Echoes of Lies by Jo Bannister Read Free Book Online Page B

since she was here before and changes were apparent. Most of the tubes were gone so more of Daniel Hood was visible. Tentatively, Brodie walked closer and stood looking down at him.
    She wouldn’t have recognised him: not from the photograph Selma Doyle had given her, not from the one the newspaper had carried. This wasn’t because his tormentors had concentrated on his face, because they hadn’t. They’d wanted to hurt him without dulling his wits. There were bruises and his lip was split, but they were minor injuries predating those under the sheet. They had achieved nothing and no one had expected they would. Whoever inflicted them knew they wouldn’t be enough and had no time to waste on self-indulgence.
    But a few cuts and bruises weren’t why he looked so different. He looked different because he was different. When the photographs were taken he was a young man at the peak of his health and strength, with a career, with a future. Now he’d been through hell and emerged into a vacuum. Nothing in his life before this week was of any consequence. Nobody he knew, nobody he cared about, nothing he wanted and worked for, nothing he aspired to then had any reality this side of the event horizon. If he lived he’d have to reinvent himself, or for the rest of his days he’d be haunted by his
lost persona, by the feeling that if he could just make contact with who he used to be things would go back to how they used to be, things would be all right. And they never would.
    No one comes through trauma unscathed. Euphoria, depression, anger, guilt and bitterness are all hurdles to be negotiated on the way back, and a person familiar with these extremes of human emotion is not the same as one who is not. Whoever Daniel Hood was a week ago, today he was someone else, as different to the man who had yet to live his nightmare as was that man from the boy who preceded him. Already, before awareness had begun to flutter his eyelids, the change was apparent, and irreversible.
    Apart from the everyday facts of his life, like his name and where he lived, Brodie Farrell knew three things about this man, and one of them might have been a lie. He liked watching the skies. He might or might not be a liar. And for that or some other sin, actual or perceived, he’d suffered unimaginably.
    There was a chair by the bed. Brodie drew it uncertainly towards her and sat down.
    Plainly taking Brodie for a friend or relative, perhaps even his wife, the nurse said kindly, “He’s doing better. He’ll be all right, you know.”
    Brodie looked at her, hope constrained by fear. “Really?”
    â€œReally. He’ll be awake tomorrow.” She stood up. “I’m going for a coffee. Can I bring you one?”
    â€œThank you.” But Brodie wanted privacy more than the drink.
    â€œI won’t be long. If you have any problems” - she pointed - “hit that button.”
    Brodie had no idea how close the nearest coffee machine was, but she couldn’t count on more than a few minutes. She bit her lip, wondering how to start.
    â€œYou don’t know me,” she said softly. “I don’t know much about you. But I’ve done you a terrible wrong. I suppose I’m here to apologise.”
    Even as she said them the words sounded hollow and meaningless. If he was going to be awake tomorrow she should come back and say them then. Trying to shift her burden of guilt onto an
unconscious man was an act of cowardice. But Brodie was afraid that if she left now she’d never return. Better a flawed apology than a shirked one.
    â€œShe said you’d stolen money from her. I found you for her. I had no idea what she meant to do. If I had, I swear I’d have had no part in it. Try to believe me. I can’t offer a single good reason why you should, but if you don’t …”
    She was going to say, I don’t know how I’ll live with it. She was going to