by Liz Lawler
They were standing in the cricket field only yards from the emergency department entrance, separated from the hospital grounds by a simple fence. It was a perfect spot for the airlifting of patients, and the cricket club put up with the occasional interruption without complaint.
The helicopter behind her – privately owned by three of Wiltshire’s ambulance pilots – was a Robinson R44, a lightweight four-seater that allowed good visibility to all its passengers.
The tall twin warning lamps in front of her were flashing blue, indicating that the helipad was in use. Alex waited for the engine to be silenced before turning and watching for the ‘approach’ hand signal to be given.
She could hardly believe what she’d done. This impulsive decision was so out of character. She didn’t even like Detective Inspector Turner; she was well aware he regarded her as some kind of flake. She could only put her behaviour down to her earlier mood and her utter dismay and embarrassment at being rejected by Nathan Bell.
Maybe she was a flake. Her new friend, Maggie, thought so too. She had left Maggie’s house the night before vowing silently never to return. She had curled up in the centre of her double bed feeling utterly alone and afraid, and it had only been the thought of seeing Nathan Bell today that stopped her from reaching for the vodka or diazepam to help her through the night.
‘Dr Taylor, are you absolutely sure this is OK?’ her guest now asked.
His face wasn’t a closed book for once, and she saw the questions in his eyes. Are you sure we can just get on this helicopter and no one will stop us? Is this a wind-up?
Before she could answer, her name was hollered from across the field. Seb Morrisey had climbed out of the pilot’s seat and was walking with an awkward gait towards her.
‘Hello, my favourite doctor. It’s about time you got yourself back in the driver’s seat.’ His Australian accent was pleasing and his manner infectious, and she found herself laughing as he swirled her off the ground in a bear hug.
He then noticed her two guests and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. ‘You must be Mr Turner,’ he said, shaking the man’s hand. ‘And you must be Joe,’ he said to the boy. ‘Pleased you could make it. It’s going to be a nice flight. Visibility’s good for the next few hours or so.’
‘You can call me Greg, and thank you for inviting us,’ Greg Turner replied. ‘It’s really good of you.’
‘No problem, Greg. Any guest of Alex’s is more than welcome. She’s a VIP.’
Alex wanted to shut him up before he said any more, but Greg Turner had raised an enquiring eyebrow and Seb Morrisey was happy to give details.
‘She saved my life, and I mean literally.’
She cut in before he went too far with the story. ‘Shut up, Seb. Mr Turner doesn’t need to hear this. And I’m sure Joe is more interested in hearing about the helicopter.’
Seb switched his attention to the small boy. Joe’s eyes were fixed on him as if the man were a superhero come to life, which was completely understandable. Wearing a navy flight suit with silver buttons, badges and epaulettes, Seb Morrisey looked like a real-life Action Man. He was six foot two, broad shouldered, had cropped black hair and wind-tanned skin. Alex knew that most of the A & E women, and a couple of the men, swooned whenever Seb flew in with a patient.
‘Sorry, Joe,’ he said to the worshipping boy. ‘You want to know about helicopters?’
Joe nodded silently.
‘Good. Well, let me tell you they’re very easy to understand. The pilot presses pedals to turn the helicopter left or right, a bit like the pedals you get in a dodgem car. Then he moves a stick, called a cyclic pitch stick, and this tilts the helicopter forward, backwards or sideways. Finally he moves another stick, a collective pitch stick, and this lets the helicopter climb and descend vertically, which means it goes off the ground and straight up without flying anywhere first, and can land the same way.’
Seb used his hands, his arms and his entire body to mime the instruments he mentioned and illustrate the lesson for Joe. ‘Didn’t I tell you it was simple?’ he asked a few minutes later after explaining the full anatomy of the helicopter.
Joe gave another round-eyed look and silent nod.
‘So are you up to flying now?’
All three of his audience nodded.
He looked at Alex, before giving her a theatrical bow. ‘She’s all yours, Doc.’
Greg Turner nearly stumbled on hearing this. ‘You mean . . .? I thought . . . Aren’t you flying it?’
‘No, the doc is,’ was Seb’s simple answer.
*
They flew over the city and Greg took in an aerial view of the Thermae Bath Spa, Britain’s only bath fed by natural thermal waters, built on top of an ultra-modern glass building and surrounded by its historic predecessors. The Romans had built the first spas in Bath, and 2,000 years later people were still enjoying them. As he watched the tiny swimmers a thousand feet below, relaxing in the hot waters, he was reminded of Alex Taylor’s graceful, slender form.
The view of the architecture was magnificent; the sheer brilliance of the design of Bath – the Circus, the Royal Crescent, Pulteney Bridge – almost brought Greg to tears.
Seb’s voice interrupted his daydreaming. ‘So Greg, you ready to hear how the young doc saved me?’ Greg looked to his son, wary of what he was about to hear. Seb tapped his own headphones. ‘He can’t hear unless I switch him on.’ Greg nodded to carry on.
‘I was one of the victims of the 7/7 London bombings. I was minding my own business, on a day off from work, and I’d just boarded the King’s Cross train with no thoughts about anything except the lovely new girlfriend I’d left sleeping in my bed. She had beautiful red hair, and I was sitting there thinking to myself I was a lucky guy.’
