by Dani Atkins
“Hello?” I called out shakily, my words a quivering echo in the empty foyer. “Is there anyone on duty?”
Silence was my answer. Suddenly aware of my vulnerability at the top of the stairs, I quickly stepped far away from the stairwell. Whoever had got off the train after me would certainly be in the ticket area in a matter of moments. I strained my ears to hear their footfalls on the stairs but could make out no sound.
There were two options here: either I had imagined hearing someone on the platform below me, or whoever had got off the train was now lying in wait on the darkened stairs rather than revealing themselves in the foyer. I preferred my first option—better to be paranoid than a potential crime statistic. There was no virtue in staying to prove I wasn’t going crazy, so I turned and hurried across the ticket office and out into the winter night.
The taxi rank was sited to one side of the station, and I was grateful for the bright security lighting that illuminated my way as I followed the building around. I was in luck—there was just one cab parked in the bays, its engine idling, the yellow beacon on its roof glowing brightly in the frosty chill of the air. I raised my arm to claim the driver’s attention at the precise moment the engine increased its revs and the cab pulled away from the curb.
“Wait!” I cried out helplessly. “Please stop!”
Abandoning my case in the middle of the pavement, I ran after the departing taxi, my arms windmilling crazily overhead in an attempt to get the driver’s attention. From the darkened interior of the departing vehicle it was impossible to tell whether there was already a passenger within or whether the driver had simply decided to call it a night and go home. I ran on for a few more meters, knowing it was useless but unable to stop myself, until the taillights were mere red specks in the distance.
Tears of sheer frustration pricked at my eyes as I slowly walked back to retrieve my case. There were no other cabs in sight, and for all I knew there would be no more until the next day. I had no other choice but to call Matt and ask him to meet me. But even as I pulled my mobile from my bag and started to key in his number, I was already realizing that it would take him the best part of half an hour to reach me. And it wasn’t the prospect of waiting all alone for my fiancé to arrive that caused my fingers to tremble as I punched in the familiar number on the keypad; no, it was the more terrifying realization that I might not be alone at all.
As I waited for the number to connect, I turned to face the station entrance, for a clear view of anyone leaving the building. When the familiar ringing tone failed to sound against my ear, I jerked my mobile away. Two words. Innocent enough in almost any other time or place but horrifying right now. No signal.
“No, don’t you do this to me,” I implored the mobile. I pressed redial, drumming my fingers with impatience against the phone when it seemed to take an interminable amount of time to tell me exactly the same thing.
Forgetting about looking foolish, I raised my arm and held the small silver phone high above my head, slowly sweeping an arc across the air, trying to pick up a signal. As I pivoted around, I thought I saw a fleeting shadow break the shaft of light falling from the station entrance. I froze. Like a rabbit in the headlights, I kept my eyes riveted to the light. It wasn’t until they began to water from the strain that I realized I was staring so hard I’d forgotten to blink. Although I saw nothing else from the station doorway, I knew I had not been mistaken; something or someone was inside that building and, for reasons that seemed unlikely to be innocent, they were still lurking out of sight within the shadows.
Knowing it was useless, but compelled to try anyway, I once more pressed the redial button. Frustration almost made me throw the phone on the pavement in disgust. Fortunately, good sense prevailed. The irony was there was a bank of pay phones inside the station. I’d been standing right beside them after climbing the stairs. But I could no more force myself to walk back into that building than I could pluck a signal from the airwaves by sheer force of will. I had to face facts. I was alone in a remote area on a dark December evening, with no means of communication and no way of knowing if the man who had so terrified me earlier that evening had followed me off the train.
I tried to calm my racing thoughts, which were beginning to get away from me like stampeding ponies. I told myself to focus on the problem at hand—the problem that was fact and not a terrified flight of fantasy. I had to call someone, Matt, a cab company, or the police, and I had no means of doing so. Well, stripped down like that, the answer was obvious. Find another phone. There were still pay phones on British streets, weren’t there? Mobiles hadn’t entirely taken over our civilization yet, had they? And while I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually used a telephone kiosk, I knew that I ought to be able to find one somewhere. I swept my glance around the car park and taxi rank area. Well, no, there wouldn’t be any here when there was a perfectly adequate bank of phones sitting a few hundred meters away inside the station. And they’d be ideal—if it weren’t for the homicidal maniac lying in wait right beside them. A small laugh, more hysterical than amused, bubbled up as my overactive imagination elevated the possibly-not-even-there stalker to deadly criminal status.
And then I remembered. There was a pay phone on the pavement just outside the old church. Or at least there used to be. And the church wasn’t that far away, a mile or two at most, I reckoned. And worst-case scenario, if the phone booth had been removed, I would at least be halfway toward the main town, where I’d be sure to find another one, or even hail a cab. Having a plan was like antacid on the burn of my panic.
With exaggerated slowness I began to step back toward the road that would lead me to the church. Although I wasn’t sure how far sound could carry in the night, I wanted to be as quiet as possible as I made my retreat from the station. So I didn’t risk dragging my case along on its casters but picked it up by the handles instead. Carrying it might slow me down a little but the rumbling sound of the wheels would lead anyone straight to me like a tracking device. And even though it was cumbersome to carry so many things at once, I still kept my mobile phone open in my hand, trying it every twenty seconds or so, ever hopeful that it would respond.
