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He heard the sound of water, and crawled to find it, pain shooting through his injured leg. The water tasted clean and cool, marred only by the metallic taste of his own blood, where he’d torn his fingers trying to dig.
He lay down on the floor of the cave. It would be better if he stayed here. Pietro was here, and his ghost seemed to beckon Gabriel into his arms...
* * *
Gabriel woke with a start, cold sweat covering his body. Breathe. Wake up. He commanded himself back into the world of the living. Rolling off the bed and stumbling to the bathroom, he turned on the tap, immersing his face in cold water, the shock bringing him to his senses.
Sometimes he’d go for weeks without having the dream. Then something would happen and it would be back again, never changing and still so real that he could almost touch it. Gabriel supposed that the sedative effects of the flunitrazepam might have something to do with it this time. Or maybe the feeling that he was trapped now too, with unknown dangers surrounding him.
He didn’t remember the rescuers bringing him out of the cave, he’d been too far gone by then, but he remembered waking up with his mother at his bedside. He’d seen the light streaming in through the windows, and promised himself he’d never be trapped again. He’d stay in the light and the fresh air, and he’d go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
His parents’ constant, and understandable, concern for him had made that promise difficult to fulfil during the uneasy years of his teens. But Gabriel had learned to keep the peace, giving his mother the reassurance she needed while still reserving a measure of freedom for himself.
Gabriel switched on the shower, soaping himself clean, trying to tease his mind away from the dregs of the nightmare. He should concentrate on all the bright things his life contained. The memory of Clara’s cool fingers on his face suddenly burst into his head, making him shiver.
He wondered vaguely what Clara would have to say about the freedom that he valued so greatly. The thought that she had no authority to say anything about the way he led his life was tempered by the idea that it was probably her reports to his parents that were keeping his mother sane at the moment. And the growing realisation that he liked her. She was honest, and she had the kind of strength that he admired in a person.
And she was beautiful. Maybe it was his drugged state that had endowed her with the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. The fantasy of being approached by a gorgeous woman and told he was in danger from a criminal plot seemed like something out of a spy thriller.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he padded back into the bedroom, glancing at the clock. It was already three in the afternoon, and he’d slept too long. He should go downstairs and face Clara. Then maybe this whole situation, and Clara herself, would seem a little more ordinary.
* * *
‘Still here, then.’ Clara had heard Gabriel moving around upstairs for the last half-hour. When he appeared in the kitchen doorway he had showered and shaved, and looked a great deal better than he had first thing this morning.
She looked up at him and gave him a smile. ‘You thought I was going somewhere?’
He shrugged. ‘I wasn’t entirely sure that you were ever here at all. I suppose that what you said this morning still stands as well?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid it does.’ Disbelief was a common enough reaction. But the smiling, casual joke that Gabriel made of it was unusual. Most people were a bit more visceral about it, almost pleading with her to tell them that it was all a mistake.
‘Since this all seems to be real...my first concern is for the well-being of my charity. I assume you have details of The Watchlight Trust.’ He nodded towards the laptop that was open in front of her on the kitchen table.
In the circumstances, his first concern should be for his life. Maybe Gabriel took it for granted that he was invulnerable, the rich frequently did. But it seemed she’d found something that he cared about enough to want to protect it.
‘Yes, I do. Interesting name...’
‘We aim to serve those who keep a watchlight burning and are there for us when we’re in trouble.’
‘I can support that. I used to work as an ambulance paramedic...’ Clara bit her tongue. Her own past wasn’t relevant here.
But it was too late. His gaze had caught hers and there was no escape. ‘You know, it seems a little unfair that you know all about me and I know so little about you.’
He’d laid a trap for her and she’d fallen straight into it. Clara felt her cheeks redden. ‘You can have a copy of my CV...’
He shot her a languid smile. ‘Don’t do that. I prefer a more personal approach to information-gathering.’
For now, getting the file straight was Clara’s primary focus, and the idea of a personal approach was disconcerting. She cleared her throat.
‘And what exactly does The Watchlight Trust do?’
‘We’re building a knowledge and research base, and we run courses and conferences for people in the emergency and other rescue services. Alistair Duvall and I co-founded the charity five years ago. We’re both medical doctors with training in traumatic injury. Alistair specialises in physical rehab and limb replacement, and my speciality is in PTSD and its associated disorders. We run a clinic, next door to our offices, which deals mainly with outpatients but we do have facilities for fifteen in-patients as well.’
‘And the clinic is solely for rescue service personnel?’
Gabriel shook his head. ‘Not now. We came to the very obvious realisation that the techniques we were using to help those who were injured while rescuing others could be applied across a wider range of people. We welcome anyone who feels we can help them.’
He grinned suddenly, waiting for her to finish typing the extra information into the file on her laptop. ‘Got all that, or do you want me to go a bit slower?’
