The Coldest Blood

He flipped open the glove compartment to extract a miniature bottle of Croatian hooch he’d bought at the airport. It was purple and tasted of lighter fuel.

Dryden peered out again at the lit foyer of The Tower. A former workhouse, the building had become a lunatic asylum throughout Victoria’s reign. It boasted a single turret, complete with an interior-lit clock and fake battlements, the whole encircled by grounds full of institutional trees.

Laura Dryden, thanks to the continued support of the Mid-Anglian Mutual Insurance Company, was one of fifty paying ‘guests’ in the private hospital. It was a situation Dryden knew could not last for ever. One day the insurers would politely point out that their responsibilities were close to an end, and suggest a less expensive regimen of care involving what they called ‘home’ – a concept with which Dryden would have struggled if he had allowed himself to think about it at all.

He pushed open the cab door before he had time to reconsider his decision to begin his ritual daily visit. The rust in the hinges screeched, as he knew it would, and he slammed the door closed without saying a word.

Inside, beyond the overheated and over-lit reception, the carpeted corridors muffled his steps. There was an expensive silence, in which high-technology machinery hummed, spoilt by a solitary cry from a patient’s dream.

Dryden knocked on Laura’s door, a little ceremony which marked out her right to privacy despite the certainty that she would not answer, would almost certainly never answer. He had not heard his wife’s voice for six years: since the night their car had been forced off a wintry Fen road by the oncoming headlights of a drunk driver, and down into the black water of Harrimere Drain. Dryden had escaped but Laura, trapped on the back seat, had been left in a diminishing pocket of air for three hours: three hours in which she must have struggled with the fact of her abandonment, three hours in which the horror of reality had forced her to retreat into a protective coma, a retreat from which she was only painfully emerging. For this was no ordinary coma. Fate had reserved another twist of the knife.

Locked In Syndrome (LIS) was still a little-understood condition, but medical experts were at least now agreed that it existed. Victims usually entered the coma under extreme trauma; however, the peculiarities of LIS were connected not to the outward symptoms, but to the inward realities. Sufferers exhibited no signs of mental or physical activity, but those who had emerged from LIS reported varying degrees of consciousness – from fleeting dreamlike visions to a state very close to normality. Those able to move a finger – or more often an eyelid – were able to communicate using the latest technology. After three years of immobility Laura had managed to move the small finger on her right hand and had learnt to communicate using a machine – the COMPASS – which had been installed by her bed. It constantly displayed a grid of letters and by flicking a switch placed in the palm of her hand Laura was able to select them. As her slow recovery continued she had mastered the COMPASS using a suck-and-blow pipe which could be placed between her lips. Her messages were often fluent and rational, but interspersed with prolonged periods of either silence or a dreamlike surrealism.

Dryden entered the room, turning the dial on the dimmer to illuminate the figure on the bed draped in a single white sheet.

The COMPASS jumped instantly into life, a spool of paper trickling out of a printer like ticker-tape.

One of the refinements Laura had learnt was to prepare a sentence on screen and then activate the print key as her husband entered the room.

HI. LOVE YOU.

It was a ritualistic greeting, but welcome none the less. Dryden’s spirits rose, and he edged on to the bed, insinuated an arm under Laura’s neck, and raised her head higher on the pillows. Her hair was an exuberant pile of auburn, which he noted had been freshly brushed. The nurses, who maintained an optimism about their patient which Dryden struggled to match, often applied some make-up as well, adding colour to the Latin tan which had paled so visibly over the years.

Laura’s eyes, a liquid brown, swam slightly as she fought to focus on his face. He felt a surge of optimism and clutched her tighter. The year had been marked by a steady improvement in her health, and the first spasmodic movements of muscles in her right arm and foot. They’d been enthusiastic about the suggestion from the consultant that she might leave The Tower – a brief excursion into the outside world, a weekend perhaps, or more, but somewhere close to medical care if her condition caused alarm.

Dryden turned her head gently towards the window. ‘It’s so warm in here,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea. Outside it’s minus 10 or something. The river’s freezing up by the Maltings, the boat’s locked in.’