The Long Walk Back: the perfect uplifting second chance romance for 2018. Rachel Dove

it slowed down. The fear, like a boa constrictor around her throat, slithered looser, before slinking off to another poor mortal. She lined up her breathing with his, focusing on those pools of colour in his beautiful, pale, scratched face, and she felt a little snatch of peace. She went to move her hand away, a little embarrassed that the man who hated her was her saviour, but he gripped her tighter, not giving her an inch to wriggle away.

      ‘Just …’ he started, struggling with his next words. ‘Just stay, okay? I’m here. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m here.’

      She looked at the man on the gurney in front of her. Broken, battered, bruised, angry. She thought him, in that instance of time, the most exquisite thing she had ever seen. The strongest man she had ever known, and the thought was her undoing. Silent tears ran down her cheeks as she brought her hand to meet the other, sandwiching Cooper’s strong warm one between them.

      ‘I’m so sorry, I am so sorry, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault,’ she said, rambling softly. She lowered her head and kissed the back of his hand, a hot tear dropping onto the skin, making the hairs stand on end. He said nothing, just ran his thumb over her fingers, holding hers fast, an anchor holding her into this moment in time. She lay back on the seat, exhausted now, and started to close her eyes. Every time she opened them it felt as though her corneas were being sliced with razor blades, so she kept them closed, focusing on the sound of the chopper blades and the feel of his steadying hand between hers. ‘I think my son is dead,’ she whispered. The hand squeezed tighter, and the tears kept flowing, silently running down onto her clothes, and their entwined hands.

      Hours later, Captain Thomas Cooper woke to the sound of the medic readying his gurney for moving. The chopper was still, and Coop could hear trucks nearby, people milling around the hangar. He looked across, but the seat was empty. His hand, still wet from her tears, was placed at the side of his body on the bed and as he flexed it, he felt something in his palm. Lifting his hand, he saw a piece of paper, ripped out of a notepad, the clumsy way it was torn causing a jagged edge, softer than the harder, neater edges. He recognised the handwriting from the walls of the hospital, from the notes written on chalk boards and white boards around the tent he had been housed in. He unfolded it fully, ignoring the medics milling around him, the groans of his comrades as they were moved gently, one by one. The note read:

      Thank you. I don’t deserve your kindness, but I will never forget it. Now you need to do something for yourself, you need to live. You need to fight, this is not the end for you. Please, for me, fight. Make this mean something.

      Kate

      Cooper refolded the note carefully, holding it tight. When the medic came back to move him, he looked at him enquiringly. ‘The doctor who was here, where did she go?’

      The medic, a young lad who looked like he had not slept in months, looked at him wearily.

      ‘She went home, Captain. Family emergency.’

      Cooper nodded. ‘Where’s home?’ he asked.

      The medic shrugged. ‘No idea, man. You ready to go?’

      Cooper sighed. ‘Sure, nothing else to do, have I? And it’s Captain to you.’

      The medic blushed. ‘Sorry Captain. Roger that.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

      Kate thanked the taxi driver and heaved herself out of the car, her duffle bag dragging along behind her. The night was still, and warm and she found herself grateful for the coverage of darkness. Everything was so familiar to her, yet so alien and different. She reached into the rockery, picking up the fake stone hide-a-key and let herself into her home. She had been surprised that Neil’s car wasn’t there when she first pulled up, but then she remembered. The accident. Their son had been cut out of their car. It was now lying in some police impound lot, or a scrap yard somewhere, waiting to be dealt with. She never wanted to see it again.

      The hallway was in darkness, and she called for Neil. His keys weren’t on the hook, and there was no noise coming from the living room. He must have gone straight to bed. To get some rest. She would still have been at the hospital, but they had forced her to go home, get changed and sleep. Jamie would be in surgery for hours, and then recovery. She couldn’t do anything, and she knew her presence there was distracting the staff. She needed them to concentrate on saving her son. She looked into the lounge but it was empty. There was a plate on the coffee table, a piece of toast crust sitting on it. Remnants of jam sat on the plate, congealed. Jamie’s Lego beaker was placed next to it, no doubt once containing milk. She imagined Jamie sat there earlier in the day, eating his breakfast and watching cartoons. Probably leaving sticky jam fingers and toast crumbs on his clean navy uniform. A boy on his way to school, and now fighting for his life. She left the crockery where it was, she couldn’t bear to alter anything of her son’s just then.

      ‘Neil?’ she called. ‘Neil, I’m sorry. I was mad, I should never have sent you away. I was angry, and worried. He’s still in surgery, he’s stable.’ She sat on the bottom step, dropping her kit bag and unlacing her boots and dumping them on the hall floor. She pulled off her thick socks, her bare feet feeling odd against the plush carpeting as she took the stairs one by one.

      ‘I know you were hurt too, I’m really sorry I never thought of you. We can go back in a few hours, together. At least we have my car in the garage, we can get around still.’ She rounded the top of the stairs and pushed open their bedroom door.

      ‘Did you get a taxi home?’ she asked, looking at the bed. It was unmade, the pillows tousled, the sheets flipped back. It was empty. Kate blinked hard, as though expecting Neil to appear when she opened her eyes again. The wardrobe door was open, a coat hanger on the carpet in front of it. She crossed the room, energy suddenly bursting through her as she pulled open the doors to see what she already feared. His clothes were gone. She ran to her bedside table, dialling his number from the landline. It went straight to voicemail. He must have it, he rang me from the side of the road. Did he ring on his phone, or use someone else’s? Was his phone broken? Maybe it was lying on the floor of his mangled car? She couldn’t remember. She dialled the hospital, and got put straight through to the operating theatres’ office.

      ‘It’s Kate, sorry, Dr Harper. Is Neil back there now? With Jamie?’

      ‘No, we haven’t seen him. Jamie’s still in surgery. He’s doing okay.’ Kate thanked the voice at the other end, not knowing or caring who it was.

      She sat down on the bed, and looked around. Neil’s laptop bag was gone, but she had no idea of knowing what had been in the car. What the hell was going on?

      FOUR MONTHS LATER

      Kate watched as her radio alarm clock sprang to life, signalling the start of her day. She turned it off, not wanting to hear the happy chatty tones of the radio presenter as they celebrated another day dawning, waking the world up with their dull small talk about the weather, the traffic, the latest fashion faux pas of the rich and famous. She stretched lazily, her body not willing to leave the relative comfort of her single bed. She looked around her room, taking in the depressingly stark surroundings that she now called home. Her comfy king-sized bed at her house knocked spots off this one, but she hadn’t spent a night there since the accident. She doubted that she ever would again. Going back for clothes was bad enough; the last time she had filled her car to the brim, carrying all she could, knowing that it would be a long while before she ever went there again. The ‘for sale’ sign outside mocked her when she pulled into the drive, like a banner, declaring her previous life a failure, the house just another casualty of that day. The day.

      She went into the wardrobe, selecting a clean starched work uniform from the pile. She showered in the en suite, brushing her teeth, not bothering to even look in the mirror, let alone apply war paint to cover up her pale, drawn face. The bags under her eyes made her look haunted, a shadow of the person she once was. She brushed out her blonde hair, tying it tightly into a low ponytail, and putting on her shoes, she let the door lock behind her and headed for Trevor’s office.

      When