by A J Waines
Rosie XX
THE END
First published in 2016.
Copyright © 2018 AJ Waines
The right of AJ Waines to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Re-published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-912604-69-2
Trust is good, but control is better.
Vladimir Lenin
Chapter 1
One month earlier
I have no idea what the time is and it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
I follow the narrow winding path and, after only a few strides, the ascent begins. It isn’t for the fainthearted. From now on, I’m taking a chance with every step. The rain spits, pricking my cheeks; the wind is fierce, pressing my jeans against my legs as if I’m under water. A struggle, that’s what it should be.
A few times my shoes – leather, with non-grip soles – scuff the edge of the path and I stumble. But I’ve made the right choice of footwear. No point in cheating by coming prepared. I don’t want this to be easy. I’m not expecting any concessions, any mitigation.
I lose my balance again and one foot slips off the crust of the track. I have to grab at a clump of gorse beside me. The spines send multiple stabs of pain into my palm. Good. Pain is good.
My thighs burn as I reach the crag, the highest point, and I stand to catch my breath. Under different circumstances, I might have found it bracing, exhilarating even. There is a clear view out to sea; a massive billowing curtain of white and grey filling up the horizon, making it hard to work out where the sea ends and the sky begins. Endings and beginnings.
I turn full circle and can see no one. Not a soul. No one walking, climbing or in the water. Solitude. It’s better this way. No distractions.
I step over the wooden ‘Keep Off’ sign towards the jagged edge. I kick at the tufts of grass sprouting like bristle on an old man’s chin, then gingerly slide my shoe forward another step and lean over.
My vision goes fuzzy as I look down at the spume and froth curdling around sharp rocks. Lumps of the sandy cliff have crumbled away like sponge cake. It’s a sheer drop.
A white shape suddenly swoops into my field of vision. A rag? An errant sheet of newspaper? I throw up my arms instinctively to protect myself. It dives at me again, making a cawing sound this time. I almost lose my footing and stagger back from the edge. I want to laugh. How ironic it would be if this was to end with a stupid accident.
I stand tall, snap my polished shoes together, suck in the salt air through my nostrils. If I’m going to do this, I want to get it right.
I will lean forward, then stoop a little further until gravity claims me and I float off like a supple Angel of the North. I am so close to the edge. It will only take a second. I can let the empty space claim my weight.
I slide my shoe four more inches onto the grassy lip to see what it feels like. I look out towards the horizon, then down to my feet, testing the support of the turf, knowing there is a point of no return. So close. One more step. Another?
Without warning I’m forced to duck. The seagull is back, charging like a rabid dog. I flap my arms. I must be near a nest - there must be eggs only a few feet away and the gull is keeping them warm. Nature’s prime instinct is to protect those it loves. The thought is too much for me; too close to home. I sink to the grass. I press my face into its coarse blades, my palms face down close to my head like someone who is praying.
Except I’m not praying; I’m not worthy enough. I’ve failed in every aspect. Every minute of every day since it started.
I can smell the wet juice of the grass, see each and every blade close up, like the bars of a prison. How is it that everywhere I find myself I am confined, trapped? Even in the most expansive of places.
I lift my head. The gull seems to have stopped pestering me. It must have realised I’m no threat. I get to my feet. It’s now flying beneath me, the wings crossing in and out of my sight below the edge of the cliff. Taking a deep breath, I slide my feet back to the lip of long fluttering grass. The yawning space is pulling at me again, enticing me. My breath is running out. This is it. Now…
I can’t decide whether to close my eyes or keep them open. How could I have failed to consider this part? My gaze trails across the far distance, seeing only choppy waves kissing swirls of clouds. I soften my view so the shapes blend away to nothing.
Go…
A speck on the horizon makes my eyes jolt into focus. It’s a ship, sliding elegantly in from the right, forcing me to think new thoughts: a symbol of rescue, a new beginning, going home…
I snatch my head back from the edge. What the hell am I doing? This isn’t right. It will achieve absolutely nothing. This isn’t a time for giving up – I should be working it out. Planning how to turn things around. I can’t duck out at this crucial moment, like a coward; I have to find a solution, once and for all. There has to be one.
I zip my anorak up to my chin and turn back.
Chapter 2
Present Day
At the sound of the doorbell I shot upright on the sofa, the book falling to the floor. My first thought was that it must be Con. The second was that something was seriously burning in the kitchen.
I rescued the pan first – brown rice, only now it was black. I tossed the whole lot in the sink and hurried to the door, but my shoulders sank. I didn’t recognise the shape through the peephole. It was a woman – it certainly wasn’t Con.
Cold callers had a habit of turning up at ridiculous hours in my area, so as I edged the door open, I was half expecting her to proffer some unreadable identification and then launch into a rehearsed patter about domestic products. I’m usually far too obliging for my own good in situations like this, but not tonight. It was late and my eyes felt full of sand.
‘Samantha…’ came the voice with a slight question-mark hooked in at the end.
