Chapter Four

Waking in a cold sweat, I feel as though a semi-trailer has parked on top of my chest. All I can see is green grass, and I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Bambi eyes infringe on my world of grass, adding a different shade of bottle green into the equation. Long lashes blink every few seconds, and heavy black fills my vision when they do.

“Help is on its way. Just stay still. You’re in the recovery position.” She splutters, “Oh God, why did you do that? You nearly killed us both.”

I try to answer, but my lips aren’t moving no matter how hard I try to make them do so.

What was just eyes is now an entire face in front of me. Is she lying down beside me? The bright red coating her perfectly covered lips earlier is now smudged in a line up her cheekbone, and the black from around her eyes runs in lines down her face. Small droplets of water whizz through these lines, and I realise she’s crying.

“I’m Roselette,” she whispers before inhaling a whistled sound. “Your chest is probably hurting. I had to pounce on it a bit to get you to breathe again, you silly prat. Can you hear me? Just give me a sign, anything to tell me you can.”

I close my eyes and open them just as fast as they shut.

Roselette gasps and then coughs.

I wish I could reach out and touch her. She’s been through a lot, and her tears are falling rapidly as her lip quivers. Once she steadies her breathing, she says, “Well, I’m glad you can hear me. It means for the moment, your brain is okay.” A sparkling diamond infringes my sight as her hands curl up under her chin. “Help is coming,” she breathes. “You just stay awake, you hear?”

Each wheezing sound coming from Roselette causes me to swallow hard. I’m trying to stay alert like she instructed me to do—she’s so damn pretty, I’d like to keep staring at her forever. Tiredness, on the other hand, has its own plan, and before long my fight is over and she disappears from my sight.

Long wet licks and panting by my ear has my eyes springing open. Roselette is gone, and so are the black, red, and green colours previously demanding my attention. Now all I can see is white.

Woof. Woof.

My head throbs, and I groan out of frustration.

“Hello, mate, I’m Nathan. You’re on route to the hospital. Welcome back.”

“Roselette,” I groan.

“She’s going to be fine. You stay relaxed for me.”

I can’t see this Nathan who’s talking, but his gruff voice brings me comfort.

“What’s your name?”

“Finlay Crossley, but everyone calls me Tank.”

“And the dog?”

“Roxie.”

“She wouldn’t leave your side. Nipped me, she did, when I came to help you.” Nathan chuckles, and when I follow the sound, I catch a blurred outline of a man with a bald head. “Roxie won’t be allowed in the hospital with you. Don’t worry, though, they’ll arrange to have a vet check her out and keep her safe until you’re fighting fit. Good luck to them, I say—that pooch of yours has quite the teeth.”

I attempt to laugh only to experience a world of hurt coursing throughout my body. “Fuck,” I groan.

“Yeah, you’re a bit banged up. The oxygen has your stats looking nice now, though.”

“What happened?”

“You took on an explosion, they tell me.”

“Yeah.” It takes a minute to register before everything comes flooding back. “My log book.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Tank.”

I close my eyes and kiss my dreams of a better future goodbye.

Doctors, so many of them are prodding and poking at my sides. The roof is highlighted by large rectangular lights, and when I inhale another gob full of assisted oxygen, I rip at the mask on my face.

“Hey. Can I sit up?”

Muttering, lots of muttering takes place before a deep voice says, “No, Mr Crossley, you can’t sit up.”

“Well, can I have a drink?”

“No.” It’s a quick response in the same tone as previous.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I huff.

“I’m sure you are. However, we’re going to conduct our examination first.” He is determined to do his job.

“Try and stay calm.” This voice is soft, feminine, and familiar.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” I ask as the mask I removed is placed back over my mouth.

She laughs. “You’re doing fine. Maybe I should be your driver. You clearly can’t drive yourself.”

“Grey station wagon.” It’s a muffled reply.

“That’s me.”

“Ummm …” I click my tongue. “Shit, Lesley, right?”

“Well, we can affirm your memory is on par and tick it off of our checklist. You are faring well there.”

“Fancy that.” I’m amused. “So, you can spring me from this joint, can’t you?”

“How about you be a good boy and do what the doctors say? Before you know it, we’ll be turfin’ you out the front doors and onto the street.”

“Might be needing a lift then.” I snicker before sucking back a needy intake of air.

“Calm down, cowboy. How about you rest your pipes and relax?”

“Fine with me.”

“Nurse. Can you take a blood draw from Mr Crossley for me?” It’s the male voice from before.

Pale white skin and baby blue eyes appear above me. “Sure, Doctor.” Gloss-coated lips pull up in a smile. “Watch out, Mr Crossley. I don’t needle stick nice,” she whispers, with her breath skimming my ear.

I half-chuckle and again breathe hard from within the mask. I like Lesley and her witty banter.

With a wide-stretched smile, she winks, and then she’s gone.

The room is quiet. There’s a soft patting against the back of my hand, and due to the neck brace pulled tight, I can’t see what’s happening. Ouch! Shit! I guess Lesley wasn’t kidding about not taking blood nicely ... Vampire.

