Alias

by Cari Hunter

  “Aw, Christ.”

  My backside hits the tree, and I bend double, grabbing my bad arm and waiting for the pain to settle to something halfway manageable. It doesn’t even get close, though, so I opt for distraction instead, unwinding the woollen scarf from my neck to fashion into a sling. I shudder as I use my teeth to pull the knot taut, the sensation of biting down on wool a more mundane sort of unpleasant.

  Supported by the full width of the scarf, the shattered bones stop shifting, and my queasiness eases a fraction. The blood covering my forearm is tacky enough to stick the fabric in place, and I take advantage of the adhesive effect, hoping I’ll be suitably sedated when it has to be peeled away again. I straighten in increments, breathing through my nose and gripping the tree trunk so fiercely that I drive wedges of bark beneath my fingernails. Still crooked and swaying like a landlubber on high seas, I wait again for the moon and then trace the route the car took down the embankment. I can’t accurately gauge the distance, so I count the trees we bounced off—seven or eight—and wonder how the hell I survived. Debris glints in the silver light: the bumper, impaled and standing proud in the forest floor, dozens of multicoloured shards of glass, and a small holdall that has ripped open and scattered its contents. The trees crowd together, blocking my view of the road, but it must be up there somewhere. The car is a Ford Focus, built for commuting, not wilderness expeditions.

  Following the trenches carved through the undergrowth should point me in the right direction. The wide swath of destruction meanders somewhat, but that won’t add much to the overall distance. I nod as I formulate my plan. It sounds straightforward and feasible in my head: walk up the hill and wait on the road until help arrives, but flaws become apparent when I take my first few steps. My legs are wobblier than watered-down jelly, and I can’t seem to pull in enough air through my nose or my mouth. I manage to stagger about fifty yards before I stub my toes on a rock. The sheer insult pushes me over the edge, and I sit on the rock’s mossy surface and cry. I can’t do this. I don’t even know whether I want to, because surviving will mean facing consequences; it will mean people pointing their fingers at me and telling me this was my fault. They won’t believe the gaps in my memory. Why would they? They’re so damn convenient that I doubt them myself.

  My breathing calms the longer I sit here. If I tilt my head a certain way, I can hear birds heralding the as-yet invisible dawn with melodic call and response. Things rustle in the leaf litter, making up for lost time now that the wind has dropped and the sleet has given way to occasional flurries of proper snowflakes. I don’t feel cold or frightened anymore, just tired and a bit woozy. I ignore my phone when it rings. The shrill peal sends some small creature scuttling for cover, and I whisper an apology for invading its turf and fucking everything up.

  The ringing cuts off and then starts again. I jab a finger on “Accept,” succeeding only in smearing claret across the screen. The noise stops, replaced shortly afterward by a thready voice, and I raise the phone, surprised that I managed to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  Silence. I adjust the phone, but I’ve remembered to use the ear that’s not humming and pulsing along to my heartbeat, and it makes no difference.

  “Hello?” I repeat. The name of the every-fifteen-minutes woman escapes me. “Is anyone there?”

  I concede defeat, and the phone bounces off my lap and comes to rest against a pinecone that may as well be a mile beyond my reach.

  “Fuck it,” I whisper, content to sit and quietly expire, surrounded by birdsong and snowflakes and a sense of peace—a peace that’s obliterated as someone yells, “Rebecca!”

  I react more to the disturbance than the name, lifting my hand as a child might in class.

  “Here,” I mutter half-heartedly, before remembering that people have gone to a lot of trouble to find me. I try harder. “Here! Over here!”

  Standing would demand more strength than I have. I stay put and watch torch beams slash across the forest floor, until sheer bloody-mindedness gets me to my feet. It can’t keep me there, though, and the rock grazes my back as I crumple. The movement turns a light toward me, the thud of approaching boots scattering the last of the nocturnal critters.

  “Rebecca? Hey, can you open your eyes for me?” The woman’s voice is gentle but insistent, a pleasant lilt rolling her words up and down. “I’ve got her,” she says in a more authoritative tone. “About two-fifty yards from the reg plate. No sign of the car. Get the paramedics here ASAP.” Her hands cup my face as she finishes her update. She’s wearing leather gloves, and I flinch, shoving back against the rock, unable to see anything in the glare of her torch. “No, no, stay still,” she says. “The paramedics will be here in a few minutes.”

