A noise jerks me back from the life-changing horror of the past, away from the funeral programme on the laptop. Away from that damning photo. It’s the hospital room’s door opening. I stand up, staunch and ready. Ready to meet the person who has been planning Philip’s funeral, playing with my mind. It’s the wheels I see first. Then I see the wheelchair. I don’t notice the porter who pushes it, only the person sitting in it has my utmost attention.
My head’s trembling with such an intensity I don’t know how it stays connected to my neck. There’s a terrible roaring in my ears. My legs give way and I drop heavily onto the bed.
‘Philip?’
This is what happens when you take one too many shots of cannabis oil and pop BBs like they’re Smarties, you end up seeing things. That’s what my blown mind is telling me.
‘Rachel.’
Oh God, he’s real.
I’m consumed by such an intense ballooning of elation that it threatens to split me apart. I don’t know what to do with my hands. Whether to reach out towards him or hug my fingertips to my lips. My hands don’t have the will to do either. They’re frozen to the blanket on the bed. I watch as the porter wheels him over and then leaves us. Now he – Philip – is less than an arm’s length from me. A wave of other emotions crashed down, drenching me. Horror. Disbelief. Complete, total incomprehension. But joy shoves them all out of the way and wins through again.
I’m laughing like I don’t have an internal stop button. ‘Philip… Philip… Philip.’
His grin is a twisted history of scars, burns and grafts. His poor, poor beautiful face. ‘Hello, Rachel.’ He speaks as if the last time he saw me was yesterday not ten years ago. ‘This is a nice surprise, although perhaps it shouldn’t be—’
I interrupt, voice scraping across my vocal cords. ‘I don’t understand. Why did you let me think that you died all those years ago after the fire?’ There’s a bitter taste on the tip of my tongue. ‘I blamed myself for it all. For running away. Leaving you. I thought I’d let you down.’
His eyes lower to his bony hands and that’s when I realise how emaciated he is. His head shoots up. ‘Look at me. I’m not a pretty sight, am I. And I don’t mean that as a statement of vanity. It’s simply a truth. At the beginning I was in hospital for such a long time, and it wasn’t only my body trying to heal. Inside my mind was damaged. It took me such a long time to put myself back together and it felt wrong to drag you into it all over again. I wanted you to find peace.’
If only he knew that I’d found anything but. I touch a palm to my heart. ‘I’m filled with such happiness seeing you alive.’
His face isn’t anywhere near as mobile as it was, but there’s a tiny lift of one brow. ‘Nearly everyone has paid me a visit today. Your friend Keats dropped by, my dad, my mum and my brother Michael. I suppose you’re the last person left who hasn’t. It’s been a whole series of tender deathbed scenes,’ he laughs too but then winces with pain, ‘of one sort or another.’
I get off the bed to hug him but he raises a hand covered in a white glove that resembles an oven mitt. ‘Best not. There aren’t many parts of my body that don’t burn again when they’re touched. We can virtual hug if you like. Everything is virtual for me these days.’
Then the penny drops with horror. ‘Deathbed scenes?’
He’s still trying to grin. ‘Yes, I’m going, I’m afraid. The doctors will tell you different, my mum can’t accept it but it’ll be lights out for me shortly.’ He taps his chest lightly with his white glove. ‘My lungs were severely damaged in the fire. The miracle isn’t that I’m alive but that I’ve lasted this long. I’ve been given a few months at the most before my lungs shut down. I’m not sorry either. Enough is enough for me really; I’ve been as good as dead for years anyway.’ He points to the laptop. ‘That’s why I’m making those arrangements for my own funeral—’
‘You’re the person behind it.’
His expression lights up. ‘Imagine having the opportunity to put the things you really want to be remembered for in your funeral service instead of what your family try to guess what you wanted. I want to be remembered my way not somebody else’s. Although I had to be careful. If Mummy had worked out what I was writing, she’d have deleted the lot.’ His good hand flashes around. ‘Plus, it keeps me amused while I’m waiting for the grim reaper and a couple of hospital porters to show up and wheel me off to the morgue.’
I’m gutted. Philip’s alive but he’s going to die all over again. What a wicked trick for life to play on me. In that moment the sorrow on his face is a burden that needs to be shared but I can’t touch him because how can I burden him with my heartbreak as well?
He asks, ‘Did Keats tell you what’s been going on? She’s an interesting lady.’
For the past few minutes, Keats has slipped my mind. Now her accident takes me by the throat. I don’t want to tell Philip what’s happened, in case he blames himself for that too. ‘No, no, not yet…’
His body shifts as he settles more deeply into his chair. ‘Best start at the beginning. My mother and brother, Michael, blamed your father and you for what happened to Uncle Danny.’
Woah! I didn’t see that one coming and it shows in my face. ‘Danny Hall was your uncle?’
He nods slowly. ‘He was mummy’s younger brother. She was very protective of him, including his memory. When Mummy discovered your father had fallen out with Uncle Danny over some business thing, that you were working there, and then Uncle Danny was killed and I was injured in a suspicious fire – well, they blamed you and your father for it. Obviously, I told Mummy and Michael that was nonsense afterwards but I couldn’t tell them the truth, could I? That was impossible. Hey – are you all right, Rachel?’
