by K. L. Slater
You could say it feels a bit like dressing up in the brightest party clothes so nobody sees how low and lost you feel underneath. You’d be surprised how easy it is to hide your true feelings with a smile and a kind word.
Don’t get me wrong, it can be irritating, pretending to be invisible. Letting them think that what you want and what you feel doesn’t really matter.
The trick is to stay quiet and listen, absorb everything you can. People love to talk about themselves.
I tell them what they want to hear, watch them swallow my clever words like razorblades dipped in honey.
It doesn’t occur to them they are being played like an old violin.
By the time they start to get suspicious, it will be too late. I will pull out that lethal ribbon of razorblades and they will suffer.
I know how it works because I have done it before.
Chapter 6
Anna
After my unofficial morning visit to the hospital, I end up pacing the house all afternoon, clock-watching and getting nothing done until visiting time comes around again.
However hard I try to blank my thoughts, I can’t get her face out of my mind.
It is a face that hasn’t changed that much over the years. No evidence left by the ravages of time; no deep lines that document the misery or regret but then that’s probably because the misery and the regret is never hers. It always belongs to someone else.
If I wanted to be pernickety, I suppose she looks slightly different to how I remember her. The features seem more crooked than before, as if deceit has somehow skewed her face over time.
But then it’s natural she would look different to me now. I was just fifteen years old when I last saw her: a gullible, very scared child.
Over time, the therapist helped me understand that she helped me remember who I was back then. She told me it was important to keep reminding myself I was just a child, that I did the best I could at the time.
Accepting that helped me to wrestle with the corrosive rope of guilt that had twisted and threaded its way so thoroughly around my insides I felt I would never be rid of it.
On difficult days, even now, it likes to pull a little tighter just so I know it’s still there.
Waiting for information from the police about the other driver is torture but I can feel the comforting glow of payback drawing near.
When the details come it will be so tempting to just lash out and hurt her any way I can, but I am determined to take it steady, make it count.
And there is something else at stake now, too.
Liam, in his vulnerable state, needs to be made aware of how dangerous she is. I can’t very well tell him too much at this early stage without appearing paranoid and exposing my own plans but, in a way, he needs protecting from her, too.
Even though he doesn’t know it yet.
* * *
At last it is time to leave for the hospital. I have to go back twice to straighten the cushions in the lounge but, finally, I make it out to the car.
It is already dark outside and the rain drizzles heavy and relentless, reflecting the oncoming car headlights back up at me from the shiny wet road.
I drive slowly to the hospital, silently mulling things over in my head.
Work. The accident. Her.
My head is a maelstrom of thoughts that ebb and flow like a black tide but, slowly, my neck muscles begin to unknot as the hypnotic beat of the wipers vibrates around the car.
When I stop at traffic lights I conjure up pictures of what Liam’s gran might be like. Perhaps a plump, homely woman who will take me into her arms, welcoming me into the family.
I expect she will be very pleased to see me and will no doubt try to make a thing over what I did for Liam but it wasn’t such a big deal really. Some people would think me too modest but I’m not one for fuss. I just want to be there when he wakes up.
I stop at yet another red light and stare out at the rain as my heartbeat begins to quicken. Within seconds, the voice in my head begins its old tricks.
What if Liam’s gran doesn’t want me there at the hospital after all? What if they refuse to let me see him and I have no way of finding out what’s happening with the police investigation?
Since my life fell apart all those years ago, I have found it easier to keep my distance from people than to reach out. It seemed the safest thing to do under the circumstances.
I mean, you can never be sure who to trust no matter how long you’ve known them, can you? You can’t possibly know all the hidden sides to a person, not really.
I know that better than most people.
When I think about getting to know Liam and his gran it makes my hands tingle.
But this time it’s not just about me; I have a new responsibility now. Liam asked me to help him at the roadside and I agreed.
What kind of person would I be if I let him down now?
* * *
Thanks to the hospital’s inadequate parking facilities, it is well past six o’clock by the time I arrive.
The nurse I saw earlier is standing at the admin station in the middle of the ward. She smiles when she spots me.
‘The patient’s gran has just arrived, love. Bear with me one sec and I’ll take you down; he’s in a different room now.’
It turns out to be rather a longer wait than one sec.
The phone rings, then a doctor asks her to get him a patient’s contact details. The poor nurse is run off her feet, and I feel bad because I’m just adding to her list of jobs but this is important. I have to see him.
My thumbnail carves its way into my index finger the way it often does when I get churned up about something.
I watch six thirty come and go, and I start counting my breaths to try and slow them down.
Visiting finishes at eight, and I want to have as much time with Liam as possible. At this rate I might not get to see him at all.
‘You can’t see into the future so stop telling yourself the story of how bad things are going to get,’ the therapist’s voice echoes in my ears.
So I do. I stop. I think about the accident instead, how Liam’s hand felt in mine.
At last, the nurse appears and walks out from behind the curved counter. ‘I’ll take you down now. It’s Anna, isn’t it?’
