Once (9 page)

There was a barrier of undergrowth and shrubbery between him and the great expanse of cool, placid water, but it wasn’t a problem. Thom smashed his way through, brushing away obstacles with his hands, treading down leafy plants, the air around him almost black with the swarm, and

then he was in the clear, staggering down the gentle incline of the bank until his boots were squelching mud and splashing water. Before it was even up to his knees, Thom dived, his lean body stretched, straightened right arm breaking the surface. The lake closed over him, but he kept going, kicking and thrashing, plunging down until he was sure that every part of himself was covered by the water.

And there he waited in the mud-swirling darkness, lying in sludge, praying for deliverance, until his breath ran out. Only then, and with much reluctance, did he push himself upwards.

The wasps were waiting.

THE WAY BACK

IT MIGHT have been the pain that roused him. Or it might just have been time for consciousness to reassert itself. Could have been both.

Thom felt as though his body - his whole body - was on fire. No, it was worse than that: he felt as if his blood was on fire, molten streams coursing through his veins, carrying the broiling lava to every part, every extremity. Even the inside of his mouth burned white heat. He groaned and barely heard his own sound, for his senses were still gathering themselves. He tried to move and the movement was stiff, clumsy, as if his limbs were fettered. His fingers curled into soft damp soil.

He took his time, allowed the thoughts to assemble, to consider his predicament, to puzzle how and when he had escaped both a watery grave and the wrath of the wasps. But he could not remember a thing, only the merciful plunge into the lake. Just blackness after that. Wait… a hazy vision filtering through. Rising again, but heavy, pressure pushing

at him from all around, the lake’s smooth, bright ceiling above him, broken only by the silver bubbles of his own air escaping from his deflating lungs. Pushing through … sunlight in his eyes … a swirling horde, a mass of droning things waiting for him … inches from his upturned face. Then … nothing.

Now he was on the lake’s muddy bank and he had no idea how he had got there.

Only one of his eyes was open; the eyelid of the other, his left, felt as if something heavy were glued to it. It throbbed painfully and Thom remembered he had been stung there.

Nevertheless, he forced the eyelid open, using a trembling finger, wincing as he did so, and succeeding only partially. The vision there was blurred, as though a thin liquid layer covered the pupil. He took his hand away and rested his head against his forearm, lying there on his stomach in the greasy soil, his breathing unsteady, his whole body shivering. He could smell the moist earth, could hear birdsong around him. The sun burned his cheek, aggravating the stings even more. Thom moaned and attempted to turn on to his side.

He managed, but it took effort and the pain was intense, lifting his head a few inches from the mud, he looked towards the trees, not sure what he expected to see. Those flying lights? The young … girl? He prayed it wouldn’t be the wasps swarming again. All was clear though, all was quiet. Save for the birds. And the mild breeze that whispered through leaves and grass. Everything appeared to be normal. Everything except the bizarre images that continued to crowd his mind.

‘Insane,’ he mumbled to himself, aloud because he needed to hear his own voice. ‘Crazy,’ he added, as if the first word was not enough. ‘Must … be … going … crazy…’ He knew he wasn’t though. He was sure of himself enough to know he hadn’t imagined everything that had

happened before the wasps had attacked. It might have seemed like fantasy right then, but Thom knew what he had witnessed was real. He was no lunatic, and the illness had not turned him into one. The neurologists had assured him that, as far as they could tell, there had been no serious damage to his brain, otherwise his recovery would not be progressing so swiftly. The MRI scan had revealed nothing abnormal inside his head, and a lumbar puncture had shown that his brain fluids were clear (‘like gin’, they had told him). They might be wrong, they had admitted, there was always the chance of something showing up later, but they didn’t think so. And neither did he. He was okay. His mind was fine.

Then explain it, Thom. Explain it!

He was aware that his thoughts were rambling and his body was beginning to shake violently. He was going into shock and if he didn’t move soon he would probably lie here for the rest of the day and night. And if that were the case, then he’d really be in trouble.

