And then there’s something there, sleek and dark underneath me. I gasp and flail, but the cold is overwhelming. I seek out her voice, her face, the kiss of death that is upon me. I stop moving and let her pull me out to sea…
15
The shingle cuts through the skin of my knees. I’m lifted by strong arms. I’m cold, so cold, but the arms are warm. I feel a dark, languid sensation as my body succumbs to lack of oxygen. And then a pain as something pounds my back.
Salt water trickles from my mouth but it’s like my chest is wrapped in tight bands of iron. I can’t breathe… There’s another thud on my back and, this time, water spurts from my mouth, making me gag and cough. But I’m going under again and everything begins to slip away…
I’m jolted back by more pain. Sharp rocks under my back, my nose pinched tight, and then warm lips against mine. Breathing into my mouth… beloved air. I’m coming back to my body. But I’m so cold, and the weight on my chest is so heavy. The world is sharp and painful and I can no longer hear her song—
‘Breathe, for fuck’s sake!’
Her voice… it isn’t a her at all. A man’s voice, deep and angry. I have to get away. I sputter and gasp… and draw a breath. And then another and another. Gradually, the dark blur before my eyes becomes a lighter one. The world judders into focus. A white sky. A swirl of mist moving against the dark cliff. And the cold. Shivers wrack my body and I try to curl up in a ball. But it’s too painful. Something wet and rough touches my forehead. I gasp and try to wriggle away.
‘Stop it, Kafka. Go find her clothes.’
I try to lift a hand. Nothing happens.
A sharp bark.
‘OK, OK,’ the voice says. ‘Good boy.’
There’s a crunch of shingle. He’s going. Good, I’m fine. I’ll just sit up, get my clothes on…
I can’t move except to shiver. Why can’t I move?
‘We need to get this coat on you. I’m going to lift you. Are you ready…?’
Before I can even process what’s happening, he lifts me onto something soft. My coat. Why is my mind moving so slowly and my body not moving at all?
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s better.’
The voice… I must stay with the voice.
‘And now we’ve got two options,’ he says. ‘Option A, I leave you here with Kafka and I go for help. But that could take some time.’
Leave me here… no…
I open my mouth but all that comes out is a splutter.
‘Or, I can carry you up.’
No… he can’t possibly carry me…
‘And as you’re in no fit state to respond, I think we’ll have to go with Option B. Your body is in shock. I don’t want to leave you here on your own.’
‘I…’
‘You can thank me later.’
The next thing I know, I’m being lifted again. I’m still shaking, but his arms are strong and his chest is warm. The man sinks deeper into the shingle with the double weight. I try again to see him, but my vision is blurry. Dark hair, a blue cap. I’m fairly sure it’s the man from Skybird. With that thought, I sink down again…
‘Stay with me. You’re heavier to carry when you’re out cold.’
Focus. I try to memorise the outline of his face. The silhouette of his chin, with a dark dusting of stubble. His nose, his cheekbones. Deep set blue-grey eyes. For a second I want to laugh; this is ludicrous. I don’t need rescuing…
I drift off again. He’s huffing now. We’ve reached the steep, uphill path. I have to stay with him. I can’t let my muscles go slack.
Focus. He’s speaking again. Trying to distract himself from the climb and the weight. Follow his voice.
‘… so incredibly stupid. I mean, if you were trying to do yourself in, you very nearly managed it. I ran as fast as I could, but I wouldn’t have got there in time. If it hadn’t been for Kafka, then you would have succeeded…’
Succeeded? Wait no. I realise now that Kafka was in the water, not pulling me under but nuzzling me to get my head back above water. And this man thinks that I was trying to drown, that I’d gone in deliberately to… do myself in. But that wasn’t true. Just like Ginny going out on those rocks… I was stupid. I went into the sea in the middle of winter. Stupid, but that was all.
‘I mean obviously, I would have called for help, but there’s no reception here so I didn’t even have my phone with me. Practically broke my ankle scrambling down the damn path.’
He’s labouring now, his brow glistening with sweat. He should rest. I should walk. I think I can walk. I squirm a little in his arms. ‘Walk…’ I sputter.
