‘Rosie…’ She managed to force the sound out. ‘Rosie…’

  Rosemary’s eyes opened. Carrie was saying something, speaking to her.

  ‘Nothing – nothing has changed,’ Carrie said. A sudden pain, sharp as a razor, snatched at her breath, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the moment to pass. ‘I meant it all,’ she breathed. ‘Nothing – has changed.’

  Her words trailed off to a faint, broken murmur. The look in her eyes was of pure hatred. Painfully, she raised herself on one elbow, continuing to fix Rosemary with her icy glare. All around, the air became full of sounds. Voices, shrill in panic and shock, were calling out into the horror-filled day. Cars braked, tyres screeching, protesting on the tarmac, gravel spraying from beneath hot rubber; footsteps hurrying, running.

  Using all her remaining strength, Carrie raised herself higher. She knelt, her white dress drenched with blood, a terrible, awful spectacle in the noon light. ‘Nothing has changed, Rosie,’ she hissed. ‘You’re going to pay. If it’s the last thing I do. With my dying breath I’ll make sure of that.’ She swayed, teetering on the edge of the bank like a grotesque marionette, then with a soft cry she reeled and fell over the brink.

  ……TWENTY

  Reaching out in the darkness, Douglas Rosti switched on the bedside lamp and lifted the telephone receiver.

  ‘Yes?’ His voice was dulled with sleep.

  ‘Doug? Douglas?’

  ‘Yeah, who is this?’

  ‘Dave Reynolds.’

  Reynolds? It couldn’t be, he thought, yawning. Dave had left weeks ago for London, with Turrov’s new musical in its transfer to the West End stage. ‘Dave,’ he said, ‘I thought you were in England. You’re supposed to be in London.’

  ‘I am in London. Did I wake you?’

  ‘It’s only six o’clock.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Reynolds didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘I just thought you’d better know.’

  ‘Better know what? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your client, Rosemary Paul.’

  ‘Rosemary Paul? She’s not my client. I don’t look after her any more.’

  ‘Oh – I didn’t know that.’

  ‘You woke me up to talk about her?’ Douglas said. ‘Give me a break, will you?’ Then before the other could say anything further, he added, ‘Anyway, what about her?’

  ‘She’s been involved in an accident. An automobile accident. It’s been on the news and it’s in the morning papers.’

  Fully awake now, Douglas sat up. ‘Tell me.’

  Reynolds told him what little he had learned, that Rosemary and her companion, a woman by the name of Carrie Markham, had been in a road traffic accident on the highway some miles west of London.

  ‘And how are they?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘Well, according to the reports from the hospital, it’s pretty serious. Though you know what hospitals are like – they never give too much away. But it looks like the companion’s in a particularly bad way. Critical, but stable – as they say.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Douglas shook his head. After a moment he said, ‘Hey, Dave, thanks for telling me. I appreciate it. And look, keep me posted, will you? Let me know if you hear anything more, okay?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Later, sitting over a cup of black coffee, Douglas thought of the last time he and Rosemary had met. It had not been a pleasant meeting, not by any means, but that was all in the past now. He thought about Kurt, too, who had just gone over to England to join Rosemary and start preparing for her concert. He had no doubt that Kurt himself would be on the phone later to tell him more about the accident.

  *

  ‘Miss Paul…’ The voice, a man’s voice, seemed to be coming from a long way off. He waited, then spoke again. ‘Miss Paul…?’

  Still no response.

  ‘Miss Paul? Rosemary? Rosemary?’

  Becoming aware of the sound, she fought against its intrusion, wanting nothing so much but that it should go away. But still it came, soft, insinuating its way through the blanket of fog that enclosed her.

  ‘Rosemary? Miss Paul?’

  At last she opened her eyes.

  A man, the man who had spoken, stood directly in her line of vision. He had placed himself deliberately before her, so that she would have no reason to try to move her head. He wore a white coat and had a warm, concerned expression. Seeing her eyes flick open, and the look of growing awareness, comprehension, he gave a small smile of satisfaction.

