I Follow You

by Peter James

  She’d gone down to have a rummage through his clothes, checking all the pockets, but there was no sign of his phone or keys.

  When she’d finally got through to someone at the Flying Club, the helpful and sympathetic man had informed her that Roger’s phone, and that of his student pilot, had both been found in the wreckage of the Piper, but had been impounded by the Air Crash Investigation team and would form part of their enquiries. To establish, she presumed, whether either of them had been using their phone at the time of the crash. He also said he would enquire if a set of keys had been found.

  Roger wasn’t going to be happy, she thought, when he learned that his beloved vintage leather flying jacket, with its cosy fleece lining, had been cut to ribbons. She decided to start looking online for another one for him as a gift.

  If he lived.

  Of course he would live. All Kiera had said was that his recovery was a little slower than they expected. Nothing more, nothing sinister.

  Except her expression.

  Fear shimmied through Georgie.

  Please be OK, Roger. For me. For our Bump.

  You will be OK! Of course you will!

  50

  Wednesday 16 January

  After a long wait, during which Georgie had found the perfect jacket in Roger’s size on eBay and placed a high bid, she heard footsteps approaching. The clock on the wall read 11.11. The critical care nurse came into the Relatives’ Room with a smile.

  ‘All right, Georgie, we can go in now!’ Kiera Dale said, brightly.

  She stood immediately, picking up her things. ‘How is he?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, he’s doing a little better now and looking forward to seeing you.’

  Georgie held her hands under the sanitizer, rubbing the gel in, then they walked across the ward. Passing the middle-aged man she’d seen before with a blue pad taped to his chest, Georgie noticed that the bed at the far end that had yesterday contained the woman swathed head to foot in bandages was now empty.

  ‘Where’s she?’ she asked, barely above a whisper. ‘She was one of the air-crash survivors, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I’m afraid we weren’t able to save her,’ the nurse said. ‘Did you know her?’

  Georgie shook her head, her throat tight. Then, ahead to her right, she saw Roger, propped up against pillows. His face was paler, chalkier than yesterday. The drain was still in his abdomen, there were pads still fixed to his chest and his left hand was still cannulated.

  He looked at her and smiled.

  ‘Darling!’ she said, bending down and kissing him on the lips. They were cold and dry. ‘So good to see you. So good!’

  ‘And you,’ he replied, quietly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘So much better for seeing you. God, I’ve been so worried.’

  The nurse slipped discreetly away.

  Georgie sat on the chair beside him and took his right hand. It felt cold. ‘How are you feeling? Did you sleep OK?’

  An alarm somewhere near beeped increasingly loudly.

  He shook his head. ‘I had a bloody awful night. Constant noise, constant racket. Beeping of sodding monitors, like that one now – just non-stop.’

  ‘My poor love.’

  ‘I felt so lonely – although the nurses are all lovely, and very attentive.’ He gave her a faint smile as she squeezed his hand. ‘Someone died in the night. There was frantic activity. I saw a man and a teenage girl crying – I think they’re relatives.’

  ‘Was that the woman wrapped in bandages in the bed at the far end?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She’d been in the other plane – the one that collided with you?’

  ‘Yes, I think she was.’

  ‘That’s terrible. So sad. The whole thing is just so—’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘Thank God you’re OK. How do you feel?’

  ‘Muzzy. Like my brain has been in a blender.’ He grinned.

  She smiled back. ‘I’m not surprised. You’ve been through a pretty horrible experience, but you’re on the mend.’

  He nodded. ‘Yep.’

  His eyes closed, momentarily, before opening again. ‘Sorry, it’s so good to see you, but I’m so tired.’

  ‘Do you want me to leave you and let you sleep?’

  ‘No. Don’t. Don’t leave me. I – I – I’m just happy you’re here.’

  She blinked away tears. ‘I was so scared. When I heard the news. I thought I’d lost you.’

  ‘I’m a fighter.’ He closed his eyes again, then opened them and looked straight into hers. ‘I’m a tiger!’

  ‘You are! You’re my tiger!’

  Drifting into sleep, he said again, slurring his words, ‘I’m your tiger. I love you, Georgie. Babes. I love you so much.’

  A different monitor alarm began beeping. Somewhere else in the ward.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Roger said, waking. ‘It’s just constant.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing? Better to be here where you have really good medical care available, surely?’

  Roger gave a blank look.

  ‘So, tell me, what happened? I still don’t really know anything about the accident. What can you remember?’

  ‘I – we were coming in to land – doing touch and goes. Something small suddenly hurtled towards us and hit us. Byron panicked and seized the controls like someone possessed. I was – trying – to correct him. He was – just – just in total panic. Jammed the rudder – jammed the pedals – fighting me. I—’

  He lapsed into silence and his eyes closed again.

  Georgie looked at his monitors. His blood pressure had dropped a little since last night, from 92/60 to 80/50, with a heart rate of 82.

  She leaned over and whispered into his ear, ‘You’re going to be fine! A couple of days in here and you’ll be right as rain again!’ She kissed his cheek.

