Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands

Preview excerpt from: “Sad-eyed Lady of the Lowlands” by Richard Woolley

When she reaches the bedroom she stops and stares at the bathroom door. The sound of a shower in full flood is audible. She looks at her watch. Only fifteen minutes since she arrived. Could Peter have been in the shower all that time? He sometimes took long showers, but fifteen minutes? She drops her rucksack on to the double bed, creeps to the bathroom door and turns the doorknob as quietly as she can. If he is inside, she wants to give him the shock of his life. If he is not, it means the pipe has burst and there will be no hot water.

            The knob will turn no further and she slowly pushes open the door. The sound of falling water increases, but there is no steam filling the large tiled bathroom. The bathtub at the near end of the room sits cold and empty, the high window above the twin washbasins hangs open; wisps of mist float in through the transparent wire meshing fitted to keep out mosquitoes in the summer months. Beyond the tub, in an inner area with two showers, one of the showerheads emits its relentless stream of water. Monique peers into the gloom – both the sealed light bulbs have given up the ghost and not been fixed. She lets her eyes follow the stream of water to the ground.

Suddenly she recoils in horror. Lying on the tiled floor, face down, legs sprawled apart, arms reaching out towards Monique is her lover, Peter. Water hits his exposed buttocks and cascades into the darkness between his legs, before finding its way to the open drain in the corner of the shower area. Pools of water form and overflow at points around his body. A bar of soap lies in one of them – just behind the hollow of his left knee – surrounded by a milky white excrescence. Below his left ear the pool is red.

Monique stares and then rushes forward. She turns off the shower and kneels, immune to the cold water seeping through her jeans and on to her lower legs.

“Peter, Peter! What’s happened?” 

She speaks in Dutch, because that is the language they now use together. She carefully turns him on to his back and gasps as a deep gash on his left temple is revealed. It oozes blood, but – despite the flow of water – has begun to heal over.

 “Peter, Peter! Speak to me?”

She realises that he might be dead and for a moment does not want to find out one way or another. But only for a moment. She bends her head to his chest and, after what seems an age, hears the beating of his heart and feels the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.

“Peter. It’s me. Monique? What happened?”

There is no reply from the parted lips, which she now bends to kiss for the first time in weeks. They are soft and warm, but do not respond to either interrogation or stimulation. She pulls away and watches as a trickle of saliva seeps from the corner of his mouth. Tears form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks in sympathy. He has slipped and fallen, and she must get him to hospital – fast. But why the deep gash? She looks around the shower room with its smooth tiled floor and then up at the shower handle. Perhaps he hit that on the way down. But why would he faint? Worst case scenarios flash through her mind, momentarily impeding rationale thought and action. A stroke? A heart attack? And if so what should she do to ensure his condition does not deteriorate.

“Phone an ambulance, you klootzak!” Monique yells at herself, out loud.

She gets up, dashes into the bedroom and dials 119.