Still Life (Still Life Series Book 1)

by Isobel Hart

  It looked like any other bedroom I’d ever seen; the sort of generic guest room your mum might have for occasional visitors – I knew my mum used to when she was alive. It wasn’t at all the clinically sterile hospital room I’d expected. There were wooden blinds on the windows and a sofa in the corner, complete with a throw cover and cushions. The fixtures and fittings were more Laura Ashley than Staples. The only anomaly was the hospital bed.

  My eyes were drawn to the small figure in the bed, his body shrivelled by both his advanced age and his disease. It was obvious the cancer had wiped-out the last of his strength. His breath rasped as he gasped air into his diseased lungs, and, for a moment, I was transported back to Edward’s time in the hospital. But this felt completely different.

  The man in the bed stirred and opened one watery blue eye, his gaze fixing on Elliott. He tried to speak, but Elliott put a hand out to stop him, saying; “Hello, Victor. I’m Doctor Elliott Harvey. We thought you might appreciate a little company this evening.” He looked over his shoulder at me as he said it, giving me an encouraging smile and gesturing for me to move closer.

  I took a couple of steps forward, stopping just behind him. Elliott moved to sit in one of the two chairs immediately beside the bed, indicating I should do the same. I hesitated. Victor’s tired, pain-laden eyes landed on me, and for a moment they widened. Then he reached up to take the mask from his face, clawing at it with his weakened fingers. Elliott tried to stop him, but it just made Victor more distressed, so instead, he helped him move it away from his mouth so he could speak.

  “Martha,” he wheezed, pausing to gasp for air, his eyes fixed on me as if he were afraid I might vanish. “You came. You promised you would.” He stopped to cough, then gasped in a wheezing breath. Elliott attempted to replace the oxygen mask, but Victor was having none of it. “Come closer,” he begged, “so I can see you properly.” He believed me to be someone else. Someone important to him. I hesitated, unwilling to mislead him but equally unwilling to upset the man in his final hours. With a glance at Elliott I shuffled forward. Elliott stood from his chair and moved out the way, sitting down in the one alongside it. I ran a hand through my hair, before taking the seat directly beside the bed.

  “You don’t have to do this, Sam,” Elliott whispered, with a gentle touch on my shoulder. The old man reached for my hand which still rested in my lap. I allowed him to take hold of it and tried not to shudder as the cool, bony appendage pressed against my palm.

  “You always said you’d be here for me,” Victor said, his eyes fixed upon mine as his breath continued to grind in and out of his chest, the rattle on every exhalation a constant reminder of his disease and impending death. This time, when Elliott reached to replace the mask, he didn’t struggle, content just to have my hand within his own. I envied whoever had earned the devotion that Victor now lavished upon me with only a look. Tears brimmed in my eyes as he smiled from beneath the mask, looking at me until his eyes grew heavy and sleep took him. He didn’t let go of me all the while he slept.

  “He’s going downhill,” Elliott said, several hours later, after a nurse had been in to check his vital signs. They’d been coming and checking on him every fifteen minutes. One of them had explained that he was deteriorating fast and they didn’t expect him to last the night. After the most recent visit the nurse had whispered into Elliott’s ear. He’d nodded. “He’s going downhill. It won’t be long now.”

  I could see it, his breathing now so shallow that at times I had to look for the slight movement of his chest to know he still lived. “Is he in pain?”

  “No, he’s unconscious. They’re managing his pain.” He pointed at the cannula in Victor’s arm where the nurse had been administering drugs periodically through a pump system. “He’s not likely to wake up again. You can let go of his hand if you like.”

  But I couldn’t. Not really. I owed him this much if I was going to share the moment of his death. And, if it gave Victor any comfort, then really it was the least I could do. The feel of the small hand within my own no longer unpleasant. It felt good, like I was doing something positive, something I could be proud of. I hoped someone might be willing to do the same for me one day.

  When the nurse came back ten minutes later, she told us that he’d passed. Shocked, I felt guilty I hadn’t registered the transition from life into death, the difference so slight yet profound. The silence after she switched off the oxygen machine seemed overwhelming. Elliott and I both stared at him, waiting for the moment when the virus would activate, but nothing happened. Victor continued to lie there, a peaceful expression on his face, released from the painful life that had held him captive these last months.

