Waking Broken Page 2

  The engine note rose as the driver of the Peugeot pulled away from the ninety-degree turn. Picking up speed, the vehicle went past the short stretch of verge where fishermen and walkers sometimes parked. It was still accelerating as it reached the point where the road began to curve, following a broad bend in the course of the river.

  The angle of the curve was gentle but it was enough. Moving out of the sunshine, the Peugeot was travelling at approaching forty miles per hour as it entered the shade of the yew trees. In less than a second, the car’s wheels were on black ice. The smooth sheen was like polished glass poured across the tarmac. The effect was instant. With no friction to keep them in line, the rear wheels stopped following the direction set by the pair in front. Instead, the arc of the road took control. The Peugeot’s back end began to follow its own trajectory. Momentum slung it out of the bend: sending the red estate car straight towards the oncoming cyclist in the bright yellow jacket.

  Harper stopped and looked around the street in startled dismay, trying to spot her blonde head amongst the flow of other pedestrians. He had been so busy concentrating on trying to get another cigarette out of the packet he had let his attention drift away from his quarry. Now it looked as if he had lost her. A minute earlier he had been gaining. Then he glanced up and she was no longer in front of him.

  As he dithered, the cigarette he had just managed to free from its crumpled pack dropped to the pavement. He swore, torn between bending after it and trying to catch sight of where the woman had gone.

  Going for the cigarette, he spotted her as he stood up. She had crossed the road and was turning up a side street. He had already nearly halved the gap between them and he was determined not to miss the opportunity. With a spring in his step, he launched himself off the pavement. Focused on his moving target, he was oblivious of the approaching car.

  Riding close to the edge of the road, Harper’s tyres had been running across loose grit washed down from the hill and he had completely avoided the ice.

  Now he saw the oncoming car begin to slide.

  His mouth opened. He began to squeeze the brake levers. There was no time to do anything else.

  2. Geese

  Monday, 11.48am:

  Elsewhere, normality continued. The unfolding of a lone personal drama, potential tragedy for those concerned but unremarkable in a wider context, failed to stop the world from turning.

  In the newspaper offices where Danny Harper worked, the morning went on without pause. Reporters sat at phones and keyboards, creating that day’s mix of slurs, rebuttals and tirades. Relayed to sub-editors: the copy was tweaked, tightened or padded. Next it would be slotted into the spaces between the adverts on the pages being laid out for the first edition. Pictures were cropped, headlines composed and paragraphs shuffled: all part of the daily jigsaw puzzle known as the news.

  As his colleagues continued their work without any inkling life was about to change, Harper’s eyes met those of the oncoming driver. It was that freeze-frame moment, the point where disaster is inevitable but milliseconds from happening. Horror, fear and resignation in two touching gazes.

  Then, hiatus over, time wound back up. It reached its normal speed and sprinted beyond. It kept accelerating: events happening too fast to comprehend.

  Action. Reaction. Impact.

  In the flat Harper called home it was quiet. Bedroom, lounge and kitchen were still. The only disturbance came from the dining room. At exactly that same moment when metal and plastic made contact with flesh and bone, as lacquer and paint met skin and sinew, a tulip petal fell from a wilting stem. Too long severed from its parent bulb, too long sat on a sunny windowsill: the flower’s days of beauty were over. Twisting slightly, the lemon yellow petal lost its grip and dropped to the varnished wooden floor below.

  Elsewhere, while Danny Harper’s body flew through the air, his fiancée leant back in her chair and picked up the phone. Content in life and work, she was untroubled by thoughts of calamity or catastrophe. After one last sip of coffee, she punched in a number and relaxed, getting ready to steal half an hour of company time for a chat with her mother.

  Spinning from the force of the impact, Harper’s body turned a couple of times in mid-air, his legs and arms whirling in graceless spirals as it flew. His mind was still absorbing the force of the impact: no time or capacity to register the messages coming from his eyes. A continuing screech of metal and abrupt howl of rubber on tarmac went equally disregarded.