‘Have to get home,’ he instructed himself, speaking aloud because he felt it was necessary. ‘Get back, use the phone.’ Thom cursed himself for not bringing the mobile with him. He’d wanted to get away from everything and everyone, find his own space, enjoy the absence of well-meaning but interfering people. Wanted to reclaim his life in his own way. Big mistake today, pal. Oh yeah, big one.

Thom struggled to get to his feet, his head groggy, balance all out of kilter, the pain excruciating. Wanting to lie back down again, but scared of its implication, Thom rested with his hands on his knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass and, hopefully, take the nausea with it. He swayed there for a few moments before taking the dare and staggering over to the double trunk of an alder, the nearest tree to him. He held on to it with one hand, his body bent, other hand on a knee, resting there until he got his breath back. He began

to retch, but nothing pumped up from his stomach except a clear drool that hung from his mouth in a slick stream.

After a few moments that could easily have stretched out a lot longer, Thom willed himself to straighten up. The collar of his sleeveless shirt seemed to bite into his neck when he turned his head to search around and he uttered a sharp cry; he tried again, but more slowly this time. He had no idea what he was searching for: he knew he was alone in the woods, that there was no one around to help him. He felt like weeping, nothing unusual for him these days, but now it was more in frustration and pain than self-pity.

He wasn’t going to make it. The poisons were racing through his body, their combined strength weakening him, making him feel sick, tightening his chest so it was difficult to breathe, causing a reaction in his blood … blood that flowed to his brain … Oh shit, what kind of damage was that going to do?

Thom pushed away from the tree, forcing himself to stand straight and draw in deep shuddering breaths, despite the restriction in his chest. After wiping drool from his mouth with a shaking hand, he made to walk towards the trail that had brought him here to the lake.

It was an optimistic move, far too bold for one in his state, and his legs, particularly the left one, almost gave way beneath him. He managed to catch himself, halting for a second or two, just long enough to regain his balance. Then on again, foot dragging, bent arm rigid against his stomach, moving woodenly but determinedly closing his mind to the swellings, the unreasonable sense of venom rushing through veins and arteries, concentrating on the way ahead.

He lost count of how many times he fell and picked himself up again, and he lost all sense of time. He lost all sense of reality also, the woodland around him a confusing place, the hot pain of his entire body all-consuming, making him feverish. One clear image kept him moving though, a

light that danced ahead of him, never within catching distance, always just beyond reach, and his tormented mind told him he might as well follow it, follow the star, for he had nothing better to do, nowhere else to go, and as long as his stiffening legs kept moving and his one good eye, the other no more than a Popeye squint, kept seeing the floating light, the pretty, oh so pretty, little light, then sure, he would follow, because for God’s sake, at the moment this was the only friend he had in this lonely wilderness: the insects didn’t like him, and the trees, these trees on either side of the path, well, they didn’t like him, because they were scowling and their branches were trying to scratch him as he went by, and maybe they were trying to grab him like before, and maybe the trees were in league with those little monkey-monsters that lived in the earth, the horrible midget-things which had tried to catch him and which had sent the wasps after him, bastard little venomous wasps that had tried to sting him to death, but he’d been too smart for them, he’d jumped into the lake, the lake … where he’d first seen the girl … the beautiful, wondrous girl … who had - he knew she had - sent him … the light … little dancing light… to guide him … home …

In his delirium, Thom failed to notice that he had strayed from the original path and had wandered off on to one that was even more obscure, a way that perhaps could only be familiar to woodland creatures. A path that - although he was not yet to know this - led more quickly to Little Bracken.

AWAKENING

HE AFTERNOON, the evening, the night - the whole of the night - passed as a blur. Thom remembered finding himself on the doorstep of the cottage and the front door was wide open as if he had been expected.

Nothing more then. He could not remember entering, nor climbing the stairs to the bedroom; he could not remember undressing, but did remember waking later in his bed, naked beneath a single sheet. He thought there had been someone else in the room with him, but could not recall seeing anyone. He was sure though, that he had felt soothing hands on his body, gentle applications of creams or ointments to his wounds and swellings, the coolness seeping through to dampen their heat, sinking deep into the poisons to weaken their hold and blunt agony’s sharp edge.