I nod and follow her to one of the four doors at the end of the ward.
Every few yards along the main corridor is an oblong space running off to the side, housing six beds. Identical blankets frame pale, wan faces, most of them old with diluted eyes focusing sightlessly into the middle distance.
One feeble-looking lady is struggling to get out of bed, her hospital gown rucking up on one side revealing a scorched, marbled leg. I try to imagine her as a younger woman, with a husband, a job and perhaps raising a young family.
The thought of having to suffer curious eyes with no chance of privacy makes my stomach lurch. I feel grateful that Liam has a private room and doesn’t have to endure the same indignity.
‘Here we are,’ says the nurse, slowing down.
She taps on a door, and I follow her into the room.
Liam is covered in a mass of tubes and breathing apparatus just like before. He looks even paler and more fragile, if that’s possible.
I feel a pull inside and Danny’s face flashes into my mind.
I want to sit with Liam without the others here.
Even if he is still unconscious, I want to tell him that I’m here for him.
‘Ivy?’ The nurse addresses the frail, elderly lady sitting by Liam’s bed. ‘This is Anna, the visitor I told you about earlier.’
Ivy looks up at me blankly. She is small and wiry with something of the vole about her. She twitches her nose at the air as if she’s trying to get the measure of me.
‘Anna is the lady who helped Liam after the accident,’ the nurse explains.
Ivy tries to stand, but her infirm legs wobble and she sits back down again. ‘You’re the one who helped my grandson,’ she says,
as if Liam were still a helpless little boy.
The nurse gives me a conspiratorial wink as Ivy stretches out a small, wrinkled hand.
‘Thank you so much. I do appreciate what you did.’
I squeeze her hand but my eyes are drawn back to the bed. ‘How is he?’ I ask.
Ivy shakes her head and presses her lips together, as if she doesn’t trust herself to speak.
‘No change as yet,’ the nurse remarks, touching Ivy’s shoulder. ‘But that’s only to be expected, considering what he’s been through.’
‘Have you got the other driver’s details yet?’ I ask.
‘We’ve heard nothing,’ Ivy replies. ‘I suppose it’s early days.’
‘I’ll leave you two to have a little chat.’
The nurse leaves the room, and Ivy fumbles around in her handbag.
‘The doctor says it’s the best thing for him at the moment – staying under, I mean.’ She pulls out a tissue. ‘He says it will give his poor body a chance to repair itself.’
I understand she’s distressed and probably confused with all the information coming her way but her blind faith in the doctor galls me. It is vital that Liam has someone around who will ask the right questions of the medical staff.
‘What about the woman, the other driver?’ I ask. ‘What are the police doing about her?’
‘When they first called round to the house to tell me Liam had been involved in an accident, they said they’d be in touch again soon,’ Ivy says. ‘One of them gave me a business card with his telephone number on. It’s at home somewhere.’
I walk slowly around the other side of the bed.
Liam’s arm is uncovered and lying on top of the blanket. I touch him lightly on the hand and let my fingers linger there for a few seconds.
Touching a man’s hand is bound to feel strange to someone who’s never even had a boyfriend, I suppose, and I confess I am entranced by his large fingers and slightly weathered skin.
I stand for a moment and watch his chest moving up and down under the blanket. I wonder if this is how Danny would have looked at his age.
When I glance up, Ivy is staring at me so I move my hand away.
‘They say you held him until the ambulance arrived,’ she says faintly.
‘I didn’t hold him, I held his hand.’
People always get things wrong. You should never move people when they are injured; you could do more damage than good. Then again, I suppose not everyone has completed a voluntary first-aid course and got the highest mark in their group.
‘You’ll need to get the other driver’s insurance details and her name and address from the police,’ I tell her. ‘The sooner the better; you don’t want her trying to wriggle out of it.’
‘As I said, they should be in touch very soon.’ Ivy shuffles sharply in her chair.
I’m about to offer to liaise with the police on her behalf but then I reconsider. I suppose she might think it’s a bit much, with us having only just met.
‘He’s a good boy, you know, but he would insist on having that motorbike,’ she continues, looking at Liam. ‘I told him, I said, “that thing is a killing machine”, but you know what lads are like, they just won’t listen.’
Liam is hardly a ‘lad’.
That way she constantly talks about him as if he is still in his teens makes me want to grind my back teeth, and I don’t want to start that habit again.
Never mind who said what before, Ivy should be chasing up the police to start proceedings against the other driver.
I feel a responsibility to both her and Liam to keep pressing for this. It’s for their own good. But for now, I stay quiet.
I stand up and turn my back to her, moving over to the window to survey the car park from the high floor.
I watch as people scurry to and from their cars and the payment stations, all consumed by the dreaded wake-work-visit cycle that one has to endure when a family member is in hospital.
‘There’s just me and Liam at home, you see,’ Ivy says quietly. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’d do without him; he keeps me—’ She suddenly breaks off what she is saying.
