All the Rage (32 page)

Michael could hear the distant wail of a police siren.

He could sense the last breath of air exhale from his crushed body.

From somewhere, he felt strong hands miraculously reach out and grab him. He was finally being torn from the grip of the raging fire.

‘Lauren, Lauren…' he heard himself inwardly lament. And in the last fading remnant of light, he wondered if it was
she
who had fallen, and found her final resting place: A place of peace, and everlasting beauty. Her demons had been vanquished.

Then the blackness descended on him.

Chapter Nineteen

 

‘Is
he
going to make it? ' Kara screamed. Her skin and clothes were caked black with soot. She
willed
the surgeon to give her the answer she craved.

All around her, it was chaos.

Just moments earlier, the calm of the hospital was shattered as medics rushed to the A & E entrance, ready for action as the ambulance carrying Michael screeched to a halt outside on the tarmac. He was quickly removed on a stretcher and rushed into intensive care. Kara watched in horror. She knew in her heart that he was close to death.

She and Marcus had arrived seconds before him in a police car, their wounds less severe than his. He was on a life support machine.

Marcus, breathless, stood beside her in the corridor. He saw her reddened eyes, ablaze with an intensity of utter confusion and defiance. He cradled her as they faced the white-coated doctor, who looked grave, his face the colour of his coat.

‘Are you an immediate relative? ' he asked.

Kara lied, desperate for news. ‘I'm his daughter. '

Marcus shifted on his feet and looked to the floor.

‘Very well,' the doctor responded, ‘your father is in a critical condition, and you should be prepared—'

Kara's legs buckled. ‘Oh, God, please don't let him die! '

He emphasised again. ‘You should be prepared, young lady. We are doing everything in our power to help him but his internal injuries are severe. We are dealing with smoke inhalation, burns to his lungs and external skin damage. ' The doctor gripped her shoulder, offering futile comfort and hope. She could read his face. His eyes betrayed him. Kara knew it was hopeless.

Marcus grabbed a chair and sat her down. A nurse brought a glass of water. Kara gulped, removing the horrible taste of smoke in her throat. Just what was Michael going through? She was lucky, escaping the worst of the flames. Somehow, drifting between such terrifying images, her brain failed to register the conversation between Marcus and the doctor, although the words “cardiac arrest” and “the next few hours are vital” cut through the air like a knife into her heart. It was bad, very bad. All she saw was blackness and despair.
Live, damn you!

Kara
fainted. The nurse caught her fall. After that, everything went into a haze of organised commotion. On recovering, she was helped to a side ward to have her wounds cleaned up and stitched. Kara didn't care about herself, but now, as nurses attended to her needs, she realised just how close all of them had come to certain death. She trembled, delayed shock taking hold. For the first time since escaping the fire, she examined herself: her clothes were saturated in blood. Her own blood. The pain kicked in. Nausea overwhelmed her. Tears flowed.

 

***

 

In the next cubicle, Marcus sat on the bed as a female doctor dealt with his hands, which were badly burned. Although in severe pain, he was only concerned for Kara. How the hell would she react if Michael didn't make it
?
According to the first doctor he spoke to, the prognosis wasn't a good indicator for survival. Shit.

He heard voices in the corridor. Marcus was informed that detectives had arrived and were awaiting the opportunity to interview him and Kara to find out what had happened at the farm.
Jesus.
He thought of the utter carnage. He was sure someone had died in the barn, but who was it? Caught up in the confusion, it was impossible to know who had escaped. His only priority at the time was saving Michael. Now, things were complicated. Had the farm become the scene of a murder investigation? Was he a suspect? His blood ran cold. They were all implicated. A feeling of panic and helplessness rushed over him. How could this be happening? Feeling trapped, he had this sudden sense of foreboding that for all of them the problems were only just beginning. But they were alive! And together! Nothing, he reasoned, could jeopardise this, surely?

From somewhere close, a loud electronic bleeping shattered his scrambled thoughts. All hell broke loose as the intrusive sound pushed the medical staff into a frenzied response. He watched as the corridor and beyond filled with people.

‘Tell me this isn't happening? ' Marcus heard Kara plead above the din.

Marcus looked at his doctor, who said, wide-eyed, ‘Emergency, wait here. ' Then she was gone. Marcus shifted to the corridor and was amazed to find it suddenly empty. Then his eyes stared at the adjoining room to his, the very one where Michael had been taken to. Christ. Everyone seemed to be crushed in there.

There was so much shouting and activity. Marcus was scared. Kara joined him, and held on to his arm as if her life depended upon it.

‘What's happening? ' she pleaded. ‘Tell me, please. '

The last words he heard came from the very doctor who had greeted their arrival at the A & E. What was he saying? What was he fucking saying?

The words slammed home.

‘We're losing him, team. We're losing him . . . '

 

***

 

Drifting, I search endlessly. But I do not find. It is a ritual without end.

Where am I? I have no voice. No feelings. Only the hunger.

I am called to witness, allowing me to create a vision, but I am powerless to act. Some of those living are receptive to my presence; others close their mind to imagination. Those I cannot help. Around me a vast sea of dead faces is each cursed in the same manner. Is this eternal conflict? I don't know. But it is a damned infliction.

 

‘Stand back, everyone! '

Thud.

 

I see continents. I see countries. Places I recognise. One such place is there before me now. It is a place of love and sorrow. I remember it well. Although I'm not supposed to have feelings, or attachment, I cannot observe without a certain dread entering my head.

This is a beautiful location. I see water and buildings. I'm getting closer now, and familiar objects strike me: little boats, narrow canals, sunlit squares. People are scurrying about their business, unaware.