  ‘I’m Dr Bloom,’ he said, ‘and I just want to tell you that you’re going to be all right. You’re going to be fine.’

  He waited a moment longer and then quietly, on cushioned heels, he moved away.

  Left alone again, she closed her eyes, shutting out the peripheral vision of the bags, the tubes, all the trappings that had become extensions of her body. She was hemmed in by them, imprisoned. She could do nothing but lie there while the memories came back. For a few brief, futile moments she attempted to shift her position, and then gave up, exhausted.

  Later the doctor, Bloom, came again. He was a middle-aged man, his tone fatherly. He stood by her bed and looked into her eyes. He spoke softly, encouragingly. In her mind questions formed. She tried to speak, but her lips moved soundlessly over rigid jaws. Panic sparked in her eyes.

  ‘You won’t be able to talk,’ he said in his English accent, ‘so, please, don’t try.’ He bent closer. ‘I’m afraid we had to reset your jaw. You’ve been very poorly, in fact.’ He gave a grave smile. ‘But I’m pleased to say that you’re out of the woods now.’ Reaching out, he gently touched the finger-tips that protruded from the end of the plaster cast that encased her left arm. ‘You’re our prize patient, Miss Paul.’ He spoke with a kind of affectionate pride. ‘We’re all very proud of you.’

  He turned then, and moved back to the door. And still he had not told her what she so desperately wanted to know. In the doorway he looked back and saw the pleading glance that followed his progress.

  ‘Please – you mustn’t fret about your friend,’ he said. ‘You just try to get well. You concentrate on that.’

  After a while she slept again.

  *

  The days crept by. She was like a chrysalis, cocoon-wrapped, suspended in space, shielded from the outside world by bandages, silence and consideration. There had been long periods of blackness, and other times when she had been aware of nothing but dull aches and pains that she had never known before.

  Every day flowers arrived. And with them came notes and letters bearing messages of love and goodwill. They came from the admirers, the loyal fans who daily searched the newspapers for news of her progress. But she knew nothing of this, the flowers or the good wishes, for many, many days.

  *

  ‘Any sign? Any progress?’

  Dr Bloom spoke softly to the nurse as he entered the room.

  ‘Nothing at all.’ The nurse shook her head. ‘There’s been no change.’

  He moved to the bed and looked down. ‘Miss Markham…?’

  He touched a hand, pressing slightly, all the while observing the closed eyes.

  ‘Miss Markham? Carrie?’

  There was no response, not a flicker to give any hint of consciousness.

  ‘It’s been too long,’ he muttered over his shoulder to the nurse. Bending closer, he studied the battered, distorted features below him. Gently he placed a hand on the white plaster that wrapped her head, and with the thumb of his other hand gently lifted her right eyelid. The white of the eyeball was in evidence, the iris turned upward. He moved his hand from her face, and bent a little closer.

  ‘Miss Markham,’ he said. Then again: ‘Miss Markham!’ more loudly, as if trying to awaken her sleeping brain.

  With a sigh he turned away. Glancing about him, he thought how different this room was. Here were no lush bouquets of flowers. No messages of love, no get-well-soon cards. On the uncluttered bedside locker stood a jar holding a single bunch of crocuses, the merest splash of colour against the pristine walls. They had been placed there by one of the nurses, the small gesture born of the sight of the many tokens of affection and adoration that had come in for Rosemary Paul. Inside the locker lay Carrie’s few belongings that had survived the crash and the fire: a scorched handbag containing a partially destroyed driver’s licence, a few other documents, and some keys, coins and cosmetics. The nurse had placed the forlorn items towards the back of the shelf; the sight of them was too saddening.

  ‘Miss Markham. Carrie…’

  The doctor tried again, then, lips compressed, moved away.

  *

  ‘It’s all over now, Rosemary,’ the doctor said. ‘And you’ll be relieved to know that nothing as bad is to come. Now it’s just a matter of time till you’re completely recovered.’

