Alice Isn't Well (Death Herself Book 1) Page 5

  In the distance, someone coughed.

  Climbing down from the radiator, Wendy ran along another corridor, hoping against hope that she might find some stairs that would lead her down to the ground floor. All she found, however, were more doors, before finally she had to duck around another corner as she heard more footsteps approaching from the distance. She held her breath again as two nuns walked past discussing plans for the morning, and a moment later she heard then pushing open a door and then heading down a stairwell. After waiting a little while longer to make sure they were gone, she hurried in the same direction, pushed the door open, and looked down the stairs.

  Home. She was going home.

  Chapter Seven

  Today

  As the sun came up and cast warm morning light across the cemetery, Alice made her way along the row. After her first night-shift at Barton's Cross had ended, she'd been so tired she'd barely been able to stay awake on the bus. All she wanted to do was go home and sleep, ready for her next shift, but she knew that wasn't a possibility until midday at least. First, she had a couple of things to do.

  Stopping at the end of the row, she looked down at the final grave and read the inscription:

  In loving memory

  Daniel George Aspen

  Beloved son

  Died in the line of duty

  For a moment, she found herself thinking back to that night, and to the look of wild terror Aspen's eyes first as he'd seen her, and then as he'd turned and seen the other face, and then...

  The rest was still gone. She knew the memories were locked away somewhere, but after ten years she still couldn't find a way to access them.

  Reaching down, she placed some flowers on the grave. It was all she could do for him now.

  ***

  “So it went well?” Doctor Carrington asked, making a note on his pad. “Overall, I mean?”

  She nodded.

  “And your co-worker is someone you think you can get along with?”

  She paused, thinking back to Donald's more irritating tendencies. “Yeah,” she said finally. “He's fine.”

  “Did he ask any questions about what happened to you?”

  She nodded.

  “And what did you say?”

  “I didn't tell him anything.”

  “Remember,” he continued, “you don't need to become best friends with everyone you meet. It doesn't work like that. Some people you encounter in your day-to-day life are going to be friends, some are just going to be colleagues, some are just going to be casual acquaintances. You might even make an enemy or two along the way. Don't put too much pressure on yourself in every social situation, or there's a danger that your anxiety might come back. That's how people get on with each other in the real world, Alice. It's not like in the hospital, where you were stuck with whoever happened to be on the ward with you.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you over-thinking things again?” he asked.

  “I...” She thought about the question for a moment. “I don't think so.”

  “Because that's another danger.”

  “I know.”

  “In the hospital,” he continued, “you were constantly being analyzing, and constantly analyzing yourself. That's not a healthy way to live in the real world.”

  She nodded.

  “Sometimes it's okay to just react on an instinctive level, even if you think your instincts are out of alignment with most people. Do what makes you feel good. Within reason, obviously.”

  “I really think I'm doing okay,” she replied, suddenly remembering to sit up straight and correct her posture. She wanted to stay positive, to face the world and deal with it all. “If you'd asked me two weeks ago how I'd do once I got back into the outside world, I think I would have expected my progress to be much slower and more...”

  She paused, trying to think of the right word.

  “More excruciatingly painful?” he suggested.

  “I guess.”

  He made another note. “And how are the nightmares?”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Are you still having them?” he asked.

  “They're not as bad.”

  “But you do still have them?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you taking the pills I gave you?”

  “They make me nauseous. They give me this metallic taste when I wake up.”

  “You should still take them.” He made another note. “And are the nightmares the same as before?”

  “They always cut out at the same point.”

  “As if you're reliving that night up until the moment when your memory failed?”

  She nodded again.

  “I want to try to steer you away from those nightmares,” he continued. “I think there's limited value in having your mind relentlessly replay such a traumatic event, and there's a real danger that over time you'll get into the habit of experiencing negative emotions when you sleep. We have to train you back into healthy habits, Alice.” He made another note. “Do you wake up in the night very often?”

  She shook her head.

  “This new job should be very good for you,” he continued. “I actually felt from the beginning that it would be helpful for you to do something that gets you out of the house at night rather than during the day. That way, you don't have to face the trauma of being alone in your apartment when it's dark outside, which I understand might be a trigger. Sleeping in the day is very different to sleeping at night, you know.”

  “I know,” she replied.

  He stared at her for a moment. “You look exhausted.”

  She didn't know what to say to this. “Okay.”

  “It's a good thing. It's normal to be tired, Alice. You've done a long night's work. We should maybe alter the schedule for these sessions now that we have to work around your busy life.” He smiled, as if he was expecting her to smile too. “I take it you haven't made any friends yet?”

  “It'll take a while.”

  “That's a good approach to take. You missed the whole school and college experience, but there's time to get back on track, just don't rush it. Hopefully you'll have more to report in our next session on...” He checked his phone for a moment. “Monday? Does Monday work for you?”

  She watched as he made some more notes. “Is it normal for me to be hallucinating or losing memories?” she asked suddenly. “I mean... Should that still be happening?”