  I try to ask her name, but the question gets lost in a wet gargle and a mouthful of blood.

  “Jesus,” she hisses. She uses a tissue to clean my chin. I don’t tell her that I’ve already been sick on my knees.

  “Thanks,” I say, managing to keep the splatter to a minimum this time.

  “My name is Bronwen Pryce,” she says, answering my question more by luck than judgment, folding the tissue to an untainted side and dabbing again. “Detective Sergeant Bronwen Pryce. Are you a ‘Rebecca’ or a ‘Becky’?”

  I have no idea. “Rebecca,” I hazard, hoping that family or friends will set me right on that one. Guessing makes me nervous, and I want to be forthright with this complete stranger who’s wiping gore off my face. “The car’s about fifty, maybe sixty yards that way, on its side.”

  Pryce’s gaze follows my pointed finger. I can’t see her clearly, just a lot of dark clothing with curls of dark hair slipping out from beneath a dark woolly hat.

  “We’ll find it, don’t worry,” she tells me. “Is the woman you were with still in the car?”

  I nod, intensifying the dizziness that accompanies even the mildest of movements. Spots dance on my eyeballs, and I clamp my teeth together, determined not to vomit on the detective sergeant.

  “Can you tell me her name?” she asks.

  I shake my head, recognising my mistake too late to prevent the wave of nausea. I gag, groaning at the wrench in my chest, and slip sideward onto cool, wet leaves. Pryce shouts something incomprehensible, and several voices reply, reinforcements closing in on our position. I’m terrified of fainting, but I feel as if I’m being smothered. A hand curls around mine, its skin warm and soft. Pryce. She’s taken her glove off.

  Chapter Two

  “No. Don’t, please. I need…”

  I need to sit up, but they’re laying me flat and strangling me with a hard collar. Hands hold me down and fasten straps across my torso and limbs. Air blasts onto my face, and the babble of voices ceases as padded blocks are set against my ears. A face appears in my periphery, an unfamiliar blond-haired bloke wearing a high-vis jacket. He says something to me, punctuating it with a strained smile before shuffling out of view again.

  I can’t see Pryce either, but I hear her say, “English, lads,” and the man reappears, looking sheepish.

  “Sorry, love.” He enunciates each word as if I’m daft, not deaf. “We’re going to carry you up to the ambulance now, where we can take a better look at you. How’s the pain?”

  “Better,” I tell him. Whatever they’ve given me has dulled things to a tolerable level and taken the sickness with it. The cradle I’m secured in rises and sways on his command, with Pryce lifting one side of the head end. Her brow creases with effort as the embankment becomes steeper, and she breathes through her mouth in little pants. The journey seems to take hours as the team slide and struggle with the awkward weight, and I’m on the verge of insisting they lower me and let me walk when Pryce catches my eye.

  “Almost there,” she says, and seconds later, blue and red strobes illuminate her face. She’s sweating despite the cold, and she heaves a relieved sigh when her boots hit the tarmac.

  The stretcher teeters on the guard rail while everyone swaps positions, and I glimpse fore
nsic markers highlighting a four-wheeled skid that terminates at a missing section of the crash barrier. The road is narrow and unlit but straight, and my traumatised brain draws one conclusion: too fast, you fucking idiot.

  Bright overhead lights and warmer air welcome us into the ambulance. The paramedics begin to cut off my clothes, and I close my eyes gratefully as Pryce covers me with a thick blanket. She speaks to the men in Welsh, taking my clothing from them and folding it into paper evidence bags. They’re all preoccupied with their respective tasks, and no one is telling me anything. I feel the cold metal of a stethoscope on my chest and watch the blond man frown as he moves the disc around and presses with growing insistence. I stare at the fluid draining from a bag above my head and ignore the cuff squeezing my good arm. I’m trembling and nauseous again, and the lurch of the vehicle pulling away sends bile into the back of my mouth. I swallow, my throat working convulsively, and Pryce shouts a warning an instant before the ambulance stops and my cradle is flipped onto its side. A tube is forced between my lips, sucking out a stream of red and yellow. I watch the colours swirl together until my vision blurs. Then I close my eyes and let it all disappear.