‘Seb!’ Alex Taylor cut in. ‘You don’t need to tell Mr Turner this now.’
Greg could see a tinge of pink on her right cheek. ‘I’m listening, Seb.’
‘The noise was horrendous – like a tortured steel animal trying to break free. I thought initially we’d hit another train. Then in the immediate darkness came the screams. I didn’t feel anything at first. Yet I had this chunk of steel sticking out of my leg and I knew I was trapped. I kept thinking about stupid stuff like petrol and fire and I could smell rubber burning.
‘Well I thought it was over for me, especially when it became silent – I thought this was because people had been rescued. It was only afterwards that I realised why the screaming had stopped.
‘After a while I was quite happy to lie there in the dark. I stopped thinking about being afraid and I couldn’t feel my leg any more. I don’t know how much time passed; it didn’t matter any more. The next thing I know is I’m thinking I’m in heaven, I see the lovely doc’s face staring down at me. Being as skinny as she is, she got into spaces where others couldn’t and she found me.
‘She risked her life to save me, Greg. She wasn’t even a trained doctor then, just another passenger risking her life for a stranger.’
The pink in Alex’s cheek had deepened and Greg felt the story deserved an honest comment. ‘Amazing story, Seb. And Dr Taylor, let me say, if ever I face something like Seb, I hope I’m fortunate enough to have someone like you to help me.’
He switched his gaze to the splendid hills surrounding the city, a stunning landscape of deep slopes and rich grasslands in which Bath nestled. This was his home, and Greg felt contentment as he sat with these two people. He would remember this day for a long time.
*
Later that night Greg was let off the fortnightly ritual of naming every England football player pinned up on Joe’s bedroom wall. In the small modern two-bedroom semi he rented, having not given much thought to a permanent place to live since the divorce settlement, Greg had let Joe decorate the spare bedroom how he liked. Posters of various football teams covered the cream-painted wall as Joe hadn’t yet chosen a club to support. But tonight the footballers were of little interest to him. He had more exciting
heroes occupying his mind.
‘Wasn’t it just the best day, Daddy?’ he said for about the hundredth time. He’d been truly inspired by the day’s event and had talked helicopters non-stop since. The cap and badge Seb had given him were on the bedside drawers, as close to him as possible.
‘It was a brilliant day, Joe. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.’
‘With Alex and Seb?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Is she his girlfriend?’
‘I don’t know, Joe. I don’t think so.’ The pilot had sat beside Alex for the flight, and clearly they were good friends, but Greg didn’t pick up on anything more than that. After telling his tale, Seb had spent much of the time speaking through his headset to Joe, pointing out and naming the buildings below. ‘I think she goes out with someone else.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she could go out with you and we could go flying all the time.’
Greg smiled. ‘You’re a ruthless boy, Joe Turner. I’ll have to keep my eye on you.’
When his son was asleep he took a cold bottle of San Miguel, lit a cigarette, and stood by the open patio door to smoke it. He thought about his own star-struck behaviour earlier in the day.
She was incredible and he was a little in awe. She was so capable it was frightening. He wondered how someone so young could have achieved so much. She had handled the helicopter effortlessly, better than he handled a car, and the journey had been smooth all the way. It was a day he would remember for ever, and as Joe rightly said, one of the best.
Alex Taylor just didn’t add up. She had all these incredible gifts and yet, only weeks ago he had heard her tell an unbelievable tale. He had seen her bring a hospital department to a standstill, had heard and sensed the concern over her behaviour from some of her colleagues. He had listened to the catalogue of mental illnesses that Laura Best thought she suffered from. When he had made tea in her kitchen to help bring her out of the shock of Lillian Armstrong’s death he had seen three empty vodka bottles on the draining board, and while searching for sugar in a cupboard he saw a container of diazepam. Both substances told him she was not coping, and yet he allowed her to fly his son in a helicopter. A possible alcoholic and drug abuser? Maybe he was a bit infatuated, he thought wryly. Or perhaps it was because he had seen evidence of a far stronger person. Today she had taken complete charge and he genuinely hoped she wasn’t heading for a major breakdown or suffering some other form of mental illness. He had known other brilliant people to have mental health issues, and it was like watching a rollercoaster ride, only one that got faster and faster until it crashed.
For two pins Greg was tempted to go and see Alex again, when he didn’t have Joe for company, and try to get her to have a proper break. Maybe some time off work was what she needed. A bit of time to rebalance herself.
Spending time with her had made him think about his own life. He could do with a bit of rebalancing himself. It was six months since his divorce, and even longer since he had shared his bed with a woman. He discounted that episode with Laura, because it hadn’t been making love. It was not too soon to start thinking about that side of his life again, and Joe didn’t seem disturbed by the thought of his dad finding a girlfriend. Alex Taylor had a boyfriend so Joe would have to rethink his matchmaking plans. And anyway, it was a bit of a fanciful notion to think she would be interested in him. He was probably far too pedestrian for the likes of her. Instead of thinking about his love life, maybe he should get a hobby. Maybe he could learn to fly a helicopter . . .
