Chapter 1

I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me
Love was out to get me
That’s the way it seemed
Disappointment haunted all of my dreams

Then I saw her face, now I’m a believer
Not a trace, of doubt in my mind
I’m in love, and I’m a believer
I couldn’t leave her if I tried.

I’m a Believer lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group.

I suppose I need to explain myself a little. A lanky nerd, I drifted into nursing as a career and loved it. I’ll make it clear, I’m a nurse. Okay, I’m a man, but ‘male nurse’ is discriminatory. Okay, that’s up front; I’ll try to restrain myself from grinding my axe any more. As I say, I loved the job, but I didn’t love the management or the pressure to work at full speed all the time. That, it seems to me, negates the whole essence of nursing. Of course, there are times in an emergency when it’s necessary, but human beings are not made to function at one hundred percent all the time. After a year or so, I switched to agency working, and spent much of the summer in the classic sailing scene. I moved to Maldon in Essex, which is one of the centres of heritage sailing these days, and worked as Mate on board sailing barges and smacks from about Easter to October. In the winter I could support myself with agency nursing, and it was thus that this tale comes about.

There’s just a couple more details that you might think important. In order to get around when I’m assigned to hospitals some distance away I use a motorbike. That’s mainly because I prefer two wheels to four, despite how cold (and sometimes, how wet) a motorcyclist can get. Sure, a rider is vulnerable, but there are training schemes which can minimise that risk, and I undertook one.

The other point is the church. Don’t think I’m a religious nut, but I’ve found a place where the vicar is an exemplar of what a church leader should be; she walks the walk. I’m not in church every week, but I’m drawn back again and again.

So, to the story:

It was a March evening, night really. I was on my way home on my bike after a late shift and it was well after midnight; a nurse can’t just walk off the ward at the nominal end of the shift. Some distance in front of me a dark-coloured saloon-car slowed, a passenger door opened, and a pale shape fell, or was pushed, out. The vehicle didn’t stop and accelerated away as the door slammed.

As I approached it was obvious that what had been left behind was a human body. I pulled in just past and kicked the side-stand down, dismounted, and raised the front of my helmet. I pulled my mobile out of my pocket and called three nines – one of my quick-dial numbers.

“Emergency. Which service do you require?”

“Ambulance and Police.” I was bending over the figure. “I have an assault victim, who needs immediate attention.”

“Your name and location.”

I was dealing with the bureaucracy while trying to ascertain what I had in front of me. There was a clear carotid pulse, thank God. But ... I felt nausea threatening to overcome my professional control as I looked at ... her.

I’m not an innocent. I’ve had on-again, off-again girlfriends since I was old enough to date, but none of the relationships had survived my life-style. The nursing, well, it’s difficult to maintain a relationship the way the shifts work. The sailing is romantic, I suppose, but even there it’s hard to give a girl the attention she desires when your life is ruled by wind and tide. I suppose I never met a woman I was prepared to go to trouble over.

Then I saw her face...

She’d been beaten. Her hair was a matted mess, her clothes torn. Even in the street lighting I was sure she was covered in drying semen.

“I have a Caucasian female, perhaps mid-teens, with signs of physical and possibly sexual abuse. She is unconscious and unresponsive, but has a strong carotid pulse and is breathing steadily.”

“A first responder is three minutes away and an ambulance in ten.”

I dared not move her, but... I saw her face...

I was happy to get out of the way of the paramedic, who applied a neck-brace. A patrol car beat the ambulance to the scene, and I had to go through what I’d seen and done. It was five in the morning by the time I staggered through my front door and peeled out of my riding gear. I had barely enough energy to take a much-needed shower and fall naked into bed. I did manage to ring the agency to tell them I would not be fit to work.

I don’t usually dream. At least, I don’t usually remember my dreams. I know the theory that dreaming is the mind’s way of working through the stresses and concerns of the day, and that usually we’re not aware of that when awake, but also I’m aware that some claim that a dream can be a way for God (or, at least, some Higher Power) to communicate with us. I was whacked, and I doubt if an earthquake would have woken me, but when I did surface, at three in the afternoon, I had a very clear, indelible memory of seeing a young woman – the young woman – sinking into quicksand. I saw her face, and I would never forget it.

