Compulsion

by Shaun Hutson

  Ronni rolled over in bed. The shrill sound pierced the night, jolting her from sleep as if she’d been stuck with a cattle prod.

  She was disorientated for a second and peered through bleary eyes at the digits of the radio alarm, which glowed blood-red in the blackness:

  3.04 a.m.

  The phone was still ringing.

  Andy murmured something, half asleep.

  She was already out of bed, pulling her housecoat around her, padding towards the landing.

  The phone was in the hall.

  She made her way down the stairs quickly.

  3.04 a.m.

  Thoughts tumbled through her mind.

  Who the hell could be calling at this time of night?

  Shelby House?

  Her father?

  She reached for the receiver.

  “Hello?” she said, clearing her throat.

  She didn’t recognize the voice; it asked if she was Veronica Porter.

  “Who is this?”

  The voice asked if her father was James Connor.

  “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  Fear trailed icy fingers up and down the back of her neck.

  Her father was in hospital.

  “Oh, God, what happened?”

  The voice told her he was in intensive care.

  Ronni’s hands began to shake uncontrollably.

  “What’s wrong?” she demanded.

  The voice told her he’d been very badly (very badly) injured. She heard the word ‘assault’, but it didn’t register.

  Neither did the word ‘attacked’.

  But ‘intensive care’ lit up in her mind like neon on a wet night.

  She dropped the phone, then hurriedly snatched it up again, tears forming in her eyes. Her head was spinning and, for precious seconds, she thought she was going to faint.

  “Ronni.”

  The voice came from the top of the stairs this time.

  Andy was standing there looking down at her.

  The voice on the phone said something else, something she didn’t hear.

  “I’ll be there straight away,” she said into the mouthpiece, then slammed the phone down and ran up the stairs, her face drained of colour.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Andy demanded as she swept past him.

  “It’s Dad,” she blurted, hurrying into the bedroom, snapping on the light and pulling on leggings and socks.

  “What’s wrong with him?” persisted her husband.

  She took off her T-shirt, pulled on a sweater.

  “He’s been rushed to hospital,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “He’s in intensive care.”

  Andy snatched up his jeans and struggled into them.

  “Get my car keys from the kitchen table,” he urged.

  “I’ll drive.”

  THEY ALWAYS SMELL the same, don’t they?” Andy got to his feet and fumbled in his jacket pocket for some loose change.

  “What?”

  “Hospitals. That smell. Whatever it is.”

  Ronnie ran a hand through her hair.

  “Do you want a drink?” he asked.

  “I’ll get us one out of the machine round the corner.”

  She shook her head.

  “Just a coffee or something?” he persisted.

  “I don’t want a bloody drink,” she snapped.

  “I just want to know how my dad is.”

  He nodded, paused a moment, then wandered off to feed coins into the vending machine.

  Ronni waited until he’d disappeared around the corner, then got to her feet.

  The silence inside the intensive care unit was almost palpable.

  There was a light on at the nurses’ station just down the corridor, but no sign of a nurse. The one who’d shown them to these seats had disappeared not long after they’d arrived. Ronni couldn’t remember the name on the woman’s badge.

  Patricia something-or-other.

  It wasn’t important.

  The only thing that mattered was her father.

  She looked at her watch: 4.17 a.m.

  They’d been at the hospital for more than an hour already and still no word.

  He’d undergone surgery.

  Extensive surgery.

  That was all she knew.

  All they could tell her.

  She wished the nurse would return so she could ask her what was going on.

  If there was any news.

  If her father was dead.

  Dead.

  She tried to push the word from her mind, but it clung on like a hungry leech.

  Dead.

  Ronni shook her head. She sat down again, noticing that the lace of one of her trainers was undone.

  She made no attempt to do it up.

  Extensive surgery.

  Those words stuck too.

  Ronni kept her eyes fixed on the door of the room opposite, wondering when someone would emerge to speak to her.

  And tell her what?

  That they were so sorry that her father didn’t make it?

  He was too old, you see, there were complications. There sometimes was after EXTENSIVE SURGERY.

  She got to her feet again, wiping her sweating palms on her leggings.

  Footsteps.

  Ronni turned and looked in the direction of the nurses’ station. Perhaps the nurse had returned. She could find out at last what was going on.

  Andy trudged around the corner carrying two plastic cups of steaming liquid.

  “It’s meant to be coffee,” he said, holding it out towards her and attempting a smile.

  She merely shook her head.

  “Ronni, please he began. It was then that the door of the room opposite opened.

  THE DOCTOR WAS in his early forties. His long white coat was open to reveal a blue shirt and dark grey trousers. He carried a clipboard that he hugged to his chest as if it was a small child.

  Ronni immediately took a step towards him and he looked at her with professional detachment in his eyes.

  “How’s my father, Doctor?” she asked.

  The doctor glanced at his clipboard and found her name in the box marked “Next of Kin’. He managed a smile, but the shrug that accompanied it told Ronni the news wasn’t good.

  “I won’t lie to you, Mrs. Porter,” he said quietly.

