Darker (26 page)

“What’s happened?” He’s crouching beside us, reaching out, feeling Mrs Richardson’s neck for a pulse.

“No idea. We came back from shopping a few minutes ago, found her here, like this. The ambulance is on its way.”

“Good. They’ll never find this place, though, without some help. We need to send someone down to the bottom of the lane, direct them up here. And someone needs to stay here with Grace. Do you have any first aid experience, Eva?”

I shake my head.

“I do. We farmers are accident prone. Right, I’ll stay then. And we’ll need to make sure the gate is opened for the ambulance to get in. There’s a remote control in the kitchen—do you know where it is, Rosie? Do you know how to override the sensor?”

She nods. Thank God someone’s thinking straight.

“Great.” He tosses me a small set of keys. “Eva, you take the quad, go down to the bottom of the lane and wait for the ambulance. Helmet’s on the seat.”

Shit
. “I’ve never ridden a quad bike before…”

I’m just standing there, looking from his face to the keys in my hand. Despite my own hesitation, Tom clearly has no doubts as to my ability to cope, so I decide not to harbour any either. His instructions are succinct.

“You’ll be fine. Throttle’s on the right handlebar, brake on the left. Turn it towards you to go faster. Just press the brake to stop. Gears are automatic. Rosie, you make sure those gates are open and stay open till the ambulance gets here. I’ll stay with Grace. Give me your phone, Eva.”

I hand it over, without question, as he pulls his own from his pocket. Switching both on, a few rapid keystrokes later he hands me his. “If the ambulance gets lost they’ll phone back—on your phone—so best if I answer. I know the area better than you. You take mine in case we need to be in touch. I’ve put your number on my speed dial, but it might be best to use the landline in case the ambulance service need to call.” I take his phone and pocket it, nodding. And I’m out of there.

A few moments later I’m outside on the drive, eying up the huge red quad bike dumped by the front door. I pull the helmet on and jump astride the thing. It starts at the first turn of the key—so far so good—and I try an experimental turn of the right handlebar. The machine inches forward and I turn the handlebars to circle away from the house. I press the button under my left thumb, just to make sure I know where the brake is, and it stops. Right, good enough. Belatedly, I realise I never asked about reverse gear, but decide to stick to going forwards. Usually a reasonable plan.

I turn the throttle more firmly and the machine leaps forward. I shriek, let go, and roll to a stop. Practice time over I turn the throttle gently, and the machine slides forward. It’s smooth, more or less. I turn my attention to steering. The gate glides open as I lurch towards it—
good work, Rosie
—and I’m soon progressing down the lane at a cool thirty miles an hour, more turbo-charged tortoise now than drunken kangaroo. The quad can do a lot more than thirty, the unleashed power is throbbing under me, but I know my limitations. I do intend to have another go, though, when I get a chance. This is really rather good…

In a couple of minutes I’m at the bottom of the lane, at the junction with the B road linking us to Lancashire. I circle in the road, and come to a stop facing back up towards Black Combe. With no reverse gear—at least not one that I can find—I don’t intend to try any fancy manoeuvres.

I use Tom’s phone to check back in. There’s been no change. I sit and wait.

It seems like hours but in reality has only been exactly eleven and a half minutes when I catch sight of a blue light in the distance, flashing between the trees about two miles away. I watch carefully—there it is again. And it’s definitely coming my way. I leap off the quad and stand in the middle of the road, ready to flag the ambulance down. Less than five minutes later, after a brief conversation with a rather youthful but no doubt eminently well-qualified female paramedic, the ambulance is turning slowly into our lane and heading up to Black Combe. I clamber back onto the quad and follow.

By the time I’ve parked the quad in front of the house, pocketed the keys, dumped the helmet and run back upstairs, the two paramedics—the young woman I spoke to at the bottom of the lane and her older companion, a grey-haired but incredibly energetic woman whose name badge announces that she’s called Liz—are kneeling beside Grace. Their medi-bags are open and a pile of useful-looking stuff such as a stethoscope, thermometer and a pack of syringes has appeared. Liz is shining a little torch into Grace’s eyes.

Tom and Rosie are standing back, just watching the action now. She’s clutching his hand tightly, her little face wet with tears. She’s clearly terrified and without thinking, acting on instinct now, I go over to her and pull her into my arms. She comes to me without hesitation, clinging to me for comfort. I hold her, whispering reassurance, quietly hoping I’m right and that all this is indeed going to turn out okay.

“Has she said anything?” The younger paramedic looks up at us sharply.

