Someone To Save you

by Paul Pilkington

  Tom shook his head again. ‘Sophie means everything to us. Four years we’d been trying for a baby – the doctors said we’d probably never have children. You know we’ve tried for another since – Sophie said she wants a brother or sister. But we’ve not been able to. This will destroy us if she dies. I’m not sure that we’ll survive this.’

  ‘You and Sarah are the closest couple I have ever met,’ Sam said. ‘You need each other.’

  ‘I’ve seen it before,’ Tom continued. ‘People think that they’ll get through this, but sometimes they don’t.’

  ‘It won’t happen with you and Sarah,’ Sam insisted. ‘Where is she?’

  Tom turned to him, his eyes red and swollen with grief. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘She said that she had to be on her own.’

  ‘She just needs time,’ Sam said. ‘Do you want me to get one of the nurses to find her?’

  ‘No,’ Tom said, ‘it’s alright.’

  Again more silence.

  ‘Do you think Sophie will be okay?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ It was an honest, if not altogether comforting answer. ‘But you’re right, Tom, she is a fighter. She’s the strongest little girl I’ve ever known, and if anyone can come through this, Sophie can. And I’ll do whatever it takes to give her every chance. I’ll be there for her, I promise.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said, ‘that means a lot, really.’

  ‘But you and Sarah need to stick together, no matter what happens. It’s what Sophie would want. She needs you to be strong, as a couple.’

  Tom nodded, wiping his nose with a clean tissue Sam produced from his pocket. ‘When will we be able to see Sophie?’

  ‘I’ll call intensive care now,’ Sam promised, ‘and then you can both be with your daughter.’

  Sam bit down hard on his emotions until he emerged from the main entrance of the hospital. He turned left, heading through the grounds, keeping his head down as he passed a group of nurses who were sipping coffee, laughing and joking. He recognised a couple of them, but they gave him only a cursory glance. By the time he reached the bench, in a quiet corner around the back of the building, the dam holding back his emotions ruptured and burst. He sat there, with his head in his hands, sobbing. He hadn’t even cried like this at Cathy’s funeral. A mix of thoughts tumbled around in his head: the vacant stare of the woman in the car, just before the train hit; Sophie, giggling uncontrollably in that way she always did, as her proud parents Tom and Sarah looked on; the pained faces of his mother and father at Cathy’s birthday memorial, and then the words of the caller – you couldn’t save your sister from Marcus Johnson.

  ‘Mr Becker?’

  Sam was shocked by the voice. He looked up to see Maria Hennessey, a young nurse from the surgical ward. She was an enthusiastic member of staff, being only six months into her job.

  ‘Oh, hi, Maria.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ she said, noticeably taken aback by the sight of Sam in tears. She reddened at the uncomfortable and unexpected situation. ‘I just saw you out here, and I, I wanted to say I’m really sorry about what happened to Sophie. I just heard. We all hope she pulls through.’

  Sam smiled sadly. ‘Me too.’

  Maria nodded. ‘I have to go back in now; my break was over a few minutes ago. Do you think she’ll be okay?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Sam replied, his composure now recovered.

  ‘I hope so too,’ she said, looking down at her feet. ‘She’s such a great little girl. I’d better go back in.’

  As she walked away, almost apologetically, Sam shouted after her. ‘Maria!’ She stopped and moved back towards him. ‘Can you try and find Sarah Jackson? Her husband’s looking for her. They need to be together. He’s up on ICU, with Sophie.’ Maria nodded and continued walking back towards the hospital.

  Sam watched her walk away, reflecting on what had just happened. As much as he hated to admit it, maybe Miles was right, and he should go home. He could lock himself away, and watch a couple of films, or read a book. It might just give him space to digest recent events. First though he would go up to ICU and check on Tom and Sophie.

  But half-way back towards the hospital entrance, he received a text message that stopped him dead. It was from Louisa.

  Meet me by the London Eye – it’s about Cathy.

