The Last Life

Chapter Six

Somewhere else in the hospital, Michael Barratt was having treatment for his burns, a slow and difficult process. They were far from healed, especially the ones on his back and he couldn't imagine anything less painful or ugly.

The day of the fire still loomed vividly in his mind. He could hardly forget what happened when everywhere he looked, reminders seemed to leer at him. He avoided mirrors as much as possible, but couldn't avoid looking at his ruined hands. It would be a long time, if ever, that the sight of them didn't remind him of that terrible day.

It had been business as usual, a normal working day, and Michael Barratt had been doing what he loved, showing a client around one of the more expensive properties on his estate agency books. The day was bright and clear, a hopeful day, and the client seemed more than interested.

The house in Leatherhead was previously owned by a television celebrity and boasted many desirable features. The kind of house that told the world you were somebody. Impossibly expensive, it had been on his agency books for some time. Not many people could afford to buy a place like it and the fact someone had finally shown an interest was nothing short of a miracle. Michael's spirits were high as he showed the prospective buyer around.

He had no memory of how he ended up unconscious, face down on the floor, with the house ablaze around him. One minute everything was going well, the house as good as sold. The next minute he was struggling to breathe, the place full of smoke. Something had happened, but he had no idea what. The only question running through his head, was why hadn't the smoke alarm gone off?

He remembered being alone, and the strong smell of burning still haunted him. He had staggered out of the house just as the fire brigade turned up, but they couldn't save the house and it ended up a smoking ruin. Before he agreed to go to hospital, some warning instinct told him he had to find Kate. She was in danger. But where was she?

The cottage was the last place he looked, and he found Kate lying on the floor of the living room, cold and seemingly lifeless, a bloody craft knife beside her. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her out of the cottage, praying he wasn't too late.

His stay in hospital had been lengthy, as he needed extensive skin grafts on his head and back. Everyone said he had been lucky, but a quick glance in the mirror was unconvincing. Luckily, most of his face had been spared. Shame about his hair though, he might have to shave the rest of his head to avoid looking comical, although he had the feeling it wouldn't help much.

Michael wondered how Kate was feeling, and what she would think of the state of him. He held no illusions about their future together, having ruined any possibility of this when he practically accosted her in the hotel after the gallery opening. On the most important day of Kate Devereau's life as an artist, he had behaved like a drunken idiot. He couldn't believe that all those endless years searching for her, loving her had been wiped out by his stupidity yet again. After running away from her when she was pregnant, believing his father's insinuations, you would think he would be more careful, more aware of what he risked losing. Or was it predestined he ruin everything all over again?

He seemed to have hurtled from one disaster to the next for most of his life. Somewhere along the way, shortly after losing Kate... a young Irish girl called Mary Flanagan had taken pity on him. She worked in the café he spent most of his time in, unable to face the day without several cups of coffee, and had been the first person to insist on being civil. Always making sure there was a space for him, and saving his favourite sandwiches, despite his constant lack of appreciation.

It wasn't until much later, several months later in fact, their relationship began to blossom. He had been trying to find his way home after an evening drowning his sorrows in his local public house, insisting on looking closely at every gutter and brick wall, when Mary Flanagan found him and took him home with her. To cut a long story short, she managed to stop him drinking and pull himself together. He moved into her small flat, and she found him the job at the estate agents, quite literally making him realise there could be life after Kate Devereau.

In the beginning, Michael regarded Mary as more of a sister than anything else, for nothing in her behaviour toward him could have him believing otherwise. She saw other men occasionally, so he was perfectly happy with the arrangement.

Until the dreams began. Every night he dreamed of Kate, she needed him and he had to find her. He kept the dreams to himself, but eventually found himself deep in a bottle again. In a drunken stupor, thinking Mary was Kate; their relationship took a different turn.

He had asked the detective in charge of the case if he could see Kate, when her memory returned of course, but there had been no news yet. He had to see her. Needed to see her, for he would always love her, no matter what happened now.

On his way out of the hospital, before he reached the revolving glass doors, a weird instinct made him retrace his steps. Maybe Kate was here somewhere. At the reception desk, he asked which ward she was in, only to be told they didn't know by a young girl who looked as if she should still be at school.

'What do you mean, "You don't know"? She must be here somewhere.'

'May be so...' she said, studying her garishly painted fingernails. 'But her name isn't on the system...'

Of course, he thought, it wouldn't be. But if her husband was dead, why would they be hiding her? There could be only one reason. It wasn't over, not even close. His mind went back to the day at the cottage, and the man he saw lying in a pool of blood in the kitchen. He had appeared to be dead, but in his haste to save Kate, he hadn't thought to check.

As he turned away from the reception desk, he caught sight of the detective coming out of a lift. He must have been to see Kate, which gave him a clue as to which ward she might be in, as each lift only went to certain wards. Without hesitation, he made his way to the stairs.

There were two wards on this floor, and he didn't think it would hurt if he had a look. He would have to be quick and hope to God that no one noticed him.

The first ward was a hive of activity, probably Doctors rounds, so he walked over to the second. This one looked better, not so busy. As he went to push open the door, he saw Kate walking slowly down the corridor towards him, wearing one of those pastel coloured cotton gowns. His heart seemed to freeze as he looked at her and he found it hard to breathe. She wasn't moving fast, but looked amazingly well. Pale, with her curly hair all over the place as usual, he could feel the quiet wildness of her even through the ward doors.

He remembered the first time he saw her, carrying a tray of ice creams in the cinema where he worked as a projectionist. An air of magic surrounded her and he fell in love with her instantly. She took a little while longer to fall for him, and he suspected she probably had good reason to be hesitant.

It was a fairy tale romance and Kate the perfect princess, even with her impossible mane of curly hair. He stared at her now, and she hadn't really changed. The hair was just as wild and her face just as beautiful.

Knowing he had blown every chance of being with her, and seeing her again, so beautiful and unattainable, was actually killing him. He couldn't move. He wanted nothing more than to simply watch her. He could have this much at least.

Hestood there long after she vanished into one of the rooms, unaware his face waswet...