The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two)

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  I follow her down the long corridor, past the first few rooms from which heart-breaking sounds of distress and sorrow are emanating, and I am led into a room at the far end. The room is empty except for a small table and two chairs. We walk in and the nurse waves gently to one of the chairs. I sit down, resting my hands on my lap, expecting the worst.

  The nurse who accompanied me into the room now leaves, and I am left alone for about fifteen minutes before another nurse arrives. She opens the door, says ‘hello’ and sits down beside me. She is looking very serious.

  “Mr Jardine?”, she asks.

  “Yes,” I reply. “That’s me.

  “Mr Jardine, I am afraid the news is not good. I am sorry to have to tell you that your friend’s fiancée was caught in the first blast that happened this morning. She was on the underground train travelling from Liverpool Street Station, and was in the same carriage in which the bomb went off.”

  “Is she dead?” I interrupt her, just wanting to hear the truth.

  “No. She is not,” the nurse replies very matter-of-factly. “She is still alive, but we are very concerned. The situation is very serious. Although we have managed to stabilise her and her vital signs are good, she is not responding as well as we would have hoped. Although we don’t yet know for sure, it may be that she has suffered some form of brain damage. We will be running further tests over the coming days, and later tonight we will be running some scans …”

  “Is she awake? Can I talk to her?”

  “No. Unfortunately she hasn’t yet woken up. It could be she is suffering from concussion. It appears that she may have received a bang to the head when she was caught by the blast and thrown against the side of the carriage.”

  “When will she wake up?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid we can’t say. It could be any minute now, or it could take longer. Perhaps tomorrow, or maybe next week. It would seem…”

  “Is she in a coma?”

  “Andrew, it may be that she is. However, for the moment it’s better to hope that she will wake up soon.”

  “Has she lost any limbs?” I ask, suddenly picturing the worst. On the television this evening, the survivors being interviewed as they came out from the tunnels were already recounting scenes of unforgettable horror where some victims had lost limbs. Was Sal one of them?

  “No. Thankfully not. What we can say now is that she has suffered a broken arm, numerous cuts and quite severe bruising, which actually looks a lot worse than it is. The good news is that if there is no brain damage, and she wakes up soon, she may actually turn out to have no long lasting damage.”

  “Where is she? Is she in this hospital? ”

  “For now she is in the intensive care ward, although we may be transferring her to another ward quite soon which specialises in brain traumas. Mr Jardine, the primary reason you were asked to come here today was to formally identify Sally. We first need to be sure that it is her that we are treating. Unfortunately, as is so often the case in bombings, the victims clothes are blown off their bodies, and initially we can only identify the wounded from personal effects found around their bodies. Sometimes those personal affects belong to other people, so we want to make sure we clearly understand who the patients are. It would also be helpful to us if you could tell us if she is allergic to anything or if she was taking any medication that we should know about?”

  “I will ask her fiancé later tonight. Can I see her now then?”

  “Yes. Let me take you up to her. Remember what I said, that superficially she looks a lot worse than she is. It’s the internal head injuries that we are worried about.”

  We both get up and I follow her out of the room, back down the hall to a corridor on the left. We walk for about five minutes, through several long corridors, and past two wards which are filled with people being treated from the effects of the bomb blast.

  I have never seen so much suffering in my life before. The corridors outside the wards are full of relatives crying and being comforted, their anguish affecting everybody around them. Grief, anger, relief, and joy all mix together, the relief and joy of the relatives who find out that their loved ones are only lightly wounded being quickly replaced with a shared grief for the relatives of those who have not been so lucky. As I see the human devastation all around me, I know that the sights and sounds of the wards in the Royal London tonight will haunt me for the rest of my life, and I will never forget the destruction a terrorist bomb can wreak. I have been watching the television all day following the accounts of the bombings, but nothing, and I mean nothing, is able to prepare you for the reality of death, twisted bodies and blood that is still so obvious all around me. This is not a sanitised news report for consumption at six o’clock by people eating their evening meal and drinking cups of tea. This is the sharp end of the stick. People are dying here, fighting for their life. And Sally may be one of them. This is where they should bring the terrorists when they catch them. They should force them to see exactly what human destruction they cause, and tell them to imagine what it would be like if their loved ones were among the dead and wounded.

  As we turn into the ward where Sal is being looked after, blue-dressed nurses buzzing around everywhere and attending the wounded and critically ill, I feel a strange concoction of emotions stirring within me. I feel like an impostor being here. All the other visitors are overwhelmed by emotion because they either love or are very close to the person they are visiting. Me? I hardly know Sal. Before coming to London I had only ever had fleeting conversations with her in a pub or over the phone. Since getting to London I have got to know her a little more, but not much.

  My reactions to Sal have been very mixed. Initially I was in awe of how lucky Guy was to have her, Sal being seemingly everything you could ever wish for in a girlfriend. But now,…now I hate her. I can’t believe what she has done… she is just like the rest of them, just like…

  “Mr Jardine, are you okay?” the nurse is asking, standing in front of a green curtain surrounding a bed on the ward.

