‘Whoops,’ she said softly.
‘Somewhat,’ he agreed. ‘That’s gone too far.’
‘I thought so. What will you do?’
‘Refer him immediately with the result. We’ll treat him for H. pylori anyway, but the outcome is a foregone conclusion, I’m afraid. Oh, dear.’
‘Do you know him?’
He shook his head. ‘Not well. I treat his wife regularly—she’s on HRT. She won’t take it very well. I don’t think she’s very emotionally robust.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘Ah, well, you win some, you lose some. Let’s get cleaned up and hope the last one isn’t bad news too.’
‘While I think about it,’ Linsey said as they scrubbed up again, ‘how did Mr Joiner get on with the consultant? You remember, the guy with the CA prostate who had bone pain?’
‘Ah. Yes, he had secondaries. It had metastasised to the spine and his hip. He’s having radiotherapy to control the pain, but it’s not a cure and he knows that. It might give him a little longer, though.
‘Right, let’s get this last patient seen and get back to the surgery.’
Linsey was an old hand by now. The procedure went without a hitch, they found a lovely innocent ulcer, took a biopsy and sent the man on his way.
‘Funny that they’re all men,’ Linsey commented.
‘It’s just the way it works. We do screen women too whenever necessary. Right, let’s get back and see what’s new.’
Rhys had several calls to make, but Matthew had gone out to his own calls and Linsey’s, to save her patients having to wait.
She went up to the flat and launched a bit of an assault on the mess, throwing their clothes in the washing machine and dumping the breakfast dishes in the sink. Having done that, she rang her aunt in Brighton and had a chat. The woman was alone now that her husband had died, and Linsey tried to provide some emotional support in the absence of any children.
‘Interesting about that woman who came into your surgery and died,’ her aunt said now. ‘You know, the one with the label in her shirt.’
Woman? Linsey thought. Label? Casting her mind back, she remembered the very obese lady who had collapsed on the premises. ‘Oh, that woman. Christine Cleary shirt.’
‘That’s the one! You know I knew her, did you? Sandra Jenkinson, her name was. We met in Christine’s shop and had lunch together every now and again. Mind you, she was dreadfully overweight.’
This last said with studied emphasis. Linsey smiled. Her aunt was very far from slender. ‘I’m glad recognising that label helped identify her. They might have been searching for weeks.’
‘The strange thing was nobody bothered to report her missing. It’s dreadfully sad that one could die and no one pays a blind bit of notice.’
Linsey actually thought it was probably the best way. She thought of Mr Joiner and his bone cancer, and the man she had seen today with his stomach tumour, and she wondered if it was indeed better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
She thought how she would feel if Matthew died, and a stab of pain shot through her, so fierce that it took her breath away. And yet she was almost certain that he had no intention of letting their relationship drift into permanence. He didn’t want children—he’d made that clear—and although she had found Rhys’s little ones rather a handful that weekend, actually they had been sweet and quite fascinating in between the bad bits. She thought of never having any, and found the idea very sad.
She wanted Matthew’s baby.
The realisation hit her like a freight train, and she actually had to sit down to let the shock pass. Lord, she really did want his baby. Was she actually putting on weight on the Pill, or was she simply considering coming off it because that would expose her to the risk of pregnancy?
After all, Matthew had got used to being able to make love to her anywhere, anytime, without thinking about contraception. It wouldn’t take much to distract him.
Was that what was at the back of her mind?
Deception?
She decided to stay on the Pill.
CHAPTER NINE
THE grip of winter began to tighten on the Forest, and with it the grip of Linsey’s frustration tightened on her.
It was dark now by four-thirty and so her curfew hours stretched endlessly. Rosie had retired, the receptionists were escorted home by Suzanne’s husband, and the nurses drove home alone to their families.
Only Linsey was trapped, dependent on Matthew for every breath of air or step of exercise taken after dark.