  “I don’t understand,” Elliott whispered, as I wiped a stray tear from my cheek.

  “What’s not to understand,” I said, angry that his obsession with the virus had become more important than marking this important moment in Victor’s life, “he’s dead.”

  “But why? Why hasn’t the virus activated?”

  “I don’t know, Elliott,” I said, the tears falling more rapidly now. “Can we go, please?”

  “I’ll just take a quick blood sample.” He pulled a vial from his pocket, extracting a small sample of blood for analysis from the arm I wasn’t holding.

  I released Victor’s hand gently, placing it carefully onto the bed beside him, and brushed my tears away with the back of my hand, before bending and kissing him gently on the forehead. I ignored the feel of cooling skin against my lips. Behind me, Elliott muttered all the while about why the virus had not activated. Frankly, at that moment, I didn’t give a shit about the virus.

  Happy I had done everything I could, I stood, brushed myself down, and then walked out of the room without a backward glance.

  Chapter 18

  “I’m sorry, Sam,” Elliott said when he reached the car. He slipped a hand around my waist and pulled me into his chest for a hug. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” I sobbed as he held me close, the smell of him, his vitality, comforting after what we’d just seen. “I forget what it’s like to experience death. It’s such a part of my job that sometimes I forget what it really means.” He pressed his nose into my hair and took a deep breath. “What you did in there for him was beautiful. You made his passing as good as it could be in the circumstances. You gave him peace.”

  I nodded. I knew my being there had helped in some small way, but it had taken a toll. My body now weighed down with melancholy. I couldn’t imagine how the nurses who worked there did that every single day.

  Elliott saw me into the car, closing my door before pulling out his phone from his pocket. I heard him explaining to someone what had happened. “I’ll drop the sample round on our way home.” Malcolm, I had to assume.

  We stopped at a nondescript apartment block for Elliott to run the sample in, and then drove back to his house. I was so tired by the time we walked through the door, it was all I could do to brush my teeth before falling into bed. My perpetual bone-numbing weariness worried me until I realised it was nearly two in the morning. Elliott stuck his head around the door as I pulled the duvet over myself. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I sniffed, trying not to let the tears start up again, as I worried who would sit and hold my hand if I were dying. The fear of dying alone spilled out as more tears. A little sob broke free.

  “Sure?” He sounded worried, moving closer. He dithered beside the bed, looking uncertain how to proceed with the overtly emotional female wreck in front of him. I continued to cry, seemingly unable to stop myself now I’d started. With a muttered, “fuck it,” the bed dipped as he lay down beside me and pulled me into his arms. He lay on top of the covers, while I stayed underneath, but I appreciated the comfort he offered. He stroked my hair, promising me everything would be alright, until finally, I fell asleep.

  I woke once in the night, convinced I still held onto Victor’s cold, dead hand, until it moved and I realised the hand I held belonged to Elliott. It was cold because h
e still lay curled in a ball above the duvet. The night air felt cool; certainly too cold to go without any sort of covering. I pulled the duvet out from beneath him and then resettled it above the pair of us, before curling up again in my half of the bed. He stirred slightly when my body brushed against his, muttering my name in his sleep. The warmth generated by our bodies soon pulled me back into sleep and, for the first time in a long time, my dreams were only filled with happy images.

  ***

  I was too hot when I woke. I lay still for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts as memories from the day before tumbled into place. A hand moving against my breast caused the last vestiges of sleep to evaporate as I became aware of the other physical presence in the bed with me. His body was pressed behind mine, arm slung across my chest, hand resting on the aforementioned breast, and a firm erection against my buttocks. A flush of desire washed through me. But it was too soon. Guilt at my fickleness doused my lusty thoughts and sent me wriggling from under his arm as I tried to get out of the bed without waking him. Once accomplished, I couldn’t help but pause to look down at his sleeping form.