  He glanced at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “It's just...” She paused. “What if something happens, something quick, just for a few seconds, but I don't remember it? Is that a cause for concern?”

  “Give me an example.”

  “A conversation,” she continued cautiously. “What if someone said they saw me talking to someone, but I don't remember that at all?”

  “So you experienced a memory slip?”

  “It's more like...” She paused again, trying to work out how to put her concerns into words. “It's more like something happened, then I forgot about it and my mind papered over the gap. It's not that I don't remember something, it's more that I specifically remember something else in its place.”

  “I see.” He made another note. “And this thing you think you forgot... Are you sure it happened?”

  “I think so. I don't understand why he'd lie about it.”

  “Is this someone at your new job?”

  She nodded.

  “We all forget things occasionally,” he continued, clearly a little concerned. “I forgot my wife's birthday once. Terrible, I know, but I know I won't do it again. Don't micro-analyze everything that happens. You have a shift tonight, don't you?”

  She nodded again.

  “So focus on that. You're out in the world again, Alice, after a long, long stay in hospital. It wasn't easy for us to arrange this job for you, but we all believe in you. Don't worry too much about the past or the future, just focus on today.” He checked his watch. “And make sure you get enough sleep, because
as someone who once worked nights in a kitchen to get through university, I can promise you the transition to a nocturnal life is definitely not easy. We'll talk again next week, but you can call me before then if necessary. Maybe Monday's a little long to wait for your next session. Let's meet on Friday instead. Is ten okay?”

  “Is our session over?”

  “Don't look so panicked, Alice. Yes, it's over. You're doing great.”

  Getting to her feet, she grabbed her bag from next to the chair, but she seemed lost in thought for a moment. “I had another nightmare,” she told him finally. “One that wasn't about what happened that night.”

  “What was this one about?” he asked, clearly no longer quite so engaged now that their session was finished.

  “It was about a plane,” she continued, “crashing in the Second World War. Crashing onto a house at night.”

  “Huh.” He turned to her. “Well, it's a good sign if your subconscious mind is starting to turn to other matters. Maybe it wasn't even a nightmare, maybe it was just a normal dream. That would be a real improvement, Alice.”

  “There was a burning pilot, too,” she added, with a hint of uncertainty in her voice. “I saw his face in the flames.”

  “And it was just a dream,” he replied. “Remember that, Alice. Dreams can't hurt you.”

  “I know.” She swallowed hard, and although she wanted to ask him some more questions, she figured that her hour was up and he probably wanted to move on to his next patient. “You're right. It was just a dream.”

  Chapter Eight

  1941

  Exhausted, with blisters on her feet after walking for hours without shoes, Wendy finally reached her street around midday. There were people all around, hurrying nervously from door to door, but although a few of them glanced at her, none of them stopped to ask if she was okay. After all, a tired, weak-looking little girl was hardly an unusual sight in war-torn London.

  Even with bandages on her arms and neck.

  Stopping on the street-corner, she stared straight ahead, looking toward the house where she lived with her mother. Or rather, what was left of it. She'd been so desperate to get home, but now she was scared to go much closer because she could see, even from a few hundred feet away, that something was definitely wrong. The house, and the two next to it as well, seemed to have been completely destroyed, with just a few sections of brickwork and wood left in place. She kept telling herself that if she went closer, she'd see that everything was actually fine, but for now she was too scared to try.

  “Wendy?” a voice asked suddenly.

  Turning, she saw a familiar face watching her from a nearby doorway. It took a moment before she realized that it was Mrs. Carmichael, the friendly old woman who always used to complain about children playing too close to her garden. She'd been quite a dragon once, but she'd seemed to soften after her two sons were both killed in action a year earlier.

  “Are you okay?” Mrs. Carmichael continued, leaving her front door wide open as she stepped out. “I didn't think I'd be seeing you again, I thought they'd have sent you off somewhere for the duration.”

  After staring at her for a moment, Wendy turned to look along the street again. There was a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach now, and she was starting to wonder if the other girls at the monastery had maybe been telling the truth. At the same time, she knew it couldn't be true about her mother, it just couldn't.

  “Your feet are bleeding,” Mrs. Carmichael said suddenly.

  Looking down, Wendy saw that she was right. Having not had the chance to fetch her shoes before leaving the monastery, she'd been walking barefoot for hours and hours, and the pain from her soles had been unnoticeable against the pain from her bandaged arms and torso. All the pain just seemed to have merged together.

  “Oh, you poor little thing,” Mrs. Carmichael continued, stopping next to her and staring down with an expression of pure pity. “I don't think you're supposed to be here, are you? Where are you supposed to be? I heard you were taken to hospital, and then someone said the sisters of Barton's Cross had agreed to look after you. Maybe we should find a policeman and get him to help you out, eh? You can't be out here like this. You need to go back to the monastery, so that the sisters can take care of you.”