‘No. You can’t walk.’ He pauses for a moment, leaning against one of the huge rocks embedded in the cliffside. I can feel his breath on me when he speaks, feel the rise and fall of his chest.
‘We’re almost there anyway.’
We’re moving again and this time, he doesn’t speak. I try to breathe in time with him. The path descends sharply. He slips and for a second, we teeter. But then, in front of the white sky is the blurry haze of trees. The cottages. I close my eyes… I can’t help it.
‘Stay with me.’
I try, but I can’t do it. ‘Thank you…’ The words form on my lips, but the light fades away before I can give them voice.
16
It’s warm when I awake. Warm and dark and it’s a struggle to draw precious breath. My eyes adjust. Black and white lines. Beams on a ceiling. Flickering shadows. Everything hurts.
‘Where am I?’ I rasp.
‘Shh, don’t try to talk. The paramedics are on the way. You may need to go to hospital.’
That voice again. His accent is from down south. I don’t even know who he is. I see him, sort of, over by the fireplace. He bends down and picks up a log, throwing it on the fire that’s roaring in the grate. He’s tall and leanly built. His hair is dark and a little shaggy, his face has that tanned weathered look of someone who spends a lot of time outdoors. He’s good-looking, but there’s a sort of arrogance about him that’s off-putting. I should get up. I don’t want to go to hospital. I’ll thank him and then get the hell out of here.
I try to sit up but my body simply won’t co-operate. My hands are at my side under the blanket. I move them up. My skin is soft, cleansed by the sea. My skin…
Oh God.
‘Um, excuse me,’ I say. ‘Where are my clothes?’
I’m naked. I’m fucking naked. This man pulled me out of the freezing water, and carried me up here, and then…
‘Your clothes are in the dryer. You were soaked through. There was no other option.’
Yeah, it’s all coming back to me. Mr Option A and Option B, and, it seems, Option C. Rescue the damsel in distress and then undress her.
‘I’ve got a T-shirt here that you can put on. It’s mine, I’m afraid.’
‘Yeah, I’m afraid too.’ I may have nearly lost my life, but my sarcasm has remained intact.
He has the nerve to laugh. Then he walks away, to the kitchen, I think. I stare at the fire; the wood crackles and the flames hum as the oxygen is consumed and the smoke goes up the chimney. It’s mesmerising to watch, especially as I’m still having trouble focusing my eyes.
Something moves in front of the fire. A dark blur lifting its head, looking at me with shiny glass-like eyes. ‘Kafka?’ I whisper. The tail thumps. Kafka is quite a large dog. Maybe some sort of husky, Labrador mix. ‘Thanks, old chap.’
The dog came into the water to try and help me, and that says something about both the dog and the owner. And as I really have no other choice in the matter, right now I’ll have to go with this.
A kettle switches off. I’m consumed by a terrible thirst. I’ve swallowed so much salt water that my cells must be ready to burst. My rescuer returns with a cup of tea and a glass of water. I try to sit up again.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Which one do you want? Tea or water?’
‘Water,’ I croak.
I suffer the indignity of him kneeling dow
n next to me, bringing the glass to my mouth and holding it while I drink. I try to grab it with both hands and my fingers brush his and I pull away like I’ve got an electric shock. His grey-blue eyes have a spark of amusement in them that annoys me no end. As I drink, the pain in my chest intensifies, and for an awful second, I think that I’m going to spit all the water back up. I grip the edge of the blanket and pull it to my chin until the feeling passes.
‘I… it hurts to swallow,’ I say.
He frowns, the amusement gone. ‘You really did a number out there,’ he says. ‘Your lungs and your chest are not going to thank you. I had to try CPR when you weren’t breathing. So your ribcage is going to be sore.’
Jesus. His lips. I don’t want to look at them, but of course that’s exactly where my eye is drawn. Wind-chapped but soft. The kiss of life. I look away, staring up at the ceiling. I need to leave here as soon as possible. I wonder when Mum’s coming home…
It seems I’ve spoken aloud. He sets the glass back down on the table. ‘Is your mother Mrs Turner, in Croft Cottage?’