I’m not. I’m shattered. He obviously doesn’t realise that I’ve seen the picture. I turn the laptop in his direction and, with a shaking finger, point to it. ‘Why is my dad in this photo with you, Joanie and Michael?’
I expect him to turn away from me. He doesn’t. His hot stare drives into me. ‘My mother was his long-time lover and Michael and I are his sons. Because he’s our dad too.’
The blow doesn’t fall because I was expecting this. I think back to all those years when Dad was away for days, sometimes weeks, ‘on business’. He was probably with his second family. Is that what crushed Mum’s spirit because she found out? Then it hits me what I confided in Keats about my relationship with Philip:
‘He’s like the brother I never knew I had.’ It was all true. Philip is my brother, my half-brother.
He must be reading my mind because Philip chokes, ‘Surely you must have known that, Rachel? Someone must have told you? How could you not have known?’ He cries, tears soaking down his wounded face in crazy patterns over the scars. ‘Oh Rachel…’
I feel the walls of my tears crumbling inside. We cry together, for the mess that has been made of our lives. For two eighteen-year-olds who had just gone through the gateway of adulthood on the journey to find their dreams but instead found a hellish nightmare awaiting them.
Philip has his big-gloved hand around my shoulder and kisses my cheek with his broken lips.
‘Don’t worry about a thing; everything’s going to be okay. Keats told me what’s been going on. I’ve laid it on the line for Mummy, our dad and Michael today. All this nonsense has got to stop. Don’t be too harsh on my mum and Michael. They were only trying to get revenge for what they imagined happened to Uncle Danny and me. I told them from the beginning that it wasn’t your fault but when they discovered I’m dying that was obviously the trigger that must have started them off with all the bogus company and gas lighting. They just wanted you to suffer the way I did. Don’t be too hard on them. Revenge has been going on for ever; it’s a natural human instinct to right wrongs.’
My voice has no tone. It’s broken, the same way that I’m broken. ‘Why didn’t you tell Joanie and Michael the truth about what happened at Danny’s?’
Philip laughs grimly, though I can see how painful this is for him. ‘How could I do that? Tell my mother that her beloved baby brother was a rapist and couldn’t keep his filthy hands to himself? That’s why I couldn’t call the police then, I didn’t want her anywhere near that mess or finding out who her brother really was. How do you think she’d have reacted when she found out that I killed him? That I burned his body to cover up the evidence, and was the cause of my own injuries? I couldn’t do that, Rachel.’
The grip of the gloved hand on my shoulder gets tighter, although the pain on his face shows what it’s costing him. ‘The thing is this, I’ve spoken to my mum and Michael and told them this has to stop. They’re going back tomorrow to clear out their fake business. Shut it down.’
He pauses, considering his next words. ‘But what you have to remember is that under no circumstances must you let our dad know what you know. He’s obsessed with his reputation.’ It comes back to me what Keats told me about how my father crushes his business opponents, uses the courts to protect his reputation.
Philip ominously adds, ‘And if he finds out you know what he’s done…’
My confusion shows on my face. ‘I don’t understand. Having a secret family isn’t exactly the crime of the century.’ My expression changes. ‘He’s done something else, hasn’t he? What aren’t you telling me?’
Philip’s eyes jerk away. ‘I’ve told you everything. But heed this – Frank Jordan’s capable of anything. He’s a psychopath, Rachel. He’s been coming to see me every week since I’ve been in here. I think he enjoys it. He thinks I deserve to be like this because I was stupid. Seriously, that’s what he thinks.’ His gaze turns back to me now. ‘You’re his little Rachel. If he thinks you know everything, you’re in serious danger. You’re the only one he really cares about. See? He doesn’t care about me, my mum, your mum or Michael. Only you.’
Is Philip holding out on me? But I don’t feel I can press him because what kind of person would I be to badger and bash someone facing a death sentence?
Suddenly I remember, ‘If your mum and Michael are going back tomorrow, I’m worried about Ray. When I left, there was no-one around. Say no-one comes for him?’
Philip’s expression becomes grim. ‘You’re not going there. I mean it. You’re in danger. For my sake, please say you’re not going. Please!’ The marks of his martyrdom are all over his body from that day ten years ago when he stepped in to save me from Danny.
He’s probably right. And his mother no doubt has Ray. Still, I need to check for myself.
I gently take Philip’s hand from my shoulder and get up off the bed. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Philip’s torment is etched on his already-tormented face. ‘Rachel? Rachel? Are you listening to me? You’re not going to that tenement. I forbid it!’
He wheels his chair backwards to block the door. I grab its handles and pull him out of the way. Climbing unsteadily out of his chair and taking a few steps, Philip lunges for me with his gloved hands but they can’t grip and he tumbles down onto the floor. I should help but I’m afraid if I stay, he’ll talk me out of going to the old sweatshop.
‘Rachel! Rachel! Listen to me!’
Striding down the corridor outside, stealing a backwards glance, I can see Philip as he crawls out of his room. ‘Rachel! Rachel!’
Nurses and other patients appear, drawn to the scene by the shouting. Medical staff rush past me to see what’s happening. I keep walking, through the unit’s reception, not looking back to where Philip’s yells echo up and down the corridor as if they come from beyond the grave.