  He was quite a sight to behold, a feast for the eyes, everything light to Edward’s dark. His golden hair, tousled from sleep, gave him a boyish look further enhanced by the long dark eyelashes that rested upon his cheeks. When he was awake they framed his beautiful blue eyes, but now, asleep, they were a wonder by themselves. His lips appeared pink and entirely kissable, and a soft stubble dusted his cheeks and chin. I resisted the urge to bend down and brush my cheek against his before kissing him. His eyes started to flutter slightly, still closed, as he began to stir. I must have disturbed him when I’d slipped from beneath his arm – either that or he had sensed me staring at him. Quickly, I grabbed some of my clothes and headed into the bathroom. When I returned to the room twenty minutes later, he’d gone.

  I finished getting ready and then steeled myself to face him. With my shoulders back, I walked into the lounge to find no Elliott, just a note waiting for me next to a still-steaming cup of coffee. He’d already left for work, the brief words telling me he’d overslept and had to rush off, but that he would be back later, after his shift was completed. I collapsed onto a chair, allowing the cortisol from the stress I hadn’t even realised I was feeling to seep slowly out of my body. Strangely crushed, I contemplated why he’d been so desperate to avoid seeing me he hadn’t even bothered to brush his teeth or call out a goodbye. Then I scolded myself for caring. He was only a friend helping me out in my time of need – yeah, right. That might have been his feelings on the subject, but my hormones seemed to have other ideas.

  My stomach rumbled, distracting me from my inner turmoil. I’d barely eaten anything over the last four days, I needed to get something inside me, and soon. I stood, made my way into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboards until I found some eggs and bread.

  Ten minutes later, I sat down to eat some scrambled eggs on toast. The coffee remained untouched. I helped myself to some more orange juice, deciding I needed to do some food shopping later to replace everything I’d eaten. I’d get something I could make him for dinner as a way of saying thank you, I decided. I prayed it wouldn’t be awkward between the two of us after last night, telling myself we’d done nothing wrong. We were just two friends, and he’d done a great job of consoling me after what had been a pretty crap few days, nothing more. The lusty thoughts I found myself having about him were just a result of the kindness he’d shown me since Edward’s attack . . . nothing more . . . really, nothing more.

  By mid-morning I’d cleaned the apartment, done all the washing I’d found in the washing basket in the bathroom, and had put on my jacket ready for the quick trip to the shops, when my mobile rang with an unfamiliar number. I answered with some wariness.

  “Hello,” a voice said. I didn’t recognise it. The person on the other end seemed to be whispering.

  “Yes?”

  “Samantha? Is that you?” a now identifiably female voice asked.

  “Yes, speaking,” I replied. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

  “It’s Mrs Rawson. Richard’s mother.”

  “Oh, Mrs Rawson. How are you? I’m so glad you called me. I wanted to apologise if I caused you any bother after my visit yesterday. I didn’t mean to upset anyone–”

  “Samantha, I’m frightened,” she interrupted, with a small whispered sob.

  My heart rate accelerated at her words. “Frightened? Why on earth are you frightened?”

  “It’s Richard. He was so angry after you left. He won’t let either of us leave the house, not even to buy milk. He physically barred the way when I tried to ignore him, he pushed his father over when he came to my defence. Rupert isn’t strong; he hurt himself when he fell. Richard doesn’t know I have a mobile telephone handset in my bedroom, it’s a cheap one I picked up from Tesco when the landline was blown down after a storm once. I had your card . . . I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “Why won’t he let you leave the house? What did he say? Where is he now?”

  “He’s out in the garden. I told him I was going to have a bath, I locked myself in here to call you.”

  “Why has he locked you in, though?”

  “He was shouting that you were interfering. That you’d poisoned our minds, and now we couldn’t be trusted. His father’s not a well man. After the fall . . . well, I’m worried what this might do to him.”

  “You need to get out.” I paced around the room, feeling helpless. “Now. You need to get away from Richard while he’s out in the garden. Go to a hotel. There’s something wrong with both Richard and Edward. I can’t explain it yet, but I think you’re in danger–” My words were cut off by a loud noise in the background, and then the line went dead. “Mrs Rawson!” I shouted into the phone. “Mrs Rawson?” Nothing, just the sound of static on the line.