  They had just returned from yet another visit to the operating theatre. There, the wires that had held her facial bones together had been removed, and she now lay once more in her room, sweating from the ordeal. She nodded vaguely at the man’s words, relief in her eyes. After a few moments she drifted off to sleep again.

  Later, when he judged that she was well enough, he came to her and told her something of her condition and what had taken place. Two ribs had been broken, plus her left arm and nose. Her jawbone had been broken in three places, her left cheekbone smashed. Since the accident, he said, she had been literally held together with wires.

  ‘You’ve had a few operations,’ he said. ‘We’ve spent a lot of time on you. But you’ve come out of it wonderfully. We’ve given you a new nose, and, if I may say so –’ he smiled here – ‘it’s rather a nice one. I don’t think you’ll be at all averse to it. Also, we’ve had to rebuild parts of your jaw – and I’m afraid you lost a few teeth. Still, they’ll be replaced without too much difficulty. You’ll be amazed at what can be done today.’

  She could move only her right hand, and she lifted it now, painfully, slowly, to touch gingerly at the bandages around her head.

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor nodded, frowning, ‘I’m afraid we also had to shave your head. We had no choice.’ He stepped closer. ‘I know it will all seem horrific, and very strange to you for a while, but you’ll heal; you’ll get well again – I promise.’

  She gave a small nod. There was a long pause and then at last she spoke, her voice sounding like some old instrument, long unused, rusting.

  ‘Is there – is there any change with – with…?’

  He hesitated, then said, ‘I’m afraid she’s no better. At the same time, though, she’s no worse. And that’s something to hang on to. Keep that in mind.’ He smiled faintly at her. ‘You just think about getting better.’ He looked around him at the flowers and the cards. ‘Look at all this – there are so many people out there who are anxious about your recovery, you know. You can’t disappoint them.’

  There was silence in the room again, and she became aware of the distant sounds of traffic. The scent of the flowers was sweet. Then the doctor was bending a little closer, trying to make his voice sound casual.

  ‘About Miss Markham,’ he said. ‘Does she – are there any relatives, any immediate family?’

  She didn’t answer, merely closed her eyes.

  ‘They – they should be informed,’ he said. He waited. ‘Is there anyone?’

  After a moment she whispered, ‘No…’

  ‘There’s no one?’

  ‘No…there’s no one. She has no family at all now.’ After a pause she whispered, ‘You – you’re saying that she’s not going to – to get well, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t say that,’ he said quickly. ‘We’re still very – hopeful. Oh, yes. And we shall remain so. We must, and so must you.’

  She said nothing at this, though in her mind the thought went round like a cracked record: She’s going to die. She’s going to die. After some moments of silence she asked, ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Too long,’ he said. ‘You’ve been here five weeks. Much too long.’

  When he had gone she lay staring ahead. So many days. So many weeks. The date of the concert had come and gone. All those plans, all those dreams. The hopes, the work – all gone for nothing. There was no appointment that couldn’t be broken.

  *

  At her insistence, Dr Bloom eventually allowed her to have a mirror.

  He studied her face, watching for her reaction as she took it and looked at her reflection. When she saw the ugly, swollen flesh, the bruising and discolouration, she gave a small squeal of horror.

  ‘Oh, Rosemary, I know, I know,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s a shock to you, I know. But the swelling and discoloration will go, and the scars will fade in time. And your hair will grow back. I promise you it will.’

  Her hand holding the mirror fell, and he saw that she was crying. She lay there, propped against the pillows, her face crumpled beneath the all-encasing, unflattering turban that she wore to hide her shaven head. She made no sound, weeping silently, the tears falling over her scarred, ravaged cheeks.

  ‘I – I can’t bear it,’ she said. ‘It’s like I’ve never seen myself before. It’s horrible.’

  ‘Give it time,’ he said. ‘Just – give it time.’

  When her tears had subsided and she was calmer, he took the mirror and placed it in the drawer of her bedside locker. ‘It’ll be there when you need it,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid of it. You can only observe an improvement.’ He turned back to face her. ‘If you think you look bad now, you should have seen yourself when you were brought in.’ He paused. ‘And just tell yourself how lucky you are. Believe me, you’re lucky to be alive.’

