S. Bolton - Dead Scared

How could I ever have thought this was a good idea?

‘You’re probably wondering who I am,’ I said, making myself look directly at her. ‘And the truth is, I’m not sure what to tell you.’

Her lashless eyelids closed briefly, then opened again. I had no means of knowing what, if anything, she was taking in. She might be awake but her pain medication would still be very strong.

‘I can’t even tell you my name,’ I went on, ‘because I’m not allowed to tell you my real one. And I don’t want to lie to you.’

Something in those eyes. It could have been curiosity. It could have been fear. I really didn’t want to frighten her.

‘If you want me to leave,’ I said, ‘I will. I don’t know whether you can talk but if you blink your eyes at me very rapidly, I’ll take that as a signal to go. OK?’

I didn’t really expect a response, but Bryony moved her head up and down.

‘I’m living in your old room,’ I said. ‘Sharing with Talaith. But I’m not a student. I’m pretending to be one, but I’m not.’

What on earth was I doing? If Bryony had any way of communicating with people, I’d just blown it. I’d destroyed my cover, wrecked the case and was probably on the verge of jeopardizing this girl’s recovery.

‘I’m here,’ I went on, knowing I was committed, ‘because people are concerned. They think someone might be harming students. Maybe not directly, maybe it’s all quite subtle, but it’s dangerous all the same.’

Bryony raised her right hand from the bed. It was heavily bandaged. She pressed her forefinger and thumb close together and waved her hand around in the air.

‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Can I get you something? Do you need the nurse?’

She let her hand fall back to the bed. Her breathing had quickened, her chest rising and falling beneath the bedclothes. In spite of what Nick had told me the other day about sedatives, she seemed to be in pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really don’t want to upset you and I’ll go the minute you ask me to.’

I stopped, looking for the rapid blinking that would be my signal to beat it. I was half hoping to see it. She just looked at me. Waiting.

‘OK, here’s the thing,’ I said, just wanting to get it over with now. ‘I’ve read your case notes and I know what you think was happening to you in your room at night. I also know that at least four other women students have reported very similar things happening to them.’

Her eyes seemed to widen.

‘Four young women talked about bad dreams, of someone coming into their rooms at night. They talked about being raped. All the things that happened to you.’

Her eyes didn’t leave mine for a second.

‘Bryony,’ I said, ‘do you have any idea who it was that was coming into your room?’

Bryony closed her eyes and moved her head from side to side. She didn’t know. It was several seconds before she opened her eyes again. I was tiring her.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you get some rest now.’

Her right arm was off the bedclothes again. Thumb and forefinger clenched together, she was waving her hand around.

‘I’ll get the nurse,’ I said.

Heading for the door I was stopped in my tracks by urgent sounds coming from the bed behind me. The sort of sounds you make when you can’t speak but you really want to make a noise. I turned back. Bryony had half raised herself from the bedclothes. She was still making that odd, jerky movement with her hand. Then, exhaustion getting the better of her, she collapsed back on the bed and moaned softly. I walked round to the right side of the tent, to the vents the nurses used to get close to her. Dangling from beneath the one closest to her hand was a small, rectangular piece of white plastic and a fibre-tipped pen.

‘Bryony,’ I said to her, ‘can you write?’

A short, sharp nod of the head answered me. I pulled a sterile glove from a box by the bedside and, as gently as I could, slid the pen between her thumb and forefinger. Then I held the plastic up to meet her hand.

Holding the pen and moving it around was a huge effort, I could tell from the way her eyes narrowed and little gasps escaped from her throat. Feeling hopeful and guilty at the same time, I watched as she traced out a letter.

W

It took her a long time but at last her hand fell to the bed again and there were two words on the pad.

WATCHING ME

Movement outside. The handle of Bryony’s door started to turn then stopped again. Footsteps walked away. I looked back down to see Bryony had written something else.

SCARED

‘What are you scared of?’ I asked, in a voice I’m not sure she could have heard, then leaned closer to read the final word she’d written. Her hand fell back on the bed covers. She’d written BELL .

What kind of bell? Why on earth would a bell scare her? I had to bite back a dozen questions. Bryony had had enough. Even I could see that. I made myself smile at her, took a step towards the door, and remembered the last time I’d been in this room.

There’d been a bell here then. Nick Bell. And he’d been watching her.

SAD. HOPELESS. DESPAIR. These were the sorts of words you expected from a young woman who’d attempted suicide. Not Watching me . Not Scared . What on earth had been going on in Bryony’s life to lead her to such a drastic step? If she wasn’t either delusional or making it up for attention, this was a whole different ball game. And where did Bell fit in?

All the way back to my room, I desperately wanted someone to talk to. I’d always thought of myself as a solitary creature, not given to sharing. How wrong I’d been. In the police there was always someone to report back to, to bounce ideas off. For the first time in years I had too much going on in my head and no one to turn to.

Bell didn’t necessarily mean Nick Bell. It wasn’t a common name, but even so I would not let that particular cat out of the bag just yet. There had to be other Bells in Cambridge. I opened up my laptop and started searching the university websites for someone else called Bell, looking first through the list of undergraduates, then postgraduates, then research fellows, fellows, honorary fellows, masters and staff. In a community of over twenty thousand people I found three others, two of them women. The third was a man called Harold whose brief biographical details told me he’d been retired for some time.

Someone in the town, maybe. Someone in a bar, restaurant, bookshop? Talaith could probably help me with the places where Bryony had hung out.

And yes, I knew exactly what I was doing. I didn’t want Nick Bell to be involved in whatever was going on here. I’d liked him.

When I’d drawn a complete blank with Bell, I turned to my other self-appointed task. Finding the names of the women Evi had half told me about that morning, the suicides who’d suspected they’d been raped.

Three academic years earlier, five young women and one man had taken their own lives, making it one of the worst years on record for student suicides. I spent some time searching through the university newspapers and journals and the more general Cambridge-based ones, and eventually found six names. Without Joesbury’s help, though, there was no way of knowing which one Evi had been talking about.

The previous year was an even harder task, with seven self-inflicted student deaths. I couldn’t even find all the names, so had no way of knowing who Evi’s two had been. The year before that, though, I struck lucky. The woman Evi had referred to as Patient D hadn’t died and I found her quite quickly. Danielle Brown, a twenty-year-old neurology student from Clare College, had tried to hang herself in woods just outside the city. She’d been spotted by some kids who’d cut her down and saved her life.