the light and she reached out for it. But for some reason it didn't take her hand. As if it considered her already beyond redemption.
She lost sight of its brilliance as she concentrated on straining against the invisible magnetic tide. Everything was becoming so negative. The light was fading, the dark had hold of her, and the dangerous presence was still coming.
Yes, there! Just a glimpse. Enough to recognise the silhouette of another human being - a man. She hesitated instinctively. Very briefly. Then, the current changed direction and slammed her against the wall. She found herself pressed against it and tried to push away, but the elasticity simply absorbed her efforts. Softness began caressing her, moulded to her features. She could feel herself melting into it.
Trapped though she was, in a strange way she felt safe for now. From the man, certainly; but also from the voice. She could hear it drifting through the Void towards her. Like someone calling to her. It was familiar, reassuring. But something - another voice deep inside her head - warned it couldn't be trusted. She couldn't be trusted.
She? Listening more intently, she could tell now that it was a woman's voice. It was saying: "Richard, it's me - Janet." Then the sounds became suddenly distant as if this Janet person had turned away and was talking to someone else: "He can't hear me, can he, Doctor? But his eyes are open. What does that mean?"
Does anything mean anything?
In the light she was woman. Yet, though the voice called to a man, she knew it called to her. She was Richard. At least, she had been. Probably would be again if she went back. Back to Janet, the woman Richard didn't trust.
And don't forget the man in the Void. Don't forget him! Who was he, anyway? She seemed to know him, but in a detached way like a passing acquaintance. Not a pleasant experience, as she recalled. Painful, even. If he found her that might mean more pain. She didn't need it. Didn't need any of this. So she pressed further into the wall.
The membrane began to tear. One arm was through, then a shoulder. The rent was widening. Suddenly desires no longer mattered: she was falling and choice was irrelevant.
Implosion. It felt just like that. One moment an inner self, growing, spreading outward.... testing.... sensing. Next, the thought of being swallowed.
Of swallowing herself.
3
"I'm afraid your husband's in a coma, Mrs Olsen."
Janet watched the full lips working in a soft, pink face. Doctor Holder was little more than a boy. Richard wouldn't have been impressed. For his money, experience came with age; and the top people wore suits, not lab coats. He wouldn't have complained, though, even if he'd been able. He was all for the quiet life. Maybe he was content at last, laying there, glassy eyes staring unblinking at the ceiling, safe within a womb of eternal boredom.
She noticed Holder watching her, his expression betraying misgivings. About what - her sincerity? Perhaps she'd overdone the brave-little-wife bit and ought to display more concern. She turned away for a moment and tried to imagine how a husband in a wheelchair might affect her life. "What are his chances?"
Doctor Holder watched her shoulders rise and fall in time with her breathing. Once or twice she shuddered as she exhaled. Trying to keep her emotions in check, he supposed. God, he hated this part. Years of training and he couldn't tell her any more about her husband's condition than the damned ward orderly! He tried to inject compassion into a response that always seemed like a cop-out: "Once his condition stabilises we'll know more."
"Stabilises, yes," mumbled Janet. She looked down at Richard. If he were any more stable they'd build a high-rise on him. "I suppose all we can do is wait."
"I'm afraid so.... " His pink, tightly-manicured fingers played the dangling stethoscope like a rosary. What price a diversion to get him out of there? Ten Hail Mary's...?
A freckled nurse's face pushed around the curtain. "Cubicle five, Doctor - stat!"
Relief flooded Holder. He edged past, squeezed Janet's arm gently on the way. "I'm sure he'll be fine."
Then she was alone and the tears finally came. For herself, she guessed, because she was really starting to hate Richard for turning her life into such a bloody mess!
They power-walked: running was taboo, even in an emergency.
Holder snapped irritably: "What?" He felt like a junior exec ordering a damage report. A few shifts on casualty had that effect. You learned to leave emotions at home. Speed, some skill and a heavy bedside manner were better substitutes.
The nurse managed: "The girl - we're losing her." Then they were ducking into five.
Holder jerked to a standstill, totally becalmed. He'd expected a nurse or two and, of course, his patient, the one from the same accident as Richard Olsen. But there larger than life was Agostini leaning over the cot, de-fib paddles still in his hands.
Holder hated Agostini's guts. Doing rounds with the professor was like the Spanish Inquisition. The man was a bastard. All attitude.
The figure straightened, handed the paddles to a nurse. A lean, swarthy mask turned, dressed Holder down. "I'm not poaching, Holder. Just passing through."
Liar.
He walked up to the younger man, stood waiting for him to step aside. "Breathing's still erratic. Not conscious yet. Manage alright now, can you?"
Holder nodded. "I think so, professor." He needed to swallow, wouldn't give Agostini the satisfaction of seeing how intimidated he made his staff. "Thanks for holding the fort."
Agostini grunted. Holder went to the cot praying the egotistical bastard wasn't going to stand there reviewing him like a board of inquiry. As he stooped over the girl, he glanced backwards beneath his arm. Agostini had gone. Holder gulped.
Following a cursory examination, he mumbled to himself: "Why do they do it?"
The two nurses pulled faces at each other. One of them said: "Do what, Doctor?"
"Ride motor bikes without helmets." He was annoyed having to explain what to him was obvious.
The nurse shrugged. "It isn't cool."
Holder gazed down at the face on the cot. She was pretty, beautiful even. "Neither is life as a vegetable," he growled. He stood upright, gave the nurse a patronising stare. "Let's try our best to beat the odds on this one, shall we?"
4
Finding his way through the light was exciting, wicked. Like a trip. Was he on one? It felt that way.
Emotions were confused: on the one hand welcoming the danger of the unknown; on the other, praying for a return to convention and predictability. Even his identity was an enigma. What he could see and touch was the body of a man, but inside he felt like a woman. Even faint recollections were particularly feminine.
He continued to wander in amazement. Never had he seen so much light, so much nothingness. This was the trip of all trips. What kind of hit could produce this? Not smack or crack, no designer drug he'd - she'd - ever tried. Nothing she'd ever done before.
These were thoughts from another time, another person. The man he was now - or had become - would never take drugs, despised them. The woman inside was at home with them and he loathed her for it.
When he found the wall he stuck close, regarding it as a tangible security blanket within the Void. Next, there was someone up ahead and he started towards them. They had gone in a flash. Imagination - it must have been. Unlike the stream of negativity which came from nowhere, sucked him in and began drawing him along like a rip-tide! What now? He snatched a breath, held it, head spinning. Maybe he was coming down. Maybe the hit was wearing off. She didn't want it to, needed to experience more; but he was relieved.
The wall and the sensual attraction seemed allied, so he didn't struggle. Just floated in the hopes they would lead him