In Darkness, Shadows Breathe

by Catherine Cavendish

  “No, you’re not going back to the ward. We’ve got you all nicely installed in your room.”

  “That’s fabulous. Thank you.”

  “You’re doing really well, especially considering how poorly you were just a day ago. Maryam will be along soon. She’s on her rounds now.”

  Joyce walked me down to the far end of the brightly lit corridor and opened the door.

  My bed had been moved to a sunny room, painted in a pale lilac. A wall-mounted TV, bed table, chair, bedside cabinet, adorned with my things, and a door leading to my own bathroom sent a small thrill of pleasure coursing through my newly replenished blood.

  “You’ll be fine here, won’t you?” Joyce asked.

  “It’s lovely. So calming.”

  “I think it’s the nicest room of the lot. You’ve even got a reasonable view too.”

  She guided me around the bed and I glanced out of the window. Three floors up, my view took in the car park and extended over the treetops – with a few orange, red and yellow leaves still clinging to twigs. Parkland took over from there and a development of luxury flats where a friend of mine lived. A slight breeze sent more leaves fluttering through the air and floating to the ground.

  Joyce helped me into bed but did not reattach the leg massage wraps. She picked them up off the chair. “Now you’re going to be more mobile, you won’t need these,” she said. She produced a fresh pair of pressure socks from her pocket. “Sorry you’re still stuck with these though.”

  I grimaced. Joyce proceeded to roll them on my legs with her expert touch.

  “There you go. All ready for Maryam. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Thanks,” I said and Joyce left.

  Vanessa…Vanessa….

  I jumped. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I couldn’t have heard that, but it was right in my ear. That same raspy whisper.

  The door opened at that moment and I gasped. Maryam came in, escorted by Joyce.

  “Are you all right?” the consultant asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “No, I…. Sorry, I was miles away,” I said.

  “How are you feeling now? Mr. Waring told me about your problems, but we’ve sorted you out with some fresh blood, and your temperature and blood pressure are perfectly normal again.”

  “I’m much better now, thanks. Especially now I’m in here.”

  “That’s good.” Maryam pulled on some sterile gloves. “We’ll just have a little look down below.”

  I assumed the position and she and Joyce inspected me. “That’s coming on really well. See, Joyce, some of the stitches are already dissolving. You heal quickly,” she said to me.

  “Runs in the family. My mother had fast-healing skin.”

  “That’s excellent. How about the pain?”

  “Not nearly as bad as I thought it would be.”

  With a little difficulty, I rearranged myself and Maryam consulted my notes.

  “I see we have you on Oramorph, paracetamol and codeine. And you are coping well with those?”

  “Seem to be. The morphine push gave me a violent migraine so I was glad to get off that.”

  “The pain you experienced may have been down to your low blood count.”

  “And the nightmares? They were terrifying and always the same.”

  “Yes, I heard you woke up screaming. Tell me about them.”

  I described the tunnel, the figure with the frightening eyes. Joyce looked down at her hands. Maryam’s eyes grew wider.

  “That is so interesting.” She turned to Joyce. “You remember the patient with the cervical carcinoma?”

  Joyce nodded. She looked uncomfortable. “She described the exact same dream.”

  “Was that recently?” I asked.

  “About a month ago, I think,” Maryam said, looking at Joyce for confirmation. The nurse nodded but continued to look as if she would prefer to be almost anywhere but where she stood right now.

  “She isn’t still here, is she?” I asked, a nagging knot of concern planting itself in my stomach.

  Maryam and Joyce exchanged glances. “No,” said Maryam. “How is your appetite? Are you eating?”

  That change of subject felt false somehow. What didn’t they want to tell me?

  “I don’t feel hungry.”

  “Try and work on that. You need to eat, and drink a glass of water every hour. The nurses will monitor your fluid intake. Also try getting up and walking around a bit, keep those leg muscles working. No marathons, but a gentle walk up and down the corridor a few times a day should help. Can we get Nessa a leg bag? It’ll make you more mobile,” she said, addressing me. “During the day, you can attach the drainage bag to the catheter and strap it around your leg, rather than having to cart the stand around with you.”

  “When can the catheter come out?” I asked.

  “In about a week. Best not to rush it. Apart from that, keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you.”

  They left. But the nagging question kept at me. Why hadn’t they wanted to talk any more about the patient who had dreamed the same nightmares as me, and what had happened to her?

  * * *

  Getting in and out of bed hurt like hell. I girded myself each time. Sitting in the chair proved torturous, even with the special cushion Sandra supplied me with. I settled for little walks every three hours or so. The morphine in the Oramorph clogged me up so they gave me Movicol to encourage my bowels to produce, and that resulted in more frequent hikes to my bathroom the next day.

  Paul came to see me at every visiting time. He brought fresh nightwear and took away my dirty washing. He brought me books and took away those I had read. I watched daytime TV for the first time in my life. Ancient reruns of Columbo, McMillan & Wife and Bewitched entertained me and, meanwhile, my body did its job and I carried on healing. Maryam continued to be pleased with my progress and, ten days after my operation, they took the catheter out.

