Others (47 page)

Someone jumped in the water near me, quickly joined by another. Then hands were grabbing me, hauling me towards the riverbank, and I realized it was my friends, my
new
friends - those ‘others’ who had never seen a river before, at least, not in the
wet,
as it were - who had formed a chain in the shallows so that they could pull me to the grassy bank. Someone strong relieved me of my burden and I was dragged from the water. I lay on my front and coughed river, feeling fists thumping my back, the blows avoiding my hump. Among all the voices and the distant clamour, I heard a surprised curse and saw someone kneeling next to Michael. Whoever it was - and I now know it was a paramedic -started pushing at the little, limbless body’s chest and I prayed he or she would not be too squeamish to give the kiss-of-life. Then legs and kneeling bodies obscured my view and I thought I heard Louise’s voice calling to me. I could only distinguish one word though. It was a name and it came back again and again.

‘… Constance… Constance…’

My mind drifted away and my body followed willingly.

49

They found Constance’s naked body a couple of miles downstream the following day and my first thought, when they told me, was how she would have hated being exposed to strangers like that, her robe torn away by the currents, her little crooked figure and limbs revealed to all, her dignity gone along with her life. Then the shock kicked in and I thought I’d lose my mind.

The grief was unbearable, but I refused their sedatives and their counselling; I refused their meaningless condolences and their compassion. In fact, I refused contact with anyone for a while and it was left to Ida and Philo to carry on the business until another shock kicked my butt into gear again. Etta was terrific throughout my black time of mourning, keeping an eye on my employees and helping them out when things got tricky. Louise became a good friend, but it was a stretch before I could accept her comfort; and she never bothered me with all that psychic stuff although, truth be told, I was more receptive to it after everything that had happened.

Anyway, it’s all okay now. Sure, the heartache is still there, but I’ve learned to accept everything - and I mean
everything,
even the cruel irony of refusing to die in those dirty waters because I wanted to be with Constance - that’s been thrown at me during my lifetime and anything yet to come. You see, for me it’s only a little while longer anyway.

Those headaches I’d been getting more and more frequently were not the result of too much drink or drugs (both of which I’ve given up completely nowadays because life itself is fun enough without either false-enhancement or desensitization - trust me on this), but from something even more sinister. I’d not only burnt my scalp during my adventures at Perfect Rest, but somewhere along the way I’d taken a knock to the head which had left a sizeable bump and when they had taken me to hospital to get my various cuts, bruises, and burns attended to, not to mention an overnight observation period because of the near-drowning, they had X-rayed my skull to check for fractures. Well, there weren’t any, but what they did find was a tumour eating into my brain.

It’s pretty big and it’s inoperable (at least, if they did try to remove it and I survived the process, there’s a ninety-eight per cent chance I’d be left in a vegetative state, odds I’m none too happy about). The doctors tell me I’ve got two or three months left to live, and I couldn’t be more pleased.

I understand, you see, that I’d only been given this second go at life to redeem myself for those misdemeanours first time round and now that I’ve done so, my time is up. Why couldn’t I have just drowned after leaping from that high window? Well, Michael’s life was still in my hands (or in my arms), wasn’t it? And in a way, so was the fate of my river rescuers and new-found friends - someone had to make sure they were not hidden away again by the authorities. It’s okay though: a deal is a deal and now it’s been done properly. Besides, I want to see Constance again, and the sooner the better.

At present, my friends, the ‘others’, are residing in a lovely manor house, in a remote, and equally lovely, part of the country. This time they are being well taken care of by the authorities - the public, ably kept informed by the media, make sure of that. People do care, you know, even though at times it appears the opposite is true. None of the other ‘others’, incidentally, survived the fire, which is probably just as well, for no amount of care and attention could have made their lives tolerable. Like me, Michael hasn’t long for this world either. He knows this, even if the medics don’t, and he told me - I’ve become quite adept at picking up his thoughts when I go for visits. And by the way, Michael is Shelly Ripstone’s long-lost son. The tattoos were the clues, you see: Leonard Wisbeech registered each ‘specimen’ with their birth dates, and Michael’s was 080581 - 8 May 1981, the precise date that Shelly gave birth. They were both DNA tested and the match was perfect. Even yet another cruel irony though, is that my ex-client wants nothing to do with her son. In fact, on the one occasion she was taken to see him, she was physically sick. Michael repulsed her and no amount of money left by her late husband would make her accept him. She said she never wanted to see ‘it’ again, and I think she’ll stick to her word. Michael’s got over it, but it took a while.

Me? I’m enjoying the short time I have left. When the pain eventually gets too bad, then that’s when I’ll use drugs again, but only those prescribed by the medics. I’m still nervous of death, of course, but I’m no longer afraid. I’ve glimpsed it, remember?

Besides, I’ve got someone waiting.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

END NOTE

This story is based on a true incident that occurred in a certain London children’s hospital some years ago and was related to me by the now elderly person involved. At least two of the main protagonists are known to me personally (one, alas, now deceased) and, lest I be accused of possessing an inordinately warped imagination, I should point out that most of the ‘others’ described herein are taken from actual medical case histories. I sincerely hope you have been disturbed.

JAMES HERBERT
London, 1999