I CAN’T REMEMBER when I knew for certain that he was behind me.
I thought I’d been so quiet. Until I was some distance from the station, I had lowered each foot into careful place on the pavement, effectively muffling the sound of my tread. Only when I felt positive that I was out of earshot did I break into a really brisk walk. I risked looking backward on numerous occasions, never once seeing anyone. There were several roads that led away from the station. If he hadn’t seen me leave, it would be impossible to know which one I had taken. I had just begun to feel the vise grip of panic loosen its fingers from around my heart when I heard the noise. A light tinkling sound, followed by a rolling noise. As though someone had accidentally kicked a bottle into the road.
Standing statue-still, I strained my ears and my eyes. There were no streetlamps on this stretch of road; they would not appear until I’d reached the church itself. And the leafy street, lined with thickly trunked trees, could provide a hundred hiding places for someone to conceal themselves when the only light around was from an icy moon and a frosting of stars.
This was not the time for caution. I ran. And as I did I heard the sound of heavier footsteps doing the same. It was impossible to be certain but I was grateful to hear that the sound was not as close as I had first thought. I threw a backward glance over my shoulder and although I still couldn’t see anyone I could still hear the heavy pounding on the pavement. I picked up my legs and drove myself harder.
I wasn’t particularly fit, I’d proved that already from my dash to catch the train, but it’s amazing the effect that pure adrenaline can achieve. I hadn’t moved this quickly since my school days, yet still I could hear the echoing pounding of my pursuer. I wasn’t breaking ahead, just maintaining the distance. I knew I couldn’t keep going at this pace, not for much longer. My shoes, d
esigned for fashion rather than a survival sprint, had several times skidded on the rime of ice on the pavement. On one particularly icy patch I lost my purchase and felt my feet slide from beneath me. My arms cartwheeled in an attempt to regain my balance, and my case dropped with a thud to the pavement. Somehow I didn’t fall, but I left the case where it lay. Less than twenty seconds later I heard a crashing sound, and a loud cry. At least now I knew how far behind me he was. It was too much to hope he’d broken his ankle in the tumble, but even the idea of him being injured gave me the spurt of extra drive to keep going.
I wasn’t far from the crest of the hill. In the moonlight I could just make out the spire of the church. I was really close. I think I had half convinced myself that there would be no phone box when I got there. Everything about this evening had seemed to be set against me, so the exhilaration of seeing the kiosk a hundred meters or so up ahead at first felt like a beautiful mirage. My heart was thundering in my chest and my side felt as though it were being ripped open by a stitch, but I didn’t slow down. I hadn’t heard any more from behind me but I still needed time to get to the box and dial 999. How long would it take to get through? Could I summon help before he reached me? Would I have enough air left in my lungs to speak at all? The only answer to any of these questions was to run harder, which I did, my thumb still convulsively pushing the redial button on my mobile, as it had done since I left the station.
I was almost there. My fingers were literally outstretched toward the handle of the phone kiosk when a handful of my coat was yanked viciously from behind me, and I went down. No arms came out to break my fall this time, and I hit the icy pavement hard, my head cracking painfully upon the ground. I fell with such force that I took him down with me, and I heard the thump of his stocky body crashing down behind me. I don’t think I was even aware of the warm sticky flow of blood from my head as I scrambled to my knees. No bones appeared to be broken, I could still move, and though I’d probably lost layers of skin off both my hands and knees, I wasn’t even aware of the pain.
But before I could raise myself any further than being on all fours, my ankle was snared in his grip, and I was down again. I kicked back instinctively and knew from his cry my heel had struck him where it hurt. His grip fell away and I started to crawl away, using my elbows and arms to drag me along commando-style. I had gone about a meter when he was on me again, his knee hard in the middle of my back. I could hear him muttering and swearing as he used his full body weight to hold me motionless. I felt the fight drain from me. I had tried and failed. My vision was almost obliterated by the fast-flowing stream of blood from my head, and I could feel myself begin to slide into unconsciousness. I wanted to fight it but I had no reserves left to draw upon. The man roughly grabbed the sleeve of my coat, the white fabric already stained with my blood, and yanked my arm up at an unnatural angle. He said one word, just one—“Bitch!”—as his thick fingers found my hand and yanked off my engagement ring. The weight on my back was suddenly gone. And so, I realized, was the man.
That was what it had all been for? The damned diamond ring? Had all this happened just because I’d worn the ring while traveling? And I wouldn’t even be able to identify my attacker, because I’d never seen his face. It might not have been the man from the train at all.
The darkness around me seemed to be growing thicker and I felt as though I were teetering upon the edge of a dark hole. A faint thrumming noise sounded by my ear, and I thought at first it was the rush of blood until the truth pierced through my consciousness. It was a ringing tone. Unbelievably, I had kept hold of my phone throughout the whole ordeal, and at last my compulsive pressing of the redial button had worked.
“Rachel, are you there?” The voice sounded tinny and small and very far away indeed.
