Shaun Jeffrey: Dead Man's Eye

Joanna chewed her fingernails as they neared their destination; her heart drumming. What if the woman wasn’t in? What if she was? Would she be able to corroborate Joanna’s story? Or would she think she was mad?

Only time would tell.

When they arrived at the address, Joanna stared at the semi-detached house. The windows needed a lick of paint, and the front garden looked unkempt, the long grass almost devouring assorted playthings that protruded from the foliage like long lost relics. The once white pebble-dashed walls were now covered in grime. A basketball hoop hung from the building alongside the small carport, in which an old mini sat parked on house bricks, surrounded by a corona of rust that had bled into the algae-covered slabs.

“Well this is it,” Stephen said.

Joanna interlinked her fingers and placed them before her lips. “If she’s in, what do I say?”

Stephen shrugged. “I guess you just have to come straight out and ask if she’s seen anything, you know, unusual.”

“What if she thinks I’m mad?”

“Then we leave. There’s nothing else you can do.”

Joanna exhaled slowly. The whole situation seemed beyond belief, even to her, never mind someone else. Steeling herself, she opened the door and stepped out of the car. A cool wind whipped around her body, making her shiver. Stephen joined her, and together they walked up the drive.

Joanna licked her lips, rang the bell, then stood tapping her foot as she waited.

After a moment, she rang the bell again before stepping back to see if she could spot any movement through one of the windows.

“I don’t think anyone’s in,” Stephen said.

“There’s got to be.” She stepped forwards and rang the bell again, keeping her finger on the button.

The door suddenly opened. “Where’s the fire?”

A middle-aged woman with brown hair streaked with grey stared at Joanna impatiently. She had a heart-shaped face and pinched lips that gave her an intense demeanour, especially when combined with brown eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What do you want?” the woman asked. In the background, a baby was crying.

Joanna cleared her throat. “Margaret Jones?”

“Yes, why, what is it?”

“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

Margaret’s frown hardened. “Sorry. Haven’t got time.” She started to close the door.

Stephen jammed his foot in the gap. “Just wait a minute. This is important. Hear her out.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re selling, but get your foot out of my door before I call my husband.”

Joanna noticed Margaret wasn’t wearing a ring, but she didn’t mention it. No need to antagonise the woman. “We’re not selling anything. I just need to ask you a few questions about your cornea transplant.”

The woman’s expression changed from suspicion to slight alarm. “How did you know about my transplant? Who are you?”

“I’ve got the other cornea.” She pointed to her eye. “I just want to ask you if you’ve had any problems since the transplant. Have you seen anything… strange?”

The woman scowled. “What do you mean, strange? How did you find me?”

“Strange like shadows that shouldn’t be there.”

The woman shook her head, but Joanna saw something in her expression, a hint of fear that implied she was lying.

“Please, it’s important.”

The sound of the baby crying grew louder and Margaret glanced back into the house. “Look, I need to go. I can’t help you.”

“You have to help us,” Stephen said.

Margaret glared at him. “Look, I’ve got enough problems of my own, now if you don’t mind.” She glanced down at his foot and pushed the door on it again.

Stephen looked at Joanna, and she nodded before looking back at Margaret. “We’re sorry to trouble you. Stephen, let’s go.”

“But Jo-”

Joanna grabbed Stephen’s arm and pulled him away.

“What did you do that for?” he asked.

“We can’t force Margaret to help us.”

“But she knows something. I can tell.”

Joanna shrugged. “Whatever. It’s just you and me now.”

“Then we should come clean. Tell her everything we know. We need her to help.”

Joanna shook her head. “By doing that we might put her in danger.”

“So what? Everyone’s in danger at the moment.”

“Maybe, but we haven’t got time to stand and argue with her.”

Stephen rolled his eyes.

“We’d better head back,” Joanna said. She glanced at the house, saw Margaret staring at her from the downstairs window. Whatever happened now, they were on their own.

Lincoln stared at the clock. Although he had slept for hours, he felt knackered. It didn’t make sense.

Nothing seemed to make sense.

Like why some people seemed to talk at him, rather than to him.

And why some people called him by another name.

And why he sometimes woke in a different place than where he fell asleep.

It was all too crazy.

But there had to be an explanation.

He just wished he knew what it was.

At least this time he had woken in his room.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood up. Although he expected to be wearing pyjamas or a dressing gown, he found that he was fully dressed, but had no recollection of dressing himself.

It was almost as though he had split into two people. One that took control when he was conscious and another that took control when he was asleep. But that was barmy.

Surely if that was the case he would remember something. Anything. But what other explanation was there.

He considered schizophrenia as a cause. That would certainly explain a lot, and with what he had been through, he wouldn’t be surprised to find that his brain had short-circuited.

The thought made him shiver.

He walked out of the room and approached the nurses’ station. The woman on duty looked up as he approached. Although probably pushing forty, her Middle Eastern appearance gave her a sultry look that Lincoln found attractive. But attracting people of the opposite sex was the last thing on his mind. Besides, women probably wouldn’t look twice at a one-armed man with a less than bright future.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I need to see a doctor. I’ve asked before, but no one has done anything about it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I want to talk to a doctor.”

“Well I’m afraid there’s not one available at the moment.”

“That’s bullshit. This is a hospital. Of course there’s a doctor around. The place is fucking full of them.”

“Calm down, Sir. Swearing won’t get anything done quicker.”

“Then get me a fucking doctor. Now.”

“Sir, if you continue to use that language, I will have to call security.”

Lincoln gritted his teeth. He felt like screaming. What little patience he had was worn thin. He wanted to know what the hell was going on, but it wasn’t going to happen unless he spoke to someone who might be able to help.

“Well thanks for nothing.” Lincoln turned and walked away.

He approached the swing door at the end of the corridor and reached out to push it open, realising too late that he had attempted to do it with his missing arm. Committed to the move, and walking too fast, his shoulder struck the door and a hand grenade exploded in the stump. He grimaced, shut his eyes, and grabbed the bandaged wound. Jesus, that fucking hurt.

He couldn’t understand how he sometimes thought the missing limb was still in place. Couldn’t understand how he could clench a nonexistent fist, and it still felt as though it was attached. If anything, it taunted him with its absence.

“What you looking at?” he said to an old man who stopped and stared at him.