Epilogue. Charlie
THREE DAYS LATER
Epilogue
CHARLIE
I hear voices from far away, muffled and indistinguishable.
The somber tonality of conversations I have no part in drift over me, as though I’m not here.
An unsettling darkness shrouds my entire being and I imagine I’m deep underground as rescuers attempt to reach me, sifting through the rubble and lifting debris away in a race against time.
But there’s no frantic movement above me, just an eerie stillness, and I wonder if I’m being lowered into a grave, the lid on my coffin having been nailed shut. Are my friends and family watching on? Tearfully ruing my early demise as they throw roses onto my casket?
I go to scream, I’m still alive. But the sound is lost, my throat too raw for the words to form.
So I try to lift my arms, knowing I may only have a few seconds before the soil rains downs, trapping me beneath the earth forever.
I have to tell them I’m in here. But my arms are tethered, hog-tied to my side.
“So this is Charlie Adams,” comes a voice, finding its way through the layers of confusion and turmoil.
“Yes! That’s me,” I say silently. “I’m here.”
“But as you can see, he’s not able to be interviewed at the moment. What is it you need to speak to him about?”
My eyes flicker, searching for light, but nothing comes.
“We need to verify his whereabouts last night,” says a male voice. “His car was seen leaving the house of a woman who was found dead this morning.”
What is he saying? What does he mean? Is it Freya? Anita? The wires in my brain short-circuit as I try to unravel where I am, whom he might be talking about, and why the hell I’m a suspect in someone’s death.
“Well, as soon as he’s fit and able, I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay, but in the meantime, I’d approach with caution until we know more about what happened to Tess Phillips.”
Tess Phillips?
I go to open my mouth, but it’s as if my lips are sewn shut, making me feel as if I’m suffocating all over again.
“Can I speak to Anita Armitage then?” asks the man, as I desperately claw for air. “She’s his mother-in-law, and was in the explosion with him.”
“She’s just come out of surgery and is in recovery,” says the woman, who I can only assume is a nurse. Is that where I am? In hospital? If I am, why aren’t they helping me? Why can’t they hear me?
“Is she going to be okay?” asks the man.
“It’s going to be touch-and-go, until they’re sure they’ve stopped the internal bleeding.”
“Okay, I’ll let her daughter know.”
“As in Mr. Adams’ wife?” asks the nurse.
I imagine him nodding.
“Is she here?”
My heart thumps as I wait for him to answer.
“Yes, she’s downstairs. She’s in a bit of a state, as you can imagine.”
“Well, she should be able to see her mum in an hour or so, but if she wants to come up and sit with her husband, she’s more than welcome.…”
Machines start beeping and alarms sound. There’s a manic rush of movement and high-pitched voices all around me. Calling out for meds. Shouting instructions.
“No,” I roar, but the plea goes unheard.
And then everything goes black.