“Help me …,” I cried out, and then the blackness sucked me under.
4
The first thing I became aware of was the soreness of my head, which felt swollen and uncomfortable. I moved it slowly, just the merest fraction, and heard the soft scratch of crepe bandage against cotton. I tried to raise an arm to investigate but stopped when I felt a painful tug from something embedded in my forearm. I appeared to be attached to some sort of machine. A persistent beeping sound from a piece of equipment positioned directly behind me confirmed I was hooked up to some sort of monitoring device as well as being on a drip. Clearly I was in hospital, but why couldn’t I see anything?
I blinked several times. My eyelids felt weirdly unresponsive, and it made no difference, everything was still in darkness. Why couldn’t I see? What had happened to me? I felt a powerful wave of panic engulf me. Why couldn’t I remember? What was the matter with my head—and my eyes? I strained to recall. In small fragments I could see fleeting snapshots of the day before. I could remember visiting my old house, dining at a restaurant. Then I’d gone back to the hotel. Had I taken a cab? I couldn’t remember. Then I’d reached my room … and then … nothing. There was a gaping chasm where the rest of my memories of the evening should have been.
I struggled to move, to sit up with all the wires and tubes attached. My ineffectual stirring alerted someone in the room.
“Well, hello there. Welcome back to us, Rachel. It’s good to see you awake. Let me just call your father.”
There was a sound of a door opening and footsteps rapidly receding down an echoing corridor. I realized I was alone before I could manage to command my numb lips to form a question.
Was she going to phone my dad? Had someone already informed him I was in hospital? Dread at how he would have reacted to that news rippled through me. He was too ill to cope with any more worry in his life right now. I wondered if they could bring the phone to my bedside. Perhaps if he could just hear my voice, he’d be reassured that I was okay. But how could I calm and reassure him about my condition when I didn’t even know it myself? I gave an angry moan of pure, impotent frustration.
“Hey, hey … none of that now. Everything’s going to be all right.” Swift and sure footsteps approached the bed.
I started off the pillow, ignoring whatever agony this might cause. My head was already spinning in shock.
“Dad? Dad, is that you?”
A warm and familiar roughened hand engulfed my own where it lay on the stiff hospital sheets.
“Of course it’s me, my love.” His breath warmed my face as he bent to kiss my cheek, his beard scratching against me.
“Oh, Dad …,” I began, and then, although there were a thousand things I could say, should say, none of them came out and I dissolved suddenly and very noisily into tears.
“There, there, there,” muttered my dad, patting my hand in discomfort. I knew the look that would be on his face, even without the benefit of sight. He had always been fazed by my tears, whether when I was a small child or in my turbulent teenage years. Knowing how difficult it was for him to deal with them, I made a real effort to stem the torrent.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Daddy,” I sniffed, slipping back into the childish name without realizing I had done so.
“I’m so glad to see you awake again, my love. You can’t believe the fright I got when I first came in and saw you like that—all wired up and everything. It brought back so many horrible memories.” I heard the catch in his voice. Of course, he must have been unable to stop thinking back to the night of the accident.
I could only imagine the anguish he must have gone through back then, as he’d sat for days on end beside a hospital bed just like this one. It wasn’t until months later that he revealed to me the true terror he had lived through while I lay unconscious and unresponsive. And even though the doctors had reassured him that I just needed time; that the emergency services had got me breathing again before the threat of brain damage; that I would make a full recovery; he must still have been fraught with anxiety until the moment I had first opened my eyes.
That was the moment his heartache was relieved and mine began. For I hadn’t allowed him to put off giving me the
dreadful news, had refused to wait until I was “stronger.” And truly, who was ever going to be strong enough to hear the news that your best friend had died saving your life?
The accident of five years ago was obviously as much in his mind again as it had been in mine.
“Memories of the accident,” I said softly.
“Accident?” he sounded puzzled. “No, love, memories of your poor mum.”
I was confused, he so rarely spoke of her. I suppose the thought of losing me had reawakened many painful recollections. I wasn’t sure how to respond but was saved from the need by the sound of the door opening and several people entering the room.
“Hello, Doctor,” said my dad. It sounded as though he knew the man who had just entered my room, knew him quite well, in fact. For the first time I thought to ask the question:
“How long have I been in here?”
“A little over thirty-six hours, young lady,” replied the doctor, in a voice that I supposed was meant to be calming. I did not feel calm. As though in a game played against the clock, my mind frantically tried to fit together the jigsaw pieces of what had happened to me. Like an arc of electricity between two terminals, my synapses started firing and I suddenly remembered: the cemetery, the crippling headache, my sudden virtual blindness. I remembered it all.
I lifted the arm not encumbered with hospital paraphernalia to my bandaged head.
“Have you had to operate on me, for the headaches? The blindness?”
A deeply amused chortle came from the doctor. How could there be any humor in what I’d just asked?
“Bless you, Rachel, you’re not blind.”
“But I can’t see!” I wailed.
Again that laughter; this time even Dad joined in.
“That’s because your eyes are covered with bandages. They sustained some minor scratches—you probably got those from the gravel chippings when you fell face-down. You really did take a terrible old knock on your head.”