  Then, slam. His body hit.

  In the flat, a mouse trotted out from behind a broken cupboard and strolled towards the front door. It sat for a moment cleaning its whiskers then looked around, weighing up its options.

  At the newspaper office, the news editor glanced at a rota, checking names against the date, wondering where Harper had got to this time.

  Sunlight streamed in through the plate glass windows. The building had felt cold first thing but as the day went on the temperature in the offices lining the third floor of Westcote House had risen steadily.

  Rebecca Shah leant back. She sighed. A quick click of the mouse and it was gone. Problem sorted. Job done.

  She looked around. On the other side of the office, Sarah Young caught the movement and looked up. Their eyes met. Sarah’s look flicked sideways and Rebecca nodded. She stood up and moved away from her desk, heading towards the corridor that led to the ladies toilets.

  The corridor was even warmer than the main office. Sandwiched between thick glass and white-painted walls, the air was starting to bake. Rebecca stopped halfway along the passage and looked down. Below, the cobbled riverfront walkway that ran along the back of the office building was in full sunshine. But there were few pedestrians about and those who had braved the elements moved quickly, tugging collars up against the sharp wind.

  Rebecca turned. She was about to move on along the corridor when the door behind her opened and Sarah came through. Her friend hurried up. Sarah had been late getting to the office and there had been no opportunity to talk during the morning.

  Sarah grinned eagerly. ‘Well? How was it? What was he like? When are you seeing him again?’

  Rebecca raised her hands. ‘Woah! One question at a time.’

  Sarah pursed her lips and flapped a hand. ‘Come on. I need to know.’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘Truth is there’s not much to tell.’

  ‘Huh? What do you mean?’

  ‘I just emailed him. Politely.’

  ‘Oaaw, no!’ Sarah’s face fell. ‘I thought he sounded really good. Nice guy. Good looks, good job — and a lovely car.’

  Rebecca laughed. ‘Yeah, the car was definitely a plus. He was halfway there before he even started. I was already imagining romantic weekends away. You know, touring the West Country with the top down, checking into secluded little country house hotels, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So?’

  Rebecca smiled wryly. ‘He still lives with his mum.’

  Sarah shrugged noncommittally. ‘Doesn’t have to be a bad thing.’

  ‘She still makes his sandwiches for him every day. Puts his tea on the table.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Makes his bed for him too.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Rebecca paused, then laughed. ‘I reckon if we did go off for weekends away we’d have his mum sitting in the back with us.’

  Sarah giggled.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Rebecca frowned, ‘perhaps she’d be in the front seat and I’d be on the luggage shelf.’

  Sarah made a vain attempt to stop herself from smiling.

  ‘That’s a shame. I really, really had high hopes for this one. But tell me more. How did the evening go? When did you start to realise?’

  She took Rebecca’s arm. ‘You’ve got to fill me in on all the details.

  Rebecca glanced over her shoulder at the office door. It was nearly midday.

  ‘Tell you what, we’ll go out for lunch. There’s a new Mexican opened along Cecil Street I want to
try. The paper said they’re doing a lunchtime special. We’ll get out at one and go there.’

  There were still a few minutes to go before one o’clock when the phone on Rebecca’s desk rang. She grimaced when she saw who the call was from.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Can you pop up, Rebecca.’

  She caught Sarah’s eye as she stood up, pulled a face and tilted her head towards the stairs leading up to the top floor. Rebecca held up her hands and spread her fingers.

  ‘Ten past,’ she mouthed.

  Sarah pouted and shrugged in resignation.

  At the top of the stairs, Rebecca straightened her shoulders and put on her best blank expression. She approached Claire Hamilton’s expansive desk with a professional smile. ‘Hello, Claire. How can I help?’

  ‘Take a seat, dear.’ A beringed hand waved graciously at the sumptuous leather armchair off to the right.

  Rebecca carefully ignored the armchair and perched herself on the edge of an office chair that sat between two barren bookshelves. She loathed the leather chair. It looked luxurious but sucked the unwitting down into a clammy, unpleasant embrace.