Tom answers, “No. She’s been unconscious since we found her. Since Eva and Rosie found her, that is.”

“Any idea how long she’s been unconscious?” Everyone is looking at me, and I do the best I can. “No, not really. Rosie and I went out at half nine this morning—she was fine then. We got back about half an hour ago…” I glance at my watch, realise it’s now almost one. “We found her at about half twelve so it could be as much as three and a half hours, I guess…”

“Okay. Well, it looks like she’s had a fall, and from the angle she’s lying at it’s possible she’s broken her hip. Might be a head injury there, too. We’ll do some pain relief here then we need to get her down to Airedale General. They’ll do the X-rays and we’ll soon know. Is anyone coming with her?”

“Eva will.” Tom’s voice is solid. Authoritative. “I’ll follow in Grace’s car with Rosie. You can drop me off later.”

“Right, right, fine. I’ll come in the ambulance then.”

And so it’s settled, and a few minutes later I’m perched in the back of the ambulance as we whizz along the country lanes, the younger paramedic busily topping up Grace’s drip and smiling reassurance at me.

“Her pulse is strong and steady. She’s concussed but showing signs of coming round. The morphine I’ve given her’s keeping her under now, and that’s probably best until they get her nice and settled in the hospital.”

I nod wisely, as if my opinion counts. It does all sound very promising, though. The rest of the journey passes in a blur, but mercifully with no deterioration in Grace’s condition. The paramedic is monitoring her dials and displays and seems content enough, and that’ll do for me. We arrive at the Accident and Emergency department and the cool efficiency of the NHS in a crisis swishes into place as Grace is wheeled from the back of the ambulance into a cubicle to be assessed. I hover by the curtain around her bed, useless and superfluous until a kindly nurse shoves a chair behind me and I sit down to wait. And watch.

And an hour later Tom and Rosie have also arrived and all three of us are perched on a row of hard plastic chairs in the A & E waiting area at Airedale General Hospital, exchanging platitudes and waiting for an update. We don’t have long to wait—this is a nice quiet Tuesday afternoon, not a rowdy Saturday night after chucking out time, so waiting times are down to less than an hour. The casualty charge nurse comes bustling over with the good news.

“We’ve got the X-rays back. It’s a fractured hip, but no other damage. We’ll need to set it. That means surgery. But not until tomorrow. She’s going to be admitted to Ward 14. Do you want a word before we send her up?”

“Is she awake then?”

“Oh yes. And chirpy with it. She’s asking about a ‘Rosie’.”

“That’s me!” Rosie bounces up from her chair. “That’s me. Can I see my nana now?”

The charge nurse bends to look Rosie in the eye. He’s obviously well used to dealing with excitable little girls. “You can come in and say hello, just for a minute. And you’ll have to be brave because sometimes it seems a bit scary in here. Your nana has a lot of tubes all around her, and machines that make funny noises. But all those things are to help her feel better. It looks really odd but you mustn’t worry about any of the things in the room.” He glances up at Tom and I. “Are you relatives, too?”

“Er…”

“Yes,” Tom interrupts me, his tone brooking no argument. The charge nurse just nods and gestures for us to follow him. We troop along in his wake and find ourselves in a small cubicle, dominated by a high bed where Mrs Richardson—Grace—is propped up against a huge pile of pillows. She’s attached to a drip, and has one of those huge crocodile clips on the end of her finger to monitor her pulse. Quite irrelevantly, it conjures up images of a nipple clamp—maybe I’ve been around Nathan Darke for too long. Or not long enough.

Rosie’s chin is just about level with the edge of the bed so Tom picks her up for a proper look.

“Ooh look, all these visitors.” Despite her ordeal Grace is all beaming smiles, reaching out to stroke Rosie’s cheek. And, overcome by the relief, I suppose, Rosie immediately bursts into tears. The charge nurse pushes a box of tissues into my hands and leaves us to it.

I’m dabbing at Rosie’s tears and that diverts my attention briefly, but not for long. Back there in Nathan’s bedroom I was terrified, we all were, and now that Grace does appear to be all right we’re all desperate to know what happened.

“Are you okay? Really? You scared us to death. We came back and found you out cold on the bedroom floor. What on earth happened to you?” Fear and relief make a heady combination, and my tone is probably sharper than I intend. Even so, three pairs of curious eyes are turned on the invalid, all waiting for an explanation. Mrs Richardson looks distinctly embarrassed, plucking at the crisp white sheet tucked around her.

