The guard looked relieved. “I’ll be here for a few hours yet. If you don’t need anything ...” His voice tailed off as he shuffled backwards, closing the door behind him.
The guard’s presence had provided Annalise with a degree of reassurance. He wasn’t the finest physical specimen, but at least he offered a deterrent to anybody who might wish her ill.
She retrieved the phone. Now that she had seen the guard playing games on his mobile in open view of the medical staff, she felt less guilty about using her own. She opened a browser window and typed in the phrase ‘Annalise Becker coma wake up’. None of the results related to her case. It occurred to her that maybe her name had been withheld from the press. She tried again, this time with the words ‘Steadmore coma wake up’. The first three items dated from eleven months earlier and referenced the original accident. She resisted the temptation to read them and scrolled down the list. The fourth was a brief report from the local paper stating that the unnamed victim of a car crash had recently awoken from a long-term coma in Steadmore hospital. So news of her recovery was in the public domain even if she hadn’t been named.
Annalise returned to the first batch of articles. They broadly confirmed what her parents had already told her about the incident. Little mention was made of the circumstances surrounding the crash although all the pieces mentioned that she had been driving and was believed to be uninsured.
At the end of the third article, she followed a link to a story about the recent murder in Steadmore. As she read the details of the girl’s death, her hand moved unconsciously to her neck. A series of short beeps broke her concentration. A flashing red icon in the top right corner of the screen indicated a low state of battery charge. She scrambled along the bed and reconnected the phone to the charger behind the bedside cabinet.
The pillow felt cool as she lowered her head. Pressure built in her chest as her mind went over what she had learned since waking. The guilt and uncertainty bore down on her like an immense weight. There was so much to think about. Questions and doubts flooded her brain. Would she ever recover her memories? The one positive in this otherwise impossible situation was the support of her family. She knew they would do everything in their power to protect her. She focused on that one nugget of hope and drew it close.
Her breathing slowed. Eyelids drooped. Soon she fell into a troubled sleep.
Chapter 9
It all happened in slow motion. She pulled at the steering wheel. No matter how much force she applied, it refused to turn. She stamped on the brake. Still, the speed increased. Her gaze lowered to see why the pedal was having no effect. The footwell was empty; her foot was pressing down against bare carpet. When she raised her eyes again, a blue car travelling in the opposite direction loomed large through the windscreen. The driver, a man wearing black framed glasses, filled her vision. He opened his mouth in a cry of horror as he realised the collision was inevitable.
At the last second, the steering obeyed her frantic attempts at control. The other car’s bonnet dipped as the brakes bit into the tarmac, but it was too late. The front end smashed into the rear quarter of her car. She felt the back lurch outwards. The screeching of tyres filled her head. Her seat tilted sideways, and she experienced the sensation of flying. Through the side window, the painted white centre line rushed past. Now she was upside down. She had time to look around as the car rotated through the air. Her ears seemed to be full of cotton wool as a sudden eerie silence replaced the tortured scream of rubber on asphalt.
The brief respite was shattered by the violence of the landing. The bone-jarring impact changed the trajectory of the tumbling vehicle and flung her sideways against the seat restraints. Once again she was airborne, somersaulting in a stomach-churning spiral. The tree branches whipped past the window in a blur of movement: bare sky, the grey surface of the road coming at her impossibly fast.
Annalise jerked upright, flinging the bed sheets away from her and onto the floor. Somebody was screaming. The sound continued until she realised it emanated from her own throat. She took a deep intake of breath and stared uncomprehendingly at her surroundings. The door swung open. The shocked face of the guard appeared in the gap. His whole body trembled in fright. He held a walkie-talkie in his hand, his finger poised on the transmit button.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sorry.” Annalise gulped down several more lungfuls of air. “I ... I ... Just a bad dream.” Her heart continued to pound against her chest like the aftershocks following an earthquake.
A look of relief swept across the man’s face. “Jesus, you almost gave me a coronary. I thought you were being skinned alive or something.”
“Sorry. I was ...”
The stern-faced nurse appeared behind the man. “What’s all the fuss? Is everything okay in here?”
Annalise nodded. “I was just saying I had a bad dream.”
“I suppose at least you were doing as you were told and trying to rest, even if you did disturb my other patients.”
“I think I was remembering the accident. I was in a car and—”
“Well that’s a good sign,” the nurse interrupted. “Make sure you mention it to the consultant when you see him next.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“The tea trolley will be around in about ten minutes. I’ll get them to pop in here.” She reached past the guard and pulled the door closed.
The dream had shaken her. Bad though it was, it offered the hope that she might recover her missing memories. That was the aspect of this whole situation that unsettled her the most. How could she not remember driving and crashing a car? There was only one person who could tell her what had really happened: Mark.
She shuffled sideways and unplugged the mobile from the charger. An insistent part of her brain protested that this was a bad idea, but she overruled her misgivings and selected Mark Webber from the list of contacts. The ringtone rang once, twice.
“Who is this?”
“Mark, it’s me. I woke up.”