  Everyone in the office had experienced the blob at some stage. All hated it equally. The armchair looked innocent, welcoming even. Most people, the first time they were invited, fell into its trap. They thought themselves privileged to be invited into the top domain, seated next to the boss. But then, as the blob collapsed beneath them and they sank into its clutches, the mistake would dawn on them. Once in, they were trapped, caught in a position from which it was hard to escape with any semblance of grace. And, once imprisoned in that soggy leather blancmange, with no choice but to look up into Hamilton’s nostrils.

  Rebecca smiled down at her miniscule employer as she quickly raked through her memories in search of oversights: work not delivered on time, possible errors of judgement or other misdemeanours.

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Claire?’

  ‘Yes, dear, there is.’ The vermilion lips curled. ‘As a matter of fact I’ve got a little something that will be right up your street.’

  Hamilton flicked her fingers at a red folder.

  ‘I’ve got a client who needs some help from us. He’s not normally someone I’d pass on to you Rebecca. I think you lack the experience and… shall we say social background for this particular individual. Given who it is, I would deal with him personally but maybe, given the circumstances of the brief, you might have particular skills relevant to his needs.’

  Rebecca nodded, expressionless. ‘Is that so?’

  The bird-like creature behind the sweep of desk fluttered her eyes coyly. ‘Yes, I think it is. This could be the opportunity for you to show us what you are capable of Rebecca. I’d like you to have a good look at this outline and come back with some detailed proposals for how you, on behalf of the Hamilton Agency, can meet the requirements of this particular client. Your suggestions would, of course, take into account the particular sensitivities involved.’

  Hamilton smiled at Rebecca with the maximum wattage used on staff and flicked again at the red folder.

  ‘I would suggest you take this away somewhere quiet and read it through carefully. Make sure you appreciate all the details. I would like to see a full analysis of the brief and some detailed proposals of how you suggest the Hamilton Agency should present this to the client. Keep your response to a dozen pages.’

  Rebecca stood up and reached over for the folder. ‘Okay. I’ll start looking through it this afternoon.’

  Hamilton nodded, her tight helmet of blonde ringlets moving in unison with the rest of her head. ‘Yes, you should. If you think you could manage it, Rebecca…’

  Rebecca gave a quick smile. ‘Oh yes, that’s alright Claire, the other projects I’m working on aren’t urgent. I can make time for this today…’ Her voice died away as she realised Hamilton had not finished her sentence.

  The smile was a touch more wintry this time. ‘Yes, Rebecca, I’m sure you will. If you make sure your response is on my desk before… say, four o’clock this afternoon. Would that be alright?’

  It was nearly one-thirty before Rebecca had a chance to speak to Sarah again. They met in the corridor.

  ‘I guess lunch is off,’ said Sarah.

  Rebecca sighed. ‘I’m sorry. She just sprung it on me. You know what she’s like and I could hardly say no. Things have been a bit dodgy here with me after that business back in the autumn. I don’t want to risk pissing off la belle dame too. Once she gets her knife out you might as well forget it and leave.’

  She shrugged. ‘Besides, it might be a good project anyway. Sounds quite interesting.’

  ‘Really.’ Sarah’s eyebrows rose sarcastically. ‘An interesting client? I didn’t know we had any of them.’

  ‘Well, he does sound a bit different from most of them.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Someone called Paul Cash. He’s an artist, bit eccentric by the sound of it.’

  ‘Paul Cash?’ Sarah’s eyes opened wide and she giggled. ‘Paul Cash? You’ve not heard of him before? The Lord of the Manor?’

  Rebecca looked blank for a moment then gave a little gasp. ‘Him? That’s Paul Cash?’

  She looked at Sarah and smiled. ‘I hadn’t put two and two together. This could be more interesting than I thought.’

