink. It was the second time she’d thrown up in a week. Perhaps she was coming down with something.
She returned to find Lance awake and standing outside Sam’s room with Dr Saltano and Mary, the large Jamaican nurse who cared for her brother.
‘Is something wrong?’ Chrissie asked, quickening her pace.
Lance turned, a wide grin on his face. ‘There you are, babe. I woke up and couldn’t work out where you’d gone.’
Dr Saltano pushed his steel-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was a young man with thick black hair and perfect teeth. Chrissie supposed he might be rather handsome if he ever smiled. ‘Quite the opposite, Miss Rayner,’ he said. ‘Your brother has regained consciousness.’
Chrissie felt her knees give way. Lance grabbed her arm and manoeuvred her to the bench.
‘Fetch her some water,’ Dr Saltano told Mary.
‘No, I’m fine,’ Chrissie said. ‘Can I see him?’
‘Sam is confused and very weak, which is only natural given the circumstances, however I think the sight of a familiar face might help. He still doesn’t know what happened or how long he’s been comatose yet, so go easy on him.’
‘But he’ll be all right now, won’t he?’
Dr Saltano frowned. ‘After such a severe brain injury it’s difficult to tell what cognitive damage he may have sustained, but the good news is that he’s able to speak and has some motor function in his arms and legs. Why don’t you go on through and see for yourself?’
Chrissie nodded and climbed to her feet.
Lance squeezed her shoulder. ‘You can do this, babe.’
She kissed him and followed Dr Saltano into Sam’s room. Her brother lay flat on the bed with a pillow propped under his head and a sheet stretched over his lower body. He looked up as she entered, a glimmer of recognition passing over his eyes. Chrissie had spent so many hours at Sam’s bedside that she thought she’d grown accustomed to his appearance: the tubes and wires; the buzzing and whirring machines; his pale, waxy complexion and shaven hair; the long, angry scar behind his ear. But seeing him awake, moving of his own accord and breathing without the support of a ventilator, brought every emotion she had felt in that time rushing back. Tears began to pour down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes and sat in the chair at the side of his bed.
‘I’ll give the two of you a moment,’ Dr Saltano said and left, closing the door behind him.
Chrissie reached over and stroked Sam’s arm. ‘Welcome back, little brother.’
‘Where am I?’ he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
‘Hospital. How’re you feeling?’
Sam tried to raise his head. He managed less than an inch before he flinched and let it drop to the pillow. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘There was an accident. You’ve been in a coma. Don’t you remember anything?’
He scrunched his eyes closed, then opened them again. ‘We were in America, I think. Mum got a new job and…I don’t know, it all feels so jumbled. Grandpa! Is he all right?’
‘He’s fine,’ Chrissie said. ‘He’s at home with Grandma.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment Sam looked lost in thought, then: ‘My head hurts. Where am I?’
‘Still in hospital.’
‘Where’re Mum and Dad?’
She felt her eyes brim with tears once more, but tried to give a convincing smile. ‘Don’t worry about that right now. You need to rest and concentrate on getting better.’
‘What’s wrong, Chrissie? Why aren’t Mum and Dad here?’
She started crying at full throttle, unable to hold back any longer. ‘You really don’t remember, do you? The plane you were on crashed. Mum’s in a coma too and…’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He didn’t make it, Sam. He was killed in the crash.’
4
Sam wished the numbness would last forever, because he knew what was to come after would be much worse.
It didn’t.
A hole had been torn in him that could never be filled. His father was gone, taken forever. The news on his mother wasn’t much better. She’d suffered multiple injuries and was in a coma like Sam had been, however her vital signs remained weak, indicating little possibility of recovery.
Sam wasn’t sure how long he drifted in and out of consciousness. At first the passage of time was confused, day and night blending into one, the seams between one waking moment and the next fuzzy and blurred. He was given drugs for the pain, which helped to blunt his sorrow. His mind was a disorientated mess, as if someone had shuffled the contents of his memory like a deck of cards. Some things were clear and vivid, others ripped from his recollection with nothing but gaps in their place.
He often woke to find Chrissie at his bedside and was glad, since she provided some stability in the constantly shifting landscape of his understanding. Sam’s grandparents came to visit too. His grandmother seemed to have shrunk and her skin was withered like an old apple, but his grandfather looked as healthy as ever, almost as if the stroke had never happened. They brought a Get Well Soon card signed by people from his old secondary school. Sam barely glanced at it before placing the card on the bedside table.
The next day – or perhaps it was the day after – Dr Saltano came to see him again. By now all of the tubes and wires had been disconnected, except for a drip in Sam’s arm, and he was able to sit up in bed.
‘How’re you feeling?’ Dr Saltano asked.
‘What do you think?’
If Dr Saltano noticed the resentment in Sam’s voice, he didn’t show it. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot, but we need to do some tests, if you’re feeling up to it.’
‘Whatever,’ Sam said.