  I knew there was a chance the operation could result in urinary incontinence, but thankfully all went well and I was progressing in the right direction. They were even starting to suggest possible dates for my discharge. Another couple of weeks and I would be home.

  Then, out of nowhere, the nightmares began again.

  * * *

  I had switched off the TV. The lights had dimmed in the corridor outside. The ward was in sleep mode and my eyes felt weighed down. I twisted myself into my best comfortable position, lying on my right side with my legs slightly drawn up. Half asleep, half awake, I heard the whisper and felt the cold breath on my left cheek.

  “Vanessa…come to us.”

  Even though I told myself not to, I couldn’t help myself. I pushed back the sheet and crawled out of bed, wincing at the now-familiar pain. My feet found my slippers and I tied my dressing gown over my nightdress. I made my way carefully to the door and opened it. At the far end of the silent corridor, there would be someone at the nurses’ station but, almost opposite me, a door I couldn’t remember noticing before silently opened. An indeterminate shadow crossed over the threshold and disappeared inside. Oddly, I felt no fear, just an irresistible urge to follow it.

  The door was much older than the others in the hospital and had no glass observation panel. It closed quietly behind me. As it did so, I was thrust into a dark gloom with only sufficient light to see that I had entered an old and neglected corridor. Greenish yellow paint peeled off the walls and ceiling. I looked down at the floor. Filthy, mildewed linoleum in a nondescript shade of blue. The place smelled dank and musty. Cobwebs hung off old gas mantle wall lights. It was an incongruity. I must be dreaming and yet a part of me felt sure I wasn’t.

  “Vanessa…come….”

  I knew I should turn back and get out of there but I couldn’t. Something made me go on in the direction of that voice. A
shadow flew across my field of vision. It could have been a woman. I wasn’t sure.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “I need to know who you are and what you want from me.” I surprised myself at the firmness of my voice.

  No answer.

  I turned around. Behind me, I could see nothing, not the door I had entered by nor the corridor I had walked down. Ahead of me, nothing but the endless corridor, stretching apparently to infinity. It seemed familiar, but how could it be? I had never been here before in my life, yet…. A brief memory of the tunnel in my dreams swept across my mind.

  A sudden movement in the corner of my eye distracted me.

  Unmistakably a woman this time.

  I could only make out her silhouette, but she seemed to be dressed in a long cape. On her head, she wore an old-fashioned hat tied around her chin with a ribbon. A woman straight out of a Dickens novel. I must be dreaming this. Surely this couldn’t be real.

  I stared. She was weeping, her image clearer with every second. She didn’t seem to notice me, as if we existed in two parallel worlds, but I could see her, even if she couldn’t see me. I could tell the skirt she wore was of some cheap material, a muddy brown color and much mended. She also wore a jacket. This had once been red, probably quite a bright red, but now appeared faded and stained while her cape was muddied at the hem and also old. It had once been black but now looked almost rusty in parts. A straw hat of poor quality and riddled with holes perched on top of her unkempt pile of dirty-blonde hair. This was a poor Victorian woman and she didn’t belong in this hospital in the twenty-first century. But then, in that particular corridor, neither did I. In that particular corridor the twenty-first century didn’t exist.

  Her weeping grew louder and she spoke, her words almost indecipherable through her choking sobs. “How could I come…to this? The workhouse…. I wish I was…dead.”

  She vanished, leaving an echo of her cries behind.

  Behind me, the corridor had grown lighter, so that I could retrace my steps. I wanted to race out of there, but no way would my legs allow for that. My best motion was still a shuffle. Finally I made it to the door and turned the antiquated Bakelite knob.

  Safely through, I leaned against it, relieved to smell the clean aroma of the ward corridor, while trying to collect my thoughts. A nurse I didn’t recognize approached me.

  “Whatever are you doing out here?”

  Still trying to comprehend what had happened, I shook my head. “I went for a short walk, through here.”

  I stepped aside and pointed at…a blank wall. “But that’s impossible. There was a door there. I went through it and down this derelict corridor. There was a woman….” I stopped. The nurse’s incredulous expression told me that if I carried on, she would feel duty bound to report that Vanessa Tremaine, who had been progressing so well, was now certifiably insane.

  “I’ll go back to bed now,” I said. “I must have dreamed it.”

  “That’s quite possible. Come along, I’ll help you.” She took my arm and steered me gently but firmly back to my room. Tucking me into bed, she said. “If you want anything, just press your buzzer and we’ll come and help you. Save your exercise for daylight hours.”

  “I will. Thank you. Sorry to be a nuisance, I didn’t mean to be.”

  “You’re not. Don’t worry. Sleep well.”

  But I didn’t sleep at all for the rest of that night. I knew what I had seen. Even if I couldn’t have seen it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Somehow I had run out of reading material. Paul had been bringing me books every day but, once again, I seemed to not merely read them but devour them. As soon as I laid one down, I would pick up the next. My hospital life had developed its own routine. Up at six-thirty, gird myself for the struggle out of bed, mutter curses under my breath, hobble to the shower, perform the careful douching ritual on my rapidly healing wounds and emit gentle sighs as the warm water soothed and caressed the soreness.