  Rebecca turned and stared at the view. On the other side of the river, they could see the old Pine Mill Warehouses, blank windows gaping out of dirty stonework. Beyond were a few streets of houses and then countryside stretching away towards the Whitelow Hills. The distant fields still shone in the bright winter sunshine. Further off to the left the horizon was broken by the swell of Beacon Ridge.

  A pained expression crossed Rebecca’s face and she frowned. Out of nowhere, a strange sensation cut across her mood: a darkness that crept across her soul. Biting her lip, she glanced down at the river. It was full at the moment: the tide in and covering its muddy banks. Small waves were being whipped up on the water’s surface by the brisk wind and Rebecca stared at them uncertainly. She shivered abruptly, feeling slightly nauseous.

  Sarah laughed.

  ‘What’s that? You can’t be cold?’

  Rebecca shook her head, feeling slightly disorientated.

  ‘No… just a strange feeling. Kind of… like you know, when they say there’s someone walking over your grave. Weird.’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Geese.’

  ‘Geese?’

  ‘Yes, like goosebumps. That shiver down your spine. Geese.’

  Rebecca frowned at her friend, normality returning as the eerie sensation faded. ‘What are you on about? Geese? Where did you learn that one?’

  3. Lost in a crowd

  Monday, 6.20pm:

  Harper aimed for the large pillar. On reaching its reassuring bulk, he let his body slump against the concrete tube. He closed his eyes, waiting for the queasiness to subside.

  Around him, the usual humdrum emergencies of a busy hospital continued. Medical staff, visitors and patients eddied and flowed past Harper’s temporary anchorage, faces reflecting different states of mind: anxious, fearful, exhausted, calm, careless, detached. To either side of the entrance smokers huddled together, enduring the cold for the sake of a few more lungfuls of soothing poison.

  Harper took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. The giddiness had faded. He still felt awful but much happier: being upright, outside and on the move was far better than stuck inside on a bed. The hospital had advised against going home, wanting to keep him in for observation. They did, however, concede — somewhat grudgingly — that they had no power to keep him. Despite a bad limp in his left leg and a mass of bruises elsewhere, there was nothing apparent to endanger his life.

  ‘You were lucky,’ said one nurse, her tone suggesting he had cheated in some way. ‘You must have a skull like a rhino.’

  Now he was outside, Harper felt more like his head was made of tissue paper and cobwebs. However, he had no intentio
n of going back to confess.

  He looked around, frowning. His memory was blurry and concentration tricky. Small objectives like walking were manageable but trying to cast his mind further seemed impossible. If he tried, his thoughts seemed to go off into a grey soup. It was disconcerting. Little unseen thoughts whispered at the back of his mind. He had a sensation of something out of place but was unable to focus on it enough to work out what was bothering him.

  Harper swallowed. The best thing was to get on. Give his head time to calm down on its own. The impact was sure to have shaken a few connections. But, importantly, nothing was broken.

  He tugged his denim jacket tighter as a gust of wind whipped around a parked ambulance. As he did so, Harper scowled at the tatty old garment. It was familiar enough but not right. His bike’s disappearance was upsetting. But he could sort that out another day. The thing with his clothes, though, was bizarre.

  He had arrived at the hospital by ambulance. He was unconscious when they picked him up but already starting to wake as they unloaded him onto a trolley and wheeled him into casualty. As he came to, Harper was unable to remember anything of the day leading up to that point. All he had was a vague memory of going to bed the previous night. Then waking on a hospital trolley.

  To begin with, he was too woozy to worry about why he was being taken into hospital. Watching the lights swimming overhead, he realised it was an odd way to start the day but puzzling over it seemed troublesome. Only later, as he lay there waiting to see a doctor, did the fog start to recede.

  His memory gradually returned: getting up early, taking out his bike and cycling out of the city. He remembered seeing trees, riding somewhere cold but sunny, enjoying himself: feeling good. After that, it was still all a bit uncertain.

  He asked about his bike while discharging himself but the nurse did not appear to know anything about it. ‘I was told you were crossing the road when you were hit,’ she said.