They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Peter James (109 March 2018) #110

109 March 2018

I pressed the bell for the nurse and was pleased when, a few minutes later, my favourite, Stationsschwester Koti Fekete, came in.

I asked her if she could bring me a notepad, three envelopes and a pen. A lined notepad if possible, because it might help my writing be more legible.

When she returned a short while later with the items, she suggested if I was going to write, I might like to sit up a little, and she pressed the button to raise the back of the bed. Then she left me alone.

The first letter was to my lawyer in Frankfurt. I kept it brief, and I found it surprisingly easy to write. The next was gut-wrenching. It was to Bruno. My poor young man. He’s been more of a parent to me than I have to him at times in his short, complicated life. I choose my words carefully and throw my heart into it. I know he will be better off without me in his life. I tell him how loved he is, and the words flow. But Roy’s was the most challenging one.

It was a lengthy process and I went through several drafts. Each time that I made a mistake I tore the sheet off, balled it and stuffed it into the drawer beside my bed. A couple, in frustration, I threw on the floor. Finally I had a draft I was happy with. I omitted a fair amount, including any mention of Albazi, and bent the truth in places so that it is easier for Roy to hear. I am probably a bit self-indulgent in my recollection given my state of mind but I think it says all I need it to.

Dearest Roy, If you are reading this, then you will know I am gone.

I think there’s comfort in getting straight to the point and I am happy with the next bit I read through about how I want to give him some answers, but that I just can’t carry on now that it is known I’m alive. I’m not sure it reads perfectly but it will have to do. I scan down further.

Now I’ve got a whole shitload of stuff dumped on me. All the people I’d have to tell — my parents, friends, authorities — I just can’t cope with this — the shame and the embarrassment. I don’t know how to start or where to go.

I stop and consider striking through some words. It’s hard to think of the ways this may all be interpreted and the impact that it could have. I need Roy to know things, but it would be helpful to have someone to read it to see if it’s coming across how I intend it to. The person who would be best to do this is, absurdly, Roy.

I discovered I was pregnant and I had some fast decisions to make. Either I stayed, in which case I would have been trapped by this child into remaining with you — for a while, at least. Or I had an abortion.

It goes on. About his work, whether I have the courage to leave. And the part I find truly embarrassing. But I have to tell him.

You need to know I wasn’t a saint, I wasn’t the good person you always believed I was. This may hurt to read, but you need to know that I wasn’t always faithful to you — I had some one-night stands. I’m not making any excuses — nor am I going to name names.

More about what I kept hidden from him. The mess I am in and my depression. The drugs. It’s all just so shameful. I feel those same feelings of self-hatred I always felt when my parents came down on me for being such a disappointment to them.

There’s so much I wanted to tell you — and ask you — when you came here last. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was so shocked to see you, my head was all over the place. I guess I knew then I couldn’t see any future. My face is going to be permanently scarred. I’ve got motor-control problems — the consultant neurosurgeon just told me that my head hit the road at a bad angle — the worst bloody angle it could have hit — all my grey matter is jumbled up inside the box that’s meant to protect it.

No hope, no future, a long dark tunnel. And then to the final part.

When I am gone, take care of our son, Bruno. He worries me; you’ll see what I mean. Don’t give him to my parents, they’d never cope and it would be hell for him.

I’m leaving you plenty of money for him, to pay for his education and set him up in life. I’ve also left you DNA proof that you are his father. You won’t know this but I took some samples from our house when I visited Brighton last year.

I do still love you, even though it might not have seemed that way to you for all these years. Sorry, but this is really the end for me. I know I’m a coward, but then maybe I always have been.

Sandy