3.55am. Thursday, 9th November
The screaming had been going on for some time before she managed to open her eyes. The high-pitched agonized shriek corkscrewing its way through Honor’s ear drum and into the soft matter of her brain to fill it with someone else’s pain and wanting, but still she hadn’t managed to persuade her eyes to open.
She fought them. Lids thick and heavy, intent on keeping her in darkness. The taste iron and bitter, leaving her mouth parched and her tongue swollen. Water. She needed water or she was going to die. The wanting dragged her into consciousness, forcing open her eyes. Water. It was all she needed. If she could taste water, the pain would stop and there would be silence and peace.
Her vision blurred then came back. A beaker of water sat by her bed next to a jug. Ice in the thick plastic jug. Condensation running down its corrugations. She attempted to move her arm to reach for the glass, but it lay useless and disconnected by her side. What was happening to her? Honor willed herself to focus on the glass. She inched her way across the bed, forcing movement into her unwilling limbs – her legs, her arms. Her hand was stiff and clumsy as it moved towards the beaker – reaching for it, knocking it. The beaker sliding, falling, water spilling across the mahogany bedside cabinet, cascading down the drawer, the cupboard door and on to the thickly carpeted floor.
The clatter was enough to bring the nurse.
A plump, shiny-faced woman, the nurse’s greying hair was slashed into a vicious bob, each wing clipped into its rightful place with a rainbow-coloured barette.
Tutting, she picked the beaker from the floor and filled it again, moving it just out of Honor’s reach. Honor let out a small groan as the nurse swept dry the cabinet, mopping the thick carpet with a towel she took from a sink in the corner of the room.
Water would have revived her. It turned out anger did the exact same thing. Honor fought to remember. She was in Newcastle.
It came back to her in a rush.
With North.
Looking for something.
Someone.
Peggy.
North was a bad man.
She felt fear at the memory of him. The knife. His eyes.
His smile.
But he was helping her find Peggy.
Anger.
No it wasn’t North she was angry with.
It wasn’t Peggy.
She was angry with JP Armitage. JP. Who betrayed her into darkness, and screaming. He’d said one of his companies owned some place in Suffolk. More like a spa than a clinic. The best people. Superlative care. Everyone goes there.
The nurse spread the towel on the floor, her white shoes stamping on it, crushing the water out from the carpet – “Rowantree Psychiatric Clinic” woven into the hem. Only when she was satisfied did she pick up the towel and lay it, soaked and filthy, on the bedside cabinet beside the beaker. She gave a martyred sigh as she held Honor’s head away from the pillow and raised the drink to her lips. The transparent smell of cold water. Honor kept her mouth closed.
JP wanted her out of the way, and it hurt. Worse yet, he had to be involved in whatever “this” was. She was going to pull him limb from limb.
She heaved herself on to her elbow, taking the cup herself, her left hand with its tiny puncture wounds trembling. Suit yourself. The nurse turned away – making for the door, as Honor swallowed the sweet water. She was on her own. How it used to be.