  *

  Nurse Sims saw Nurse Bainbridge coming towards her, arms laden with daffodils.

  At Sims’s questioning look, Bainbridge said, ‘Miss Paul’s orders – to take them along to fourteen, Miss Markham’s room.’

  ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘Aren’t they? They come in every day, from her fans. There’s so much attention from people. Not to mention the reporters. They’re always checking up.’

  In room fourteen she carefully arranged the flowers. When she had finished, she adjusted the position of the vase on the locker, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. Turning, she looked down at the unconscious figure on the bed. ‘It’s a pity you can’t see them,’ she sighed. ‘But I don’t think now you ever will.’

  *

  ‘Rosemary,’ said Dr Bloom, smiling as he approached her bedside, ‘I’ve come to see how you are today.’

  ‘I’m feeling a lot better, thank you,’ she said.

  He nodded, pleased. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear. Is there anything you need? Anything we can get you?’

  ‘Well – since you ask,’ she said, ‘I’d kill for a cigarette.’

  He chuckled and held up an admonishing finger. ‘Now, Rosemary, you know better than that.’

  She gave a resigned nod. ‘Such a spoilsport,’ she said. ‘But there’s no harm in asking.’

  ‘Indeed not.’ Then, his smile fading after a moment, he said, ‘Listen – I came in to say something to you…’

  ‘Oh? What is that?’

  He sighed. ‘Rosemary,’ his tone was grave, ‘I’ve just come from seeing your friend Carrie, and …’ His voice tailed off.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Tell me – please.’

  He waited a moment then said, hesitantly: ‘It’s not easy, but I’m afraid I have to tell you there’s a possibility that she - might not fully recover.’ He paused. ‘But at the same time we’re still hopeful, and we’re doing all we can.’

  ‘I know you are. Thank you.’ With a sigh she gave a weary nod and turned away, avoiding his sympathetic gaze. ‘Poor Carrie,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, God. Poor, poor Carrie.’ She turned back to him. ‘Can I see her?’ she said. ‘I want to see her. Please.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, all right. If that’s what you want.’

  *

  Later that day in room fourteen Bloom looked sadly at the two women, one lying insensible on her bed, hooked up to the paraphernalia of her life-giving equipment; the other sitting upright in a wheelchair, battered, bruised, but very much alive.

  Over the weeks the doctor had learned something of their long and close relationship that had endured for so many years. Now, in deference to that intimacy he turned away, at the same time beckoning to the male nurse who had pushed the chair. He exchanged a quiet word with the young man, who then moved to the door and let himself out.

  ‘Greg’ll be back for you in a minute or two, Rosemary,’ he said, turning to her again. Then after a moment he added, ‘Perhaps – perhaps you’d like to be alone with Carrie for a moment, would you?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. As well as she could, she leaned closer to the bed, eyes fixed on the still face before her. ‘Carrie,’ she said. ‘Carrie – can you hear me?’

  There was no response, nothing, not the slightest flicker of any vitality to show that her words had even been heard. Again she spoke. ‘Carrie, can you hear me?’ And now a pleading note crept into her voice. ‘Carrie, darling, please – please answer me. It’s Rosemary. Carrie, it’s Rosie. Open your eyes, darling. Please open your eyes.’

  Still no response. Only the steady, regular breathing showed that there was life. Watching from his place by the door, Dr Bloom could only silently shake his head.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ she said again. She tried to get closer, but the bulky wheelchair would not allow it. ‘Oh, Carrie, Carrie,’ she breathed, ‘open your eyes and look at me.’

  In the silence her thoughts went back to when they had lain together on the top of the bank, bleeding, the twisted wreck of the car blazing below. She could smell the burning metal, the burning oil, taste the blood in her mouth, feel the pain in her body. She could hear the sounds, too, the siren, and the voices. ‘This way! They’re up on the bank!’ ‘Hurry!’ And the other words: ‘You’re going to pay. If it’s the last thing I do.’ The sounds, the voices went on, ringing in her brain.