“Still taking the Oramorph?”
“Yes, but I’m trying to do without it as much as possible. They won’t let me have it when I leave here. It’s the morphine. Addictive.”
I tucked my hand into Paul’s elbow and we made slow progress out of the door and into the corridor.
“Where to?” Paul asked.
“How about a nice stroll into town, dinner and a show?”
“I wish.”
“So do I. Seriously, though, let’s go down to the café on the ground floor and have a coffee.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
I hesitated before we moved off.
“What’s up?”
I was staring at the wall opposite, still half expecting a door to open up. “It’s odd, because it was so real,” I said and realized I had made no sense whatsoever.
“You’ll have to explain that one to me,” Paul said.
I touched the wall. “You remember I told you about the night the nurse found me standing outside here, convinced I had come through a door in this wall?”
“Ah, yes.” He knocked on the adjacent wall and then on the one that so intrigued me. Both sounded solid. Paul repeated the knocking with the same result. “Definitely no door there.”
“At the time, it was like the past and present sort of merged. As if I’d stepped out of my world into a previous age.”
“I wouldn’t mind a bit of whatever they’re putting in those pills.”
“I’m serious, Paul. You had to be there. It felt so real.” I touched the wall, almost willing the door to reappear. “How old is this building anyway?”
“Not that old. Twenty odd years or so. You know what used to be here, don’t you?”
“Actually, I’m ashamed to say I don’t.”
“And you a historian too!”
“I know. Shocking. Go on then, enlighten me.”
“The workhouse. Dating from the mid-nineteenth century I believe. They closed it in the 1930s along with the old hospital. Maybe they recycled bits of those buildings to construct this one, I don’t really know. They do say that events can leave a sort of marker on the places where they occur. I read that somewhere. Can’t remember where now.”
That woman I was so certain I had seen in the corridor. She had mentioned the workhouse. Suddenly I felt cold. Shaky. My palms grew clammy.
“Maybe that walk isn’t such a good idea right now,” Paul said.
“No, come on, let’s go. I could do with a decent coffee.”
I nodded at the nurse on duty. “Won’t be long,” I said.
“I’m kidnapping her,” Paul said.
The nurse laughed. “Don’t go too far and don’t get into any mischief now.”
I rolled my eyes. “Chance would be a fine thing.”
We opened the double doors at the end of the ward and stepped out into the main hospital corridor for that floor.
“They don’t let me off the ward on my own yet.”
“Still need your training wheels then?”
I smiled. “Something like that. I’ve been downstairs with the occupational health adviser and Sandra and I had an excursion to the far end of the corridor.”
“Did you take a packed lunch?”
I giggled. “No, but a passing St. Bernard let me have a nip of his brandy.”
We had reached the lift and Paul pressed the ‘down’ button. “Do they still do that, I wonder? You know, send St. Bernards with barrels of brandy round their necks off into the Alps to assist climbers in trouble.”
“I have no idea. I always thought it was an urban myth.”
A ping announced the lift’s arrival; the steel doors slid smoothly open. It was empty. I pressed ‘ground’ and the doors shut with a gentle whoosh, while a woman’s voice announced, “Doors closing, going down”.
“She must get pretty fed up,” Paul said. “Saying the same thing, day in and day out. Wonder where they keep her?”
“In the basement probably. Next to the Morgue.”
“Ground floor. Doors opening.”
“Thank you,” said Paul as we emerged into the throng of staff, patients and visitors milling around, some looking lost, others purposefully striding along toward their destination.
The coffee bar was over half-full and I sat at a small table while Paul fetched us cappuccinos. I felt self-conscious of my left hand, with the cannula still attached. It was a mass of bruising. Livid blue, green, yellow and red marks aggravated by the anticoagulant they injected into my arm each evening. I hid it under the table, resting it on my left knee.
While I waited, I looked around. Every face I saw held a story trapped within. Some looked tired, weighed down by whatever was troubling them either physically or mentally, or probably both. Strange that, despite the fact I was engaged in a war with cancer, most of the time I hadn’t felt scared about anything other than the operation itself and the thought of the pain and discomfort afterward. Except for a brief wobble, it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t recover. Maryam had played a large part in that. Her positive, matter-of-fact way of dealing with my situation inspired confidence in me.
I caught the eye of a woman whose bald head proclaimed her to be a chemotherapy patient. She smiled and the radiance of that gesture warmed me. For a second I thought I recognized her but I didn’t know anyone going through chemo, so I dismissed the thought. I smiled back and she moved off, on her way to keep an appointment or to get home probably. Our lives had touched for maybe one second, perhaps not even that, but a little glow burned inside me.
“You look happier,” Paul said.
“A patient smiled at me.”
“That’s nice of them.”
“I smiled back. You had to be there. It loses something in the translation.”
Paul’s attention was distracted by something behind me. “Someone wants a word with you.”
I turned to see the patient with whom I had exchanged smiles. Once again, I felt that warm glow. This woman had the charisma factor.
She spoke and her voice was soft. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I wasn’t sure if you were aware of the little girl.”