  “Yes. Yes, I am,” I reply, swallowing hard, and stealing myself for the next few minutes.

  “Could you wait here a second. I would like to get the doctor for you. He may be able to answer any more of your questions.”

  She is gone for a few minutes. I stare at the long green curtains in front of me, wondering what on earth Sal will look like. Will she still be asleep,…in a coma..., or will she have woken up? What happens if she has any brain damage?

  “Mr Jardine? Hello. I am Dr Sonecha,” a voice interrupts my thoughts, a soft hand thrust out towards mine looking for a handshake. “I believe you are here to help identify the young lady?”

  “Yes. Her mother is in an old folks home and isn’t well enough to travel. Her fiancé is in America. He asked me to come.”

  “Good. Well, thank you for coming. Let’s step inside then. If she is who we think she is, please just nod and then step back outside.”

  The nurse opens up the curtain in front of us, and I step through, the doctor following immediately behind.

  .

  .

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  .

  .

  A woman is lying in the bed, her face swollen, cut and badly bruised. One arm, her left, is in plaster, and the other is partially wrapped in bandages. Her hair, once golden blonde, is now matted and dirty, swept out of her face and lying lifeless on the pillow on which her once beautiful, now slightly grotesque face is resting.

  I walk to the edge of the bed and look down at her, tears immediately rushing up to engulf me, a reaction that I had not anticipated, catching me completely off guard. My legs feel slightly weak, and subconsciously I find myself reaching out to the edge of the bed for support. Immediately the nurse is beside me to steady and comfort me.

  “Is it her?” the doctor asks, which even to me in my grief stricken state seems like a stupid question: why would I be so upset if it wasn’t her? And then again, to myself, “Why the hell am
I so upset? Why am I reacting this way?”

  “Andrew?” the nurse prompts me.

  “Yes,” I reply, nodding quietly in affirmation. “Yes. This is Sally Wentworth.”

  “Thank you.” The Doctor says, his hand on my shoulder. Together we all step back outside of the green curtain.

  “Mr Jardine, I’m afraid I can’t ask you to stay for very long. Miss Wentworth is scheduled to go for a brain scan in twenty minutes, and we can’t afford to miss the slot. I believe the nurse has already explained to you the condition Miss Wentworth is in?”

  “Yes, she’s in a coma,” I reply.

  “Well, ...yes and no. At this point in time, all we can conclusively say is that she is not yet waking up and responding as we would hope for. We will know more after the scan, during which we can look for signs of damage, and also in more detail at her brain activity. In cases like this, where we are waiting for a patient to wake up, it often helps if a relative or friend will sit with the patient and talk with them, or touch them, or hold their hand. Sometimes this elicits a response from the patient. Often a patient may be roused to consciousness through such external stimuli.”

  “I don’t really know her that well,” I try to tell the doctor.

  “But you know her well enough for her to recognize your voice? Why don’t you talk to her about the last time you saw her?” he asks.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I reply.

  “But it might help, Mr Jardine. Anyway, I have to get on. The nurse will come back in ten minutes, but perhaps you could sit with Miss Wentworth till then, if you would like?”

  Do I have a choice?

  The nurse opens the curtain again for me, and I step through and sit down on a chair beside Sal’s bed. She is surrounded by an array of electronic equipment, with wires taped to her head and other parts of her body which constantly monitor her vital functions. I look up and see the steady “blip, blip, blip” of her heart trace periodic jagged green lines on one of the machines.

  “Hi, Sal.” I say, emotion beginning to well up within me again. “It’s me Andrew.” Then perhaps totally unnecessarily I add, “…Guy’s flat-mate.”

  I watch her closed eyes, hoping for some sort of response. There is none.

  “Guy says ‘Hi!’ He is stuck in America at the moment, but will come back as soon as he can. He’s going to catch the first plane home. Hopefully he will be here tomorrow. Mandy says ‘Hi’ too…”

  Still no recognition in her eyes. No eyeball movement. Nothing.

  “Guy says he loves you. He misses you. He’s very worried about you. He asked me to tell you that you have to get well soon. He loves you Sal. He needs you…”

  Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I imagined it, but for a second I thought I saw her eyelids move, or at least a slight movement of her eyeballs underneath her eyelids. Standing up, I lean over her, closer, and say it again.

  “Guy loves you Sal. He loves you very much. He needs you. You have to wake up soon so that you will be well by the time he comes back. You don’t want him to see you like this, do you?”

  No movement. No response. I must have imagined it the first time.

  Her unbroken arm is lying beside her body on the other side of the bed, and I walk around to it, gently lifting her hand up and placing it in my open palm. I squeeze it gently.

  “Sal,” I say gently. “I have to go in a minute. The doctor says that they are going to do some more tests on you to see how you are, but I will be back tomorrow as soon as I can. Would you like me to bring some grapes or something? Something nice to drink? Just squeeze my hand if you want me to bring you something?”

  I look at her hand, my fingers and palm alert and waiting. I hold my breath, hoping for some form of response. “Sal, just squeeze my hand if you can hear me…?”

  Nothing. Her soft hand lies inert in mine, her fingers not moving.