A click. The ensuing silence extended out for several seconds.
“Mark, are you there?”
Three short beeps followed by more silence. Annalise glanced down at the screen: Call duration 0:05. The line was dead. Her finger hovered over the dial button. Why had he hung up? She checked the network strength: four bars. It couldn’t be due to a poor signal. Maybe he had changed his number, and now it belonged to somebody else. But it had certainly sounded like her boyfriend. She placed the phone on the mattress and stared sightlessly at the walls, lost in a maze of indecision. Twice she reached out to try again then thought better of it. She had almost abandoned the idea when a series of tinny sounding notes burst from the handset. She snatched up the mobile and studied the display: Mark Webber calling.
“Mark?”
“Who is this? What do you want?” The voice at the other end of the line brimmed with hostility.
Annalise frowned. “Who do you think it is?”
“Annalise? Is that really you?”
“You called my number. Who else would it be?”
“But they said you weren’t going to—”
“Wake up? Well here I am, so they obviously got it wrong, didn’t they? You could at least sound happy about it.”
“Well, of course I’m happy. It’s all just a bit unexpected. When your name popped up on the screen, I thought it was a hoax of some sort. How long have you been awake?”
“I woke in the early hours of this morning.”
“So, how are you?”
“Well, I’m as weak as a kitten, but apart from that and the amnesia, I’m fine.”
“Amnesia? You mean like forgetting things?”
“I can clearly recall going to bed on the Friday night. It seems as if it was just a day or two ago. Everything on that Saturday is a blank at the moment.”
“Is that a temporary or a permanent thing?”
“The doctors have no idea. It could all come back tomorrow, or it may never return.�
�
“So you really can’t remember anything at all about the accident?”
“No. All I know is what other people have told me and what I’ve read online ... Actually, that’s one of the reasons I phoned. I was hoping you could tell me more about what happened.”
Silence extended down the line.
Annalise checked the phone’s display. The call was still connected. “Are you there?”
“Yeah.”
“My parents said you saved my life.”
“I pulled you out of the car, if that’s what you mean.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Annalise held her breath then exhaled slowly. This wasn’t going at all like she had envisaged. “Why do I get the impression you don’t want to talk about it? Is something wrong?”
Another pause. Finally, Mark spoke, his tone subdued. “I’m sorry. My lawyer advised me I shouldn’t discuss the events surrounding the accident with anybody.”
Annalise felt the blood rush to her face. Her ears burned. “Jesus, Mark, I thought we were supposed to be a couple. It’s me who’s asking.”
“I’m not sure, Annalise. This conversation is making me feel uncomfortable.”
“Why? What are you worried about?”
“The lawyer said that because somebody died, the police will want to prosecute.”
“So you’re saying you won’t tell me what happened because we might end up on opposite sides in a courtroom?”
The lack of a reply confirmed the answer to her question. ”Well, there’s nothing left to say then, is there? Goodbye, Mark.”
She stabbed the disconnect button and tossed the phone on the bed.
Chapter 10
Annalise lay on her back with her eyes open. The lights were out, and she was supposed to be sleeping. That was proving difficult for a number of reasons.
A deep aching pain lingered in every muscle of her arms and legs. The source of the soreness was the two-hour session in the physiotherapy department. Torture chamber would have been a more accurate description. The pair of physiotherapists, a man and a woman, had put her through a series of exercises that left her crying in agony. They contorted her unwilling limbs into unnatural positions.
Afterwards, they followed up by forcing her to perform a workout she would have completed effortlessly before the accident. The process had transformed her body into a trembling, sweat-soaked wreck. She knew the treatment was essential to build up her strength, but why did it have to be so damned painful?
The physical discomfort was not the only cause of her insomnia. Several concerns vied for attention inside her head. There was a strong possibility somebody had tried to poison her. To make matters worse, some troll had sent a threatening email. Maybe the culprits were one and the same. She had deleted the offending item from her inbox but it still resided in the trash folder. She hadn’t spoken to anybody about the message and remained undecided whether she would.
Not for the first time, Annalise wondered about her mother’s guilty secret. The opportunity for a private conversation had not arisen. Annalise sensed her mother wanted to keep it between the two of them. Her parents had visited again that afternoon, leaving Beatrice to her studies. Annalise raised the subject during the few seconds when her father left the room. Her mother paled at the suggestion and proposed that they postpone the discussion until a later time. When Annalise suggested talking by phone, her mother continued to prevaricate, stating it was something to be discussed face to face.
The worry of being prosecuted was another factor preventing her from sleeping. Mark had made it clear that the police intended to prosecute somebody for the accident. It was painfully obvious he had no intention of standing in the dock.
The more she thought about the conversation, the more convinced she became that he no longer saw her as his girlfriend. His attitude was definitely not one of relief that she was awake.
In her mind, it had only been a couple of days since she had last seen him. By contrast, many months had passed for him. It would have been unrealistic for him to wait for her return to health when the doctors apparently held out little hope for her recovery.
