by C F Dunn
“That’s because I am.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, thinking I might have offended her. The door opened and a nurse, twice the girl’s age, came in carrying a covered tray, which rattled with metallic objects as she moved.
“There’s a detective outside, Dr Lynes; you want me to show him in?”
Lynes – no wonder I thought I recognized her; I saw elements of Matthew in her features. She shook her head at the nurse.
“Don’t let him in, Ada, not until Dr Matthew says. Put the tray there, will you, please?” She indicated the trolley next to the bed with her elbow, as she swapped the near-empty bag of fluid for a full one. The tray clattered noisily as the nurse put it down.
“Are you related to Matthew?” My head began to swim as the twinge started to polarize and intensify. I shut my eyes and concentrated on the sounds outside – anything rather than the spear in my side.
“Yes, ma’am; I’m Ellie Lynes – Dr Lynes is my uncle. You can have some more meds if you need them?” she offered.
“No – thanks, I’ll wait until Matthew gets back; I want to keep a clear head.” Breathing slowly, I could keep it at bay for longer, but the ache soon swarmed again. She watched me through narrowed eyes, probably wondering how long I could hold out. I jerked nervously as the double doors were flung open and a gurney was pushed in with two medical staff crowding the head of the trolley. Ellie leaned forward and drew the side-curtain of my cubicle.
“What happened last night? I don’t remember much.”
She surveyed me with dark-blue eyes, judging how much to tell me.
“You lost a lot of blood. My uncle had to stop the bleeding and replace the fluids fast.” She hesitated. “He didn’t know if he could save you.”
That close! I pondered for a moment, remembering the shutters closing down on my life.
“But he did,” I said out loud.
“Yes, he did.” I heard an element of pride in the way she said it and I wondered what she left out. “You’d better ask Matthew if you want more details,” she continued, reading my mind. That was almost funny.
“You think he would tell me?”
Ellie didn’t answer. A violent cough followed by a gurgling choke from the adjacent cubicle announced the resuscitation of its occupant, accompanied by an exclamation as projectile vomit narrowly missed the nurse.
“Alcohol poisoning,” Ellie muttered and began to say something but the doors opened again, and the police officer from earlier in the day came in, speaking to a couple of men over his shoulder.
“… through here. Don’t know if you can talk to her, though. If she ain’t up to it the Doc won’t let you.” He turned to look at me as he finished his sentence, then saw Ellie and did a double take.
“Who’re you? Where’s Dr Lynes?” he demanded, hardly civil at all.
Ellie visibly bristled at his tone. “I’m Dr Lynes, but if you mean Dr Matthew Lynes, my uncle will be back any minute now.”
He eyed her up and down and dismissed her with a shrug. “You can leave now, Doc; we have some questions for the lady.”
One of the men behind him – the one with a bent nose – pushed forward.
“That’s all right, Joe, we’ll take it from here.”
An instantaneous scowl appeared on his brow and Joe – evidently not happy at being sidelined – moved out of the way and hovered in the background. Ellie’s slender frame barely blocked them from view as she stepped between us.
“Dr Lynes won’t allow Dr D’Eresby to be questioned at the moment.” Despite her youth, she displayed an authority the men recognized in the noticeable shift in her tone. The man with the ill-tempered face and poorly aligned nose squared his shoulders.
“We have an investigation to conduct, Miss Lynes; we’re not interested in what you or anybody else wants; step aside.”
Ellie didn’t move but the atmosphere changed subtly and I didn’t want her getting into trouble over something as trivial as me answering some questions.
“Please, Dr Lynes, it’s all right, I’ll answer their questions, please…”
She looked at me, considering whether to argue the point. The sound of retching came from a few feet away and voices conferred quietly from behind the curtain. The detectives cringed and exchanged glances. One of them came up to the side of the bed and spoke; he had a deeper, more pleasant timbre to his voice, with none of the aggression inherent in the other man.
