The Nurse (14 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Rachel - Today

There it is again. A creaking sound from upstairs, from the room where Father spent his final months. It's almost as if he's still in there, still shifting his weight in bed. I shouldn't be surprised if -

Suddenly I hear a faint bumping sound.

His cane.

He's hitting his cane against the floor.

I've been here for hours now, just listening to the occasional sound. Now they're becoming more persistent, as if the ghosts are waking up.

Still on my back on the floor, I can feel a patch of warm light on my face, which means morning must have finally arrived. I've been trying to make sense of everything that has happened, trying to stitch together two worlds that suddenly seem to be linked together. I remember my old life now, my days as Nurse Alice Bradshaw, and I remember what came after. The fateful day with Father and Malcolm, and the time at Barrimore Psychiatric Hospital, and the discussions over my release. But somewhere there's a disconnect, a point where I tried to become someone else.

There was a day when I cast aside the name Alice, and chose to use my first name instead. I was born Rachel Alice Bradshaw, but Father always hated the name Rachel and insisted on calling me Alice instead. Once he was gone, I was able to go back to the name Rachel, which my mother always preferred. I have to remember why that happened, and whether -

The cane hits the floor again, and I realize that Father's ghost is never going to leave me alone. Is that why I came back to the house? I don't remember what prompted that decision. Evidently I was finally released from the hospital, and the house has remained undisturbed for twenty years, but it seems particularly masochistic of me to have chosen to return. Still, I think I remember Mum saying that I had no choice, so I imagine some deep part of my subconscious mind felt that this was the best choice. Besides, where else could I have gone?

He bangs his cane again.

I half expect to hear his voice calling for me. I'm sure that will happen soon.

It's time to go and find him.

Getting to my feet, I make my way carefully around the table and then I head out into the hallway. The banging sound seems louder now, and it's louder still when I get to the top of the stairs. He's making such a terrible din, and I no longer have any doubt that he's somehow still here. Perhaps he was waiting for me, all these years. Perhaps he knew that I'd eventually come back.

Making my way along the landing, I stop at the door and listen for a moment as he continues to slam his cane against the floor.

It's him.

I really is.

“I remember,” I say finally, although my voice sounds so frail and weak.

How did I not notice that I sound like a fifty-something woman? How did I delude myself into thinking that I was a teenager?

Reaching up, I touch my face again. There's a part of me that still hopes I'll feel smooth, young flesh, but my fingers brush against the features of someone much older.

And Mum's voice is gone.

That much is clear.

I was imagining her the whole time, and she's left me now that the fantasy has been exposed.

“I remember,” I say again, as Father's cane continues to hit the wooden floorboards. “I swore I'd come back to this place and...”

My voice trails off.

A moment later, I hear the cane drop to the floor, as if it slipped from his hands. There's a faint murmuring sound now, and the old metal bed-frame is squeaking as he continues to shift his weight.

“What's wrong?” I ask. “Don't you have anything to say to me now? Now that you can't taunt me for killing that boy, are you going to remain silent?”

I wait.

He says nothing.

“I want to hear your voice,” I tell him. “You owe me an apology. You drove me half-crazy, and then I tipped over the rest of the way, but you owe me this. I want to hear your wretched old voice one more time, and I want you to tell me that you're sorry.”

I wait.

Silence.

I can't see him, of course, but it's not hard to imagine his angry eyes staring at me. He's probably furious that I've been released, that I've managed to survive despite everything that happened. The house was left shuttered and abandoned for twenty years. I guess he thought he had the place to himself.

But I'm back.

Stepping forward cautiously, I make my way across the room. I can still hear him moving on the bed, and I want to touch him again. The other night, when I felt his face and he attacked me, I didn't know who he was. Now that I have my memory back, I want to feel him again. His rage. His hatred. His contempt. I was fueled for so long by my father's disgust, and perhaps I can no longer live any other way.

Reaching the bed, I hold my hand out and feel his trembling leg. He's twitching and straining, but I pull my hand away after just a few seconds.

He felt pretty solid for a ghost, but then I'm no expert on these things.

“Look at me,” I whisper. “Look what you did. Look what I became because of you.”

I wait, but still he refuses to speak. I need to hear his voice, I need to make him apologize.

“Look at me!” I shout, as a sudden surge of anger rushes through my chest. I can't hold back now, I can't stay calm. After everything this bastard did to me, I have to make him understand that his constant barbs crushed my soul.

Dropping to my knees, I grip the side of the bed.

“Look at me!” I scream. “Look what you made me do!”

