by Susan Hill
The phone rang as she was setting off for the surgery. She and Hannah had been to the hospital the previous day, two weeks since she had taken Sam.
No change. Hannah had been more upset than Cat had expected and wanted to leave after only a few minutes. But there was no change. No change.
The room seemed like a hallucination.
She answered as she got into the car.
‘Mike Newburn. Thought you’d want to know that we’re going to try and wake him up. We’ve got to know what’s really going on.’
‘You’re withdrawing the meds?’
‘Yup. We do it slowly. He might surface, he might not. If he does it might be almost instantaneous or take a little while. We really won’t know till we do it.’
‘Oh God.’
‘If he does come round we’ll try and extubate him, see if he can breathe on his own.’
‘Yes. What do you think will happen?’
‘I don’t know. It’s suck it and see.’
‘The worst being that he doesn’t come round.’
‘Brain tracings are no different.’
‘No worse.’
‘It’s marginal but the swelling has gone down. This is the right moment to try, Cat.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to come in now? I can hold off until you get here.’
Yes, she did, but how long would the drive into London take at this time of the morning? Judith had gone to her daughter, Richard was, she supposed, at home but he was the last person she wanted to speak to. She dithered, needing to ring the neurologist back and tell him either to wait for her or not, needed to calm down if she was to be safe to drive, needed to ring the surgery and arrange cover, schools and …
Seconds before she knew she might go into meltdown, she picked the phone up.
She had been in fast cars but never like this and yet she felt completely safe. Kieron Bright’s police driver was solid in every sense, burly, and rock-like. They might have been doing 25 mph in a built-up but deserted area.
Kieron had cancelled what he described as a dull public-duty day and they had been at the farmhouse fifteen minutes after she had called him.
‘There’s bottles of chilled water in the well under the armrest, sir – Doctor,’ Keith, the driver, said. ‘And chocolate.’
She had been silent for some time, but it made tension worse.
‘Can we talk about my father?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is that it now? Nothing will happen?’
‘He was given a caution, which he accepted.’
‘I haven’t spoken to him. I can’t imagine when I might want to.’
‘Has he tried to contact you?’
‘No.’
‘Difficult.’
‘Kieron, did you honestly think he’d get off scot-free?’
‘I did think the CPS might say there was insufficient evidence, yes. In the end, it was one word against the other and that simply isn’t enough.’
‘But she had … there was forensic evidence, her frock was ripped, she … All right, I know. Evidence but not of rape.’
‘No. Rape cases are the hardest to get right … they rarely come to court and when they do, they often result in a not-guilty. I think it’s probably better that it happened this way.’
‘I don’t. I’d like to have seen him sweat it out in front of a good prosecutor.’
‘And then get off and be able to boast about it?’
Cat smiled. He was right. She was still angry but concerns of any kind about her father dwindled into insignificance now. She felt a sudden flutter of – of what? Hope? Dread? Excitement? Yes, all of them.
The car sped down the fast lane. The last green fields. The outskirts of London. Sunshine. They overtook everything easily on a dual carriageway and, somehow, traffic melted, lights turned green. They slowed and made way once only, for an ambulance racing out of the hospital as they turned in.
The neurologist had warned her. No promises. Nothing certain. Nothing might change.
Kieron took hold of her arm as they neared the room. ‘I’ll be outside.’
‘No, you …’
He shook his head. ‘There isn’t room, they’ll be at full strength in there.’
She hesitated. Looked at him. ‘Rock,’ she said. ‘You are.’
The door opened. But there were only two neurologists and the nurse. The room was quiet, apart from the usual machine sounds. She looked at the bed.
‘We started about fifteen minutes ago,’ Mike said. ‘It’s a slower process than bringing someone round from anaesthetic in the usual way.’
‘How long could it take? Hours?’
‘Anything’s possible. If he hasn’t surfaced into some sort of conciousness in twenty-four hours it will be worrying. And he might surface and then regress. Neurology isn’t an exact science.’
‘What is?’
She moved closer to the bed. Simon was still intubated. His hair was thicker now. He looked like someone who resembled himself, just a little. The bruising on his forehead and left cheek had faded, the cuts closed up and less livid. She sat, holding his hand. Saying his name. But she could not chat away easily, as Sam did. Just his name. Hers. ‘Hello. It’s me.’
‘That’s everything,’ Mike said. ‘The drug clears out of the system quite quickly though obviously longer-term doses take longer for all the effects to subside.’ He looked at the monitors. Adusted a syringe. ‘I have to pop up to ITU to see a patient, but I’ll come straight back and Ian here will stay.’
But as he turned to go, there was an odd, choking noise. Simon had moved his head to and fro and tried to lift it, and in doing so, had expelled the breathing tube from his throat.
There was a second, gurgling noise. A rasping low cough.
And then his eyes opened, and he looked at Cat. For a second or two, confusion, bewilderment, panic. Then he focused on her face. Recognition.
Cat pressed her brother’s hand. And after a moment, she felt a weak but absolutely unmistakable and real pressure back.
SUSAN HILL’s novels and short stories have won the Whitbread, Somerset Maugham, and John Llewellyn Rhys awards, the Yorkshire Post Book of the Year, and been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. She is the author of fifty-six books. The play adapted from her famous ghost story, The Woman in Black, has been running in the West End since 1989; it is also a major feature film starring Daniel Radcliffe. Her crime novels featuring DCS Simon Serrailler are currently being adapted for TV.
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