“I’m Detective Slater, ma’am, and this won’t take long; we just want to get a few facts straight while they’re still fresh in your mind… ma’am?”
I realized I had shut my eyes; I opened them again and the detective’s face swam into focus closer than expected. He was the older of the two men – perhaps nearing retirement age. The grey pushing through on his unshaven face and the deep bags under his eyes spoke of a sleepless night.
“Yes, I’ll try.”
Slater pulled up a chair and sat down, the vinyl surface wheezing. He pulled out a battered notebook and flipped through several of the pages.
“You received a phone call from England at about…” he checked his notes, “… nine-fifty, and you…”
“No.”
“You didn’t receive a call, or not at the time stated?”
“It wasn’t a call from England – it was a trick to get me away from the dinner, to get me alone.” I swallowed painfully.
“OK, so you’re saying there was no one on the line, is that right?”
“Yes.”
Slater scribbled something in his notebook and then looked up at me expectantly.
“What happened when you realized there was no one on the phone?”
“There was a noise. He… Staahl… was there. I tried to run but I couldn’t, the floor – it was too slippery. He grabbed me… he… he pulled me back into the room…” I stalled, fear sliding through me as it had when he cornered me, the memory still sharp and fresh. Ellie moved noiselessly towards the bed but the other detective put his arm between us. “He said things… I couldn’t get away… he… had a knife… his arm was around my throat… I couldn’t breathe. I tried to get away but he broke my arm… he was going to kill me… he… he…” And suddenly I wasn’t in the med centre any more, but in the porters’ lodge and Staahl was choking me, bleeding me, images crowding thick and fast as I drowned in the memory of dread and pain, my heart tearing inside my chest, my breathing harsh and erratic.
“That’s enough!” Matthew stood inside the doors, his eyes blazing. Both detectives swivelled around as he strode towards the bed, forcing Slater to shift out of the way. His fingers now lightly against my neck, my pulse hammered beneath them but I couldn’t control it, I couldn’t control the wave upon wave of terror breaking over me.
“He wouldn’t let me go… he… my cross – where’s my cross?” My eyes stared wildly, my vision filled with Staahl’s dead eyes, his mouth drawn back revealing small, narrow teeth like a grill, like a skull; a death’s head with demon’s eyes intent on tearing out my soul. Matthew said something under his breath too low for me to hear and I felt his hands around my face, cold enough against my flaming skin to make me gasp. He looked through the porthole of my eyes, reaching inside me, pulling me back towards the light.
“Emma, he’s gone – he can’t hurt you; it’s over. Your cross is here; I have it safe.”
His certainty staunched the spiralling panic and I saw Matthew again, not Staahl, and his eyes were not grey, but blue, driving away the colourless fear that sought to devour me. I wanted to reach out and touch his mouth and high cheekbones and corn-coloured hair; I wanted to reach out and touch him to make sure he was real.
“Matthew?”
“I’m here, Emma, there’s nothing to worry about – everything’s going to be fine.” His voice wrapped around me – soothing, reassuring – and so hard to resist, but although he was right in front of me, his hands cradling my face, Staahl still leered from my memory.
“He won’t go away,” I wh
ispered. Matthew flashed a look at his niece and soon numbness spread inexorably, anaesthetizing my dread.
Slater had retreated to the end of the bed, but he now came forward again. Matthew turned slowly to look at him and the man paused.
“Dr Lynes?”
“I specifically stated that Dr D’Eresby is not to be questioned until I said it is appropriate to do so.”
“Is she OK?” Slater asked.
“She’s suffering from shock and is in a great deal of discomfort. No, she is not ‘OK’ and your questions didn’t help.”
“So grey,” I moaned groggily and he put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“I guess we have to do our job, Dr Lynes,” Slater said, defensively apologetic.
Neither defensive nor apologetic, Matthew replied, “And I do mine.”
“If it’s OK, can we ask you some questions – it’ll save time later and might clear things up a little?”
