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

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  “No, sorry. She just left. She’s gone out on a date. I think Gail said that it’s with the guy from work you persuaded her to out with?”

  Blast. I forgot about Ben.

  “I thought that was last night?” I reply.

  “It was meant to be, originally, but they rescheduled because of the bombs.”

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  The knowledge that Gail is out with Ben just now somehow makes it all worse, and I find myself feeling at my lowest point since I arrived in London. The day spent talking to Sal and sitting with her, watching and waiting, has been both emotionally and physically draining, and now I am left feeling tired, empty and very, very sad. Without realizing it I somehow manage to walk miles without paying attention to where I am, and very soon I am lost. Looking around me I do not recognize anything, and in the end I resort to flagging down the first taxi I see.

  “Take me to Porter’s Bar please. You know, the big Irish bar at the back of Covent Garden.”

  It cost me twenty pounds to get there, but I only stay for five minutes. I had hoped that the sight of so many young people enjoying themselves, talking and dancing, may have snapped me out of my depression. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect, and like the first time I came here with Guy and Sal, I soon leave feeling slightly alienated, and even lonelier than before. Desperately. Lonely. And stressed.

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  So stressed that I am unable to eat, and not having eaten anything since breakfast, the first pint of beer I have at the bar around the corner goes straight to my head. I leave the pub a little drunk, not sure exactly where I am going, but finding myself heading by default to Covent Garden. It’s the only place I know in London where comfort is almost guaranteed. Which is how, four hours later, against all my better instincts, knowledge and judgment, I end up in bed beside Dianne.

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  Chapter Twenty-Five

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  Someone is getting out of the bed beside me, slipping out of the protective arm that I have wrapped around her, a large breast sliding free of the hand that seems to have been cupping it while we slept. I open my eyes just in time to see an attractive naked woman walking away from me towards the bathroom, my attention focusing on the sexy sway to and fro of her beautifully formed, round bottom. A few moments later she walks back into the bedroom, her equally beautiful breasts bouncing mesmerizingly up and down as she comes towards me.

  “Good morning, sleepy head”, Dianne greets me, leaning over the bed and kissing me full on the lips, her breasts tantalizingly close to my mouth.

  “Good morning,” I muster up in reply.

  “Fancy a tea?” she asks, followed rather timely by “…or me?”

  “Both, please,” I say, “…and in that order”. She smiles and walks away to the kitchen.

  I sink back into the bed, lying back and pulling the covers up over my face. “What the hell am I doing here?” I ask myself, a half-smile lingering on my face as I recall what happened when we got back to Dianne’s flat last night. “Or rather, why am I still here?”

  Hearing the pitter-patter of Dianne’s naked footprints I pull back the covers and prop myself up on some pillows. Still naked as the day she was born, Dianne is carrying two cups of tea into the bedroom. She is smiling from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling in the morning sunlight that is streaming through the half-opened curtains. She is smiling because she knows that I am staring at her naked body, approving of every centimeter of her almost perfect form, comfortable in the power she has over men with the knowledge that most men desire her, including me.

  “So,” she says, handing me a mug, and sitting down on the bed beside me, cupping her tea in both hands, her chest once more facing me, in full view and within arm's length, her legs crossed sexily towards me.

  “So,” I reply.

  “I’m surprised you’re still here. I thought you would have left before I woke up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Have I just committed the cardinal sin of meaningless, one night stands and actually stayed until the morning? Do you want me to leave now?”

  “Not yet. At least, not until afterwards...”

  “After what?”

  She smiles. “Some more of last night.”

  “Perhaps,” I reply. “But first, Miss Dianne, I have a question for you.”

  “And what would that be, Mr Andrew?”

  “I was just wondering, if last night and this morning will remain for our own private consumption this time, or is all this due to once again become the official office headlines by Monday lunchtime?”

  “Hmmm…That depends who I decide to tell…”

  “Exactly. Could you perhaps tell no one this time? Or is that just asking too much of you?” I say half-jokingly, half-totally seriously, a slight edge of warning in my voice. Dianne looks at me, raising her eyebrows quizzically, then laughing.

  “I’ll ignore that little rebuke,” she says, getting up from the bed, putting the mug down on the side table, lifting the duvet and slipping underneath the covers.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, mocking protest.

  “Nothing you can’t stop me from doing at any time, simply by saying ‘stop!’”, she replies, as her mouth nuzzles into my neck, her hand sliding down to my groin, her fingers exploring, stroking, encouraging.

  “And what happens afterwards?” I ask, in-between kissing her.

  “Afterwards…then you can leave.” She answers without hesitating, “But not before.”

  Her voice, so full of authority, so confidant, and so enticing.

  “Dianne,…” I say, looking into her eyes, so close to me, so attractive.

  “What Andrew?” , her free hand caressing the side of my face and pulling me towards her lips again. The sides of her cheeks are flushing red, and her pupils are dilating.

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, “This meaningless sex, one-night stand thing…I just can’t do this. I can’t.”

  “Of course you can Andrew. Of course you can.”