  9

  Sam hurried across the grounds and out onto the main road running up towards Westminster Bridge. The Houses of Parliament towered up ahead, and then off to right the London Eye came into view. He crossed the road, waiting for a gap in between the black taxis and open top tourist buses. The rain shower had passed and ahead a swath of tourists meandered by the banks of the Thames in the bright late afternoon sunshine, many pointing their cameras towards the Eye. By the time Sam reached the base of the Eye, the crowds had increased. Hundreds queued for their turn on the big wheel, while others were content to look up and marvel at the sight of the one hundred foot structure as it turned slowly, almost imperceptibly. Sam looked around, trying to spot Louisa, but had no luck. He reached for his mobile and was about to punch in her number, when the phone sprang to life.

  The caller ID read Louisa.

  He brought the phone to his ear. ‘Louisa, where are you?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Louisa?’

  Again, there was no answer.

  Sam moved through the crowds, looking out for her, still not hearing any response. He stopped on the grass area next to the Eye, where it was quieter. ‘Louisa, I can’t hear anything. Can you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you,’ a male voice replied.

  Sam froze. ‘Who’s this? Where’s Louisa?’

  ‘Do you think you’re a hero, Sam?’

  He thought he recognised the voice. It sounded like the caller from the radio interview. But could that be possible? ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Is that why you became a doctor?’

  ‘Where’s Louisa?’ Sam scanned the crowd.

  ‘To make up for what happened,’ the voice continued. ‘I’m perceptive, Sam. I can see everything from where I am.’

  Sam looked up at the Eye. Each pod was filled with people. He stepped back several paces, scanning the pods. It was difficult to make out individuals. And he couldn’t see anyone on their phone. ‘Who are you?’

  There was no reply.

  Just then Sam spotted a man on a mobile. He was in a pod that was just descending towards the disembarkation point. The guy was about thirty, he seemed deep in concentration. Sam moved closer, fixing him in his sights as the pod opened and its occupants dispersed towards the exit.

  ‘How have you got Louisa’s phone?’ Sam asked, weaving his way through the crowds towards the man. Sam wanted to see him reply, but the guy had his back towards him. He reached for his shoulder and spun the man around.

  ‘Hey?’ the guy said, taken aback by Sam’s intervention.

  ‘Is it you?’ Sam demanded. The man just stared back. And then a small girl appeared from behind, wrapping herself around the man’s leg.

  ‘Hey, daddy,’ she asked in an American accent, ‘can I have an ice pop?’

  Sam looked down at her, then back up at the man. ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  The man nodded. ‘Sure, honey,’ he said to his daughter, while eyeing Sam suspiciously.

  Sam looked around again, seeing another group disembarking the Eye. It was no use – there were just too many people. ‘Tell me who you are,’ he ordered.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather know how Louisa is?’ the man replied.

  And then the line went dead.

  Sam raced through the crowds along the banks of the Thames, towards the hospital. He tried to call Louisa on her office number, but there was no answer. He called her mobile back, but it just cut straight through to the answering service. By the time he reached the hospital entrance, he had run through all manner of scenarios in his head - none of them good. He made for the stairs, sprinting up them for a
second time that day. But this time he emerged onto the second floor, forcing himself to slow down to a brisk walk as he passed colleagues and patients. Louisa’s office was towards the end of a winding corridor. Sam peered through the glass section of the door. The room was empty. He then turned and headed towards the suite of consulting rooms at the far end. Louisa spent most of the day in those rooms, and he prayed that she would be safely in one of them right now.

  The doors to all four rooms were closed. On the front of two doors, the sign had been slid from vacant to busy. Trying to listen for Louisa’s voice, he pressed his ear up against the doors, one then another. But the door was too thick, specially designed to maintain privacy. He looked from one to other, knowing that it was considered extremely bad form to disturb a consultation. But this was an emergency. He went for the door on the right, knocking gently.

  He couldn’t hear any response, so he opened the door anyway. This wasn’t a time to obey normal conventions.