‘Yes,’ I manage.
‘After I called for the paramedics, I went over and knocked on her door. She wasn’t home. I left a phone message, but I think it’s a landline not a mobile.’
‘She went to a WI thing,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure when she’ll be back.’
He raises a single wry eyebrow. ‘I guess you’ll just have to stay here, then.’
He stands up with the empty water glass and moves out of my sight line again. My senses are gradually coming back to life. The awful salty taste in my mouth. The smell, not just of burning wood, but of something… paint? Turpentine? I look around but I can’t see any paintings. But before I can wonder any further, the dog gets up and goes to the door, giving a short bark.
‘Settle down, Kafka,’ the man says. ‘It must be the paramedics.’
I try to wriggle up into a sitting position and end up coughing. This is not good. I cannot cause Mum more worry. I can just picture her face when she hears the news: ‘Your daughter almost drowned. She’s fine now, breathing on her own, but we had to take her to hospital.’ It’s really the last thing she needs – we need – when our relationship is so fragile.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘DCI Nicholas Hamilton?’ a female voice says.
‘Come in.’ My rescuer opens the door. ‘“Mr” will do. Or just Nick.’
‘Fine, Mr Hamilton.’
‘She’s this way…’
Nicholas Hamilton. Nick. At least I have a name. But DCI?
A middle-aged woman in a green paramedic’s uniform comes around to my side of the sofa. She’s followed by a much younger, gangly man who must be straight out of paramedic school. It’s some small relief that I don’t recognise either of them.
‘Hi.’ I force a smile. ‘I guess I’m the patient.’
A frown line deepens between the woman’s eyes. ‘I’m Maureen, and this is Dougie.’ She indicates the man. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ She directs this last question at Nick Hamilton.
‘She was under the water for over a minute,’ he says. ‘The dog got to her before I could and nudged her face out of the water.’
‘Grand dog.’ Maureen gives Kafka a pat on the head. The dog licks her hand and thumps his tail. Kafka seems like a nice dog, but so much for hygiene.
‘I put her in the recovery position. She wasn’t breathing so I gave her CPR.’
Maureen shakes her head and tsks. ‘Honestly, lass, what were you thinking?’
‘That I felt like a swim,’ I say. I’m annoyed that they’re talking like I’m not there.
‘In December?’
‘My grandmother was a champion open-water swimmer. She swam in the sea every morning until the day she died. She was eighty-nine.’
‘Aye, but do you swim in the sea every day?’ Maureen challenges.
‘No.’ I lift a hand and let it drop again. She’s got me. I never was a patch on Grandma Turner.
‘Dougie, can you check her blood pressure?’
‘I don’t want to go to hospital,’ I say, for the record.
‘We’ll see.’
Dougie bends down and puts the blood pressure cuff around my arm. I’m seized by a coughing fit, my lungs gurgling with liquid.
Maureen comes over with a cylinder of oxygen and puts a mask over my face. ‘Breathe,’ she says.
I breathe, and cough, and breathe some more. The cuff tightens around my arm. It hurts. I try to pull away.
‘Shh,’ Maureen says. ‘Just breathe.’
My skin feels clammy with panic. I have to breathe in this damn oxygen or else they might take me to hospital. I take a few shallow breaths as the pressure on my arm releases.
‘Ninety over thirty,’ Dougie says.
I remove the mask for a second. ‘My blood pressure is always low,’ I say.
‘Get a fluid drip going,’ Maureen says.
Oh for God’s sake. It’s embarrassing to be taking up Nick Hamilton’s valuable time and his sofa space. But before I can protest further, Kafka jumps up from the rug by the fire, barking excitedly. There’s a loud, frantic knock on the door, and then the bell goes.
‘Mr Hamilton!’
It’s Mum. I can hear the panic in her voice as Nick opens the door. ‘What happened?’ she says.
‘Over here, Mum,’ I say, removing the breathing mask. ‘I’m fine. So sorry for the fuss.’