  * * *

  There’s no gentle awakening like you see on the telly. No private room with a remote-controlled bed and a kindly nurse to bathe my forehead. Instead I’m pinned by the glare of a surgical spotlight, and someone seems to be shoving a drill bit into my chest. I quickly establish that flight isn’t possible, so I fight, lashing out with my arm and landing a weak punch on a woman’s breast. She steps aside, preventing my second attempt by catching my wrist in a loose grip. Her surgical gloves are slick with fresh blood.

  “It’s all right, Rebecca, you’re in the hospital,” she says. Then, over her shoulder, “Bron, could you?” She offers my hand, and Pryce comes across to take it, raising it to clear the field for whatever the doctor is doing.

  “Hey,” Pryce says, somehow managing to cut through the ruckus and focus my attention on her. “The doc’s trying to push a hosepipe into your lung, so no sudden moves, okay?”

  The doctor sticks her tongue out briefly at Pryce’s creative interpretation of medical procedure. “It’s a chest drain into the pleural cavity to reinflate your lung, Rebecca,” she says. “You’ll feel a lot better after this, I promise.” She bows her head again, and the tugging and pushing restarts. I grip Pryce’s hand, sweating through the discomfort, until I hear the doctor mutter in approval.

  “All done,” she announces. “How’re her sats?”

  “Ninety-three,” someone calls, and the doctor beams as if she’s just won a long-odds bet.

  “Any easier to breathe?” she asks me.

  “Much, thank you,” I say, enjoying the novelty of two cooperating lungs.

  The doctor snaps off her gloves. “You’re doing great. You’re going to need an operation to fix your arm, but we’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”

  “Mmm.” Someone’s given me more morphine, and it’s hit me like a sledgehammer. It reminds me of the time I broke my leg as a child and my dad sang to keep me calm in the anaesthetic room. My eyes fill with tears; I’m overjoyed to have that memory back.

  Pryce leans low, curiosity brightening her tired face. “What’s that you’re humming?”

  “‘Alice the Camel,’” I tell her, and carry on in a loop until it lulls me back to sleep.

  * * *

  I don’t dream. I wake disorientated, my muscles tensed against the expectation of pain, but I’m muzzy-headed and warm and comfortable. I’ve been moved to a different cubicle, this one dimly lit by banks of monitors and drip stands, and silent except for the whisper of oxygen through the tubing below my nose.

  Both visitors’ chairs are empty, but there’s a white mug balanced on the arm of the closest one and a jacket draped around it. Relieved to have privacy, I pull my sheets and gown loose, swearing as multiple IVs hamper my efforts. A kinked line sets off an alarm, and I flick the tube to fix it before anyone comes to investigate. I’m black and blue beneath the gown, my torso a patchwork of cuts and bruises complemented by the mass of orange sticky tape holding a length of tubing in place. A soft splint encases my left arm from just below my elbow to where my fingers poke out as fat as unpopped sausages. I pat a spot on my head that feels weird and draughty, finding wiry stitches and a bald patch the size of my palm. Rendered quiescent by the drugs, I debate the merits of shaving all my hair off when I get discharged, and get a brief, vivid flash of having been there and done that and quite liked the result.

  The curtains around my bed part just as I’m trying to get my gown to sit fully under my bum. It’s undignified enough that I’ve been catheterised while unconscious; I don’t need my arse exposing as well. The nurse smiles when he sees I’m awake, and he easily fathoms what I’m up to.

  “Do you want me to call a chaperone?” he asks, half turning to leave.

  “No,” I say. If he’s my nurse then I’m sure he’s seen it all already. It’s the owner of the coffee cup that I’m worried about. “I can’t…I can’t get it right on my own.”

  “Roll to your left.” He puts a hand on my shoulder to help things along, and his voice dulls as he speaks into my damaged ear. “Good. Hold there for a sec.” He rearranges the gown and reties a knot. “You’re all done. My name’s Hanif, by the way.”