There had been no further sign of the rapist, no more attacks, nothing. Linsey no longer felt as if she was being watched. She was never alone, and never threatened by anything except the incipient demise of her own sanity.
‘I cannot stand it another minute!’ she said to him one night as she paced the flat. ‘It’s absurd! Nothing is going to happen to me—nothing! We’re stuck together all day and all night like Siamese twins—it’s totally ridiculous.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d been raped,’ he said mildly, used to her rantings.
‘But I haven’t, and I won’t be, because I never get a chance!’ she raged.
‘That’s rather the idea,’ he said pointedly.
‘Don’t patronise me!’ she yelled. ‘Matthew, I’m going mad! I want to be alone! I want to be able to make my own decisions, go where I want, do as I please. I cannot tolerate having my personal freedom dictated by this madman, and I won’t put up with it!’
Matthew’s mouth tightened. ‘You can and you will. I simply won’t allow—’
‘Won’t allow? Won’t allow! What do you mean, you won’t allow? Who the hell are you? What gives you the right to dictate to me?’
Go on, she thought, tell me you love me. Tell me you can’t bear anything to happen to me because I mean more to you than life itself; tell me you can’t stand the thought of another man touching me; tell me, damn it!
‘You’re right,’ he said at last. He didn’t look at her, just went into the bedroom and packed his things that were lying about.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked, cold dread filling her. Yes, she wanted her freedom, but not at the expense of Matthew’s company.
‘Going home,’ he said flatly. ‘I have no control over you, no sanctions, no rights. You’re an independent woman. I’m sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing. I see now I was just being autocratic and high-handed. Of course you’ll be sensible—but as your trainer and senior partner I can tell you that until further notice you will not be making house calls after dark, and I would be obliged if you would take over some other duties during the day to balance the books.’
Panic filled her. ‘Matthew, don’t be silly; I don’t want you to go! Stay—talk to me.’
‘There’s nothing to say,’ he told her. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ He left without another word, leaving her stunned.
She went into the sitting room and looked out of the window at the car park below. He was getting into his car, throwing the things haphazardly into the back, slamming the door, reversing out in a spray of gravel and skidding out of the car park in a mass of wheel-spin and fish-tailing.
She watched his empty space until the security lights went out, and then plopped onto the nearest chair, eyes wide and sightless. Her chest felt as if a steel band was wrapped tightly round it, cutting off her breathing and squeezing her heart in a ruthless hand.
He was gone. She curled into the chair, knees under her chin, eyes staring blankly. What had she done? She had just been ranting, as usual—railing against her captivity. All right, he had been ridiculously overprotective, but she had never meant him to go. Not go, with all his things, for good.
As she sat there in the empty room a cold well of pain swamped her. ‘Matthew,’ she whispered. Her eyes closed, tears squeezed from beneath her lids, sliding down her cheeks and plopping wetly onto her knees. She couldn’t let him go like this—she couldn’t!
She wouldn’t. She sat up, wipi
ng her eyes against the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She would go after him and talk to him, reason with him, move in with him if necessary, if he wouldn’t come back to her.
What if he wouldn’t have her?
Doubts assailed her again, but she swallowed them and stood up. Car keys—she needed her car keys. And bag. Nothing else. She could change in the morning, if he let her stay.
She ran downstairs, set the alarm again for the practice and let herself out, locking the door securely behind her. It was raining, she realised—a cold, nasty drizzle that she hadn’t expected—and she hadn’t picked up a coat. Still, it was only a short distance to his house.
She started the car and pulled out, and as she turned up the road she saw a shadow move on the other side, under the trees. Probably some hardy fool walking a dog. She barely registered it.
The road was wet and nasty, and she shivered and turned the heater up to maximum. It didn’t make a lot of difference at first, and by the time she turned onto the road that led to Matthew’s track her teeth were chattering.
What had she been thinking of, coming out without a coat?
Matthew, of course. Lord, if she’d lost him...