  ‘Sorry, really sorry,’ he said, as he interrupted a conversation between a guy he recognised as being one of Louisa’s colleagues and a small woman who appeared to physically shrink into the chair at his appearance. ‘I was looking for…’

  ‘Louisa,’ the bearded man said, rather tersely. ‘She should be next door.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sam replied, closing the door, feeling simultaneously embarrassed and elated that Louisa was here. He went for the second door, knocked and entered.

  ‘Sam?’

  Louisa was mid conversation with a young man. Like the woman next door, he seemed shocked by the intrusion, as if he’d been caught red-handed doing something illicit. Sam turned his eyes away from him, recognising his need for privacy. He understood the delicateness of these consultations and the potential damage his intrusion, if handled badly, could cause – Louisa had explained how you had to be so careful to build and keep their trust, to get them to the point where they could truly open up and release the emotions that had been slowly choking the life out of them.

  ‘Sorry to disturb,’ Sam said, hiding his relief that Louisa was safe and well, ‘but can I have a word?’

  Louisa hesitated as her professional persona fought against her natural instincts.

  ‘It’s urgent, Lou.’

  Her eyebrows creased, and then she nodded. ‘I’m really sorry about this,’ she said to the client. ‘I’ll just be a second.’

  The man nodded, his head down, angled away from Sam.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Louisa asked, as she closed the door behind her, her face full of concern.

  ‘Where’s your phone,’ Sam said. ‘Have you lost it?’

  She frowned. ‘My phone? You mean my mobile?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam nodded. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘My locker,’ she said. ‘I always leave it there during the day. Why?’

  ‘Someone just called me,’ Sam revealed, ‘using your mobile.’

  Louisa looked confused. ‘What?’

  ‘A man phoned me using your phone,’ Sam repeated. ‘He talked about the train crash, and about Cathy.’

  ‘Cathy?’ she said, aghast, ‘but, who would…’

  ‘The same person also called the radio station. Did you hear it?’

  ‘No,’ Louisa said, absentmindedly, as if deep in thought. She snapped back. ‘I had a consultation, so I couldn’t listen. I was going to listen to it later on the internet. Are you sure it’s the same person?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ Sam replied. ‘Same voice, saying the same sort of things. He knows who you are, Louisa. He made it sound like something had happened to you.’

  ‘My God,’ Louisa muttered under her breath, looking down.

  ‘Have you got any idea who this person might be?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Go to my locker,’ she said, evading the question. ‘Find out if my mobile is missing. Here’s the key. I’ll be finished here in five minutes.’

  Sam made his way quickly down to the locker room, which was located just down the corridor. The room, which also doubled as a kitchen, was empty, and at first glance, it didn’t look like anything was wrong. But as he approached Louisa’s locker it was clear that it had been forced open – the door was ajar and the metal lock was bent at a right angle. He looked inside and the first thing that hit him was the piece of paper that was blue-tacked onto the back of the door. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article that Sam knew well. The headline read: BEST-FRIEND MURDERED SCHOOLGIRL AFTER RAPE ATTACK. Sam pulled the paper off the metal, and stared at the photograph of himself and Marcus Johnson, stood side by side, smiling from the camera. The mystery of how the photograph had made its way to the press had never been solved – no-one was going to admit betraying the family so callously. But the betrayal had caused tensions among friends and family at a time when emotions were already fraught. It still hurt him to look at that photograph – to see Marcus’s face – to think of how things were before that night.

  What sick individual was doing this?

  Sam slipped the article into his pocket and began searching through the jumble of multi-coloured scarves that made up most of the locker’s contents. And there, right at the bottom of the locker, wedged against a pair of trainers, was an envelope addressed to Sam. He looked at it for a moment, before tearing it open. It had to be from the man who had stolen Louisa’s phone. But it wasn’t; it was a typed note from Louisa.

  Dear Sam, I hope you will understand what I did. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you. Love always, Lou xxx.

  Sam sat outside the consulting room for the next few minutes, waiting impatiently for Louisa to emerge. The caller, whoever he was, wasn’t just an anonymous sicko who had picked them at random. He knew Louisa, knew where she worked, knew where she kept her mobile, and knew about Cathy.