Matthew nodded briefly and led the two men over to the other side of the room. I could still hear them but the morphine had taken effect and I no longer cared what they said. In the adjoining cubicle, the retching ceased and metallic sounds of mop in bucket replaced it, along with the astringent smell of disinfectant. Ellie had gone. I tried to focus on the conversations, but they kept fading in and out of my consciousness.
“We’ll need photos of the injuries.” The nameless detective said it as if he expected Matthew to refuse permission.
“Of course,” he responded.
I heard the crack of paper turning as Slater consulted his notebook. “You were at the same All Saints dinner as Professor D’Eresby, is that right? But you left halfway through?” They had obviously been doing their homework.
“That’s correct. I had an emergency call to answer.”
“So you didn’t know about the phone call to Professor D’Eresby?”
Remorse edged his tone. “No.”
“But you were passing by when she was attacked? That was lucky – for the lady.” The second detective made it sound as if luck had nothing to do with it. “How did you happen to be in that area?”
They were digging for something. I wanted to tell them to leave him alone but my mouth wouldn’t engage with my brain.
“I was returning to the dinner when I heard a noise. It didn’t sound like any of the student revels and came from an area which should have been empty at that time of night, so…”
“You decided to go have a look. You must have good hearing, Dr Lynes.” It was the broken-nosed man again; he spoke with a sneer.
“I do.”
“And what did you find when you ‘had a look’?”
Matthew outlined a clinical description of what he had seen. Even through the morphine-induced mist, I recognized an edited story; yet I remembered every word exchanged that night and somehow knew he did too.
“Did you say anything to Professor Staahl?”
“I told him to let go of her.”
“And he didn’t?”
Matthew’s voice sounded flat and expressionless. “No.”
“And then…?” Slater prompted.
“He cut her, severing her radial artery, and I had to get him away from her.”
Bash-face sneered. “That was brave – I mean, he had a knife, you could have been hurt.” I hated the insinuation behind the man’s voice and would have punched him if I could, but Matthew continued, unruffled.
“There was no time to think – I had to act; I had no choice.”
“So you would say Professor D’Eresby was attacked, then; there’s no possibility that she went there voluntarily to meet Professor Staahl? That these ‘injuries’ were not just some tragic accident? Or a game?”
Matthew’s reaction was immediate and definitive. He walked rapidly to my side. “I’m sorry,” he murmured to me, and then gently but swiftly unwrapped the bandages from my left wrist and removed the dressing before looking over to the two detectives still standing by the window.
“Does this look consensual?” he demanded, “or a game?” The two men came over and stood on the opposite side of the bed. There was a quick intake of breath from Slater and the second man glanced down at me, nostrils flaring in surprise. I wondered dopily what they saw. “Staahl held her wrist here – this is where his nails dug in, breaking her skin – and this…”
Matthew indicated an area by the crease in my wrist, “is where he pushed in the tip of the knife before drawing it like this…” and he imitated the action, “down and across her arm.” Matthew carefully turned my head so they could see my throat in the light of the overhead lamp, “And this… this is where he used the point of the knife to pierce her throat.”
“Sweet mother…!” Slater exclaimed.
“And this…” Matthew went over to the computer and brought up the digital images of my broken arm and the X-ray before it was set. “He used the edge of the door to break it – you can see the finger marks where he gripped her arm – here, and the point of impact – here.” He showed them the X-ray on the screen. “Those are purposefully inflicted wounds – not a game, and there was no consent, and they do not include the injuries that occurred afterwards as a result of the attack – extensive bruising and the massive loss of blood which nearly resulted in Dr D’Eresby’s death.” He paused. “And I suspect further injuries in addition to these.”
The men remained silent for a moment, taking it in; I wanted to know what they saw. I couldn’t lift my unbandaged arm to look.
“Can I see?” I croaked woozily. Matthew hesitated. “Please?”