  Without flinching, she reaches out to the bedside table, pulls open a drawer and reaches inside. She takes out a condom, rips it open with her teeth and disappears under the covers where she remains for several very wonderful minutes. Frustratingly she eventually stops what she is doing and re-emerges from underneath the duvet, thrusting her breasts into my face and climbing on top of me, her legs straddling me and pinning me underneath her.

  “Dianne, stop. I have to go,” my hands digging into her back, pulling her bottom onto me.

  “I’m not stopping you…”

  Moving now, back and forward…

  “This is the last time, Dianne, it won’t happen again.”

  “Okay,…no problem. Whatever you want…Whenever you want…”

  Her breasts are in my face, her hands pulling on my hair, pushing down. The pressure building.

  Increasing. Faster, harder. Deeper. Until…suddenly…Suddenly…

  She collapses into my arms, her head heavy against my face, our breathing laboured, both gasping for air. Knackered in the truest sense of the word.

  “Now,” she says minutes later when our breathing returns to normal.

  “Now what?” I ask, sweaty and no longer protesting about anything in the world.

  “Now you can leave,” she replies.

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  The bus comes and I show my pass, climb the stairs and find a seat at the back of the top deck, hiding myself in the corner. My thoughts turn from last night to the day ahead, and instantly a tingle of dread runs down my spine. According to the voice message Guy left me on my mobile last night, he will be back this afternoon. His flight arrives about seven o’clock, and he’ll get a taxi straight to the hospital. I look at my watch. It’s twelve o’clock. I’ll probably get to the hospital in half-an-hour, which means I will have to spend another half-a-day alone with Sal.

  The thought of see
ing Sal again lying so helplessly in the bed, the thought of me sitting there holding her hand trying to find the courage to support her and will her back to life, when out of all the people in London, I am probably the least qualified to do this…the ridiculousness of the whole situation…why does it have to be me? Why couldn’t Mandy be here to support her? A wave of anger surges through me, and in a moment of clarity I see once again what a simple solution it would be if Sal…how to put it…if Sal were not to make it? Then I wouldn’t have to explain to Guy what she had done, and he would be free to find a new girlfriend without having to suffer through all the years of anger and hatred towards Sal for going off with someone else behind his back.

  Even before the thought has left my mind, it is quickly followed by more self-loathing and disgust. Why am I being so horrible? How is it possible that such horrific thoughts can be generated within my brain? Sal is so young, she doesn’t deserve this! She is the victim of a terrorist explosion, is lying at death’s door, needs my help and these are the thoughts that I am having? With thoughts like these, I am definitely just as bad as the bastard terrorists that blew her up in the first place…

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  The ward is a hive of activity this morning, full of the sounds of visitors fussing over their injured relatives. As I walk past the closed green curtains surrounding each bed, I overhear their positive words of encouragement, unashamed expressed emotional outbreaks of relief and love, and even some laughter. All of the beds have visitors today except for one bed, which this morning has the curtains pulled aside back to the wall, and lies empty. As I near it, I stop dead in my tracks, a cold-clammy sweat instantly breaking on my forehead and the palms of my hand. For a moment I am confused and wonder if I am mistaken. Perhaps I have it wrong. I look at the bed opposite, which I am sure was empty yesterday but now seems full? Am I disorientated and facing the wrong way down the ward? With a sickening feeling of dread I realize that no, I am right, that the bed that was empty yesterday already has a new patient today, it’s curtain now closed, the new patient and relatives all secreted away inside. There is no mistake here. The empty bed I am looking at now, is, without doubt, the one where Sal was lying last night. It’s just that now, Sal is no longer there. The bed is empty.

  In her place, fresh blankets are stacked neatly on top of the mattress and the pillow is fluffed up and ready and waiting for its next occupant. I think back to the nurse returning my questioning look as I stared at the other empty bed yesterday. Her meaning then was all too clear: the patient had died.

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  I’m too late. Sal is gone. My evil wish has come true.

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  I make it to the bathroom just in time, launching myself into a cubicle and reaching the toilet bowl just as the contents of my stomach erupts from my mouth. Once, twice, three times I retch, my whole body and soul going into simultaneous spasms of dread, fear and self-disgust.

  This is my fault. I wished her dead again, and this time it has happened.

  I retch once more.

  But how? How can this have happened? The doctor never said anything about the possibility she might just die without warning? How the hell am I meant to explain this to Guy? To her mother?

  Pushing the cubicle door closed behind me I start breathing deeply, trying to control my emotions, trying to prevent the waves of guilt from piling over me, again and again. It takes me ten minutes before I start to calm down and am able to gather my thoughts enough to start to think clearly again. I need to find out what happened to Sal before Guy gets here.

  Wrapping some toilet paper around my hands I clean off some of my vomit from the toilet seat, flush it all away, and then walk over to the sink where I wash my hands and face. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, disgusted by who I see staring back at me. I hate myself.

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  I feel almost claustrophobic as I walk back into the ward towards Sal’s empty bed. The ward now seems so confining, the walls pressing in on me from all sides, the voices of the visiting relatives all so very loud. Not finding a nurse, I stand in the middle of the corridor surrounded by closed green curtains and relatives attending the other survivors. Every nerve in my body is telling me to get out of here, to run as far away as possible, but I stand my ground. I have to find out exactly what happened to her.

