Guy Smith - The Lurkers

Thirty miles. A B-road most of the way until it joined a main A-road about five miles from the town. What the hell was Janie doing out there? Probably some complex emergency ambulance coverage. But this was no time to challenge the inefficiencies of the system.

He slid behind the wheel of the Saab and thanked some unknown deity that the engine fired first time, then did a three-point turn that had the tyres spinning and showering mud up the hedge. Keep calm, you can't a/ford to kill yourself; Gavin. mil need you now more than ever. A dilemma as he slowed on the acute bend and prayed again that Ruskin wouldn't be around the corner in that battered old Land Rover: maybe he ought to call in at the school and pick up Gavin. No, a hospital accident unit was no place to take a young boy whose mother was ... He didn't dare try and think what the injuries might be. She wouldn't be in there if she wasn't one helluva a mess. No, leave the boy and phone Hughes from Llanrhayader; get him to break the news. Make some arrangements for Gavin to be looked after until he got back. Got to get there first.

The road was winding beyond Woodside, not so hilly, but he had to watch the bends as it followed a wide valley. The weak sunshine was making one last attempt to display the fading autumnal tints before the winter winds ruthlessly stripped the last of the leaves.

Suddenly he braked hard; a trailer-load of manure was being pulled by an old tractor with an upright exhaust that belched out clouds of black diesel fumes. No number plate in sight. As Peter blared his horn, he saw the driver trying to light a pipe and steer precariously with one hand at the same time so that the trailer veered out into the middle of the road. Driving without due care and attention; no rear registration plate, probably no front one either. The bastard ought to be reported. Peter flashed his lights. No reaction. Maybe the driver didn'r even have a mirror.

Another bend; down to 15 mph.

He took a chance: pulled out and accelerated hard. If you hit anything you might as well hit it hard, he reasoned. You stupid old hayseed bastard, you don't have a front number plate either. He was sweating as he pulled back in; he'd given up praying. If his number came up there was nothing he could do about it.

A clear road ahead. That cross-country run again; he'd lost time so he was trying to make it up until he hit the next obstacle. Sixty-five mph, and knocking hell out of the brake-shoes on the bends.

He glanced at his wrist-watch: five-past-twelve. The phone call had been an eternity ago; probably the watch had slopped.

A green signpost with yellow lettering: LLANRHAYADER 5 made Peter swing off to the left, his foot slammed right down on the throttle.

Llanrhayader was bigger than he had expected. Its long winding approach with grey stone buildings on one side of the road starkly contrasted with rows of red-brick council houses on the other. There was a level-crossing but the barriers were elevated, then a panda crossing with the lights just turning to red and some youths in ragged denims sauntering idly across the road, as if with deliberate arrogance: We hope your wife dies before you get there.

He shot forward with a screech of tyres as the amber light began flashing, then braked again less than a hundred yards further on. This time it was main traffic lights, a queue of a dozen or more vehicles with a large baker's van at the head which would slow the getaway.

A sudden thought threatened to bring back his panic: he'd found Llanrhayader—but where was the hospital? He was winding down the window to shout across to some pedestrians on the opposite pavement when he saw the white and black sign arrowed to the left: Accident Unit. A sense of relief sent a little shiver up his spine and knotted his stomach again. He looked at his watch again. Twelve-fifteen. It hadn't stopped after all.

His mouth was dry as he cut into the left-hand stream of traffic. He'd broken speed limits and other traffic regulations to make record time, but now he was within minutes of his destination, he somehow wished that he hadn't got there so soon. Because he was afraid to face stark reality.

The hospital was a combination of the old and the new; a long low extension had been built on to the existing grey stone austere edifice. A spacious area of black tarmac at the side was marked out into parking lots, and a thirty yard stretch in front of the main entrance bearing three foot capital letters screamed, AMBULANCES ONLY.

Peter didn't give a toss for ambulances or any other vehicles right then; he pulled up to the main steps and was out of the Saab almost before the engine had died. He hit the heavy glass doors at a run, not caring that he was starting to panic. Just cut the officialdom. Take me to my wife.

'Can I help you, sir?' A small dark-haired girl looked up from a window marked Reception., a half-smile but no expression of surprise on her pen features. Maybe, Peter thought, most husbands dashed in here like this when they got a crisis, call.

'My wife . . . ' His voice quavered. 'Injured. I got a call . . . '

'What name, sir?' A lilting local accent.

'Fogg. Jane. Mine's Peter.'

She consulted a clipboard. Oh, for fuck's sake cut out the red lapel She shook her head slowly. Peter clutched at the ledge. Through a red haze that he knew would terminate in a faint this time, he saw her lips starting to move. Ok God, no!

I'm sorry, sir . . . '

Peter felt his legs starting to go weak.

Tin sorry, sir, but nobody of that name has been admitted to Emergency today.'

This is crazy. You're mad! You're not doing your job properly. Somebody hasn't noted my wife's accident down. She could be dying whilst we're fucking about like this. 'You—you're mistaken. I got a call.'

'Who from, sir? At what time?' She wasn't smiling any more now.

'From the hospital, of course. At eleven-thirty, I know because . . . ' Oh hell, what did it matter why he knew what time the phone had rung.

She was speaking on some kind of intercom. A long agonising wait. Somebody was checking. Everybody here checked, that was all they bloody well ever did: checked and checked wrongly. And people died, but what the hell did it matter because you were only a number, meat in an abattoir. Dispensable because there was a ready market, no shortage of supply.

A faint ting as the internal telephone was hung back on its hook. He stared into her eyes, almost reading the words before she spoke them. Tm sorry, sir, but we've checked out and I can assure you that your wife is not here. Are you sure you've got the right hospital?'

He nodded dumbly. Tm sure. But if she's not here, then she's OK. She hasn't had an accident!' A sudden feeling of euphoria. 'I guess it was a hoax.'

'Then you should report it to the police, sir. The police station's not far from here. Go out of the main gates, turn right and go on up to the traffic lights . . . '

But Peter wasn't listening. Trembling, he walked back through the heavy swing doors and just made it into the Saab before his legs gave out. The dirty fucking bastards, how low could they stoop'?

Just a hoax—or did somebody want him away from Hodre for a few hours so that they could perpetrate yet another obscenity? Jane, Gavin, were they OK?

His strength came back with this host of new fears, and he swung the car round and drove out through the wide gateway. That phone call last night, the one today, must be linked, he reasoned. Just as there was a link between everything that had happened since they had arrived at Hodre.

The youths weren't on the panda crossing now, but the level-crossing barriers were down and a queue of cars had built up. Peter took a deep breath as he sat there with the engine running. There was a tightness across his chest like a constricting metal band, and he told himself that that was how a thrombosis started: stress first, then a deep-seated pain as a floating clot of blood started to block the arteries.