I floated, light and carefree, and safe.
A police officer with a gentle voice got to me first and wrapped me in a blanket. Looking groggily into his eyes, I found it impossible to speak coherently. Afterwards, I was transferred to an ambulance where everything and everyone worked in slow motion. A paramedic said something about potential cardiac arrest, although my heart did not stop beating. I had too much to live for. When a stranger cut away my wet clothes, I didn’t mind a bit. Careful and caring, quiet hands wrapped me in special blankets. Like an Egyptian Mummy, only my face peeped out. I silently thanked people.
Someone fed me a hot drink. Someone else put a warm compress against my chest. I didn’t recall anyone measuring my vital signs, but I guess they must have done.
By the time, I got to hospital I could make out what was going on around me, although I was too tired to take part. Badly bruised, my bones ached, and my back killed. Maybe I had cracked ribs. All I wanted was sleep and, when I did, I dreamt of Scarlet. She was walking down a road with a rucksack on her back. I called after her and she turned, smiled and waved goodbye.
“Don’t go,” I cried, desolate as I woke up.
Nurses came and went. A doctor advised I should be kept in for observation. As my body reheated, my thoughts became more lucid. A nice D.I. called Tracey West popped her head around my door. She had a wide face with big open, and I liked to think, honest, features. “Are you well enough to give a statement?”
“My brother,” I said, before she had time to sit down.
“He’s been found.”
I grabbed at the sheets. “Is he?”
“He’s in ICU with a fractured skull. The medics will be able to tell you more. I think they’re planning to transfer him to the QE in Birmingham.”
Closing my eyes, I silently told Scarlet that he was still alive. Maybe she already knew. “Where was he found?” I said.
“In the cellar at your shop, which is now a crime scene.” Rachel, I thought with relief, she’d come through for me.
“Can I see him?”
“You’ll need to consult the nurses.”
“Do my parents know?”
“We haven’t been able to contact them.”
I started. “Neither of them?”
“I’m sure we will,” Tracey said smoothly. “Now can you tell me what happened? Take your time.”
I started off with what occurred at the quarry. I kept it factual and unemotional.
“Mrs Chancellor is extremely distressed and claims that she only meant to scare you,” West said.
I was flabbergasted. “With acid?”
“You’ve had a very narrow escape,” Tracey admitted. “She’ll be charged with possession of an offensive weapon.”
“You should have charged her with attempted murder.”
Before Tracey could launch into the niceties of British law, I did a re-run of my conversation with Rachel Haran. As tough as it was, I stuck to facts when talking about my father, as if I were discussing some bloke down the road. There was no escape from what I truly felt. Relief that my instincts were sound yet crushing disappointment that my father was not the person I thought he was. Dad had lived a lie for so long, he’d made me a co-conspirator. Did I still love him? At the moment I was too raw to be certain of anything. I wondered how long it would take for the police to make an arrest. They’d have to find him first.