Chapter thirty-one
She should have rung and told him she was coming over to pick up her stuff instead of sneaking in the back way like this. They had broken up, not become arch enemies, and they were adults, not teenagers, and Patrick would probably view this behaviour as very childish. But she simply didn’t want to have to face him right now. She didn’t want to hear him say one more time that he was there for her. If she hadn’t needed her laptop she wouldn’t have come at all, but she had a PowerPoint presentation to give to a new batch of house officers and needed the darn thing.
The rain was falling hard, and dripping from her hair into her eyes and beginning to irritate her. She should have turned back and gone in through the front door to his surgery, from where he could have let her into the main part of the house. It would only have meant a minute in his company; he would be too busy to talk, then she could have collected her things and left quickly.
Taking cautious steps up the muddy lane she made it to the gate without falling over. She walked through the garden and passed the kennels where Patrick boarded cats and dogs for extra income. Wendy, his young trainee veterinary nurse, was coming out of the outhouse carrying a metal bucket and bulky sack of dog food.
‘Do you want a hand?’ Alex asked her.
Wendy shook her head. ‘No, you’re all right. I can manage.’
She was a strong-looking young woman with muscular thighs and shoulders. With her ruddy cheeks and green wellies she looked like a farm hand. She gave Alex a polite smile and disappeared into the shed beside the kennels.
Alex opened the back door and could see Patrick’s shape through the frosted window of the surgery. A dog was yapping and Patrick was speaking loudly over the noise to the owner.
She let herself into a small windowless room, originally the outhouse before the extension for the surgery was built. The floor was concrete and the walls were painted white. It housed a small shower room, a place to hang coats and bags, and a large grey lockable drug cabinet. At the end of the day this was where Patrick shrugged off his white coat and work clothes and washed away the smell of animals.
Alex sometimes wished he was less finicky and more like his father. The retired vet was very different to his son – animal hairs covered whatever jacket he was wearing and he always had bits of food in his pockets.
She let herself into his house, relieved that she was not followed. She took in the familiar surroundings; everywhere looked immaculate as always. The leather couch had a polished shine, no dust had settled on the television screen or any other surface, and on Patrick’s desk a computer, a cordless phone and a flat dish of red apples were carefully arranged. Several file boxes, neatly labelled, were on shelves above the desk, and beside the files was a photograph of her.
It had been taken in the summer and she was in white shorts and a lemon-coloured bikini top. They had just eaten ice cream and were sitting on Weymouth’s harbour wall. They had gone down for the day and had ended up booking into a b. & b. because they wanted to make love. When they checked out after only a few hours, the proprietor had given them a knowing look and they had laughed all the way back to the car.
It had been a magical day and she had returned home completely in love with him. Their relationship had grown stronger thereafter and it became normal for them to see each other every day. She had thought she would spend her life with him.
She swallowed hard and turned away from the happy memory.
She made her way up the stairs to his bedroom and saw her laptop on the bedside table on her side of the bed. The bed was made and the pillows plumped. From the drawers she took underwear and socks, a couple of T-shirts, a pair of old jeans, and stuffed them into a carrier bag. From a crystal glass bowl on top of the drawers she retrieved a pair of silver stud earrings and, with relief, her spare key fob for her car park. She’d forgotten she’d given it to Patrick, because he never used it. He always parked outside and buzzed the intercom to be let into the building. She had yet to report her missing fob to the police and give her opinion that it had been taken by whoever ran over Lillian Armstrong. In the bathroom, she gathered her few toiletries. Her things didn’t even fill the carrier bag, and she thought it sad that they had been dating a year and there was so little of hers to take away from his home.
He had left even less at hers: two CDs and a jacket. She would post them to him as soon as she could; she didn’t want to make thi
s journey again. She took a last look around at the upstairs rooms, her eyes resting on the made bed, filled with a sense of loss. It was finally over. She would not be coming back.
He was sitting at the bottom of the stairs when she went down. He was breaking his own rules by wearing his white work coat in his living quarters. He had his back towards her.
He looked back and up at her as he heard her approach. His blue eyes were confused. ‘I really messed up, didn’t I?’ he quietly said.
‘Let’s not talk about it any more, Patrick,’ she half pleaded.
‘I love you, you know, and I really didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘So you say.’
‘I do,’ he said forcefully. ‘And I miss you more than I can tell you.’
He caught hold of her hand as she tried to pass and his plea was desperate: ‘Don’t go. We won’t talk about anything. Just stay with me. Stay here with me for the day.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t, Patrick. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t believe me. I can’t trust you any more.’
‘I’ve never looked at another woman since being with you!’
‘I wasn’t speaking of that kind of trust.’
‘You mean the kind of trust where you can tell each other everything?’
‘Yes.’
‘And know you will be safe to tell that person?’
‘Yes.’
He let go of her hand and stood up. ‘You didn’t trust me enough either, it would seem.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, confused.
‘You didn’t tell me about last year. You didn’t tell me about that, did you, Alex? Did you think I wouldn’t have understood or that I wouldn’t have wanted to go out with you?’
Through trembling lips she tried to speak. ‘Who . . . who told you?’