  “His injuries are bad.”

  Andy stepped closer and slid an arm around her waist. He saw the name tag on the doctor’s coat: John Greenwood.

  Tell me,” Ronni persisted.

  “He was suffering from major cranial injuries when he was brought in,” Greenwood said.

  “His skull was fractured in three places and there was bleeding inside his brain. The report from Neurology shows that bleeding has been stopped, but the extent of the trauma was very severe.”

  Ronni thought she was going to faint.

  Andy guided her back towards one of the chairs.

  “He’s in a coma,” Greenwood continued, sitting down beside her.

  “Is he going to die?” Ronni asked, tears glistening on her cheeks.

  The next forty-eight hours are crucial,” said the doctor.

  “If he gets through those with no further complications, then his chances may improve, but there was damage to other parts of his body too.” He turned pages on the clipboard.

  “Three broken ribs. A hairline fracture of the jaw. There was also considerable damage to the kidneys and spleen. I’m sorry.”

  “Can I see him?” she wanted to know.

  Greenwood hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  “Do you want me to come in with you?” Andy asked, but Ronni was already on her feet, heading for the door of the room opposite.

  As she reached it, she paused. Then, with a shaking hand, she pushed it open and stepped inside.

  There was a nurse in the room, checking on the contents of a drip attached to James Connor’s arm. She turned and smiled at Ronni, not expecting the gesture to be reciproc
ated.

  It wasn’t.

  Ronni gazed at the shape in the bed.

  It didn’t look like her father.

  It wasn’t just the swathes of bandages that covered the top of his head and most of his face, the drips and tubes that ran from both arms and both nostrils. He looked smaller, as if he’d shrunk.

  She could hear the steady blip of an oscilloscope and the mechanical wheezing of a respirator.

  They’re keeping him alive, just those machines.

  The nurse nodded in the direction of a chair beside the bed and Ronni sat down.

  The nurse excused herself and left Ronni alone with her father.

  She looked at the battered, bandaged face. The swollen arms, discoloured by bruises and cuts. The finger splints that supported the broken digits.

  “Oh, Dad,” she said, her voice cracking.

  The oscilloscope continued its rhythmic beeping.

  An accompaniment to her muted sobs.

  RONNI HAD NO idea how long she’d been sitting with her father.

  Time seemed to have lost its meaning.

  Minutes. Hours. She had no way of knowing.

  She merely sat staring at his ravaged face, wanting above all else for his eyes to open. For him to look at her.

  Ronni held one of his hands gently, careful not to dislodge the heavily strapped broken finger.

  Not that it would have bothered him, would it?

  He’s in a coma, isn’t he? You could stick pins in his eyes and he wouldn’t feel it.

  She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  Coma.

  The word was right up there with ‘malignant’, ‘terminal’ and ‘inoperable’. One of those you prayed you’d never hear.

  Coma.

  Some people came out of them in a matter of hours.

  Some never came out of them at all.

  She swallowed hard.

  Would that be the next step? The next phone call? The next decision?

  We need your permission to switch off the machines.

  Ronni lowered her gaze and screwed her eyes tightly shut. She rested her head against her father’s shoulder; only this time there was no comforting arm placed around her. No one to tell her everything was going to be fine.

  That had always been her dad’s job when she was growing up.

  She wondered if she would ever feel that comforting arm again.

  Ever lose herself in his embrace.

  Ever feel that love that only a parent and child know.

  She reached up and touched his cheek.

  He felt so cold.

  She pulled the sheet up slightly, then leaned forward and kissed him on that same cold cheek.

  She didn’t even hear the door open.

  Andy stood silently in the entrance for a moment, then stepped into the room. He coughed theatrically, then took a couple of steps towards the bed.

  “Ronni.”

  She straightened up, but didn’t turn to face him.

  He glanced at the old man and shook his head.

  “Oh, Christ, Ronni, I’m sorry,” Andy offered, rubbing a hand across his own mouth.

  “You’re not supposed to say that until he’s dead,” she murmured.

  “He’ll be OK. He’s a tough old sod.”

  “Does he look as if he’s going to be OK?” she demanded and Andy was surprised at the venom in her words.

  “The doctor said all we can do now is wait.”

  “Wait for him to die?”

  He put out a hand to touch her shoulder, then withdrew it hesitantly.

  “Do you believe in God, Andy?” she said, her back still to him.

  The question took him by surprise.

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  “So do I. I prayed to Him to let Dad live. Do you think He heard me?”

  “Ronni ‘ “Do you think He heard me?” she snapped.

  “I’m sure He did.”

  She remained motionless beside the bed.

  “Ronni, listen,” Andy continued, ‘there’s someone outside who wants to talk to you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His name’s Marsh. He’s a policeman.”

  RONNI THOUGHT THE man’s shirt needed ironing.

  She almost smiled at the ridiculousness of the thought. It had no right to intrude upon the more solemn ideas spinning around inside her head.