He remembered glimpsing a face close above his own, that same sweet face he had been mesmerized by in the woods, golden hair hanging loose to brush against his

cheeks, his forehead. The softest fingertips touching his swollen eyelid, more lotions being applied, the mist - and the pain - lifting from the injured eye. Yet he had been unable to speak, unable to express gratitude … unable to ask who she was.

He also thought he had witnessed the tiny lights once more, this time gliding around the bedroom, leaving and entering by an open window, but he could not be sure, it might have been part of the delirium, an evocation of his fevered mind. Whatever they were, real or imaginary, they had made him feel wonderfully peaceful with their subtle hues and their graceful flight.

There had seemed to be occasional voices, sweet sounds that were easy on the ear - and sometimes there came that high flutey whistling, the speech of the lights. Thom could be sure of none of this, though: it could all have been a fever-induced dream. Possibly he had found his own way home, had climbed the spiral staircase and put himself to bed, all the rest in his own imagination. But he did not think so, because it wouldn’t have made sense. The attack had left him too weak, too full of poison, the combined stings enough maybe even to fell a horse or a cow. So much injected into a human could have proved terminal. He had gone into some kind of anaphylactic shock and there was no way he could have got himself upstairs, shed his clothes and climbed into bed. Just no way.

Then there was the liquid he had been coaxed into drinking. He was certain of that, could easily recall its cool, syrupy taste, someone - the girl, it had to be the girl, he could still remember her fragrance that was of flowers and fresh air and nature itself - lifting his head from the pillow, delicate fingers cushioning the back of his neck, the liquid she proffered yellow in colour, like honey, but less viscid, flowing smoothly into his parched throat. The sound of her voice came back to him, for it could not easily be forgotten, even though the words might. Gentle, tender - magical. The

voice of an angel. But angels did not masturbate in the woods. Did they?

He put a hand to his forehead, aware that he was going nowhere with this line of thought. There was a dull ache in both temples, but otherwise there was no pain and, as he stretched his legs beneath the sheet, apparently no stiffness. He still felt tired, but not exhausted, which presented another mystery: with all he had been through, he should have felt totally drained even after a good day and night’s sleep. That was the natural law of things. There was always an aftermath, even if only brief.

Thom began to explore his face with his fingertips, cautious at first, touching lightly, feeling for the tender inflammation and swelling capped by blisters that should have been there. He felt only his own skin and overnight stubble on his chin. He already knew before touching the left eyelid that there would be no injury, his vision was clear in both eyes, and there was no weight on the lid that had been stung. What the hell was going on?

Thom studied his hands, the palms, their backs: there were no marks, scabs or punctures, nothing at all to indicate the harm they had suffered when he had tried to beat away the swarming wasps. Throwing back the bedsheet from his waist, he lifted his head to look at his legs and in particular, his ankles. Nothing. God, he did not even feel anything.

He leapt from the bed and went over to the free-standing swivel mirror on the oak sideboard. Tilting it so that he could examine his face, Thom released a long, slow breath. Apart from the two small shallow scars on his cheek and lower lip, he was unblemished, completely unmarked.

Thom straightened, eyes staring straight ahead, yet seeing nothing. He felt dazed, confused. But most of all, he felt wonderfully well.

Thom hurriedly donned cargoes and short-sleeved sweatshirt, pondering the events of the day before as he did so, the fact that at least some of it had happened given credence by the condition of the clothes he had worn, the joggers and gilet, which were lying together over one arm of the sofa. They were sodden and muddy, the armless shirt torn in several places. He examined the damp tan boots, picking one up and turning it over in his hand to examine the undersole. Mud was caked between its ridges. And there, leaning against a windowsill close to the bed, was the walking-stick he had lost during his flight from the horror near the lake. He shook his head in puzzlement.