Reaching over, I find that the knives are gone from the bedside table. Maybe the police took them twenty years ago. Still, I kept some more in one of the drawers, and it only takes a moment for me to fumble with the handle and pull out a decent blade.

“Are you going to apologize, Father?” I ask, my voice trembling with anger.

I wait, but all I hear is a faint creaking sound.

“No?” I whisper. “Let me maybe change your mind on that.”

I hesitate for a moment, before raising the knife high above my head and then driving it down into his leg. He lets out a muffled groan of pain as I twist the blade against his ghostly bones.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Rachel - Today

Setting my fingers on the piano's keys, I take a moment to remember the music I used to play. I loved the piano when I was a young girl, although I was unable to play much once I got older. Now, though, I have all the time in the world.

I can hear Father's bed creaking upstairs, but his ghost can wait now.

I spent long enough cutting him up for one day. I need a little break.

Slowly, cautiously, I start playing. The piano is utterly out of time, of course, but that doesn't matter. Each note sounds perfect in my head, as if I'm managing to transform them, and I quickly find that I'm able to remember several pieces that I learned when I was much younger. Despite the fact that Father is still making plenty of noise in the room above, I'm able to ignore him completely and focus instead on the sheer joy of playing.

This is what I missed the most while I was gone. While I was in that awful place.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Rachel - Today

“How are you feeling today?” I ask, standing in the doorway. “Did you think I'd forgotten you? I just wanted to play the piano for a few hours.”

I wait, but all I hear is a faint creaking sound from the bed.

“Did that annoy you?”

Again, no reply.

“You used to talk so much,” I point out, slowly stepping into the room. “Your voice is still burned into my mind. You made me believe what everyone was saying about me, until I actually started seeing that poor little boy in the house. I always assumed that you were mean because you enjoyed it, Father. So don't you enjoy it now? Don't you want to spew more of your venom? I honestly find it hard to believe that death has mellowed you in any way.”

Still, the only sound comes from the bed's metal frame.

“You seem to be wriggling a lot, Father,” I tell him. “You're a ghost now, so why bother? Or are you trapped here by some kind of force? Is that how it works?”

The creaking sound becomes a little faster as I reach the bed, more frantic. It's as if finally, after everything that has happened, he's scared of me.

Good.

I want him to be scared.

But I always
need
him to speak.

“I don't regret what I did to you,” I continue. “Sometimes I even replay it in my mind, over and over again. I enjoy that. It feels good to know that you suffered in the end. What's it like being a ghost, anyway? Do you remember all the pain? I imagine I'll be joining you soon, and then we can haunt this miserable house together. Does that sound good? The two of us, haunting together? Maybe that's how it was always supposed to be. I'm barely much more than a ghost myself these days.”

Besides, I know that it would only take one more mistake for me to be hauled back to the hospital. And this time, I'd probably never be allowed out again.

Father's wriggling more and more now, as if he's desperate to get away. Reaching down, I place a hand on his leg and I realize that I can still feel him. That's good. That's what I need. I can feel dried blood, too, on his trousers. I didn't think ghosts would bleed, but I can't say I'm sorry. I'm holding a pair of scissors in my right hand, and the time has finally come to make him pay for what he did to me. After all, it was his constant torment that made me believe Anthony was haunting me, and for that he must suffer. I've killed him once, but now I have him back with me in the house, and I can make him pay over and over.

He tries to say something, but his voice still sounds muffled.

Frantic, but very muffled.

“Apologize,” I whisper. “Say it, Father. Apologize for all those things you said to me.”

I wait.

All I hear is the creaking of the bed as he tries to get free. For a ghost, he seems very scared.

“No?” I ask. “You
won't
apologize?”

I pause.

I smile.

And then I raise the scissors high above my head, holding them there for a moment before driving them once again into his body. The blades slice into his thigh and I hear an agonized, muffled cry. Twisting the scissors, I feel them grinding against bone before finally I pull them out. I can already hear fresh blood dribbling onto the bare floor.

“Say it,” I sneer. “Say that you're sorry. It's all I want now. You told me a thousand times how awful I was. Just tell me once that you're sorry.”

I wait.

He's still groaning.

I raise the scissors again, and this time I bring them down against his groin. The blades hit another section of bone and slip slightly, but I can tell from his cries that he's in agony. I was worried his ghost wouldn't be able to feel pain, but clearly that's not a problem. For that, I can only be thankful.

“You still can't say it?” I ask, sliding the scissors out of his body. “Do you hate me so much? Just admit it, Father! You were wrong!”

When he doesn't reply, I move the scissors along to his shoulder and then drive them once again into his flesh. I can feel his body shaking and trembling, but still he refuses to say the words I need to hear.