She analysed her feelings and concluded she was not as disappointed by the idea of splitting up as she might have supposed. The relationship had been developing at a pace that left her feeling slightly uncomfortable.
She remembered lying awake the night before the fateful journey, wondering whether he planned to use the mystery trip to propose to her—and how she would respond if he did so. Maybe he had asked her to marry him, and she declined. That might explain his behaviour.
Her father had found a solicitor willing to represent her, but the man recommended they postpone the signing of any agreement until she was out of hospital. When questioned about what to do if the police visited, he advised they should decline any interviews on the basis she wasn’t well enough to talk.
On top of everything else were the questions about the colours she could see around people from the corner of her eye. She had studied the patterns surrounding the hospital staff and other patients. In most cases, the hues varied across a range of pastel shades with a few notable exceptions, including her mother. Without detailed knowledge of each person’s behaviour, the evidence was insufficient to either confirm or deny her theory. One finding she had verified was that the auras vanished when a person became unconscious.
She closed her eyes once more and tried to will herself to sleep.
Chapter 11
Annalise looked up sharply at the tentative knock. She tossed the phone beneath the sheets. It couldn’t be the nurse. This was her domain, and she would have walked straight in with no preamble. “Come in.”
The door swung open to reveal the consultant, followed by three men and two women, all six wearing white doctor’s coats.
“Good morning. I hope you don’t mind if my students join me,” he said. “They have to learn somewhere, and there’s nothing to beat seeing real patients rather than reading about it in a textbook.”
Annalise couldn’t remember his name and strained to read his nametag. As he drew closer, she picked out the words, Brian Smithson, Consultant Neurosurgeon.
“No problem, Doctor Smithson.”
“Actually, it’s Mr Smithson, but never mind. So how are you feeling, Miss Becker?” His eyes remained lowered while he studied her notes.
“Fine ... I think.”
“I’m just going to check your pulse.” He grabbed her wrist with one hand and focused his attention on the dial of his watch. The students shuffled in alongside him.
A short ping from Annalise’s mobile signalled the arrival of an email.
“Sixty-five BPM,” he announced, his eyes still downcast. Finally, he looked up. “Your heart rate is perfectly normal. Maybe you’d be so good as to turn off your phone during this consultation, Miss Becker.”
Annalise felt the colour rise in her cheeks. Several of the trainee doctors smirked as she lifted the sheets, snatched up the device and fumbled with the off button.
Ignoring her embarrassment, the consultant half-turned to speak to the people behind him. “Miss Becker awoke from a long-term coma just over a day ago. Can anybody tell me the main symptoms of a coma?”
The taller of the two women spoke. “Unresponsive pupils, no response to painful stimuli other than reflex movements, depressed brainstem reflexes.”
A man wearing a pair of black, plastic-framed glasses rolled his eyes.
“Yes, that’s right,” Smithson said, “but that was an easy question.” The woman gave a thin smile. “Now can anyone explain why Miss Becker might have woken up after all this time?”
“Well, it could—”
The consultant interrupted the same student. “Thank you, Miss Winters. I’d like one of your colleagues to answer this question. Mr Davidson, perhaps.”
The man with the glasses coughed into his hand. “It depends on the underlying cause. It’s possible the da
mage to the brain healed or ...”
Smithson turned around to face the man. “Actually, the original injury healed some time ago. Unfortunately—or fortunately depending on how you look at it—Miss Becker received a dose of Digoxin. Can you tell me what Digoxin is normally used for Mr Gregson?”
“Heart failure,” another of the men replied. “Why would they administer Digoxin, Mr Smithson?”
“It was an accident. So knowing that, why do you think Miss Becker woke up?”
Annalise tuned out the medical discussion and angled her head sideways to inspect the group from the corner of her eye. The same yellow-green tint swirled around the consultant. The others ranged in colour from pale blue to pink. Suddenly she realised they had all stopped talking and were staring at her expectantly.
“I’m sorry, did you ask me something?” she said.
“Maybe I should have asked if your hearing or your powers of concentration have been affected, but what I actually asked was whether any of your missing memories have returned,” Smithson replied.
“I’m not sure you’d call it a memory exactly, but I did have a vivid dream—a nightmare really—about the crash.”
“As I told you yesterday, it could take a while for your long-term recall to return. If it hasn’t come back within a few weeks, we may choose to investigate other therapies, such as hypnosis. For the time being, though, I’d suggest we wait to see how you get on and if it returns without any interventions.”
“Did you ask anybody about the colours in my vision?”
The man frowned. “Ah, yes, that’s right. I was going to question my colleagues to find out if any of them had come across similar symptoms, wasn’t I? I’m sorry, I didn’t get round to it. Let’s ask my learned friends. Miss Becker is seeing colours surrounding people’s heads. Can any of you shed any light on this condition?”
“What, like an aura?” the spectacled man asked.
Annalise nodded.
“Disturbed colour perception is one of the side-effects of Digoxin, I believe,” the woman with all the answers said.
The Colour of the Soul Page 5