  I hit the pillows again, clammy and reeling. “What time is it?”

  “Nine thirty-seven a.m. You came onto the high-dependency unit about four hours ago. I heard you had a rough night.”

  “Yeah.” I blink to clear an unwanted image of the dead woman’s arm swinging like a lazy pendulum. “I think I came off lightly, considering.”

  “I know, I heard that too.” Hanif tidies the bedding and hands me a small device. “This is the control for your morphine pump. It’ll allow you to administer a dose every hour and a half. Don’t try to be brave and manage without it. Go by the timer on the pump. You’re due in about forty minutes.”

  “I won’t be brave,” I promise him. The relentless ache in my arm is setting my teeth on edge. I shuffle around, trying to alleviate the throbbing, and end up staring at the abandoned chairs. They presumably answer the question I’ve been avoiding, but I steel myself and ask it anyway. “Did anyone manage to contact my family?”

  He snatches up the mug as if annoyed that its presence has fed me false hope. “I’m not sure what’s going on with that. There’s a police officer still in the department, so I’ll see if she’ll come in and speak to you.”

  He closes the curtains behind him, leaving me with the useless pump and a sense of dread that’s so all-encompassing it skyrockets my pulse and sets off multiple alarms. The doctor from the A&E hurries into the cubicle and rests a hand on my shoulder.

  “Rebecca? Easy, you’re okay. Settle down.”

  I’m not okay. I’m on my own and in bits in a strange hospital in fucking Wales of all places, and the only reason I have a name is because I read it off a bus pass. I want my mum and dad to hold my hand and fill in the massive blanks in my head, but I don’t know whether they’re even alive or whether I still talk to them. If they were, and if I did, they would have come here, wouldn’t they?

  The doctor is watching me closely, and I focus on her as she coaches my breathing. She’s tall, slender, and blond, with a pixie cut that flatters her face. She must be hours late off her shift by now, and her makeup isn’t quite covering the shadows beneath her eyes. Her nose crinkles as she assesses my pupils with a thin light and tells me to track her finger. It’s only when she stoops to listen to my chest that I see Pryce standing by the chairs.

  “You remember DS Pryce?” the doctor asks, and seems pleased when I nod. “Good. Do you remember my name?”

  “No.” I frown at the croak in my voice. My mouth is as dry as sand.

  “Here,” she says, offering me water through a straw. “Shall we start from the top, then?”

  I nod again, savouring the water and unwilling to relea
se the straw. The doctor keeps the glass steady and speaks slowly enough that her well-disguised Scouse accent becomes apparent.

  “I’m Esther Lewis, one of the trauma specialists at Bangor General. I took care of you in A&E, and I’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re an inpatient here. Once you’d stabilised last night, you had an operation to fix the break in your arm. You fractured both of the bones in your lower arm, and you have a couple of plates in there now to hold everything together. You’ll get a proper cast on that once the swelling has reduced.” She touches the right side of my chest. “Two of your ribs here are broken, and one of them collapsed your lung. Your right eardrum ruptured, which is why you’re having trouble hearing, and we think this”—her fingers graze my new bald spot—“is the reason your memory isn’t quite up to speed.”

  I arc an eyebrow at the understatement and untangle my tongue from the straw. “Will it come back?”

  “Dr. Chander, your neurologist, is optimistic. The CT scan showed a subdural haematoma—essentially a gathering of blood—that’s pressing on your brain. It’s small and doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding, so we’re managing it conservatively for now, which is a fancy way of saying we’re leaving it to sort itself out.”

  I don’t like the idea of neurosurgery, but I’d prefer my brain to be unsquashed. “What if it starts bleeding again?”

  Lewis puts my glass down and jots a note on my chart. “Then Dr. Chander gets a chance to play with his drill, and believe me, nothing makes him happier.”

  This surprises a laugh out of me. She squeezes my hand, obviously pleased to have brightened my outlook somewhat.

  “It won’t come to that,” she says. “The clot is tiny, and we have you on lots of good drugs. You might never get clarity for those minutes just prior to the car crash—that’s common in traumatic brain injuries—but you should get everything else back, so don’t be worrying.” She looks over to Pryce and back to me. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”