  I pampered myself with a rather expensive shower gel, which must not come anywhere near the surgically affected areas. I washed and conditioned my hair, dried myself carefully, ensuring I used some sterile pads for my nether regions. Only the gentlest of pats here, but I still needed to ensure I didn’t leave wet skin, which could become sore only too quickly.

  Once out of the shower, dressed in a clean nightie, with my dressing gown wrapped around me, I would switch on television or read until my morning cup of strong tea arrived. I didn’t even have to ask – the staff knew me now. Builders’ tea they called it; only a splash of milk and one sugar.

  A few uneventful days had gone past and I had put my strange nocturnal experience out of my head. Almost.

  This particular morning, having finished my breakfast porridge, I flicked through the television channels. A choice of news and current affairs – the usual diet of gloom and despondency, children’s entertainment, reruns of old shows, talk programs…. Nothing fitted my particular taste at that time.

  The door opened and a smiling face I didn’t recognize greeted me. “Hello, would you like a book from the library?”

  I could have kissed the bubbly young girl with maroon hair and a badge that proclaimed her to be a volunteer.

  “What have you got in the historical fiction line? Or crime even?” I asked, perking up.

  “John Grisham, Philippa Gregory….” She consulted her trolley out in the corridor. I could see it was pretty well overflowing. I finally settled on two books – John Grisham’s Camino Island and Kate Furnivall’s The Italian Wife. They would keep me going for a few hours at least. Paul had promised to replenish my stocks that evening.

  After the volunteer had left me, saying she would return the following week, I inspected each book in turn. Deciding to start with Kate Furnivall, I turned the pages until I found the first chapter. As I did so, I became aware of a piece of paper lodged about halfway through. Maybe someone had used it as a bookmark. I retrieved it. It was a small scrap of old notepaper, folded once. I opened it and revealed a poem, or maybe part of a poem, written in small, neat and somewhat old-style handwriting and, by the look of it, using a fountain pen:

  In darkness, shadows breathe….

  I read the poem through twice. For some unaccountable reason, it sent shivers up my spine. I had never heard of the poet, Lydia Warren Carmody, which was a little strange as I had studied nineteenth-century poetry and prided myself on my familiarity with even the more obscure writers. I examined the notepaper in greater detail. It was good quality but looked as if it had been torn from a larger sheet. On closer inspection, the ink seemed a little faded, the white paper had taken on a yellowish hue and when I sniffed it, an odor of mustiness assailed my nostrils. The book did not have this smell so I could only conclude that this poem had been written or copied at some stage in the past and, for whatever reason had turned up at a time when its owner needed to mark their place in this book. As someone who had used anything from till receipts through to tissues to mark my place in my current bedtime reading, I didn’t find this strange, but there was something about this poem that struck a chord with me. An uncomfortable one at that.

  * * *

  “Not the best poem I’ve ever read,” Paul said, handing it back to me. “Never heard of the poet either.”

  “Nor have I, but there’s something…oh, I don’t know…something oddly familiar about it. I can’t put my finger on it, but I had the weirdest feeling when I first found it.”

  “What sort of weird?”

  “As if I was meant to find it. This will sound crazy, but it felt like someone had put it there knowing it would be me who read it.”

  “Yes, you’re right. That is a bit way out there, even for you.”

  I smacked him playfully on the arm. “Stop it. I know it sounds mad but it really felt like that. Still does actually.”

  “Next time you see the library lady you
had better ask her who had the book before you.”

  “If she remembers.”

  “Don’t they make a list of who has what?”

  “She didn’t while she was in my room but she could have after she left I suppose.”

  “Bound to, or they would be losing stock all over the place.”

  “I’m going to donate some of my books, so you won’t have as many to take home with you.”

  “Good, that will be a great comfort to the heaving bookshelves at home.”

  “You can never have too many books.”

  “Up to a point, but when you find yourself falling over the damn things to get out of bed in the morning, there comes a time when you say ‘enough is enough, I must have a clear out.’”

  “I don’t think we’re at that stage yet. There’s a bit of wall in the living room that doesn’t have any shelves on it.”

  “Yet,” Paul added, grinning.

  “Yet,” I said and grinned back. “Ouch.”

  Paul’s grin left his face to be replaced by a look of concern. “Does it hurt a lot?”

  “Only when I move, sit, stand, lie down…. Same old, same old.”

  “Maryam’s pleased with you. She told me you’re healing remarkably quickly.”

  “It’s in the genes.”

  “She remarked on that as well. Rarely, if ever, has she seen someone’s skin heal as fast as yours. She reckons you’ll be out next week if you carry on making such good progress. How’s the walking going?”

  “I’m about due for another little trot. Care to accompany me?”

  “Sure. It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”

  Paul steadied me while I struggled out of bed, into my slippers and dressing gown and he put out his hand to help me up.

  “Thanks, but I must do this myself.” I gritted my teeth and Paul looked as if he was experiencing the same sharp pains as I was.

  “That looked harrowing.”

  “Nothing a ton of co-codamol couldn’t deaden. Trouble is they only allow me two every six hours.”