In a Dark, Dark Wood(52)

‘Tom?’ I mouthed. But even as I did, his door opened a crack and his face peered out.

‘Did you … that sound?’ he whispered. Clare gave a grim nod.

This time it was no open door. No wind. This time we could all hear it: clear footsteps as someone made their way through the tiled kitchen, across the parquet floor of the hallway, and then the soft, definite creak of a foot on the first of the stairs.

Somehow we had drawn together into a little knot I felt someone’s hand scrabbling for mine. Flo was at the centre, the gun raised, though its muzzle was shaking badly. I put my free hand out to steady it.

There was another creak on the stairs and an indrawn breath from all of us, then a figure rounded the newel post half-way up, silhouetted against the plate-glass window that overlooked the forest.

It was a man – a tall man. He was dressed in some kind of dark hoodie, and I couldn’t see his face. He was looking down at his phone, the screen glowing ghost-white in the darkness.

‘Fuck off and leave us alone!’ Flo screamed, and the gun went off.

There was a deafening, catastrophic bang, and the sound of shattering glass, and the gun kicked like a horse. I remember that – and I remember that people fell over.

I remember that I looked up to see – it didn’t make sense – the huge plate-glass window shattered – the glass spattered outwards onto the snow, clattering onto the wooden stairs.

I remember the man on the stairs gave one choking exclamation – more of shock than of pain – and then he fell all of a heap, thudding slowly down the stairs like a stuntman in a film.

I don’t know who turned on the lights. But they flooded the tall hallway with a brightness that made me wince and cover my eyes – and I saw.

I saw the pale frosted stairs splashed with blood, and the shattered window, and the long, slow smear of gore where the man’s body had slithered down to the ground floor.

‘Oh my God,’ Flo whimpered. ‘The gun— the gun was loaded!’

When the nurse comes back, I am crying.

‘What happened?’ I manage. ‘Someone is dead – please tell me, please tell me who’s dead!’

‘I can’t tell you, love.’ She looks genuinely sorry. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t. But I’ve brought Dr Miller here to take a look at you.’

‘Good morning, Leonora,’ he says, coming across to the bed. His voice is soft, pitying. I want to punch him and his f*cking compassion. ‘I’m sorry we’re a bit tearful today.’

‘Someone is dead,’ I say very clearly, trying to keep my breath even, keep myself from gulping and sobbing. ‘Someone is dead, and no one will tell me who. And the police are sitting outside. Why?’

‘Let’s not worry about that at the moment—’

‘I am worried!’ I shout. Heads in the corridor turn. The doctor puts out a soothing hand, patting my leg beneath the blanket in a way that makes me want to shrug and shudder. I am bruised. I am hurt. I am wearing a hospital gown that’s open at the back and I’ve lost my dignity along with everything else. Do not f*cking touch me, you patronising arsehole. I want to go home.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I understand that you’re upset, and the police will hopefully have some answers for you, but I’d like to examine you, ensure that you’re up to speaking to them, and I can only do that if you’re calm. Do you understand, Leonora?’

I nod my head, mutely, and then turn my face to the wall while he examines the dressing on my head, checks my pulse and blood pressure against the readings on the machine. I close my eyes, let the indignities fade away. I answer his questions.

My name is Leonora Shaw.

I’m twenty-six.

Today is … Here I have to be helped, but the nurse prompts me. It’s Sunday. I have not even been here twelve hours. In which case, it’s 16th November. I think this counts as disorientation rather than memory loss.

Cameron is prime minister.

No, I have no nausea. My vision is fine, thanks.

Yes, I am having trouble recovering some memories. There are some things that you shouldn’t have to remember.

‘Well, you seem to be doing remarkably well,’ Dr Miller says at last. He hangs his stethoscope round his neck and puts his little torch back in his top pocket. ‘All the observations overnight are fine, and your scan is very reassuring. The memory trouble is concerning me a little bit – it’s quite typical to lose the few minutes before a collision but it sounds like you’re having trouble a little bit further back than that, is that right?’

I nod reluctantly, thinking of the patchy, staccato blasts of images that invaded my head throughout the night: the trees, the blood, the swinging headlights.

‘Well, you may find it starts coming back. Not all causes of memory trouble—’ He avoids the word ‘amnesia’, I have noticed ‘—are down to physical trauma. Some are more … stress-related.’

For the first time in a little while I look up, meet his eyes directly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this is not my speciality you understand – I work with the physical head trauma. But sometimes … sometimes the brain suppresses events that we’re not quite ready to deal with. I suppose it’s a … coping mechanism, if you will.’

‘What kind of events?’ My voice is hard. He smiles. His hand is back on my leg again. I resist the urge to flinch.