CAT scans, X-rays, and three different doctors come to do their individual assessments of me. The last doctor strips away the brace keeping my head positioned in place, and to say I’m relieved for it to be gone is an understatement. It was suffocating, like a boa constrictor trying to strangle its lunch.

“Mild smoke inhalation, Mr Crossley.” The bed is raised into a more seated position, and my eyes meet the man who gave me my final diagnosis. He’s odd-looking, with a khaki turtleneck sitting high up his neck, and a black beard combed neatly down to his chest. “You should be fine to go home in the morning. We’ll keep you for the night and conduct a twenty-four-hour observation on you.”

“Okay.” I sound gruff.

“Downside of smoke inhalation is an eighty-year-old smoker’s voice. It will pass. You’ll see.” He studies what I believe to be medical charts inside a manila folder. “Everything is looking good. You’re very lucky to walk away from such an event. I see miracles like this once in a blue moon.” He perches himself on the end of the bed by my feet. “You want to know what’s strange, Mr Crossly?”

“Sure.” Running my hand to the back of my neck, I stretch in an attempt to loosen the muscles.

“Are you a bit sore?” He seems to change the direction of conversation. How is this strange?

“Nah. I’m okay.” I am okay, but I sure do loathe hospitals—the sterile smells, the people roaming the halls dazed and full of disease. Morning can’t come soon enough.

“Good. I can get you pain relief, though, if you’d like some.”

“Nah.”

“Now. Where was I? Yes, strange happenings. As a doctor, Mr Crossley, we see people who have minor falls and yet sustain life-threatening injuries, and then we get others who have been hit by a truck and walk away without a scratch.” He pauses again. “Huh.” He expels. “This has always had me puzzled.”

Turning his eyes upwards has him seemingly entering a daydream of sorts and without warning, he swiftly taps at my foot and says, “You can never tell who is going to die or live on any given day just from the outcome of how they received their injuries.” With this, he rises to his feet and takes the edge of a beige curtain falling freely to the floor not far from the top end of the bed. “Rest up,” he instructs, walking in a slow circle, pulling the curtain closed as he does. “We’re going to keep you down here with us in Accident and Emergency. You will only be a short-term stay. No need for a trip to the wards,” he finishes after popping his head into a small gap the curtain creates.

Before I can answer he’s gone again. Strange fellow. What did this even mean? I’m lucky?

Closing my eyes, I doze for a short while—well, until the clearing of a throat has me focussing my attention towards the curtains previously pulled closed. Rubbing at my face, I lift myself upwards until I’m fully seated without the bed supporting my back.

“Hi,” she says. It’s a soft-spoken voice. One I can’t identify.

“Yes?” I groan.

“I think I have something you might be looking for.”

“Huh.”

“Today, a man, who without doubt must be a few eggs short of a carton, decided to run in the direction of a burning car. Said car exploded, and he risked his life for what? A few pieces of paper and a log book?”

Roselette.

“I hope you don’t mind, but after they raced you off for medical attention I took these items into my possession and brought them here with me. This must be important, if you were willing to kill yourself for it.” Taking two small shuffles forwards, Rose stares at me with a tilted head.

“You have …”

“Your lotto ticket? The winning ticket?”

I swallow hard before nodding.

“Yes,” she whispers, laying a cream jacket onto the end of the bed.

This jacket takes my attention. I’m not sure why—maybe because it’s the same colour as the silk top she’s now wearing. Roselette is freshly washed. Her makeup is reapplied. She’s breathtakingly beautiful. On top of the jacket she sets down the grey log book and pats her hand twice on its top. “I hope this changes your life and you—”

“Finlay Crossley,” I interrupt.

“I know.” She smiles.

“What’s your full name?”

“I’d prefer we leave it at Roselette. A stranger who shared an experience with you. One who never wants to have such an experience again.” She twists on her heel and starts her departure.

“Rose.”

“Yes, Finlay.” She doesn’t afford me another glance, and I can’t shift my eyes away from the long and wavy auburn locks covering her entire back.

“Your coat,” I say quickly, clutching it in my hand.

She takes a moment, almost as if she’s indecisive whether to claim it. It’s a delayed turn, one almost played out in slow motion with her pink shiny lips pinched and her long lashes batting.

“Your coat,” I repeat stretching out my arm.

She mimics my reach, only stepping forward enough so she can claim the coat. She’s keeping as much distance from me as possible. I take a moment to study every inch of her face, as her warm hand brushes mine and she takes the coat from my grip.

“Thank you.” Her tone is hushed.

“You’re welcome.”

Folding the material over her opposite arm, she smiles briefly.

“You’re not going to tell anyone about …?”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Finlay.”

“See ya, Rose.”

And with a few steps she’s gone.

My heart hammers loudly in my chest as I rush to open the cover of the log book. The white paper the numbers are printed on is tucked just where I left it. It’s there. It’s fucking there. Holy shit!