  The alarm, a couple of bays away, was beeping more urgently. A team of medics hurried into the room, passing them, and Georgie heard the swish of curtains closing. But she barely noticed. She was totally focused on Roger. She held his hand, gently. ‘I know I imagined it, but I was sure Bump was moving in the night,’ she said. ‘He – she – whatever – was missing its daddy. I said you’d be home very soon. You will be.’

  There was no reaction.

  From inside her handbag, her phone vibrated with a text. Without letting go of his hand, she extricated it and looked at the display.

  Hi Georgie, we are all at the gym waiting. Did we get the time or day wrong?

  Shit, she thought, dismayed. Her over-70s ladies spinning group which was at 11 a.m. on Wednesdays. She’d totally forgotten to cancel them. Shit, shit, shit.

  Letting go of Roger’s hand, she tapped an apologetic reply, explaining she had a family emergency. Just as she sent the text, her phone rang.

  She saw on the display it was a friend of hers, Margot Aldridge.

  She sent the call to voicemail.

  Then she took his hand again. And almost instantly felt a squeeze.

  ‘I’m back,’ she whispered. ‘I’m staying with you.’ She looked at the monitors again. His blood pressure was now 64/48. Was it her imagination or had it dropped further? His heart rate was now 100. Hadn’t it been 82 a few minutes ago?

  A text pinged, from Margot.

  Georgie darling. I heard the terrible news about the air crash. Is Roger OK? Call me when you can. Thinking of you guys. Big love and hugs from us both. M xxx

  She texted back a thanks, then sat with him for the next hour, repeatedly squeezing his hand and getting a faint response, watching the monitors like a hawk while he slept. No change.

  That had to be good.

  51

  Wednesday 16 January

  Two nurses, one of them Kiera Dale, approached, saying they were going to wash Roger and make him comfortable. As they began pulling the curtains around him, Kiera suggested Georgie might prefer to go back to the Relatives’ Room or down to the snack bar to get a cup of tea or coffee.


  Nodding like an automaton, she stood up, left the ward. She entered the Relatives’ Room and saw a tearful young woman, holding hands with a distraught-looking man. Unable to face sitting in there, she carried on out into the corridor, deciding to go to the snack bar and get a coffee. She needed some air.

  As she went down the stairs and reached the first floor, a familiar figure, elegantly dressed in a checked tweed suit and smart shoes, was striding up from below.

  Kath Clow.

  ‘Georgie!’ her friend said. ‘I apologize I haven’t got back to you yet, we’ve been frantic here. I’m so sorry to hear about Roger.’

  Unable to help herself, tears rolled down Georgie’s cheeks.

  ‘Oh no!’ Kath took her arm. ‘Come with me, let’s have a quick chat. I’ve got a few minutes.’

  The obstetrician led her along past the Paediatrics ward nursing station and in through a door above which were the signs COLPOSCOPY and CONSULTING ROOM 5.

  Georgie followed her into a small, cluttered office. There was a desk with a computer screen, keyboard and phone, racks of shelving loaded with files, and a noticeboard to which were pinned a photograph of Kath’s beautiful white house together with several views of the Lake District. Next to it was a timetable.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Kath asked her.

  ‘I’d rather some coffee, Kath. Is that OK please? Weak with some milk. Or green tea if not?’

  ‘I’ve got both.’

  ‘Actually,’ Georgie said, reflecting on her lack of sleep, ‘maybe coffee, please. And not so weak after all.’

  Clow grinned. ‘You look like you need a strong one, my love.’

  She did. And a few minutes later, the coffee hit the spot, perking her up a little.

  ‘So, how are you coping with all this?’ Kath asked, sitting down next to Georgie with a hand on hers.

  Tearfully, she told her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Georgie, I’m sure Roger will be fine. The whole ICU team are brilliant. Roger is in the best possible care.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said, flatly.

  ‘Believe me, he is.’

  Georgie managed a weak smile.

  Kath stole a glance at her watch. ‘I’m going to have to shoot in a couple of minutes. So, tell me, is everything else OK? We haven’t really spoken since your last appointment, what with Christmas and everything. How’ve you been?’

  Georgie blushed. ‘Actually, I was going to make an appointment with you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve been checking the loo – as you suggested – each time I go. I had a wee this morning and saw a trace of blood. A very small amount.’ She shrugged. ‘Just a trace.’

  Kath frowned. ‘Blood in your urine?’

  ‘A little, yes – just a tiny bit. I’m so scared I’m having a miscarriage. Stress can cause that to happen, can’t it?’

  ‘What colour was it?’ asked Clow.

  ‘Bright red – it seemed fresh, Kath,’ Georgie replied.

  ‘Well, it can be a sign of miscarriage, but if it was just a small amount it’s probably nothing to worry about. There could be a number of reasons, but in view of your past history we’d better check it out. If there is anything there, we can deal with it. Far better than ignoring it and taking the risk, however tiny – and it is tiny – of something nasty developing. Better to rule it out and have peace of mind.’

  The words sent a chill spiralling through her. ‘Nasty? Do you mean cancer?’