One such building is a five-storey apartment block. It's in an affluent area. On the top floor, a family live in harmony. I hear the laughter of a child. It is a good home, at least for now. The man is occupied at his desk, dictating a letter on his laptop. A dog sits by his feet. In the kitchen, a woman prepares lunch, helped by the little girl. There is much gaiety. From somewhere, a classical recital soothes and embraces the well-being of each of them, uplifting their spirits. Happiness flourishes here.

 

‘Stand back, everyone! '

Thud.

 

The telephone rings. The young child answers, and shouts for her mother. She in turn wipes her hands and goes to the hallway to take the message.

I am called to witness. But I want none of it. The woman lifts the telephone to her ear and listens. She hears a voice. It is Irish. Although distant and faltering, the message is quite clear nonetheless.

 

‘Once again, everyone! Let's get it right this time. '

Thud.

 

The mother is at first polite and patient. Then her complexion turns to white.

I shout. Then I scream. But I am not heard.

Antonia, I am so sorry.

As for the other woman on the telephone? She is known to me.

 

Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

‘Okay, everyone. We have a signal! He's coming back to us…'

 

***

 

Adele Strange burst into the ward corridor, her expression a sudden mask of terror as she was confronted by a frightful sight of blackened faces

and the smell of burnt flesh. John Fitzgerald followed her in. He kept his distance and hovered sheepishly, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked his way.

‘I got your message,' Adele said, bewildered.

Kara and Marcus clung together despite the discomfort of their burns.

‘Christ,' Adele murmured, but she didn't have it in her heart to reach out and offer some kind of comfort. Deeply shocked, she asked instead, ‘What's happening? Where's Michael? '

Kara sobbed, and nodded in the direction of the melee.

Marcus took up from what she was thinking, and pointed further down the corridor. ‘Mr Strange is in that room, there seems to be a major problem. He shook his head. We don't think he's going to make it –'

Adele drew breath and swayed unsteadily on her feet. She composed herself and moved forward, jostling with the doctors, shouting, ‘Please let me through, please let me through, I'm his wife…What's happening? '

Then she disappeared into the chaos.

 

***

 

It was only later that Kara realised that three long hours had elapsed, but she couldn't recount one minute, such was her fear and utter exhaustion. It was all a blur. Now though, reality kicked in. She sat alone in an office, weak and numb, suspended somewhere between agony and ecstasy. Opposite from where she sat, a man in heavy glasses looked at her, indignation etched across his face. He spoke in an official tone.

‘Young lady, I am only too aware of the harrowing experience you have gone through. However, as the senior surgeon at this hospital, I must make my position quite clear. You lied to one of my colleagues pretending to be the patient's daughter. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't tolerate this. However, after discussing it with his wife, I'm prepared to let it go. Certainly, Mrs Strange is in forgiving mood and asks of me to bring you up to date with her husband's condition. '

Kara raised her shoulders and lifted her eyes to his.

‘The patient remains on the critical list,' he said. ‘However, he survived the trauma of a failed heart stoppage. It was difficult to revive him and only the expert intervention of Dr Seaman prevented his death. I hasten to stress, however –'

Kara wiped a tear from her cheek and blew her nose, interrupting his chain of conversation. She drew breath.

‘– that the condition of the patient gives great concern to us. He continues to live, despite himself. '

‘Can I see him? '

‘No. Only immediate family can see him. His wife and son are beside his bedside as we speak. '

‘Will he die? '

‘It's a possibility, although we are doing everything in our power to prevent this happening. He has a 60/40 chance of survival, at best. He has severe smoke inhalation which could have lasting damage to his lungs. His eyes too are damaged by toxic fumes. In addition, he suffered third degree burns on his face, hands and chest. Presently, he is attached to a respirator and heart and lung monitor. He is under 24-hour supervision by the pulmonary specialist. We will see. '

‘Thank you for telling me,' Kara said. She felt utterly redundant, waiting and praying for some good to come out of all this crap.

The man stood and extended a hand. ‘My name is Dr Yuri Oksana. Call me if you need anything. '

‘Are you Russian? '

‘I was born in England, but my parents are originally from Yalta, on the Black Sea, which is now the Ukraine. Now young lady, take my advice and concentrate on getting better yourself. You are a very lucky lady to have survived the fire. '

Kara raised herself from her chair and winced from her bandaged wounds. Feeling crushed, she took his hand gently and said, ‘He will live, you know. '

‘I believe you,' he replied.

 

***

 

Kara was able to go home, whilst Marcus was admitted to the burns unit for a week to undergo further treatment. Michael was a long-term patient.

After speaking with Adele a few days later, Kara learnt that Ronald was taking responsibility for the gallery short-term, with Adele covering for him between visits to the hospital. Toby, as she knew, had flown over from America to be beside his father as he slowly recovered from his near death experience. Kara felt pushed aside, but, in truth, she was in no fit state to go to work.

She took ten days off. She had decided to resign from the gallery at the earliest opportunity. Now, standing alone in her apartment, she was in reflective mood. The scars and bruising on her face were still angry red, as raw and tender as the mood inside her head. She was a mess. Around her neck, a surgical bandage protected her damaged throat. Her body still ached. She would never, she reasoned, come to terms with what had happened.

A flicker of hatred shone in her eyes. Adele was milking the current situation for all its worth, portraying herself as the dutiful and caring wife and business big shot as well. As if she was some kind of Superwoman. Hardly. God, how she despised this woman! When their paths had crossed at the hospital again, Adele at last introduced her to Toby. Just looking at him took her breath away. The likeness to Michael was uncanny. He was the exact replica of his father. In the fullness of time, she thought, she would sit down with Toby and tell him Michael's story. It needed to be told, as far as she was concerned. This would redress Adele's distorted and despicable version.