“I'm not asking you to tell me you love me,” I whisper. “Just tell me that I'm sorry.”

I wait a moment, before twisting the scissors and bringing another groan of pain from his lips. I thought he'd say the words by now, but perhaps I underestimated his hatred for me. Even in death, he refuses to admit that he made a mistake.

Twisting the scissors again, I feel warm blood running over my hands. I never thought a ghost could bleed, but then again I'm not exactly in a position to question how these things work. Still, he seems to be resisting my efforts to make him say the words, so perhaps I need to come up with something else. There are some shears in the garden, and I'm sure I could cause him even more pain if I brought those up and started cutting through his body. And since he's a ghost, he can't die, so I can torture him for as long as it takes.

Perhaps we'll be trapped like this forever.

“I will hear you say the words,” I sneer, pulling the scissors out. “You'll apologize to me, Father. I won't let you rest until you do.”

I hesitate for a moment, telling myself that I should go and fetch the shears. First, though, I can feel a growing sense of anger in my chest, and I know I have to make him suffer even more.

“Say it!” I yell, as I stab him several times in the shoulder and chest. “Say it!”

Overcome by anger, I stab him again and again. I can't hold back, I can't control myself. I have to make him say the words.

***

Pulling open the back door, I stumble out into the garden and immediately feel the cold night air on my face. I lost all track of time in the bedroom with Father, but it must be night now. Light rain is falling, and I take a moment to get my breath back.

“I'm sorry.”

That's all I want.

Why won't he say it?

Stepping forward, I make my way carefully down the steps and start searching for the shears. I've already used the scissors so much, I don't think there's much more I can do with them. So instead, I'm going to get to work with the shears and cause him more pain than ever. I tuck the scissors into my belt, saving them in case I need them later. For a moment, however, I have to pause and try to get my strength back. I unleashed such a fury of anger on Father, and now I'm exhausted.

“Um, hello?” a female voice says suddenly. “Can I ask you something?”

I freeze.

The voice seemed to come from nearby, maybe over by the garden fence.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” she continues, “but... My name's Monica. I live next door, and I was just wondering if you've seen my son. His name's Aidan and...”

She pauses.

“Well,” she adds, “to be honest, he hasn't been home since yesterday evening, and this isn't the first time he's taken off without telling me where he's going, but he usually goes on his bike and... Well, the bike's right here in the driveway, so I'm trying not to worry but...”

Her voice trails off.

“Aidan?” I whisper, feeling a flicker of concern in my chest.

“I'm sorry,” she replies, “I can't really see you very well, it's so dark out here. He mentioned talking to you, though. I don't suppose he happened to tell you about any plans he had over the next few days? I don't want to panic and call the police, but I'd really like to know where he is.”

My chest is tightening slightly. “Aidan...”

“Yes, Aidan. He's my son.”

I pause for a moment, thinking back to the last time I saw him. He tried to help me, he even went into the house to check whether there was anyone lurking inside, but then he...

He left.

I remember him leaving.

At the same time, I also remember him staying.

I remember him collapsing on the floor after I...

No, that didn't happen. That can't have happened.

“So did he say anything to you or not?” the woman asks. “I guess not. Sorry, I just saw someone moving about out here, and I thought it was worth a shot. If you hear from him, though, could you tell him to give me a call? Just to let me know that he's okay? He'll probably complain that I'm being over-protective, but you just never know, do you? There are some awful people in the world.”

I hesitate for a moment, before turning and hurrying back inside. The woman calls after me, but I ignore her as I stumble through the kitchen. I bump into the wall a couple of times, but finally I get to the bottom of the stairs and start hurrying up. My mind is racing and I keep telling myself that I'm not crazy, that I couldn't have done something truly awful, but at the same time I'm starting to remember flashes from the other night.

I hit someone.

While Aidan was here, I...

And I dragged someone up the stairs.

“No,” I whisper, fumbling my way across the landing until I reach the bedroom door. “Please, no...”

I almost trip several times, but finally I get to the bed. Reaching down, I feel the bloodied mess I made with the scissors earlier, and then I run my hands up to the neck and onto his face. I should feel Father, it should be him, but instead my fingers brush against the features of a younger man. A moment later, I discover something taped over his mouth, and I realize that I must have gagged him. Moving my hands to the top of his face, I try to tell myself that I'm wrong, but finally I feel the metal ring in his eyebrow, and I let out a gasp of shock.

“Aidan,” I stammer, realizing that I've made a terrible mistake. “No, please... Aidan...”