  Without thought, I snatched up my bag and ran out of the door. My car still sat where we’d left it. I was relieved Elliott hadn’t used it to get to work; he must have taken the bus, as his own car was still in the staff car park at the hospital. Fumbling with the keys in my haste, I started the engine and headed back towards the house I’d visited only yesterday. The closer I got, the more I became aware of a buzz of excitement on the streets. Increasing numbers of people milled about. Something had happened, something big enough to provoke the inhabitants to step out from behind their privet hedges and talk to one another. It was a bad sign. Two turns later and smoke billowed across the road, drifting from a north-easterly direction. The same direction I was trying to head in. In the distance, as I waited impatiently at a junction for the traffic to clear out of my way, approaching sirens howled.

  I reached the turning for the Rawsons’, to find a policeman unravelling a roll of police tape, cordoning off the road. Another officer stood in the middle of the lane, turning traffic and curious pedestrians away from whatever had happened beyond. I wound down the window as I reached him, the officer bending to speak to me. “What’s happened?”

  “We think it was a gas leak, ma’am. We can’t let anyone down there until the fire is under control. Sorry.”

  “Was anyone hurt? Did everyone get out?” I dreaded his response.

  “It’s too soon to tell, ma’am. We’ll know more once the fire brigade have the incident under control. Now, if you don’t mind moving off, please . . .” He stood upright, dismissing me.

  I wanted to tell him I knew who had caused it – there was no doubt in my mind the explosion had happened at the Rawsons’ – but I knew if I claimed to know something I’d come across as a crazy woman. I moved the car further down the road, then pulled over and got my phone out. As I scrolled through my contacts to find Elliott’s number, two ambulances and three fire engines turned into the street behind me.

  “Sam?” Elliott answered on the second ring. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh God, Elliott, it’s the Rawsons,” I sobbed. I told him about the call from Mrs Rawson and what I’d learned si
nce.

  “Jesus,” he whispered when I finished. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m parked on a road just off their street. I wanted to check if they were okay. God, Elliott, I’m scared. I think he killed them. I think he killed them because of me.”

  “You don’t know that, Sam.”

  “He was keeping them prisoner because I went there, she told me that. What else am I supposed to think?”

  “I don’t know.” I visualised him running his hands through his hair. He took a deep breath. “Jesus, Sam. Look, you need to get to somewhere safe, somewhere he doesn’t know. Go back to my apartment and don’t leave. Don’t let anyone in, and don’t answer any calls from numbers you don’t recognise. In fact, turn your mobile off and only use the landline for now. I’ll call and check in with you in thirty minutes. Get home . . . please,” he added at the end. It was his pleading tone that had me agreeing finally.

  I disconnected the call, switched off my mobile and started the engine. I threw the car into a three-point turn and pulled away, back in the direction I’d come from. I slowed as I passed the bottom of their road, as did the rest of the traffic given the large presence of emergency services in the vicinity. A sizeable crowd had gathered in the short time it had taken for me to call Elliott. I peered through the small gaps, between the people gathered at the cordon, catching only glimpses of what was happening beyond. The flash of a smallish figure wrapped in a blanket confirmed what I already knew. Richard had survived.

  Afterwards, the journey home was a blur as my mind ricocheted through the implications. Initially, the guilt almost paralysed me. Somehow, I parked the car and made it into the apartment. Once inside, I ran into the lounge and turned on the television, scrolling through the menu until I found the rolling news channel.

  The breaking news banner announced the explosion, presumed to have been caused by a gas leak, and the fear people may have been killed, but I had to wait while they finished reporting on some of the atrocities happening in the Middle East for a report. I looked at my watch; it was nearly quarter past the hour, so I knew the headlines would be repeated shortly. Finally, the story finished and the cameras returned to the newsreader in the studio. His headline about the gas explosion was third in order of importance. When he said, “at least two people are feared dead,” I threw up, only just making it to the toilet in time to empty the vomit filling my mouth before heaving spasms took over my body again.