  And yet she could not shake it free: the white shirt that Detective Sergeant David Marsh wore was badly in need of ironing. Also, his top button was undone; his tie crooked.

  He ran a hand through his short hair and smiled as she entered the room.

  Doctor Greenwood had allowed them to use his office while he continued his rounds.

  There was another man with Marsh; a uniformed constable who was holding his cap in one hand, tracing the outline of the polished peak. He sat on a plastic chair against the far wall, occasionally picking pieces of fluff from his dark blue sweater.

  Andy was there too, sipping at a cup of coffee.

  Ronni sat down beside him, wiping her nose with a tissue.

  “Mrs. Porter, I’m Detective Sergeant Marsh, this is PC Whar-ton.” He gestured towards the uniformed man.

  “I’ll try to get this over with as quickly as possible. I know you want to get back to your father.”

  “It’s all right,” Ronni muttered.

  No rush. He’s in a coma. He’s not going anywhere.

  “Your father was attacked in his home,” Marsh began.

  “We think he may have disturbed some burglars.”

  “Burglars?” Ronni said flatly.

  “He had nothing worth stealing.”

  “Well, they didn’t know that until they broke in, did they?” Marsh continued.

  “Our initial reports indicate there could have been two or three intruders, and the extent of your father’s injuries would certainly seem to indicate he was attacked by more than one person.”

  “Who called the ambulance?” she wanted to know.

  “Neighbours heard a disturbance. One of them went to check and saw your father lying in his kitchen.”

  “What do you expect me to tell you?” she said wearily.

  “You’d called round earlier in the evening, hadn’t you?” said Marsh.

  She nodded.

  “I go to see him every day.”

  “The neighbours told us. Did you see anyone hanging around when you arrived or left?”

  Ronni shook her head.

  “It was dark,” she reminded him.

  “I wasn’t looking for possible burglars.”

  “Did your father keep any money in the house?”

  “No.”

  “No antiques? No family heirlooms? Nothing of value?”

  “No. I told you, he didn’t have anything worth stealing.”

  “Everything has a value to a thief, Mrs. Porter. You’d be surprised even the smallest thing can be sold for a couple of quid. TVs, videos, that kind of thing.”

  “He had a TV and a video. Perhaps that’s what they wanted.”

  “The television and video were both smashed, not stolen. As far as we could tell, nothing was taken from his house.”

  Ronni looked puzzled.

  “The intruders broke in via a back window,” Marsh continued.

  “That’s consistent with a number of other burglaries that have happened on the Waybridge Estate during the past few months.”

  “So have you got any idea who attacked my father?”

  “Not at the moment. There were a few fingerprints found at the scene, though. It’s better than nothing. If we can match those prints to anything in our files we’ll have a chance of pinning this on someone.”

  “A chance?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Mrs Porter’ Marsh sighed the likelihood of us catching the men who attacked your father is slim.”

  Ronni nodded resignedly.

  “We were wondering if you could perhaps come and have a look around your father’s house and
see if anything was taken,” the DS said almost apologetically.

  “I know it’s difficult for you, but you might see something we missed and ‘ Ronni suddenly stood up.

  Andy followed her as she hurried out into the corridor.

  Marsh and the uniformed constable looked on in bewilderment.

  She saw the nurse from earlier sitting at the nurses’ station and crossed hurriedly to her.

  “Were you here when my father was brought in?” she wanted to know.

  “His name’s James Connor.”

  The nurse nodded.

  “You keep a record of patients’ belongings, don’t you?” Ronni persisted.

  “Can I see what he had with him when he was admitted?”

  The nurse reached for a sheet of paper and handed it to Ronni.

  She glanced at it, then hurried back up the corridor.

  “Ronni, what the hell are you doing?” Andy asked, following her back into her father’s room.

  Marsh had emerged into the corridor by now.

  “I knew there was something,” Ronni told him, stepping back out of the room again.

  “When I first saw him it didn’t register, but now I know.”

  Marsh looked vague.

  “Something was stolen from my father,” Ronni said.

  “His wedding ring is gone.”

  RONNI SAT WITH her eyes fixed on her father’s battered face.

  Andy sat towards the bottom of the bed.

  The silence was broken only by the noise of the respirator and the oscilloscope.

  “You need a break, Ronni,” Andy finally said, leaning forward.

  She ignored him.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him,” Andy continued.

  “You want me to leave him alone here?”

  “He isn’t alone. He’s got doctors and nurses to take care of him.”

  She never shifted her gaze from her father’s face.

  “It might be as simple as that for you, Andy. It isn’t for me. If you’re sick of hanging around, then you go home.”

  He exhaled wearily.

  “What good is sitting here going to do?” he wanted to know.

  “He might wake up. I want to be here when he does.”

  If he does.

  “That could take time.”

  “I don’t care how long it takes.”

  Andy got to his feet, dug in his pocket for a cigarette, then remembered he couldn’t light it anyway.

  “Look, you’ve got to face it, Ronni,” he said softly.

  “He could be in a coma for days.”

  “Thanks for your concern, Andy.”