Reluctantly he lifted my arm within my line of sight. An angry crimson line razored through my skin for about seven inches, the edges drawn together in fine stitches, the flesh inflamed and gaudy. Distinct finger-shaped bruises in red and plum were developing and spreading from crescent nail marks on one side of my wrist and a single thumb bruise on the other. I felt sick and looked away.
“That’s enough, gentlemen; I need to get this re-dressed.” Matthew recovered his composure but, from his tone, would brook no argument.
“I need to take copies of the photos as evidence, and it’d sure be helpful if I can take a few more?” Slater asked, obviously unsure about the reaction. He already held a small digital camera in his hand, but the shutter remained closed.
Matthew prepared replacement dressings. “You must ask Dr D’Eresby.”
Slater looked at me and I nodded as much as my head would allow. He took a series of photos from a variety of angles more self-consciously than I was able to feel in my soporific state.
“We will still need to ask Professor D’Eresby some questions,” Slater said, apologetically.
“Not now.” His mouth hard, Matthew didn’t look up as he answered.
“Sure, later will do.”
Matthew closed his eyes, exhaling audibly as the door shut behind the two men.
“That was unconscionable – I’m so sorry.”
I couldn’t see why he needed to feel guilty, but then nothing seemed to matter at the moment.
“Please don’t say that; there’s nothing to forgive.”
“Yes, there is – more than you can know.” He sounded bitter and I wanted so much to tell him I would forgive him anything. “Tel-lme?” I said, words slurring drunkenly. He glanced at the cubicle next to mine, where intermittent groans indicated that the occupant still lived, and shook his head. At that moment the double doors slammed open and I jolted at the sudden noise, the morphine not able to dull the arrow in my side. Matthew looked closely at me.
“Does your chest hurt?”
“Yes,” I forced out.
Another trolley appeared ahead of two more staff and one of the nurses grinned in Matthew’s direction.
“Found this one in the lake this morning. Kids tried to dry him out themselves – didn’t think to call us first. Heaven only knows what he’s been drinking.” The trolley wheeled past, a bedraggled figure draped untidily on the bed, limbs sprawling at angles off it.
“D’you need t’go?” I asked.
He didn’t look up. “No, they have it covered; I want to find out what’s causing you so much discomfort.”
The tension in his face was unbearable. I flinched as he carefully swabbed the laceration with an orange solution that dried almost instantly; but even with the morphine the gash burned. He placed the clean dressing over it, binding it in place with fresh bandages until it disappeared under swathes of white cloth. As the ache subsided once more, I remembered what I meant to ask him.
“Please can I go back t’my apartment? I don’t want to stay here; I’m just in th’way and it’s so… exposed.”
I felt totally vulnerable; although it was unreasonable, every time the door opened I expected to see Staahl walk through.
“No, Emma, you need to be looked after and I don’t have the facilities over there. In any case, your pain isn’t under control yet, and until I’m sure we’ve located all the sources of it, I want you under supervision.”
He beckoned to one of the nurses hovering redundantly by the other patients nearby. She came over, straightening her uniform and looking coyly at him from under her lashes. Matthew handed her a small tray with soiled bandages and asked her to bring him something with a long name I hadn’t heard of before.
“But’ll be OK now, won’t I?”
He frowned, picking up on the slight note of desperation I tried to hide in my voice.
“What’s the matter, Emma?”
I could still taste the smell of raw flesh, of fresh blood, as it lingered in the air. The nurse glanced sideways at me, curiously; I waited until she was out of earshot.
“I don’t feel safe here, Matthew; please take me back – don’t leave me here.” My eyes filled with unlooked-for tears and I silently cursed my fragility. His face softening, he leaned forwards so that only I could hear him.
“It’s all right – don’t be upset; I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”
His compassion just made it worse and tears escaped before I could stop them, trickling over my skin and down my neck. I hadn’t meant to cry, I didn’t mean to be so melodramatic, but my normal stoicism had been reduced to a nominal veneer that warped and cracked from the pressure of events over the past few days, and no reserves remained on which to call.
