She calculated that it would take twelve footsteps to reach the door. Slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and placed her bare feet onto a tiled floor. The sound of whispers took her by surprise and she turned her head but she was definitely alone in the room. She must have imagined it.
A heel brushed against an object and she picked up a pair of black trainers. The soles were discoloured, indicating they’d been worn.Why would a coma patient need footwear?She slipped them on – they were her size – and discovered she could walk, albeit shakily. She made her way across the room and to the monitor to see if it might shed any light on her circumstances.
There was no keyboard attached, so she touched a couple of the screen’s icons to make it operable. It contained live footage of her empty bed. Instinctively, she knew how to operate it, pressing more onscreen controls until a timeline appeared. She rewound it, stopping moments before she awoke. Then she watched herself, lying on her bed, eyes and mouth wide open, motionless and zombie-like. The footage chilled her.What happened to me and who’s been watching?
Emilia rewound a further twelve hours before she saw two men in white porters’ uniforms helping her to her feet. She watched herself shuffle towards the door as if sleepwalking, both men propping her up. Her attention was drawn to her own face: her emotionless expression, her deadened eyes. Then upon her return later, they sat her on the bed, one spoonfeeding her from a plastic bowl while the other flattened her crumpled bedcover. They helped her back under the sheets and left her alone, her expression as blank as when they arrived.
She jabbed at other icons until the screen split into four sections. Each one contained a different person – two menand two women – sitting in a chair by a desk in a sparse room, seemingly unaware they were being filmed.
Emilia’s urge to escape intensified and she made her way to a frosted glass door with no handle. She hesitated when she spotted a touchpad attached to the wall. She went to place her hand upon it, then hesitated. Again, fuelled by instinct, she unclipped the front and found an emergency keypad hidden beneath it. She typed in a series of letters and numbers, timing the gaps as she input them. She held her breath until a green light flashed and to her relief, the door opened. Emilia clenched her fists and hurried away.
Her door led to a series of corridors illuminated by movement sensors. She silently padded from one to another, terrified of being heard and confronted. Emilia didn’t question how she knew where she was going, only that something was pushing her in a certain direction. She had little choice but to trust her instincts. More whispers and muffled voices seeped out from behind closed doors, but whomever they were coming from remained out of sight.
She used the same series of letters and numbers to gain access to eight more doors leading into eight corridors until she approached a door that was slightly ajar. Inside a room were dozens of metal lockers, a handful of them open with some containing clothing. She rummaged around until she found a jacket that fitted her and a pair of dark blue jeans. From there, she returned to the corridor and made her way into another room and a metal staircase which led to the building’s basement. Behind a tenth door lay a dark, cylindrical brick tunnel. Emilia was hesitant; she couldn’t see much further than her own outstretched hand. But she was convinced this was her only way out.
She pushed her way forward, her heart thrumming and fingertips leading the way along the exposed brick walls, until the door behind her slammed shut, startling her. Nowshe was in pitch black. Footstep by footstep, she inched her way along until her feet began sloshing through cold water. Its odour was stale, but to her relief it emitted no sewer-like stench.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, something came into view ahead of her, the size no larger than a pea. It was natural light. Emilia picked up her pace and hurried through the water; the legs of her jeans were now soaking wet, but she didn’t care. Eventually, she reached a metal gate at the end of the tunnel. She pushed to open it, but it was locked. Fumbling around the surrounding walls, she located a keyboard under a clump of moss and typed one last code before it unlocked and she pushed her way through it. She was free.
Emilia paused to survey this new environment. It was a public park with mown lawns, woodland and ponds. Looming skyscrapers and historic buildings surrounded it. She hazarded a guess that she was in London. However, instead of the relief that freedom brought, she was still every bit as scared as when she’d first awoken. She remained a prisoner of all that she didn’t know.
She began to walk in the direction of a built-up area. And for a moment, the assault on her senses threatened to overtake her. She held her hands over her ears to block out the noise of vehicles and machinery and squinted as she struggled to adjust to daylight, flashing billboards and neon shop signs. As she approached a busy road, she became aware of yet more voices. They began quietly as whispers, gradually becoming more strident. She couldn’t make out what they were saying but they left her uneasy. Had the hospital she’d found herself in been an asylum? Was she crazy? But if so, how had she been able to escape?
A sudden thought spooked her – what if they’d followed her from the place she’d just escaped? What if she were being tracked? She turned her head but she was alone. Regardless, Emilia quickened her pace. Weaving in and outof crowded pedestrian streets, every dozen or so footsteps she turned her head to try and locate the whispers while still trying to grasp her bearings. And eventually she saw them: four figures appearing from behind a line of trees, too blurry to identify their features, but all ominous with their presence.
Their whispering grew louder and began disorientating her, making her head spin and her temples pulsate. She remained unsteady on her feet and threatened to fold like wet cardboard. She mustered up the strength to break into a slight run, but over her shoulder, they too picked up the pace.
Then without warning, it all became too much for Emilia’s body. Her legs buckled and she felt herself swaying and stumbling along the pavement, unable to find anything or anyone to grab on to and prevent herself from falling into the road.
The last thing Emilia heard was the sound of a car horn before experiencing a feeling of weightlessness as her body was scooped up into the air and tossed back onto the pavement with a thud.
Chapter 5
BRUNO, EXETER
Bruno glanced around the room. He had anticipated wood-panelled walls, a table large enough to fit a dozen people around it, leather chairs and a musty smell emanating from well-thumbed legal literature. Instead, the prestigious law firm was of modern design, comprised of soundproofed glass walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, expansive sofas and low-level, spectral lighting.
He fidgeted in his seat, too packed with nervous energy to settle. The more he tried to remain static, the more he wanted to shift. He wished he had worn something light and casual and not his one and only suit. That, along with a thick cotton shirt, made his underarms sweat. He was too embarrassed to remove his jacket and have the damp patches seen by everyone.
Bruno turned to his solicitor. She was scrolling through pages on an electronic device. ‘How much longer do you think they’ll be?’ he asked.
‘No idea,’ Emily Laghari replied without returning eye contact. ‘They make you wait to put you on edge. Don’t let them get the better of you.’
‘They already have.’
‘And remember, as tempting as it might be to contribute, leave the talking to me. That’s what you pay me for.’
Bruno nodded and surveyed the room again, catching a glimpse of his reflection in a window. It was a stark reminder of how much he had aged in the last two and a half years. He appeared much older than a man in his mid-thirties, his once dark brown hair streaked with white lines like road markings. The tan he’d developed backpacking around South America in his early twenties that had never completely faded was finally doing just that, leaving sun-damage patches around his blue eyes that had long since lost their sparkle. The person who’d warned him that nothing ages a person more thoroughly than grief was telling the truth.
Bruno flinched when the doors finally opened. He counted six lawyers of varying ages, sexes and appearances, entering in single file. But each shared the same air of confidence.
‘They’ve brought the cavalry,’ Bruno whispered and went to rise to his feet until Emily placed her hand on his arm, instructing him to remain seated. A bead of sweat trickled from his neck along the centre of his back, only stopping when it reached the waistband of his underwear. The opposition sat two suits per sofa in a semicircular format, surrounding Bruno and Emily as if cornering the enemy in battle.
‘Well, Mr Yorke,’ began the youngest-looking of them. ‘Our sincere apologies for keeping you waiting.’
‘That’s o …’ Emily touched his arm again so he stopped, mid-sentence.
‘Do you have a final settlement figure, Mr O’Sullivan?’ Emily asked. ‘This case has been dragging on for much longer than necessary. Mr Yorke has been remarkably patient.’