Bundling clothes and boots together, Thom carried them downstairs and laid them on a kitchen worktop for attention later. His bare feet were cooled by the flagstone floor. It was only when Thom glanced at the old wind-up clock on the windowsill that he realized how late it was: fifteen past ten. The sun’s position through the bedroom window should have given him a hint earlier. He rarely slept so late, but obviously his body knew it needed the rest. A yawn escaped him as though prompted and he stretched his arms wide and high, arching his back, letting go of the last sleepy remnants, feeling unusually well. He froze mid-yawn when he spotted the bowl of fresh fruit on the centre table.

Beside it was a jug of cloudy liquid - it looked like opaque apple juice - and Thom strolled over, puzzled, his arms now folded, hands clamped around his upper arms beneath the short sleeves of his light grey sweatshirt in a gesture of calm but reluctant acceptance. He was already too mystified by events to be fazed by the unexpected offering of food and drink. That someone had tended him through the afternoon and night, then left him breakfast the next day was fine; what really troubled him was who that someone could be.

He remembered the beautiful face close to his own as he lay in fever, the golden hair brushing his face, the tenderness

in her eyes. The vision became sharper. Those lovely, doe-like eyes, tilted at the corners, their colour … their colour changing from silver-blue to an astonishing soft shade of violet! The memory stunned him and he could only stand by the table and stare into space, his mind reeling once more. Who was she?

His thoughts then went to his first sight of her, naked in the small clearing by the lake, touching herself in that most intimate way, the tiny lights driven to a frenzy around her, helping her with her pleasure, titillating her body with their movement and glances, and memory revived that same desire he had felt when he had been innocent voyeur to her personal moment, hidden observer to solitary (apart from the tiny lights) passion.

His erection swelled against his clothing and, despite himself, it felt good, was, in fact, a relief to him, for such reaction had been absent too long and the absence had caused him anguish. His mouth became dry, his hardening almost painful, as the eroticism he had been witness to filled his mind and senses. He cupped a hand to himself as if to stay the tide of passion, but the touch merely increased the sensation, made him give out a small groan. It had been a long time since …

Jesus! No. You’re not that bloody desperate!

With a sigh of frustration, Thom wheeled around and strode determinedly from the kitchen into the bathroom beneath the stairs where he whipped off the sweatshirt and doused his face and chest with cold water from the tap. Still dripping, he steadied himself by gripping the sides of the porcelain sink with both hands, elbows locked, arms straight, and stared into the wall mirror.

The soul-wearying tiredness that had reflected back at him for so long was gone; in its place was a fresh vitality, a sharp-edged keenness in his eyes that was marred only slightly by the confusion in them. Thom suddenly found himself smiling at his own image.

With a rueful shake of his head he reached for his electric razor.

Thom sat at the oak table and took a huge dark plum from the bowl, pouring himself a tumbler-full of apple juice, or whatever it was, from the jug before biting into it. He warily took a sip first, taste buds sampling the juice before swallowing.

It was apple juice; and yet it wasn’t. It had a flavour all its own, one that was unfamiliar to him, a sweetness that was refreshing rather than sickly. It tasted like nectar - not that he’d ever tasted nectar, nor knew anyone who had. But it was his idea of what nectar would be like if he had the chance. Deep, satiating, somehow filling his chest first before his stomach, the flavour almost addictive. This from one small sip. He took a larger gulp, nearly draining the tumbler.

If the drink was good, then the fruit was an ideal complement. The plum was a plum, looked like a plum, tasted like a plum. But oh God, it was the finest and biggest plum he had ever eaten. And the apple that he tried next was the finest apple he’d ever eaten, as were the berries he tried afterwards. It was as if he could physically feel their goodness, their nourishment, entering his system, to revive and energize. Thom was well aware that senses could be heightened after a long illness, but this was different. It was as though this was the first fruit he had ever eaten and the very first juice he had ever drunk. Neither tasted strange, but both were unique.

With renewed relish, Thom sat at the table and feasted.