  Ignoring her, Wendy stepped forward, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the far end of the terrace where her house had once stood. She felt a shiver pass through her body as she realized that it was gone now. Where once there had been the brown bricks of the facade, now there was a clear view of the gray sky.

  “You mustn't torture yourself,” Mrs. Carmichael told her. “It would have been very quick, you know.”

  “What would?” Wendy whispered, spotting dark patches on the cobbles, as if the very ground itself had been burned. Taking a few more steps forward, she realized she was standing in the exact spot where the bulk of the burning plane had landed after crashing through the houses.

  “Your mother loved you very much,” the old woman continued, with tears in her eyes, “and a mother's love never dies, you know. It's still with you, it's still in your heart, even if... Well, even if she's gone herself. As long as you remember, then that's all it takes for her love to live on in your soul forever. You understand that, sweetheart, don't you?”

  Ignoring every word that Mrs. Carmichael had just said, Wendy approached the ruins of the house. Most of the wreck had been removed, but there were still pieces of charred wood poking up from the foundations. She felt a shiver passing through her chest as she saw what was left of the kitchen wall, but there was little else she recognized. The inferno had clearly incinerated the house.

  “Such bad luck,” Mrs. Carmichael said after a moment, as she shuffled over to join Wendy. “Your poor mother was so unfortunate. Of all the nights to come home early from work, why did the fates decree that...” She paused for a moment, with tears in her eyes, before looking down at Wendy again and seeing the fresh cuts on the girl's feet. “Do the sisters of Barton's Cross know that you're here, sweetheart? I don't think they do, do they?”

  Wendy turned to her.

  “I'll fetch a policeman,” the old lady continued, turning and limping away. “You wait right here. Everything's going to be quite alright.”

  Left alone, Wendy made her way around the side of the burned house, unable to stop staring at the twisted wooden remains as she tried to work out which parts had been which walls. She had no idea which room her mother had been in when the plane crashed, but since people said she'd died quickly, she assumed she must have been upstairs. Then again, she knew adults sometimes lied to make things sound better, so she felt there was a chance her mother had suffered.

  Maybe like the burning pilot.

  Heading around to the rear of the wreckage, she found that – somewhat improbably – the garden gate had survived, still in perfect condition as part of the damaged brick wall. Opening the gate, she looked through into the garden and saw that although the lawn near the house was burned and covered in debris, the far end seemed almost untouched. She stepped toward that far end, and for a moment it was possible to imagine that the house was in one piece behind her, and that her mother might at any moment call her in for dinner.

  More than anything else, she wanted to hear her mother's voice again.

  “Wendy! Supper's ready!”

  She felt a shiver in her chest as she remembered those words. Taking a deep breath, she wondered whether she might be able to change what had happened. She knew the idea was ridiculous, but still, in the back of the mind she felt that maybe, just maybe, she of all people might actually be able to make the universe re-order itself. She focused as hard as possible on the idea that the house hadn't been destroyed, and on the possibility of her mother still being alive, and she pictured the scene as it had once been. At first she just imagined it all, but then she forced herself to really believe it, insisting that there was no way it could all be gone in the blink of an eye. Finally, with just a hint of hope in her heart,
she turned and looked over her shoulder.

  At that moment, a faint breeze blew through the wreckage.

  She felt her heart drop an inch in her chest.

  “She's around here somewhere,” Mrs. Carmichael could suddenly be heard saying. “She can't have gone far.”

  “We'll get her back to Barton's Cross,” a male voice replied, obviously a policeman. “They'll know what to do with her. She can't be out alone.”

  Feeling a sudden sense of panic at the idea of going back to the nuns, Wendy looked around before spotting the gap behind the garden shed. Racing across the scorched lawn, she ducked down and wriggled into the gap, barely managing to squeeze through before stopping as she listened to the gate being opened again. She'd hidden in the exact same spot when she was younger, when she'd been playing with her father, but this time it wasn't a game.

  “Wendy!” Mrs. Carmichael called out. “Are you here, child?”

  Holding her breath, Wendy squeezed her eyes tight shut, praying for them not to find her.

  “Wendy!” a male voice shouted, obviously the policeman.

  Still, she held her breath.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Carmichael said after a moment, “I should have made her come with me. Lord alone knows where she is now.”

  “She can't have gone far,” the policeman replied. “If you see her again, let us know, but I'm sure she's a responsible young lady. She'll make her own way back to Barton's Cross.”

  Staying behind the shed, Wendy opened her eyes and began to breathe slowly as she heard the garden gate swing shut. She still didn't move, worried that perhaps they were trying to trick her and that they were still out there, waiting to see if she emerged from one hiding place or another. Sure enough, after a moment she realized she could hear soft footsteps on the grass, coming closer. She waited for a face to appear and look down at her, but nothing came and as the seconds ticked past, she began to have hope that she wouldn't be discovered.

  And then she heard the sniffs.