‘Keep breathing,’ Maureen admonishes. A second later, there’s a jab in my wrist. I hate needles. I never did any sort of drugs that required them, but I knew plenty of people who did.
‘Stay still,’ Dougie says. He puts tape over the needle in the top of my hand and brings over a stand with a clear bag hanging at the top like a flaccid jellyfish.
‘This’ll bring that blood pressure right up,’ he says.
Mum hobbles over, her whole wrist shaking as she grips her cane. I try to make room for her to sit down but Maureen helps manoeuvre her to one of the wing chairs by the fire. Her eyes are red-rimmed and have that terrible haunted look about them that I remember from when Dad died. How could I have done this to her? It really is unforgivable. She talks to ‘Nicholas’ and he repeats the story again. This time, though, he includes one additional salient point. ‘She says she was just going for a swim.’ I’m grateful to him for that.
Mum opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She tries again, her chest heaving from the effort. She reaches out and grabs his hand. ‘If you hadn’t been there… then…’
It’s true, and I feel all the worse for it. Nick Hamilton must have already been most of the way down the path, maybe even on the beach when I went in. A few minutes either way, and either I wouldn’t have gone into the water, or else I wouldn’t have come out. My entire life, all the memories, everything… swept away. I shiver and end up coughing again. Life sometimes hangs on a very thin thread.
A cup of tea is brought for Mum. It takes a while for the drip to finish, at which time my blood pressure is taken again and Maureen renders her verdict. I don’t have to go to hospital. I set aside the oxygen mask and Maureen helps me into my clothes, which are warm from having been in the dryer. With Dougie’s assistance, I get to my feet. I’m relieved that I won’t be imposing on Nick any longer. I want to explain to him – and Mum, and the paramedics – that this is not me. That this is the kind of thing that Ginny would have done, not sensible, practical Skye. I slump against Dougie. I just feel too exhausted…
As I’m leaving the cottage, I turn to Nick. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry for putting you through so much trouble.’
He looks surprised, and then, behind his grey eyes, I see a flash of something else. And I think again of the ‘kiss of life’ and the fact that he removed my wet clothing to put me under the blanket. Maybe it wasn’t such a huge hardship for him. And probably I ought to find that creepy – and I do – but on the other hand…
‘No worries,’ he says. ‘Take care of yourself.
’
He stands at the door and I can still feel him watching as Dougie and Maureen help me down the path, with Mum hobbling along behind.
17
I’m deposited on the sofa in the sitting room rather than taken up to my room. I’m happy to be home and not in hospital. I’ll be right as rain with a cup of tea, and besides, it’s me who’s here to look after Mum, not the other way around.
Maureen instructs Mum on what symptoms to be concerned about, and eventually, she and Dougie get ready to leave. Mum calls Dougie into the kitchen to send him off with some leftover sandwiches. Maureen comes over, kneels down beside the sofa and takes my hand.
‘Lass,’ she says. ‘You were very lucky this time.’
Actually… I’m about to say, I was pretty unlucky. I went for a swim, and if it hadn’t been for the cold and that wave and… I hear Mum’s voice, muffled in the kitchen, and keep quiet.
‘What you put your mum through is really just… well, terrible. Especially now. You owe it to her – and to yourself – to get help if you’re feeling this way.’
‘Wait,’ I say as I realise what she’s getting at. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong.’
‘There is always help out there,’ Maureen continues, ignoring me. ‘This is temporary. It will pass.’
‘But I just went for a swim.’ My voice rises in pitch.
She shakes her head. ‘Please don’t make your mum suffer any more than you have already.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Maureen just smiles and fusses with the pillow to prop me up. I try to wriggle forward and end up coughing; my chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a very large fist.
‘I didn’t try to drown, if that’s what you’re implying, Maureen,’ I say. I’m half aware of Mum and Dougie stopping the conversation they’re having in the kitchen. ‘And I didn’t come back here to cause Mum or anyone to “suffer”. For your information, I love that beach. I love the sea, and I like to swim even in freezing cold water. It went wrong, and I’m sorry for that.’
My Mother's Silence (ARC) Page 9