  Clow put an arm around her, reassuringly. ‘Georgie, really, there’s almost certainly nothing to worry about, as I said, that blood could be present for all kinds of reasons, but let’s just make sure. I’d like to do another colposcopy on you, just as a precaution.’ She pulled out a business card from a drawer and scribbled on it. ‘This is the mobile number of my secretary, Gwynne – it will save you going through the switchboard, and it’s better than calling my mobile for this type of appointment. Tell Gwynne that I’ve told you I want to see you this week for a colposcopy examination, and she’ll squeeze you in. OK? I will also refer you to Urology just to cover all bases.’

  Georgie thanked her and hugged her goodbye.

  But as soon as she had left her office, the obstetrician pulled up her notes on her screen and pored through them. Despite the assurances she had given her friend, Georgie Maclean, she did not like the sound of blood in her urine.

  Had she missed something significant?

  Something potentially life-threatening?

  52

  Wednesday 16 January

  Marcus Valentine yawned, feeling tired because he’d been up since 5 a.m. Far earlier than normal. Out on black ops, he grinned to himself. Georgie might not even have noticed. But surely, with her fiancé incapacitated, she would have appreciated a helping hand keeping her house tidy, and it was exciting seeing where she lived, how they lived. Boy, they were messy!

  It was handy having the keys. Marcus had taken them from the box containing Roger’s clothes before they were locked in the hospital safe. It was the impulse of a moment, but as he did it he’d felt a rush of excitement. A surge really. A sense of power.

  Accompanied by his registrar and his student, he completed his ward round, laying on the charm and apologizing profusely to a number of his patients who had been awaiting C-sections and other procedures, explaining the emergency that had arisen, although all of them were aware of it. Next up was to visit Roger Richardson and see how he was doing. But first, he needed a shot of coffee. Telling Barnaby and Robert he would catch up with them later, he made his way along to the staff kitchen and turned a corner. Then abruptly slowed his pace.

  Georgie Maclean was just ahead of him, dressed in jeans, a chic coat and red cap, walking along while talking on her phone, in the same direction as himself. He knew where she was heading. To her beloved’s bedside.

  Of course that’s where you are going! How lovely, kind and caring you are, Georgie. I’ll catch you in a few mins!

  Georgie Maclean was just so alluring. She looked sensuous, receptive, vulnerable. And at this moment he was feeling a huge power over her life.

  He entered the tiny kitchen, checked there was water in the kettle and switched it on. He lifted a mug from the drying rack and spooned two large heaps of coffee into it. Then added a third. Hey, why stint himself?

  Opening the fridge door, he took out a carton of milk and tipped some into the mug. One of the few valuable things he had learned from his mother was always to put the milk in first, to prevent the water from scalding the coffee. It made it taste much better.

  A few minutes later, he took his steaming mug, sat down on a stool and ripped open a packet of digestive biscuits someone had left on the table. He ate two of them. Then, greedily, and knowing they weren’t great for his waistline – but what the hell, he was back into running now – a third. He blew on his coffee, trying to cool it. After several minutes, anxious to see Georgie in case she left, he ran some cold water into his coffee until it was cool enough for him to gulp straight down. The thought of seeing her again gave him butterflies in his stomach.

  Behind him he heard the sound of a door opening. Robert Resmes came in. ‘Ah, you are here,’ he said, with a strange expression. ‘Sir, I understand from the ICU team that Roger Richardson is not recovering as well as expected.’

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘I just wanted to mention something, Mr Valentine. I did not think it was appropriate at the time – in theatre – during the operation. But it looked to me that there might have been a tiny tear in Mr Richardson’s bowel.’

  ‘It did?’ Valentine did his best to look surprised.

  ‘I could be wrong, of course – you have all the experience, but—’ He hesitated. ‘I just wonder if – possibly – maybe you did not notice, in the heat of the moment.’

  ‘In the heat of the moment, Robert? What do you mean?’

  His face reddened. ‘Well, I’m just trying to be helpful,’ Resmes said.

  ‘You are
? Have I missed something?’

  ‘No – no – not at all. I—’ The young man was stammering, his face turning the colour of beetroot. ‘I – I—’

  ‘That mark that you thought was a tear is actually old scar tissue.’

  ‘It is? Ah, I’m sorry, I did not realize.’

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Of course, if you say so, of course.’

  It was Valentine’s turn to redden. ‘If I say so? Let me tell you something, I know you are keen to learn but I’ve been a surgeon for twenty years. I know what I’m doing. I know what a tear in a bowel looks like and I know what scar tissue looks like.’ He leaned over, his face inches from Resmes. ‘If you want to remain in this hospital you could do well to remember that. Do you understand?’

  Nodding and blushing furiously, Robert Resmes said, ‘Yes. Yes, I am sorry, I apologize, I was only trying to be helpful.’

  ‘If that’s your idea of being helpful, God help the medical profession.’

  53

  Wednesday 16 January

  With a chastened Robert Resmes in tow, Marcus strode along to the ICU.

  Georgie was seated by Roger’s bedside. He was asleep, and she was texting.

  Not another man, I hope, Valentine wondered, with a sudden pang of jealousy. He approached quietly until he was standing almost behind her, looking down, trying to read her phone. The text was too small, but he could make out the name Margot at the top. Relieved, he glanced at each of the monitors, reading the digital displays.