Dr Saltano checked his blood pressure, poked his legs and the soles of his feet with a pin and shone a torch in his eyes. Then he sat on the foot of the bed, produced a small pad from the pocket of his white coat and began jotting notes. Sam watched him, waiting for an explanation.
Eventually Dr Saltano put the pad away and folded his hands on his lap. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to be blunt. You’re a very lucky young man, Sam.’
‘I don’t exactly feel very lucky.’
‘Statistically you are. You probably don’t know this, but of the four hundred and thirty-eight passengers and crew on your flight, only four people made it as far as the hospital, all of whom were sitting in the back two rows of the plane.’ He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. ‘I attended to one, a young woman only a few years older than you. She died of her injuries less than two hours after arriving. Another was a man in his thirties. He lasted a little longer, almost a week, but apart from alleviating his pain there was little we could do. He had a wife and two young children. That leaves only your mother and you, and I’m afraid the probability of her regaining consciousness decreases with each day that passes.’
‘No,’ Sam said. ‘She’ll get better, she has to.’
‘It isn’t my job to give false hope. I know it’s hard to hear, but we need to be realistic. You have to prepare for the worst.’
‘But there is a chance, isn’t there?’
‘A slim one, yes. And while there’s any chance at all, please rest assured that your mother will receive the best possible care. You should take comfort from your own recovery, which has been quite remarkable given the duration of your coma and severity of your injuries. Your fractured ribs are now all but healed, as is the damage to your vertebrae. With any spinal injury there is always the risk of paralysis, however the tests I’ve just completed indicate sensitivity in your legs, which is an extremely positive sign.
‘What concerns me most is the cranial injury you sustained. During the crash a sliver of metal penetrated your skull and became embedded in the tissue of your brain. We had to operate shortly after you were brought in
to remove it. Often such an injury results in scarring to the brain, sometimes leading to a severe deterioration in the patient’s cognitive ability and problems such as loss of speech and gross motor movement. With any such injury some degree of brain damage is almost inevitable. That you’re able to sit up in bed and talk to me is, quite frankly, something of a miracle. You should be grateful for that.’
Gratitude was the last thing on Sam’s mind, but he tried to push the thought away. ‘So what happens now?’ he asked. ‘When can I go home?’
‘I’ve booked you in for an MRI scan in a couple of days, so we’ll be able get a better picture of the extent of any brain damage. Should that reveal nothing too untoward then I’m hoping to discharge you by the end of the week. You need to remember it’s early days in your road to recovery. You’ve been in a coma for nearly two months and your muscles have decreased in mass in that time, what’s known as muscle atrophy. You’ll need physiotherapy to rebuild your strength.’
‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ Sam said. ‘I just want to go home.’
5
Mary arrived in Sam’s room holding a metal dish that contained a large syringe.
‘What’s that for?’ he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.
‘It’s a special kind of dye. When you go for your scan it’ll help the doctors see your brain more clearly.’ She pulled the plastic cap off the needle, inserted it into the valve of the intravenous cannula in Sam’s arm and pushed the plunger. ‘I should probably warn you, though, some people say it makes them want to pee. Do you need to go?’
‘No, let’s just get on with it,’ Sam said, and then his bladder went from empty to bursting point in a split second. ‘Wait a minute! Actually, I think that might be a good idea.’
After the indignity of urinating into a bedpan, Sam was helped from his bed and into a wheelchair, then wheeled out of the room. Wearing only a hospital gown, he felt exposed and half-naked as a breeze blew against his legs. They left the ward and entered a lift at the end of the corridor. Mary pressed the button for the basement level, then wheeled Sam along another corridor and into a small room. At the far end was a large, ominous-looking piece of equipment shaped like a giant donut.
A woman in a dark blue uniform was sitting at a computer terminal. She spun round in her chair and gave Sam a wide, reassuring smile. ‘Hello, Sam is it? I’m Liz Moore, one of the radiographers here at St Benedict’s. Don’t look so scared, you won’t feel a thing.’ She pointed at the giant donut. ‘This big old thing is a Magnetic Resonance Imaging scanner, or MRI for short. It’s essentially just a fancy magnet that we use to take pictures of your brain. Gives us a better idea of what’s going on up there. The scan itself is painless, if a little boring. You’re perfectly safe, as long as you’re not scared of tight spaces.’
With Mary’s help, the radiographer lifted Sam onto a narrow table just in front of the machine. She secured straps over his arms, legs and body, then handed him a switch attached to the end of a lead.
‘The scan should last about half an hour,’ she said. ‘I’ll be watching on a screen in the next room. If at any time you feel anxious, unwell or unable to continue, then press the switch and we’ll stop.’ She handed him a pair of orange ear protectors. ‘You might want to put these on.’
Sam lay back, feeling like chunk of meat on a butcher’s block. The table lifted and then slid headfirst into the gap in the centre of the machine. A few seconds later the noises started and he was grateful for the ear protectors. It sounded like the world’s largest alarm clock going off: a dull, pulsating buzz that went on and on. After what seemed an age the sound stopped and the table withdrew.
