The Blame Game. C.J. Cooke

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ solutions. I remember with a hard punch to my chest the sight of Saskia on the ground in front of the car.

      ‘Where is my daughter?’ I shout frantically. ‘Her name … Her name is Saskia. Saskia Pengilly. She’s seven years old, she … she has blonde hair, she was wearing a stripy T-shirt …’

      ‘We will take you to her,’ the doctor says, and they wheel me abruptly out of Michael’s room towards another ward further along the hallway.

      The sight of Saskia on the bed is like a fist slammed into my face. She’s hooked up to machines, there are blood stains on her pink cotton dress, her small, limp hands are bruised and painfully gashed. It is unbearable.

      I start to shake, a strangled scream escaping from my open mouth. Even when Reuben starts slapping his head I can’t stop. A nurse appears at my side, pulls the waistband of my shorts down below my hip and sticks a needle in my backside.

      Blackness.

      ‘The lady, she come here for see you.’

      A nurse is leaning over me and adjusting a tube in my arm. The room is swaying. Another woman comes into focus. Slim, young. Bobbed black hair, red lipstick. Wide smile. A suit.

      ‘I’m Vanessa Shoman,’ she says, stretching out a hand. ‘I’m from the British High Commission. The doctor told me that your family had a car accident.’

      The knowledge of why I’m here hits me like a wrecking ball. An invisible force sweeping me off my feet and landing me somewhere else in time, outside my own body. Horrifying fragments of the crash flash painfully across my eyes. I wrap my arms around my legs and howl in the space between my knees. I remember crawling on all fours to reach Saskia. She was lying on the ground, about ten feet ahead of the mangled hire car. I remember it was raining and there was glass everywhere. Saskia wouldn’t move. I was screaming for her to wake up.

      ‘My daughter,’ I tell Vanessa through gulping sobs. ‘She’s seriously injured. I … I don’t know if she’s going to survive.’

      I can hardly bring myself to say the words aloud. I can’t stop crying. Reuben is sitting back in his chair, knees to his chest. He looks stricken at the state of me but I’m too helpless to comfort him.

      Vanessa rubs my back sympathetically and explains her role as an officer of the High Commission is to help people like me. She assures me she will contact my family and help us get home, but none of it brings any comfort. She tells me we are in a hospital just outside of San Alvaro, one of Belize’s poorest towns. She says the hospitals in this region are understaffed, underfunded, but that a neurosurgeon is coming from Belize City today or tomorrow for Michael and Saskia.

      My memories are an explosion of particles that I have to knit together, atom by atom. I remember coming to in the modernist sculpture that used to be the car. I remember Michael slumped like a beanbag in the seat beside me, his right shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle. I was certain he was dead.

      What happened after that? How did we get to the hospital?

      Vanessa tells me an army truck full of soldiers came across us after the crash. The soldiers dragged Michael and Reuben out of the car, dumped us in their truck and brought us all to the hospital.

      ‘You were lucky,’ she says. ‘It’s a very remote part of Belize. No towns or villages for many miles. You could have been there a long time before someone found you. Maybe even days.’

      She tells me that the soldiers managed to salvage some luggage from our rental car. The bag containing our passports and money is in Michael’s room, but we had other suitcases containing clothes, toys, souvenirs, our mobile phones. Irrelevant, of course, but Vanessa mentions that we were also lucky that the army managed to save them.

      ‘Save them?’ I say weakly. ‘From what?’

      ‘From the police. They steal all the time. How many bags had you in total?’

      ‘I think we had four,’ I say.

      She writes this down. ‘How much money did you have in cash?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Any gadgets? Laptops, smartphones?’

      I bite my lip. ‘I’m not sure.’

      ‘Credit cards?’

      ‘I think … maybe AMEX and Mastercard.’

       Why does this matter? I don’t care about money. I care about my family.

      ‘We will check that these are still there. If not, we’ll attempt to cancel the cards for you. But the other bags I don’t think we will ever see again.’

      Vanessa folds away her notebook, her information retracted. She pulls another packet of tissues from her bag and passes them to me.

      ‘You poor thing,’ she says, watching me dissolve into gulping sobs. ‘But it’s good you’re awake. The police will want to get a statement from you as soon as possible.’

      Reuben is huddled on the bed next to me. The lights go out, plunging the hospital into darkness. Somehow the darkness makes the sense of loneliness and disorientation ten times worse. I feel trapped in a nightmare. My heart starts to race again. I press my fists against my eyes and weep from my core. It feels like I’ve been torn apart.

      I wish Michael was here to tell me that everything is OK. I wish someone could promise me that Saskia is going to make it through. I can’t believe this has happened. I hate myself for being less injured than she is. I would give anything, absolutely anything, to trade places with her.

      Earlier I caught my reflection in a broken mirror in the bathroom and had to look twice to check it was me. The left side of my face is yellow and puffed up so badly that my left eye is a mere slit in my face. My hair is pinked with blood and under the dressing on the side of my head is a painful gash. I think my collarbone and wrist are broken. My right ankle might be broken too. I can barely put any pressure on my feet and every movement feels like I’ve torn dozens of muscles.

      But I’m alive. We all are. I have to cling to that. It could so, so easily have been otherwise.

      Vanessa said that the army brought us here. As I sit up in the darkness I remember a pair of heavy black shoes next to my face as I came to by the car. My image was blurry but I definitely saw them. A ripped denim hem, like jeans. A crunch of glass underfoot.

      Michael was unconscious. He was wearing flipflops, not boots. The soldiers would have been wearing fatigues, not jeans. I think the van driver came to inspect the damage to our vehicle after the crash. He was unharmed enough to walk. I’d identify his shoes if I saw them again. Black lace-ups, a scuff on the right toe.

      But he didn’t call the police. Vanessa said the army came across us by chance. The driver had left the scene of the crash long before then. I try to imagine him looking over our mangled car, our bodies covered in glass and blood. How could he have looked at Saskia on the ground like that and just raced off without calling anyone? How heartless would you have to be to leave her like that?

      I know I saw someone outside the beach hut the other night. Michael questioned me and yes, it was dark but I know I did. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Dark hair. Short – about five foot eight – with СКАЧАТЬ