There were lights up ahead, and she slowed, puzzled. A car was parked on the verge, slewed round at a strange angle, and in the beam of its headlights she could see something else—the underside of a car?
Dear God. There had been an accident. As she drew level she saw that the car with its lights on was Matthew’s, and panic clawed at her throat. She stopped, turning her car in so that she could see the upturned one, and cut the engine, leaving the lights on and switching on her hazard flashers with the last remnant of sane thought.
Then she leapt out of the car and ran.
‘Matthew? Matthew, where are you?’
‘Here,’ he called, his voice muffled. She could see him now, lying beside the overturned car, his head in through the window. He turned towards her. ‘Linsey? Get my bag from the car and come here. We’ve got two casualties, both trapped.’
She got his bag as he said and ran over to him, slipping and skidding on the wet leaves. ‘Here.’ She knelt down and passed him the bag, almost delirious with relief at finding he was all right.
‘Thanks. My phone’s in the car. I’ve rung the ambulance. Get them again and tell them to hurry, could you? And then come back and give me a hand.’
‘OK.’ She ran back to the car and got the phone, then went back to him with it. ‘What are the injuries?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. The driver’s spitting teeth and bleeding copiously from various head wounds, the passenger’s alive but barely—head at a strange angle, possible cervical fracture. Both are impossible to get at.’
She relayed that information, and was told that two ambulances with paramedics on board had been dispatched and the police were on their way. As she cut the connection she saw blue lights flash through the trees, and within moments an ambulanceman was running towards her.
‘We need to get a line in to both of these people,’ Matthew said to him. ‘This one is semi-conscious; the passenger’s out of it but potentially worse off. She needs a neck support before you do anything, but God knows how you’ll get it on. And we need the fire brigade to lift the car off its roof so we can get at them.’
The ambulance driver made the necessary calls just as the police arrived.
She could hear the radios in the police car and ambulance burbling and crackling in the background, and lights were set up all round to give Matthew a better view.
Linsey passed him things—the giving set for the intravenous line, the bag of saline, the swabs to clear the mouth—
‘Oh, my God, he’s ripped his throat to pieces. The steering wheel’s shattered and gone in his mouth and wrecked his palate. Possible fractured base of skull, and his mouth’s swelling fast. I think I’ll have to do a tracheotomy to give him an airway—that’!] be jolly in these cramped surroundings.’
‘I’ll do it; my shoulders are smaller than yours—I can get in further,’ Linsey said calmly. She didn’t feel calm. The thought of climbing into that blood bath reeking of spilt petrol didn’t fill her with joy and enthusiasm, but she didn’t really think about it. It was her job, and she knew if she didn’t get in there and do it the driver would die.
Matthew wriggled out backwards and she went in, dimly conscious of something sharp in her side. There was a light tucked under the upturned bonnet, illuminating the man’s face and throat to perfection.
Not a pretty sight. She asked for the local anaesthetic, just in case he was conscious enough to feel the scalpel, but she didn’t have time to give it to him. He started to gurgle, his ribs heaving helplessly, and she yelled, ‘Now. I have to do it now!’ The paramedic passed her a sterile pack containing a drape which she tucked round the man as well as she could, then she swiped a spirit swab over the site and quickly opened a hole in his windpipe. She found the tube in her hand, slid it in and was rewarded by the man’s gasping breath.
She dropped her head onto her outstretched arm and let out a shuddering sigh.
‘Done it?’ Matthew asked, right behind her.
‘Yes. He’s OK now. I think we should get him out—if we can get the seat belt off. His feet don’t seem to be trapped. It’s only the passenger footwell that’s collapsed.’
She wriggled out backwards, replaced by the paramedic carrying neck and back supports. After what seemed like an age he removed his head from the cabin and turned to them. ‘I’ve supported his spine. Now we need to cut the belt and try and get him out, but he’s looking a bit rough.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Matthew said. ‘It’s an ancient car, no head restraints, sloppy fixed seat belts—a death trap.’
‘Went fast enough to kill a pony,’ the policeman behind them said drily.