‘All done,’ the radiographer said, loosening Sam’s straps. ‘We’ll pass the images on to a radiologist, who’ll interpret the readings and write up a report for your doctor. You should have the results in a day or so.’
* * * * *
In the lift on the way back up, Sam asked Mary if he could see his mother.
‘Of course, dear,’ she said. ‘You’ve done very well today.’
They entered the ward again but continued past Sam’s room. Mary applied the brakes on his wheelchair outside the last door on the corridor and went in ahead. Sam’s emotions were a strange cocktail of anticipation, fear and fatigue. It felt like he had run a marathon after the short trip to the basement, and although he wanted to see his mum more than anything, he didn’t know what he might find.
Mary came back out and unclipped the brakes. ‘Ready?’
‘I think so,’ he said.
She wedged the door open and wheeled him in. The room was almost identical to his own. Sam’s mum was on a bed with a wire that ran to a heart monitor clamped over her finger. She had a strip of tape over her nose and a ventilator in her mouth. There was something so peaceful about her that Sam almost convinced himself she was sleeping and might wake at any moment.
Mary positioned his wheelchair by the side of the bed. ‘Here we are then. Would you like me to stay?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’
‘As you wish, dear. I’ll come back in few minutes and check on you both.’
‘Mary?’ he said as she was about to leave. ‘Do you think I should talk to her? I mean, can she hear me?’
She stopped in the doorway and smiled. ‘I like to think so. And if she can then the sound of your voice will be better than any medicine.’
Alone, Sam stroked his mum’s hand. ‘It’s Sam,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’
She didn’t move, although her chest continued to rise and fall in time with the valve in the ventilator. He lifted a strand of her hair from the pillow and rubbed it between his fingers: it felt glossy and smooth, just like it always had. ‘It’s going to be all right, Mum. You’re going to get better, I promise. I suppose you’ve heard about Dad by now. I want you to know that I’m going to get better. I’m going to look after Chrissie and Grandma and Grandpa. I won’t let anything happen to them, so you don’t need to worry. All you need to do is get better and I’ll take care of everything else. I love you, Mum. Please come back, I just want everything to be like it was before.’
He realised that he was crying, heavy teardrops spotting the white sheets of the bed. From nowhere, a strange, sweet smell like burned caramel filled the room. Sam felt dizzy, his vision quivering before him. It was all too much.
He laid his head on his mum’s arm, feeling the warmth of her skin on his cheek, and closed his eyes, wishing there was some way to undo everything that had happened.
6
When Sam opened his eyes again, he was back in his own room with no memory of how he’d arrived there. Obviously he must have fallen asleep next to his mum and Mary had wheeled him back, although how she’d been able to get him into bed without waking him was a mystery.
The sun had set outside and a light rain pattered against the window. Sam’s head ached and his mouth felt fuzzy and dry. He poured a glass of water from the jug on his bedside table and took a sip, but felt sick as soon as the liquid entered his empty stomach.
There was a knock on the door and Mary stepped in. ‘Hello again, dear. How are you feeling now?’
‘Tired,’ he said, ‘and hungry. When’s dinner?’
‘Not for an hour or so yet, it’s only just gone five thirty. There’s a visitor here to see you―’
‘Chrissie?’
‘No, a lady I’ve not met before. She looks very official. I told her you need your rest, but she was very insistent.’
He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wondering whom it could be. ‘All right then, I suppose you’d better show her in.’
After a minute the door opened again and a woman marched into the room. She was tall and slim, probably mid-thirties, and held her back very straight, as if she practised walking with a book balanced on her head. Her hair, jet-black like her suit, was tied in a tight bun.
‘Samuel Rayner?’ she asked.
Nobody ever called him Samuel except his mum, and only then w
hen she was cross. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Inspector Frances Hinds.’ She withdrew a leather wallet and displayed her badge and credentials. ‘I’m with CT Command.’
‘Sorry, what’s that?’
‘Counter Terrorism Command, otherwise known as SO15: the counter terrorism branch of the Metropolitan Police.’ She snapped the wallet shut and returned it to her pocket. ‘May I have a few minutes of your time?’
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I’m not exactly going anywhere.’
‘I understand that you were a passenger on British Airways Flight 0368?’
Sam had been so curious about the identity of his visitor that he hadn’t thought about his parents for a few minutes, and to be reminded was like having a recently healed wound torn open. He fought back the lump that had forced its way into his throat. ‘Look, Inspector…’
‘Hinds.’
‘What’s this about?’
She blinked, her stony expression softening. ‘I understand it must be distressing to talk about this and, really, I wish there were another way, but I’m afraid we can’t wait any longer. Crash scene investigators have been going through the recovered debris, examining evidence and exploring possible causes for the tragic event in which you and your family were involved. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the crash was no accident. What happened was an act of deliberate sabotage.’
‘Sabotage? W-what do you mean?’
‘The findings suggest someone interfered with the aircraft’s electronics. That constitutes an act of terrorism, which is why CT Command are now involved. Do you remember anything about that day? Anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?’
The Pages of Time Page 6