“Little girl?”
The woman nodded. “She’s standing next to you.”
A chill spread down my left arm. Paul paused in the act of sipping his cappuccino.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my mouth dry. “I don’t know what you mean. There’s no little girl here.”
The woman touched my right hand. “She doesn’t mean you any harm. She is reaching out to you.”
Paul coughed. “Thank you, but I don’t think my wife needs to hear this right now.”
“It’s all right, Paul. I want to hear what she has to say.” I turned back to the woman. “Who is she? Do you know?”
“Only that her name is Agnes and she has come a long way to be with you…Vanessa.”
“How do you know my name?”
“She told me. She’s going now, but she says she will be back and she will show you….”
“Show me what?” I heard the panic in my voice. Paul shuffled in his seat and stood up. I put a hand on his. “It’s all right, Paul. Please.”
“I won’t have you being upset. You’ve been through enough.”
“Forgive me,” the woman said. “I don’t mean any harm, but I had to speak to you. I can see what others can’t. Sometimes it helps.”
“Paul, I’m fine. Honestly.”
Concern on his face, Paul sat down and pushed his cup away. He was frowning and his breathing had quickened a little.
I smiled at the woman. “Please tell me, what is it the little girl wants to show me?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. She left before she could tell me.”
“Pretty convenient,” Paul muttered.
I
shot him a warning glance. He raised his eyes heavenward.
“Don’t be alarmed. She only wants to help you. I must go now, but she will come back soon, I’m sure.” The woman moved on and left me staring after her.
“There are some real nutters around,” Paul said, standing. “Come on, let’s get you back to the ward. I think you’ve had quite enough excitement for one day.”
I stood awkwardly and accepted Paul’s steadying hand. “You can say what you like about her, and maybe you’re right, but that still wouldn’t explain how she knew my name.”
“You have it on your wristband.”
I glanced down at my left arm. Sure enough, there it was. ‘Vanessa Tremaine’, along with my date of birth. Could she have seen it? I tried to remember how I had been sitting, and whether my wristband had been visible to her. It was a little loose so it could have turned round on my wrist. Right now, it faced inward.
We made our way back to the lifts. “Either way,” I said as Paul pressed the call button, “you’ve got to admit it’s odd.”
“Don’t think any more about it. She’s probably having a good laugh now.”
“Maybe.” Once Paul helped me back into bed, I lay back against the pillows feeling weary. Such a short excursion yet it had sapped all my energy.
“You mustn’t overdo it,” he said, planting a light kiss on my lips. “Little steps. That’s what the nurses told you and that’s what I’m telling you.”
I smiled. My eyes felt heavy and the effort to remain awake was proving a losing battle. “I think I’ll have a little sleep now,” I said.
“Then I’ll leave you to it. I’ll pop back this evening. You get a good rest.”
“Thanks.”
Another kiss and he was gone. I fell asleep almost immediately.
* * *
That night, after Paul had left, I sipped my last cup of tea of the day and picked up the poem, re-reading it. In darkness, shadows breathe.
It resonated so clearly with me. Those dreams I had experienced; the way the shadows pulsated, as if they were breathing.
Then I thought back to the odd encounter with the…psychic I supposed I should call her. I glanced at my wristband again. Had she seen it? Paul seemed convinced she must have but I had a nagging doubt about that, especially when I remembered that I had been sitting with my left hand under the table. A sudden jolt set my heart racing. That was it. She couldn’t possibly have seen it, unless she had X-ray vision and could see through wood and metal.
The door opened and the cleaner came in. Over the past couple of weeks or so, Margie and I had become quite friendly. She was, I gauged, in her mid to late fifties, wore her impossibly black hair pinned up and brandished her cleaning cloths with scrupulous verve.
“You’re late this evening, Margie.”
She set about emptying the bin in my bathroom. “One of the girls called in sick so I’ve been covering for her. Nearly finished now though. I know you don’t usually switch your light out for a couple more hours, so I left you till last. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all. Bet you’ll be glad to get home.”
Margie paused and straightened her back. “Me feet are killing me. I have a date with a long soak in a hot bath.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“How are you doing anyhow?”
“Not too bad at all, thanks.”
Margie carried on in the bathroom and I finished my tea. When she emerged, she came over to clean my bed table and cabinet.
“Margie, how long have you worked here?”
“Since it opened. Over twenty years it is now. They’ll be pensioning me off before long.”
“Do you remember what was here before?”
Margie paused. “The old workhouse, asylum and hospital. It was derelict for many years.”
“So I believe. My husband said they demolished it to build this and may have used some of the materials in the construction. Do you know if that’s true?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t wonder. I couldn’t say for definite though. Why do you ask?”
“Idle curiosity. I have a lot of time on my hands at the moment.”
“You’ll soon be up and about again.”
“I’m getting there. Have you…have you heard any stories about this place? Things happening that people couldn’t explain, that sort of thing?”
“Oh yes. You always get people thinking they’ve seen ghosts in hospitals. Mind you, it makes you think when you hear the same story more than once from different people who couldn’t possibly have met each other.”