I stood back, out of shock rather than courtesy and my visitor took it as an invitation to step inside.
‘What are you doing here?’ My words faded to a whisper.
Another step back. I was wearing only pyjamas and held the edges of the collar together at the neck. ‘What time is it’
‘Just after nine o’clock.’
‘Shouldn’t you be..?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in? Make me a nightcap or something?’
She was unfastening the belt on her raincoat as if she popped round like this on a regular basis.
‘How did you get my address?’
I knew for a fact I’d never passed it on to my sister.
‘Daddy,’ she said cheerfully.
I tried to hide the click my tongue made on the roof of my mouth. My father tried to do his best, but he regularly put his foot in it.
‘I pressed the buzzer downstairs, but nothing happened,’ she said, ‘then I realised the main door was already open.’
I nodded wearily. ‘The buzzer’s broken.’ It was handy when Con came round, but until the landlord got around to fixing it, it also meant anyone could get right to my door.
‘It’s late…’ I said.
‘Yeah – sorry.’ Taking people by surprise had always been her speciality. ‘Lost track of time.’
‘I thought you were still—’
‘Good behaviour,’ she said, laughing. ‘They let me out last month. I’m called Miranda now, by the way. I’m starting a new life with a new name. Much better, don’t you think?’
S
he did have a point. I’d never forgiven my parents for naming my older sister Mimi. It had been a curse from the start, condemning her to a life of sniggers. I’d heard every crass joke in the book at boarding school; every variation on ‘Who are You-You?’ or ‘Come with Me-Me?’ you could think of.
‘Let me take your coat,’ I said. It came out like the patter of a waitress in a posh restaurant. How had we got to this stage; stiff like strangers with each other? My only sister. I felt something dissolve inside my chest.
The table lamp in the hall shone a delicate beam across her pale cheek. ‘Miranda’ was only two years older than me – thirty-two – but deep folds in her forehead had added ten years to her looks, compounded by the way her eyes seemed to have shrunk inside her skull.
‘Coffee?’ I said. All I wanted was to take the bath I should have had an hour ago and sink straight into bed, but I could hardly turf my own sister out into the night without at least giving her a chance to explain herself.
‘That would be nice. No milk.’
That was just as well. I still hadn’t got round to buying a fresh carton.
Miranda followed me into the kitchen.
‘Is everything all right?’ I asked. ‘What’s happened?’ Miranda showing up like this could only mean trouble.
‘I told you,’ she said, the epitome of innocence. ‘They let me out. I’m on my own now. I just wanted to see how you were.’
There had to be more to it, of course there was, but I knew from past experience that pushing her wouldn’t get me any closer.
I wanted to give her my full attention, but I found myself reliving a harrowing encounter at work instead. After lunch, I’d come back from a tranquil stroll along the Thames, savouring my bacon sandwich, to find ambulances backing up outside A&E. One of the paramedics told me there’d been a high-speed collision involving joyriders that had left unsuspecting pedestrians scattered like rag dolls across the pavement. On seeing the carnage spilling over the stretchers in front of me, my sandwich had made a bid to see the light of day a second time. I’d only just managed to keep it where it was.
Miranda looked bemused, waiting for me to do something: fill the kettle, ask her questions, look pleased to see her.
‘Sorry Mim…Miranda, I’m a bit distracted. There was a nasty crash in central London today. We were the nearest hospital.’
‘Why would they need you? You’re not a paramedic,’ she pointed out, leaning against the doorframe. ‘Daddy said you’re working with nutters now.’
I threw her a sharp glance as I held the kettle under the tap. ‘I work with people who’ve suffered trauma,’ I said. ‘I was there when the casualties were brought in, that’s all.’
‘Oooh, you must tell me all the details,’ she said brightly. She rubbed her hands together, rapt by the possible whiff of drama.
I handed her the mug of coffee and led her through to the sitting room. ‘I’m really sorry, Miranda – I need a bath – I’ve got work tomorrow.’
‘No problem,’ she said, as if she was doing me a favour. ‘We can talk in the morning.’ She reached over and turned on the TV.
I stiffened. I wanted to protest, then spotted the bulging overnight bag she’d brought in from the hall. Had I missed something?
‘I’ll sleep on the sofa,’ she said, then as an afterthought, ‘if that’s all right?’
I didn’t have the energy to argue. I dragged a duvet from my wardrobe and laid it over the sofa, then piled up two pillows at one end. ‘I won’t be long,’ I said, padding towards the bathroom.
I slid my head under the water and rested it on the bottom of the bath. I let my limbs flop, loose and heavy, closed my eyes and hoped the water would wash away the images I’d seen at lunchtime: tangles of blood and hair, severed limbs, unidentifiable faces.
Afterwards, I tried to rinse the metallic taste out of my mouth with my toothbrush, but it remained like a gritty coating on my tongue.