  After five minutes a nurse emerges from one of the closed curtains. She is pushing a trolley containing some metal trays full of water and some towels, looking like she has just finished giving the patient behind the curtain some form of bed bath.

  “Excuse me,” I say, hurrying over to her. “Can you tell me what happened to Sally Wentworth? When did she die? I was only here last night….she…she looked fine then…?”

  The nurse looks up at me, and then glances over at the empty bed at the end of the ward.

  “Oh,” she says. “Oh, I am so sorry,” starting to go through the motions of the comforting ward sister.

  I interrupt her, “Could you just tell me what happened? Her fiancé is due to arrive in a couple of hours time and I need to know what to say to him.”

  She looks at me questioningly.

  “Are you the next of kin?”

  “No,” I reply. “That’s the fiancé. Guy. I’m a friend…someone who knew her ..the best friend of the fiancé…The police and the doctor know who I am.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Andrew Jardine.”

  “Andrew, I am so sorry, but who told you Miss Wentworth is dead? She’s fine…Well, let me correct that. Her condition is much the same as yesterday, but because she is now stable and will be requiring long-term treatment, we have transferred her from the Intensive Care ward up to the Brain Trauma unit. It’s two floors up…”

  “She’s alive? I…, I thought the bed was empty because…because she was… She’s honestly alive?”

  “Yes. We only took her upstairs about two hours ago. Oh dear, Andrew, I can see what you were thinking. You must feel terrible. Would you like a cup of tea to refresh you?”

  Tea, the great British cure all.

  “No, I’m fine. Can you just tell me where to find Sally?”

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  Chapter Twenty-Six

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  When I am finally shown where Sal is lying in her new ward, I am so overjoyed to find her still alive that without thinking I walk over to her and kiss her on the cheek.

  “Sal,” I say happily, “Hi, It’s me again, Andrew?”. I don’t know what I am expecting when I say this, perhaps a miracle, perhaps some outward sign of recognition,… but there is no response whatsoever, not even a fluttering of her eyelashes.

  “So,” I say, holding her right hand in mine and stroking it quite vigorously. “How do you feel? Do you think you'll be able to wake up soon? To come home with us? You know, Guy is hoping to get back today to see you. He took an early flight and will be flying back via Canada today, so hopefully he will be here in a few hours time…Are you looking forward to seeing him?”

  I look at her hand. No movement.

  “Well, what do you want me to talk about? Why don’t you tell me? Sal, listen, we need you to fight whatever is happening in your head. We need you to be strong and to come back to us. Guy needs you. Why don’t you try to wake up before he gets back? Sal, …can you hear me? Squeeze my hand?”

  I look at my watch. It’s only one o’clock. Guy probably won’t get here till about nine o’clock. What can I talk to her about until then?

  A nurse walks past Sal’s bed.

  “Excuse me?” I try to catch her attention. She stops, and comes over to me. “Can I ask you some advice?” I ask. “My name is Andrew. Sally, my friend here is in a coma…” I immediately feel stupid for saying this… talk about teaching someone how to suck eggs… “What should I be doing or sayi
ng to her to try and help her wake up? Should I be asking her questions, trying to prompt her to reply, or should I just be speaking about anything? I’m running out of things to talk about…”

  “Just say whatever comes to you. What you did at work today, what you’re doing tomorrow. It might be good to talk about things that you did together, perhaps throwing the odd question into the conversation. And when you run out of things to say, you could just read a newspaper to her or maybe even read her a book. I think it’s a good idea to keep touching her, letting her know that you are there. Andrew, just do whatever you can. I’m sure she’s grateful for you just being here.”

  “Do you think she can hear me?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t tell you that she can, ...or if she can’t. Sometimes when a coma patient comes round, they tell us that they can remember hearing voices, so we know that some people do. But even if they can’t consciously remember anything, I think the subconscious probably does. The human brain is an amazing thing. It’s just that we don’t understand as well as we would like exactly what happens when it gets damaged. Can I get you a cup of tea? I was just about to make one.”

  “Yes please. It’ll help keep me awake.”

  I turn my attention back to Sal.

  Looking at her now I realise that I know practically nothing about this woman. The only connection to her that I have is through Guy, and all I know about her is from what he has told me. We’ve only been out together socially a couple of times, so, apart from a few scattered meetings over the years, we’ve never really spent any quality time together. So what on earth can I talk to her about?

  Over the next hour I try to recall aloud every moment of the evenings that we have spent together. I talk about Guy, what I know about him, his childhood, our time at university and the things we got up to together. I recount to her tales about “The Three Amigos” and how much fun we had being young, carefree and stupid together. By six o’clock though, I am spent. I have once more run out of things to say. So after texting Guy the details of where Sal now is, I just sit there, holding her hand and staring at her peaceful face, listening to the sound of her heart beating through the electronic beep, beep, beep on the monitor beside her bed.