“Any in particular?”
“Well, yes, there was a lady in this very room about two years ago I think. She kept insisting that a little girl came to visit her every evening, stayed for half an hour or so and then left. Never said a word apart from telling her that her name was Agnes. She looked to be about ten or eleven and was dressed in clothes that could have come straight out of a history book. Very poor, threadbare and ragged. Other times she would turn up in only a thin cotton dress, maybe an undergarment, something of that sort. Time went by and I forgot all about it, and then not six months ago, another lady in this room told me almost the same story. Same description only she didn’t know her name. Oh…don’t tell me…. Have you seen her?”
“Not exactly. My husband and I were down in the café earlier today and a woman…I think she was probably a chemo patient because she had lost her hair…came up to me and told me a little girl was standing next to me. I couldn’t see her. She said her name was Agnes.”
“Very spooky.”
“Do you know if there was a door in the wall opposite here at any time?”
Margie thought for a moment and then shook her head. “Not that I can remember. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I had a…dream, I suppose. I went through an old door there into a derelict, dark corridor. At the time it felt so real I was convinced I had actually been there, but I couldn’t have, could I?”
Margie shrugged but didn’t reply. “I’ll do your floor now and then I’ll get going.”
I nodded. Something bothered me about her response, or lack of it, but I decided now wasn’t the time to pursue it. The poor woman wanted to get home to that hot bath she craved and didn’t need me holding her up.
She finished her work, wished me good night and shut the door behind her. Soon after, the nurse came to check my blood pressure and temperature, both of which she pronounced to be fine.
An hour later, I put my book down and switched off the overhead lamp. Through the window in my door I could see they had dimmed the lights. I yawned and laid my head down on the pillow, wriggling a little to find a more comfortable position. I closed my eyes and tried not to think too much.
* * *
I don’t know what woke me, but I had the impression of a noise or a sudden movement in my room. Reaching behind me, I switched on the light. For one fleeting second I saw something flash past me. Something? No, someone. A small, slight figure. Ankle-length flimsy dress, maybe an old-fashioned petticoat – the glimpse too brief to make out any other details.
Agnes.
It had to be, hadn’t it? The woman in the café had been right. I lay there, heart thumping, breathing fast, for some minutes, not daring to move and certainly not daring to switch off the light.
I couldn’t stay like this all night. I had to do something. The light had scared her off, but maybe if I called out to her, I could get her to return. What was I thinking? Who in their right minds would summon a ghost child? But I knew that was precisely what I was going to do.
“Agnes?” My voice cracked with fear and sounded more like a ragged squeak. “Don’t be afraid.” Who was I reassuring? Her or me?
Silence.
The door opened and I jumped. One of the nurses on night duty came in. “I saw yo
ur light on. Are you all right?”
“Oh yes,” I said, a little too quickly. I sounded false. “Having a little trouble sleeping so I thought I’d read for a bit.” I picked up my book from the bedside cabinet.
“I’ll get you a cup of hot chocolate if you like.”
“No, that’s fine, thanks. A few minutes with my book should do it.”
“As long as you’re sure. You looked terrified when I came in. Like you’d seen a ghost or something.” She laughed.
I managed a polite chortle and she left me alone.
Maybe if I did read, I could get so sleepy, I would actually drop off. It was worth a try.
I tried to read, but the words seemed to dance around wildly on the page. I took nothing in, which was annoying as, up until then, I had been enjoying the story. Half an hour later, I gave up and switched off the light, hoping that by some miracle sleep would grab me.
I lay in the darkness, the only sound my own breathing. I tried to concentrate on keeping the rhythm steady. In…out…in…out.
Something brushed my face. I snapped the light on. Nothing there. Not even a flash of a movement out of the corner of my eye.
“Agnes,” I whispered. “Don’t be afraid.” I could hardly believe myself. I, who was terrified, telling a ghost not to be afraid!
Did I imagine the tiniest whooshing sound as of the lightest breath a human could take?
* * *
“Nessa. Come on, time to wake up now.”
Joyce’s gentle voice drifted toward me, invading my sleep. I forced my unwilling eyelids to open and blinked at the bright light overhead.
Her eyes peered into mine. “That’s better. You’ve been asleep so long, at least ten hours by our reckoning.”
“What?” I struggled to sit up. Joyce helped me. “I never sleep that long.”
“Well, you just did and it’s taken me a good few minutes to rouse you. How do you feel?”
I put my hand to my head. “Better. I must have needed that.”
“Time to get into the shower now. I’m afraid you missed breakfast, but the mid-morning tea trolley will be along soon. Grab some biscuits.”
“I will.”
She left me to move at my own slow pace, which I punctuated with the odd “You bugger”, whenever something smarted, stung or pulled. Under the soothing warm water, I stared down at my belly, still distended from the operation, although I could swear I now had a better view of my feet than I had since before my surgery. My legs and ankles had also lost their disfiguring swelling and were pretty much back to normal. That, at least, was a relief.
In Darkness, Shadows Breathe Page 15