“Trust me, and step out.”

“But...” I didn’t know who was speaking.

“Trust me, step out, and help her.”

I had no way of telling where it was safe to tread, but I couldn’t resist the appeal in her eyes.

“Not there. To the left. Further. Yes, there.”

In the dream, I paced forward until, about five feet away from the ... girl ... my feet began to sink into the sand. There I lay on my back and shuffled forwards until she could lean over and rest on my legs. She was able then to lever herself out, resting on my legs, then my thighs. Soon, she was laid on top of me. Her lips were cold on mine...

It was all very troubling.

Coffee, and toast. A shower. Dress for a walk. Set out to the waterfront for some fresh air. And air doesn’t come much fresher than on the east coast of Britain in March. In fact, I was just at the top of the rise on my way back when some impulse had me walk to the door of the church. It’s a heavy, thick, oak door, with a heavy (probably hand-made) iron latch, which clanked loudly as I opened the door and went in. Like I say, I’m not a religious nut, and enter the church maybe twice a month for some reason I’m not sure of. St. Mary’s is ‘high church’, statues and candles, and there’s that lingering scent of incense even when there’s no service. I walked down the centre aisle and sat in a pew near the front, gazing up at the cross hanging above the sanctuary steps.

I don’t know how long I sat there, or really why. The light was dimming when a voice penetrated my abstraction.

“Hello, Joe. Are you here for Evening Prayer?”

I suppose I started and turned toward the voice. Dulcie Chesterman is an attractive woman, with a sweet face and rich auburn hair. “Oh, Dulcie! No, I was drawn into the church for some reason...” I looked at my watch. Quarter to six. I sighed. “I must have been sitting here for an hour or more.”

“Do you need to talk?”

I didn’t respond immediately. “I suppose I do,” I acquiesced.

“Let me pray,” she said, and laid a hand on my shoulder.

I’ve seen Dulcie pray for people, but never actually experienced it myself. I had no idea what she was saying, as it was in some language I’ve never learned. But then, “So?”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” I asked, before my mind could censor my tongue.

“I believe in love,” she smiled, “and that it shows up in many different ways.”

“Last night,” I began, slowly, “I was on my way home from work, and I saw something being pushed out of a car well ahead of me. I stopped, and saw it was a body. I had to check, of course. It was, it was ... a girl – she had a strong pulse. I called an ambulance and the Police. Didn’t get to bed until five in the morning.”

She didn’t comment, just raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t move her,” I said, “but I saw her face. She’d been beaten, abused, obviously, but I can’t get her face out of my mind.”

Dulcie reached out and touched my shoulder. “Go on. There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Last ... it wasn’t night. While I slept, I dreamed about her. She was in a quicksand. A voice told me to trust, and step out. Dulcie, in the dream I helped her out of the sand. And she kissed me.”

“Joe, may I give you some advice?”

“Of course!”

“It sounds to me as if God’s involved in this. Don’t push, or try to make things happen; wait and see. I suppose I’d add, pray for her, if you will. That doesn’t have to be anything special. You just need to keep it simple. When you think of her, just think, ‘help her, Lord’. He will, and I think you may be a part of that. You know, though, like the Bible says, there’s a time for everything. Some time, if you like, I’ll tell you my story, but not now. I need to get ready for evening prayer.”

She disappeared into the vestry, and rather later someone handed me a little book and a Bible. I would have left, but something – or someone – kept me in my place. The evening office is usually a said service, and quite short and simple, with a couple of readings. That evening, one of them was the ‘Parable of the Good Samaritan’. I don’t know if it was the set reading for the day, or if Dulcie chose it deliberately. She spoke for maybe five or ten minutes, explaining that the parable was actually a message for religious hypocrites, but that it was relevant to all of us; helping someone in need was a response to God’s prompting. She went on, “You might think it was just training, or the way you’re brought up, but if so, where did that training, or upbringing originate?”