I was used to managing trauma up to a point – of course I was – I’d got myself some specialist training and started this job three months ago. But my everyday role was to listen to victims’ accounts after the event, not see the sticky, gruesome mess of a tragedy first hand, like today. I didn’t dare imagine what the scene of the collision had looked like; bystanders would no doubt have stood transfixed, then gone on their way carrying the most horrific images in their heads.
When I emerged from the bathroom, I’d completely forgotten Miranda was there. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her arms folded, as if she’d been waiting for me in that position all this time. Turning up like this was nothing short of terrible timing – dealing with her, even in the best of circumstances, had always demanded considerable alertness and sensitivity.
Her foot was tap, tap, tapping loudly on the floor and I couldn’t help noticing she’d hidden something under a cushion behind her.
‘Fancy a game of Scrabble?’ she said, sliding out the box and bringing a tight fist to her mouth with anticipation.
Miranda’s sense of judgement had always been skewed. ‘No – thanks. Sorry. I’m knackered.’ I was so tired every syllable required a jolt from my abdomen. Aside from the shock at lunchtime, I’d had one patient after another all day, each one struggling to come to terms with a life-shattering event.
Her look of disappointment drifted into resignation; it wasn’t new for me to be a spoilsport.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll watch this.’ She nodded at the television screen where a black and white film was just starting.
When I tiptoed towards the kitchen for a glass of water, shortly afterwards, Miranda had fallen asleep. I switched off the TV and stood over her for a few seconds, watching her eyelids flutter.
‘Sweet dreams,’ I whispered, wondering where she went in her sleep. In that moment I had a sudden ache to be there with her, wherever she was, holding hands and swinging our arms; laughing, like we had a special bond.
I left her in peace and shuffled back to my room, knowing that she’d brought with her a can of worms and it was only a matter of time before something unpleasant crawled out across the carpet.
Chapter 3
Miranda woke me in the morning, wearing one of my T-shirts, holding out a mug of coffee.
‘I couldn’t find any tea bags,’ she said.
‘That’s because I’ve run out,’ I replied, sitting up and accepting the unexpected offering.
‘I’m going out for supplies,’ she said. ‘Have you got a spare key?’
This was all happening too fast. I had no idea why she’d turned up like this without warning or what she wanted. I needed to get to the bottom of it, but I wasn’t sufficiently awake to handle the inevitable backlash once I started asking questions.
When I didn’t respond, she turned towards the door. ‘You’ll just have to let me back in,’ she said.
‘There’s one on the shelf by the front door – the nearest shop is…’
She was already out of earshot. I heard the door bang.
On mornings when the sky wasn’t hurling rain, sleet or snow at me, I made my way to the hospital on my bicycle. There was no excuse that June morning, the early molten clouds were already giving way to sky the colour of forget-me-nots, when I left. It was promising to be another hot one.
London drivers don’t like cyclists at the best of times and I wasn’t on form after Miranda’s sudden appearance, last night. A car tooted as I wobbled trying to make a flying get-away at a green light on Borough High Street, reminding me to concentrate on the road.
I’d only ever fallen off once in seven years, when an ice-cream van had pulled out in front of me without signalling. On that occasion I’d come away with fifteen bruises and a free double cornet.
Con’s accident a month ago had been serious, but then he’d fallen off a motorbike. He should never have been on it in the first place. Riding pillion, drunk, at two o’clock in the morning isn’t the smartest thing to do, but to fall asleep when you’re meant to be h
olding on tight, is plain irresponsible. At first, when I got the call, I thought I’d lost him. After waiting so many years for someone like Con to come along – motorbike or not – that would have been grossly unfair.
But life could be desperately cruel, randomly picking out innocent victims like flies on a windscreen. His accident had made me remember how fragile our existence is and how we frequently don’t get second chances. It made me want to make the most of my time with Con.
I still couldn’t believe the impact he was having on me. I’d only known him for twelve weeks and for that entire time I’d been sizzling with an unhinged desire for him I’d never felt for anyone else before.
I passed reception and pushed open the door to my new office. During a recent re-shuffle, I’d been moved to the room nobody wanted; the one with the flickering fluorescent light and the windows that didn’t open – next to the gents’ loo.
As I logged onto my computer, there was a tap on the door and Debbie, who managed several units on the ground floor, staggered over the threshold carrying a heavy office chair. Debbie was blonde and barely five feet tall, with chunky limbs that were bulky with muscle rather than fat.
‘I managed to pinch it for you from Dr Winkle’s old office,’ she said, as I rushed to help her. It was the executive sort with thick black padding. ‘It’s not real leather, but it’s better than the one you’ve got.’
My current chair was plain and made of wood, with one leg slightly shorter than the others.
‘You’re a gem. Thank you.’
I’d warmed to Debbie the first time I met her, when I joined St Luke’s, seven years ago. It was a chilly morning in January and she’d gone out of her way to bring me a decent coffee, a fan-heater (that actually worked) and a warm croissant. In return, I’d tinkered with a few wires behind her desk and managed to fix her lazy printer. Since then, we’d made a point of looking out for each other.
