Pat Barker - Double Vision

She couldn’t breathe normally, but snuffled through mucus or breathed through her mouth. Audible breaths frightened her — if she’d been able to breathe silently she’d have calmed down much quicker — but mouth breathing made her thirsty. She kept swallowing, running her tongue round her mouth, flexing her lips. At last she got up, walked the few steps to the sink in the corner, took a polystyrene cup, filled it to the brim with water and drank the lot. Then she filled the cup and drank again. It was the first decision she’d made, the first action she’d taken, since they threw her on the sofa and yelled at her to shut up. And it had a curious effect — she started to shake.

There was nothing in the room but this sink, a trolley covered with white paper, and two plastic chairs, mushroom-coloured. She sat on one of the chairs and looked at the other. The separate part of herself wandered round the edges of the room, glancing at her now and then, observing, she supposed, deciding whether that body over there was a safe place to be. She shouldn’t be as frightened as this now. She was safe — a policewoman down the corridor waiting to interview her — nobody could get at her here. Even the sounds — they were horrible, but at least she knew what they were. A man on a ventilator whom she’d glimpsed in the room next to hers breathed through his mask with a sizzling wheeze — he sounded like the ice warriors in Doctor Who — and then across the corridor there was somebody yelping. Not groaning or screaming — yelping. That door was shut and they were in there with him. Listening to those yelps, she felt a complete fraud. She had nothing worse than a headache and soreness in the middle of her face. It was a different matter when she tried to touch it, then she was biting back yelps of her own. But she was alone now with what had happened, and might have happened.

The cut-off part of herself was moving further away. At one point she saw herself slumped on the chair. Loser, she thought, seeing how the blood had made black spikes in her hair.

Did not see the spikes. Not see them. Only felt and imagined. She tried shutting her eyes and saying I, I, I… over and over again. I am looking at the sink. I am sitting on a chair. See Justine sitting on the chair. Like a child’s reading book, she thought. See Justine. See Peter. Peter has a ball. See the ball. See the dog. See the dog run.

No daylight in the room, no window. The strip lighting above her head buzzed, and that buzzing became the sound of pain. And then she heard a familiar voice, hurrying footsteps and her father burst through the swing doors, stopped dead, looked at her, made as if to embrace her and then visibly held back. Why? she wondered. She wanted to be hugged, she wanted him to hold her, and he did, but it was a second, just one second, too late. He thought she’d been raped. He thought she wouldn’t be able to bear being touched even by him. Why did this make her hate him? But then she looked at his face and saw he was frightened. And so she made herself talk about the attack, domesticating it, not for herself but for him. And when she spat it all out like that, it really didn’t sound too bad. I walked in on a burglary. One of them panicked and started hitting me. I know I look a mess, but I’m all right, honestly, don’t worry about me, I’m all right. No worse than being mugged on the street, and a lot better than… She forced the words out. A lot better than being raped.

It helped, making this effort — she could see herself in a few years’ time telling the story like this with a slight, self-deprecating laugh, and that was good because to imagine that she had to imagine herself surviving. But there was something else behind this bald account, something she daren’t articulate — I woke up, it was a normal morning, I did the shopping, I drove Adam to school. It was a lovely day, I was happy, I leant on the car roof, I felt the sun on my back… And then that meaningless, brutal, random eruption of violence. Meaningless to her at any rate. The men might have been planning it for months. A criminal psychologist might look at their lives and find the burglary predictable, the violence predictable. Perhaps everything in their lives had led them to that point, but then that was true of her too. And it was no help.

She might feel happy again, but she would never again feel safe.

An hour later she was sitting on the trolley, dressed in clothes Angela had brought in for her. She’d been interviewed, had given the fullest description of the burglars she could manage. At first she’d thought she wouldn’t be able to say anything useful, her memories were so chaotic, but the face of the one who’d hit her had imprinted itself on her memory. She only had to summon up the image and describe what she saw. About the other she could say almost nothing — he’d been so careful not to let her see him — but the police kept nodding their heads. She felt they knew who’d done it.

Now shaved, stitched, scanned, taped, she was going home. She’d seen herself in the mirror and it was a fairly horrifying sight, but she didn’t care about that. She just wanted to be out. Home. In her own bed.

She walked down the corridor on her father’s arm, like an old woman, she thought, though if she was an old woman he’d be dead. It was early afternoon, still a beautiful day. The sun flashed on rows of cars. A bird sang. This shocked her so much she had to stand in the entrance where the ambulances drew up, and stare at the bright light, at the sky. It didn’t seem possible.

They’d given her some tranquillizers. Not many, not enough to get addicted, just enough to see her through the next few days. That’s why she felt she was seeing the world at one remove, padded in cotton wool. She had an appointment to go back and see a plastic surgeon about her nose — they thought it might need surgery — but that was in the future. At least there was a future. She remembered the shouting, the terror in his voice. He could have killed her. Not because he wanted to, not even because he was violent, but because he didn’t know what else to do.

She took a long deep breath. Her father wanted to bring the car to her, but she wasn’t having that. She wasn’t ready to be left on her own, not even in this public place with people coming and going, so they walked across the car park together. A long way.

Just as they got to the car her mobile rang. Stephen. It was the first time he’d been able to reach her because inside the hospital you had to keep your mobile switched off.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘On my way home. Where are you?’

‘Stuck here. I can’t leave till the glazier’s been.’

‘Has Robert rung?’

‘Yes — they’ll be back in an hour.’

‘Will you come round to the vicarage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t forget Adam. He’s gets panicky if you’re late.’

So many details, she thought. Probably just as well, probably that’s what helped people keep their heads together, collecting a child from school, giving him his tea. She rang off. Her father was looking at her.

‘Stephen,’ she said.

‘I thought it was.’

It was a big moment, that. Acknowledging Stephen’s claim. His right to ring.

Robert and Beth arrived home earlier than Stephen had expected, only a few minutes after he spoke to Justine.

He saw them walking up the path, Beth trundling their weekend bag, Robert striding ahead, grim-faced, and went to the door to meet them.

Robert touched his shoulder, and brushed past him into the living room, where he scanned the vacant spaces, then puffing his mouth out with relief said, ‘Oh, well, it’s not too bad. What about upstairs?’

‘I don’t think they had time.’