Matthew nodded. ‘I saw it there. Is it dead?’
‘It is now—the vet’s just been. Pregnant mare with a foal at foot. We’ve got the freeze-brand number and we’re contacting the owner.’
‘Damn, we’ve lost him—let’s get him out,’ the paramedic yelled, and, cutting the seat belt, he let the man slide to the roof of the car. Matthew grabbed one arm, the paramedic the other and, with Linsey supporting his head, they dragged the man out.
It was hopeless. Once he was out of the car the full extent of his head and chest injuries could be seen, and Linsey realised that nothing on earth could have saved him. She shuddered. What a horrible, gory end—and all because he had been driving too fast on a night as black as pitch and had hit yet another of the ponies, the innocent victims of the Forest. She looked round, and could see the foal standing some distance from its mother, nostrils flared because of the smell of blood, trying to make sense of the chaos and confusion.
‘Poor little thing. It only looks a few months old.’
Matthew looked over his shoulder and grunted. ‘It was lucky not to be hit too. What about the passenger?’
‘Cervical fracture—probably third and fourth vertebrae,’ the paramedic told him. ‘I’ve got the collar on as well as I can. I think we’re best to wait for the fire brigade before we try and get her out.’
Matthew nodded his agreement, then turned to Linsey. ‘Why don’t you go and wait at the house?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll wait here,’ she said, and shuddered violently.
He swore under his breath. ‘Stupid woman, you haven’t got a coat on! Here, put mine on and go and sit in the car.’
He ripped his coat off, pushed her arms down the wonderfully warm sleeves and buttoned it across her chest.
‘What about you?’ she protested feebly, snuggling into the cosy depths.
‘I’ll live. Go on.’
She stumbled up to her car, climbed behind the wheel and sat shivering while she watched the arrival of the fire brigade and the raising of the car. It was slow and laborious, but finally they raised it just enough to cut away the roof support and give Matthew and the paramedic room to ease the
badly injured woman out. They had jacked open the footwell to free her, and she had broken legs, a crushed foot, almost certainly a broken neck and probably paraplegia.
Linsey wondered if they always did the right thing by saving lives. With the advent of technology and ever more powerful drugs, they seemed to have forgotten how to let people go.
She bent her head over the steering wheel and closed her eyes. She was still freezing, her hands and feet like ice, but at least she was shivering. That meant she hadn’t managed to get too cold. In the icy drizzle it didn’t take long to get hypothermia.
Her car door opened. ‘Linsey? They’re going now. We can go home.’
She lifted her head. ‘Which home?’ she asked him sadly. ‘Yours, mine, or both?’
With a muttered oath he pulled her into his arms. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said, and he sounded bitter. ‘Miss me already?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ she mumbled into his shoulder.
He squeezed her and let her go. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
His cottage was freezing. The heating was on tick-over as he wasn’t there much during the week, and he fiddled with the boiler, put the kettle on and led her into the sitting room.
‘Sit here,’ he said, and lit the gas stove that looked like a wood-burner. ‘That’s the advantage of gas,’ he said with a forced smile. ‘It warms up quicker than wood. Stay there; I’ll get you a blanket and a hot drink.’
‘I’m fine,’ she protested.
‘I’m not. I’m cold, I’m shocked and I’m covered in someone else’s blood. Frankly all I want is a hot bath, and the second it’s hot that’s where we’re going. Now shut up and stop being independent, and just let me look after you.’
She smiled. She didn’t intend to argue with him. Not again. She snuggled down in the chair, her face angled towards the fire, and slept.
He woke her up a little while later. ‘Bath’s ready,’ he told her.
She blinked and stretched, and stumbled after him up the stairs.
‘Shower first,’ he told her, and, stripping their clothes off, he pushed her under the pulsing spray of the shower. He washed her hair, just quickly, then his, and then cut off the water and dragged her across the now warm room to the bath.
The Real Fantasy Page 14