Sometime later, after exercising (which he had tackled with uncharacteristic enthusiasm) and completing what little unpacking was still left to do, he heard the sound of a car’s engine approaching the cottage. Assuming that either Eric Pimlet was paying another visit, or that Nell Quick had returned, this time by car, Thom went to the open front door.

The small, sickly green, two-door VW Polo had pulled up beside his Jeep by the time he reached the doorstep and a bespectacled young woman was opening the driver’s door.

‘Hi!’ she called out, stepping from the Volkswagen and giving him a cheery wave. Tried to reach you on your mobile yesterday, but it must have been switched off. Unless I was given the wrong number, of course.’

She wore trainers and tight-fitting black cycle shorts, a white T-shirt and an open, hooded zip-up; as she stretched back into the car to retrieve something from the passenger seat, he saw that her legs were long and lightly tanned (just a few shades off their natural colour), white ankle-socks enhancing their tone. Quickly, she was upright again, slamming the car door with one hand, a large canvas sports bag in the other. She came towards Thom, her smile as cheery as her greeting, her free hand now stretched towards him, fingers straight, thumb cocked.

‘Katy Budd,’ she announced. Tour new rehab physiotherapist, here to get you fighting fit again.’

Thom offered his own hand and she shook it a lot less robustly than he thought she might, probably in deference to his condition, whatever she assumed that to be. Her tawny-flecked eyes behind the round thin-rimmed glasses were already appraising him.

Thom was undertaking his own appraisal: probably in her late twenties, just slightly overweight, heavy-breasted and bra-less it seemed, for her nipples were pleasingly pronounced; her blonde hair contained lighter streaks that

looked sun-blessed rather than beauty-fashioned, and her face was appealing rather than pretty. She had an engaging smile and lively expression.

“You weren’t easy to find,’ she was saying as he considered all this. ‘Luckily, I went to the big place - Castle Bracken? - first and they directed me here.’ He detected Home Counties in her accent rather than anything local.

‘Sorry I missed your phone call,’ he apologized. ‘Could’ve made it easier for you.’

‘No problem. I’m here now. Can we discuss the torture?’

He grinned, but only weakly; he knew the kind of ‘torture’ she had in mind.

‘Sure. Come in. Can I get you coffee?’

‘Fruit juice would be nicer.’

‘Ah. I’ve got just the thing.’

He led the way inside without bothering to close the door behind them.

As she placed the sports bag on the floor her eyes swept round the octagonal-shaped room.

This is such a cute place,’ she said with unconcealed delight. ‘It looks like some tiny faerytale castle as you approach. Is it your holiday home? The agency told me you lived in London.’

‘No, I was born here.’

She looked at him in surprise.

‘I went south when I was a kid. Stayed down there after I left college.’

‘I see,’ she said, but he could tell she didn’t quite; she probably thought he was loaded, with a place in London and a retreat up here.

“You said juice rather than coffee? I could make tea.’ Was he suddenly reluctant to share the nectar?

‘Oh no, juice is fine.’

He mentally slapped his own wrist. Selfish with fruit juice? Come on.

Thom took a glass tumbler from the dresser and poured

from the jug, saving just a little for his own glass. He caught her watching his hands, no doubt looking for signs of poor finger extension; generally, it wasn’t gripping objects that stroke victims had trouble with, but releasing them, extending fingers enough to let go. They sat opposite each other and exchanged generalities before discussing the main topic - his illness and the exercise regime she proposed to help get him back to normal.

‘Basically it’s this,’ she said, taking leaflets and notebook and pen from her bag. These are for you…’ she pushed the leaflets across the table at him. *You probably know everything about having a stroke and what it does to your body - not to mention your mind - and I know you’ve already been through a lot of physiotherapy, but these will just refresh your memory. That particular one …’ she indicated the leaflet he was flicking through ‘… will explain the exercises I’ve planned and how they’ll help your body get completely back to normal. In your case, because the stroke was relatively minor and because you’re still young, I think we can achieve that. Tell me how you’re feeling now, after what is it, three months …?’