I turn around to see why she stopped talking mid-sentence, just as the room fills with her high-pitched shrieks.
Jumping back from the window, I gasp in surprise when I look at the bed.
Liam’s eyes are wide open.
Ivy reaches for his hand, and I watch in silence, my heartbeat thudding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
‘Thank you, God,’ Ivy starts to sob quietly, pressing his hand to her face. ‘He’s OK; he’s going to be OK.’
I wait for her to tell Liam who I am, that I’m the one who was there for him at the roadside, but she doesn’t say anything about me.
I reach past Ivy and press the buzzer by Liam’s head then I move to the other side of the bed and rest my fingers lightly on his hand.
He looks up at me but there is no recognition and no expression of gratefulness. There is no emotion there at all.
‘He doesn’t remember me,’ I murmur.
‘Where’s the nurse?’ Ivy shuffles to the door and peers out into the corridor. Then she steps outside the room.
I take Liam’s hand in mine. ‘Do you remember the accident, Liam? Did the police say anything about that woman, the other driver?’
He closes his eyes briefly as if he’s sifting through a slide show in his mind. When he opens them again, he shakes his head slowly.
The door opens and two nurses walk in briskly, followed by an ashen-faced Ivy.
‘Has he spoken yet?’ one of the nurses asks.
I shake my head and let go of Liam’s hand as they buzz around him, checking the various wires and tubes.
‘We’ll need to do a few checks,’ the plump nurse says to Ivy. ‘I’ve just paged Dr Khan.’
Ivy stands by the door but she doesn’t say anything.
‘He will be fine love, don’t worry,’ the nurse tells her despite the fact she can’t possibly know this for certain. ‘The doctor will be down very soon.’
The other nurse begins to speak, her voice loud and dramatic.
‘Can you hear me, Liam? Can you say something?’ There is no reaction from him, just that awful, non-comprehending stare. ‘Liam, do you know where you are?’
‘Speak to the nurse, son,’ Ivy says. ‘Just so we know you’re alright.’ She takes a few steps towards the bed. ‘Please, Liam. Just say something.’
Slowly, Liam turns his head to look at her and in a broken whisper, he says, ‘Who are you?’
Chapter 7
Thirteen years earlier
Carla Bevin had worked at the Cumber Meadows group of schools for just over two years, starting the job immediately after qualifying with the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy.
It wasn’t that long in the scheme of things but certainly enough time to grasp the reason some kids found school beyond tough.
Often, there was no singular reason they attracted such misery to themselves, they just seemed to be a certain type and that fascinated Carla. She was determined to find a victim link and write a paper on it one day.
‘Kids are cruel; they’ll zero in on anyone who’s even remotely different. Their parents should just transfer them to another school.’ Mark had offered his esteemed opinion in a rare moment back when they talked about her work instead of how much money he was expecting to make from selling his art.
Her husband’s ‘art studio’, as he liked to call it, was actually just a posh shed from B&Q at the bottom of the garden.
To a certain extent, Mark was right about the bullied kids but Carla happened to know that this certain type of young person could be transferred to a new school a hundred times over for a fresh start and the end result would probably always be the same.
It was as if some kids had a sign attached to them that said, ‘Bully Me’, visible only to other teenagers.
Carla couldn’t possibly come out and just open
ly say something like that though, especially not in her current capacity as school counsellor. The PC mob would have a fit. After all, her most repeated phrase to her young clients was, ‘It is not your fault’.
But the invitation to be constantly hounded and hated for the colour of their hair, the budget brand of trainers they wore or just for simply breathing was something some young people gave off like a bad smell that attracted the worst predators.
And Daniel Clarke was one of those kids.
In order to qualify for ‘the minimum five hundred pounds’ investment’ that each counselled child incurred to the school budget, a pupil had to be considered virtually suicidal before the governing body would approve her involvement.
But they had recently approved Daniel, and rightly so. When he knocked on her office door that Monday morning, he was in a pretty bad way.
Young people reacted very differently during their first few appointments, but, generally, Carla had observed that they fell into three types:
Some were chatty – overly so, saying anything and everything in a thinly veiled attempt to cover up their real feelings.
Other kids said less and opened up slowly, over time, like a crushed flower.
Daniel was the rarer third type that Carla unofficially called ‘a blanker’.
It wasn’t that the boy said very little; rather, he refused to utter a word nor even give any visual clues in response to anything she said to him.
As soon as she opened her office door, Carla recognised the blanker expression pasted onto his face and immovable as a mask. Just what she needed.
‘Please, Daniel, sit down,’ she said brightly, sitting on one of the comfy seats she’d selected herself in a very pretty shade called periwinkle that resembled the colour of the sea.
The beige carpet (sand) and the chiffon lemon walls (sunshine) all merged to cleverly mimic a calming shoreline.
It was unfortunate the room was windowless but, even so, Carla had gone to the trouble of bringing in several smooth, flat pebbles and the odd bit of driftwood to heighten the serene effect and to compensate for the lack of natural light.