  And then there was the note. But that could wait.

  Finally, Louisa emerged, stealing a glance at Sam as she said goodbye to the young man. She waited until the client was out of hearing range. ‘Was it there?’

  ‘No,’ Sam said, getting to his feet. ‘Someone’s broken into your locker. The phone’s gone. And this was on the inside door,’ he added, handing her the newspaper cutting.

  ‘What the...’ she said, scrutinising the article. She looked up. ‘What the hell’s going on, Sam?’

  ‘You said you might know who this is,’ Sam said. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I might be wrong.’

  ‘You might be right,’ Sam countered. ‘Whoever this guy is, he’s dangerous. He’s already gained access to your stuff, Louisa. If you have even the slightest suspicion of who this guy is, you need to say. Is it the client from the restaurant? The guy with the bright jacket?’

  Louisa paused, thinking. ‘CCTV,’ she said. ‘There’s that camera just at the top of the stairs, near the lift. Do you think they’d let us have a look at the film?’

  ‘You don’t want to contact the police?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Louisa replied. ‘I’d rather check this first.’

  He decided not to press her further just yet. Maybe the camera images would clear things up, and then they could go to the police. ‘Okay,’ Sam said. ‘CCTV is a good idea.’ You couldn’t get to the locker room without passing the camera, so it would surely have captured the person responsible. ‘You free now?’

  Louisa nodded. ‘My next consultation is in an hour.’

  10

  Charlie Foggerty, Head Guard at the high security prison HM Fairfield, heard the commotion and left his post, heading through the double doors towards the main cell block. He was met by Karen Armstrong, a new officer, just twenty three years old. She was distraught.

  ‘It’s Wayne Cartwright, he’s dead. Killed himself.’

  Charlie placed a hand on her shoulder as he moved past, heading for the cell. He would need to check on her later, make sure she was okay. A group of guards were milling outside. They straightened as he approached.

 
‘Let me in.’

  They parted and he entered the cell. Wayne Cartwright, aged twenty, was hanging from the light fitting in the centre of the room. Two guards were struggling to get him down, like trainee butcher boys trying to unhook a piece of meat.

  Charlie stepped closer, examining the situation, fighting his instinct to just turn around and go home. He’d seen suicides before, many of them hangings, in his thirty year career. It didn’t get any easier. Every act was a tragedy, and a failure of the prison service to protect these often vulnerable young men. Whatever they had done to arrive here, there was no way their departure should be in a box.

  He looked at the cord that wrapped itself tightly around Wayne’s neck, cutting into the skin. It was thick. Electrical wire possibly. How the hell had he smuggled that into the cell? The other end was tied around the light fitting. The body twisted around and Charlie looked at the boy’s face. His eyes were wide, his mouth set open, as if he’d been frozen at the point of bone-jarring impact.

  Something wasn’t right.

  ‘Leave him.’

  The two guards looked across, confused.

  Charlie waved them away. ‘Let go of him.’

  Wayne Cartwright was hanging from the centre of the room. You need three things for a successful hanging – a rope or wire, a place to tie it, and something to jump off.

  Two out of three meant only one thing.

  The security room was located below ground level, in a subterranean world unseen by most hospital employees and patients – at least those still breathing. The level was also home to the morgue, and had an even more pervading clinical smell than the rest of the hospital. Sam rapped on the door, with Louisa silent at his side, trying to shake off his discomfort. With the nearby presence of the recently dead, and the absence of natural light, it was hard not to be spooked, even for a doctor using to staring death in the face.

  The door swung open at speed. A moustachioed late to middle age man, wearing the black uniform of the security team eyed him with suspicion. ‘Yes?’ Unlike those around in the hospital above, he didn’t possess the physical bulk needed to carry out their far-to-often duties of dealing with the violent, mostly drunk visitors who graced accident and emergency every day. These days the security guards upstairs resembled nightclub doormen and some had come from that sector.