“Oh, it’s so silly really. I was stripping the bed to do the washing. I pulled the duvet off and sort of got my feet tangled in it and tripped over. I’ve no idea how I managed it. I went down hard, on my hip. I knew I’d busted something and I didn’t dare move. I could hear Barney barking downstairs. Then I blacked out. I think I came round a little bit, once or twice. I remember hearing voices, and someone holding my hand. But the next thing I knew, properly and consciously, I was in this bed, wired up to all these gadgets. And I didn’t even make you two your dinner. I’ve a nice bit of lamb, still in the fridge…”

“A duvet! You got your feet tangled in a duvet!” I can’t keep the astonishment out of my voice. The laughter comes hard on its heels. You couldn’t make this up.

“Well, it’s a big duvet. King size.” The defensive response is followed by a few moments of stunned silence before all four of us collapse, howling with laughter.

The charge nurse comes back with more tissues and tells us to keep the noise down. We do try, but the cocktail of relief and hilarity is powerful, intoxicating, and hard to control. After another half-hour or so of grumpy looks and shushing by the hard-pressed A & E staff a porter bustles in our direction to wheel Mrs Richardson up to the ward. We take that as our cue to leave so we all troop out and make for home.

Tom’s driving us in Mrs Richardson’s car, and I text Nathan with the news.

Hi. Little problem at home, Grace fell and broke hip. She’s OK, in hospital. Rosie’s fine. More later. Eva

Less than three minutes after I hit ‘send’ my phone is ringing. It’s Nathan. And he’s frantic. I answer, to be bombarded with a barrage of questions. What happened? How? When? Where? I answer as best I can, and he starts to calm down once he realises that matters are under some semblance of control in his absence. When I get to the bit about the duvet I try to be serious, honestly, but know it sounds ridiculous.

Attacked by a duvet, wrestled to the ground by a king-size, duck-down-filled monster. Out cold for hours, likely to be laid up for weeks.

Ignoring my unseemly giggles Nathan is all efficiency and business, assuming control again. Always the Dom…

“I’ll get back as soon as I can but it won’t be for a few more days at least. Can you hold the fort for a little while, until I sort something out for Rosie?” His composure seems to wither somewhat as he realises how short on options he is. “Shit! Tom’s on his own, and he’s got the farm to run. There’s Mrs Appleyard in the village, I suppose. Maybe Daniel can help out. I’ll ring him…”

“Whoah! Ring Daniel? What Daniel? And why?”

“Daniel. Dan. My brother. He’s a vet, in the Lake District. He’ll have to drive down or maybe you could drop Rosie off up there…”

“Why? I mean, I’m sure he’s lovely and we could go see him if Rosie fancies that, but we’re fine here. There’s no need for anyone to drive anywhere. Except you, back from the airport, as soon as you’re able to manage it.”

“I can’t ask you to look after Rosie full-time. You were hired as a part-time music tutor, not a full-time nanny. It’s not fair to expect it of you—”

“It’s got nothing to do with jobs. I’m your…friend.” I settle for the most innocuous word I can come up with given the two pairs of ears in the car with me. “And Rosie’s. As long as she’s happy to stay with me, I’m happy too. And we will be fine. Honestly.” I look over my shoulder to Rosie seated in the back and she’s nodding furiously. That settles it. “Rosie agrees. And Tom’s here too in case we get stuck. He came with us to the hospital and now he’s driving us back. So you just concentrate on getting some sense out of your Turkish builders so you can come home, and don’t worry about us.”

The silence at the other end is deafening. Then, “Eva…” I wait for him to go on, to say that I’m not up to it, not allowed, somehow not good enough. But that’s not what’s on his mind at all.

“Miss Byrne, you are sounding more than a bit bossy. I think you know where that’ll get you.” His tone is one not to argue with, back in full Dom mode. I gasp and glance round anxiously at Tom and Rosie. He continues, “I know you’re not alone so just listen and don’t speak. I’ll keep my voice down.” He does—I have to press the phone hard against my ear to hear his words, so softly spoken but steely in intent. “I’ll be back in a few days, and when I get there I’m going to spank your beautiful bare arse so hard you’ll not sit down for a week. But before I put you across my knees I’m going to clamp your nipples, and don’t expect any ice this time to help you. This
will
hurt. You
will
scream. And finally I’m going to fuck you, hard and fast and very, very deep. You’ll love that bit, something to look forward to while you’re bent over my knees, begging me to stop. Are we clear?” At my stunned silence he is insistent.