  “Sal, try once more. Guy sends his love…are you looking forward to seeing him?”

  Nothing. Although perhaps that may have been a dumb question to ask her, especially if she is thinking about another man now,…and not Guy.

  “Sal, should I tell your mum about your accident…squeeze once for ‘yes’, and twice for ‘no’…”

  Or don’t squeeze at all if you can’t hear me.

  There is no response.

  .

  .

  So I sit alone in the cordoned-off cubicle holding Sal’s hands, wondering how on earth it is that I have come to this? I look at her face, and another wave of emotion rolls over me, surprising me with its intensity and I fight back the urge to cry. I bite hard on the back of my teeth, clenching my jaw together and swallow hard.

  I am so confused. I am angry…so very angry…with the woman who is lying in the bed in front of me. For the past week this woman has been responsible for so much anguish within me, and she has the potential to cast my best friend into the same pit of despair that I have been living in for the past month. She led me up a garden path, attracting me to her and making me believe she was different than the others, and I was pleased, genuinely happy, for Guy. Sal gave me hope, hope that there were other decent women like her out there, …And yet, at the end of the day, I find out that she is no different than any other. She is exactly the same as the rest. Deceitful, dishonest and a liar. Then suddenly, part of me thinks that perhaps she deserves everything that has come to her.

  I close my eyes and shake my head, breathing deeply. What am I becoming? Surely, with thoughts like that, then I am as much a monster as she is…no, more so. In fact, I am far worse. How on earth can I wish so much pain on another person, especially someone like Sal?

  She does not deserve this. No one deserves this. No one! To be blown up and put at death’s door by some bloody terrorist, for a cause that Sal has no interest in or no connection to. Her only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time… it could have been anyone. It could have been me.

  I open my eyes and look at Sal. In spite of the bruising, she is still so very beautiful.

  .

  I feel a hand upon my shoulder and I open my eyes to see a Kleenex tissue being offered to me by the hand of the nurse.

  “Mr Jardine. You have to leave now. I’m afraid it’s time to take her upstairs for the scan. You can come back tomorrow during the day at any time, although it’s probably best to call on the way in, just to let us know you are coming. The best time to visit would be about 11 o’clock, as the doctor will be on the ward and he will be able to give you the results of today’s tests.”

  “Thanks,” I say, wiping the tears out of my eyes. “And please call me immediately if there’s any change.”

  .

  --------------------------

  .

  I am sitting at home in the darkness in the lounge. There is a half-empty tumbler of Guy’s special whisky sitting in front of me. I have already drunk a full half-glass. I have just dialed Guy’s number and the phone is ringing. It is picked up after four rings.

  “Guy here,” he answers in a semi-formal way, the stress in his voice immediately discernible even from these two short words.

  “Guy, it’s Andrew. I’ve just got back from the hospital…”

  “Is she alive? Did you see her? How is she?” he practically shouts at me, the desperation in his voice wrenching at my heart. I can feel his love for Sal from all this distance, reaching out to me, praying that I will give him good news.

  “Guy…I’m just going to tell you exactly what happened okay? The news is both good and bad, but the bottom line is that Sal hasn’t regained consciousness yet, and the doctors don’t yet know the reason why she hasn’t.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks. “You’re scaring me.”

  “I went to the hospital, and Sal is in intensive care. The good news is that she hasn’t lost any limbs, and she seems to be all in one piece, apart from a broken arm which should heal without any problems. They’ve already put it in a plaster. Sal was in the same carriage
in which one of the bombs went off and she was thrown against the side of the carriage by the blast. She got severe concussion. She hasn’t woken up yet and the doctors don’t know if she has any brain damage or not. I stayed with her for about half an hour and then they asked me to leave so that they could take her away and give her some brain scans.”

  “So is she in a coma?”

  “To be honest, I don’t actually know what a coma really is…She looks like she is, but the doctors said they can’t tell if it is a coma or not until they get the results of the scans back. Anyway, they told me to go back tomorrow morning, and the doctor should then be able to give me the results of tonight’s scans.”

  Guy breaks down in tears at the other end of the phone. I say nothing, waiting for him to come back to me.

  “Did you talk to her? Did you tell her that I love her and that I’m coming home as soon as I can?” he asks through his tears.

  “Yes. I did. Several times. I don’t know if she heard me or not, but I definitely told her.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Bruised, and her face is swollen. Guy, should we be telling her mother?”

  “No. Not yet. We’ll talk about it tomorrow when we get the results from the doctor.”

  “I’m sorry Guy. I wish I had better news for you.”

  A few moments silence, and I know he is still crying.

  “Guy, can you hear me?” I ask gently.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here.”

  “We have to be positive about this. We just have to be there to help her through this. Let’s not worry about things that may not even be and which we can’t control. You never know, the doctors said that she might just wake up this evening and complain how hungry she is!” I say, trying to lighten the mood a little. “The thing is, we’ll know more tomorrow morning, and the news could be all good. Let’s not imagine anything bad, okay?”

  “No... You’re right. You’re right,” I hear him trying to persuade himself.

  “So, when are you getting home?” I ask.