The Blame Game. C.J. Cooke
31st August 2017
I can hear someone screaming. No, not screaming. A mechanical whine, a machine somewhere that whirs.
I open my eyes and immediately bright light squared off by a window blinds me. My eyes adjust and I see I’m in a room with a small rectangular window to my right. Plaster is peeling off the wall beneath the windowsill. I can hear shouting down the hall. All a bit Mad Max in here. A white sheet is drawn across my legs. My T-shirt and jeans are covered in dirt and blood stains. There’s dried blood all over my arms. I feel like someone’s beaten me with a metal bar.
My mind flicks through reasons that I might be in hospital like a slot machine spinning its three wheels printed with cherries and bells. Three sevens line up, and I remember.
The crash.
It comes to me in vivid, broken flashes. The sound of the car whipping round. I was sure I’d died. I was sure we’d all died. Did we hit a tree? I remember the car coming to rest virtually upside down. Helen was shaking like she was having a fit, her teeth chattering. I told her it was OK, that everything was OK. Her breathing slowed. After a few moments I managed to make out something she said.
He just came out of nowhere.
A tear slid down her cheek.
Who? I said. Who came out of nowhere?
The van. He just slammed into us.
I told her I loved her.
I love you too. I’m so scared, Michael.
I thought those were the last words I’d ever hear.
I think back to last night, when I chased after the guy who’d been trespassing outside our beach hut. I didn’t want to make much of it to Helen but when I got to the top of the bank I saw someone running towards a white van that was parked about a hundred yards away from the hut. I shouted, ‘hey!’, and this guy turns and looks at me, holding his hands at either side of his shoulders as if to say ‘what?’
I stopped dead in my tracks and gave a gasp. He looked exactly like Luke. Same sandy-blonde hair, same build, same face. I felt all the blood drain from my face.
‘Luke?’ I called out. ‘What are you doing here? Luke?’
He took a few steps towards the van, then jumped in and took off, the tyres kicking up white stones. I was so stunned at the sight of him that I didn’t react, at first. Then I started to run after him, thinking that if I could get the registration plate I could report him. He sped off down the path and took a right. There was no way I was going to catch up with him so I cut through the trees. Daft, on hindsight, but I was in a daze. Luke is dead. It could have been Theo. But why here? And why now?
I’m lucky to have made it out. The rainforest is fifty miles thick. One wrong turn and I’d have been in deep kimchi.
The bleep of the heart monitor tugs me back into the present.
I sit up and try to speak but my mouth feels full of cotton wool. I think back to the fire at the bookshop. The bookshop wasn’t just my pride and joy. It was an offering, an act of supplication to Luke. And they burned it down.
We’re not safe here. They won’t stop until we’re all dead.
31st August 2017
I’m woken by a man and woman removing my drip. Both are in plain clothes, the man dressed so casually that I jump when I see him standing so close. Jeans and a colourful Hawaiian shirt with a rosary around his neck. He speaks to me in Kriol.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ I tell him. He starts to gesture with his hand but I don’t understand it. After a few minutes of confusion the nurse says ‘X-ray’ and I realise they want to take me for one.
‘Yes. Yes, X-ray,’ I say, nodding. They bring in a wheelchair, tell me to take off my clothes to be gowned. I’m so hot and filmed in blood and dirt that I virtually have to peel them off, which takes a while. Every movement makes me yelp in pain. When Reuben starts to follow after the wheelchair they shake their head and I try to explain that he has to come with me, but they won’t hear of it. I look around desperately for Vanessa.
‘My son … my son’s autistic,’ I say, stumbling over my words. ‘He has to come with me because I’m afraid someone will hurt him. Please …’ The nurse rubs my arm and tries to tell me it’s OK, he is safe here in a hospital, and then they ignore me completely and wheel me down the corridor while Reuben stands in the ward, dumbfounded.
I’m crying and shaking all over when they wheel me into the X-ray room, weakened by fear and shock. The radiographer – a woman about my age, slim, concerned – speaks good English and asks me what’s wrong.
‘We were in a car accident,’ I say, and I’m trembling so badly I can hardly get the words out. ‘I’m afraid someone is going to come into the hospital and hurt us.’
She bends down in front of me and listens.
‘Who do you think will hurt you?’
‘A man,’ I say, gulping back air as though I’m drowning. ‘He was wearing black boots. He crashed into us on purpose … he’s going to come here, I know it!’
She takes my hand and I manage to take a breath. ‘Is there security at the hospital?’
She frowns. ‘Not really. But the police should help. If you had a car accident they will want to find who did this.’
This is comforting enough to help me stop shaking. ‘The police,’ I say. ‘The woman from the British High Commission said they would want a statement but they’ve not come to see me yet.’
She smiles reassuringly.
‘They will be here very soon. It is not a big police force so they may be busy. But they will help. If someone is trying to hurt you, the police will protect you.’
I lie on a cold metal table as she pulls the machine over my collarbone, then my legs and arms.
In my mind’s eye I see myself standing in our ground floor flat in Sheffield. Reuben is in his high-chair in the room behind me shouting and throwing beans across the room. The postman pushes a pile of letters through the letter box and Reuben screams at the sound.
Most of the letters are bills, but there’s a padded envelope sent on by our landlady, Lleucu, from our loft flat in Cardiff. Amongst the letters is a cream-coloured bonded envelope with ‘Haden, Morris & Laurence’ emblazoned in navy lettering across the back. It looks important, so I open it first.
K. Haden
Haden, Morris & Laurence Law Practice
4 Martin Place
London, EN9 1AS
25th June 2004
Michael King
101 Oxford Lane
Cardiff
CF10 1FY
Sir,
We request your correspondence in receipt of this letter to the address above.
Our clients desire a meeting with you regarding the death of Luke Aucoin.
The time to meet about this tragedy is long overdue. Please do not delay in writing to us at the above address to arrange a meeting.