Less Than Little Time (Between Worlds Book 1) Read online

  BETWEEN WORLDS

  Less Than Little Time

  Sabina Green

  www.sabinagreen.com

  First published on Amazon in 2021 by Sabina Green

  First published in paperback in 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Sabina Green

  Translation Czech to English by Radka Weberova

  Editing by Dagmar Digma Cechova

  Book Cover by Rica Cabrex

  Cover photo by Deva Darshan and Velizar Ivanov

  The right of Sabina Green to be identified as the

  Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance

  With the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those

  clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

  system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without

  the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise

  circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 978-0-6451267-0-9 (Paperback), 978-0-6451267-1-6 (Kindle)

  Printed and bound by Amazon.

  Contents

  Connie

  Mark

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Mark

  Connie

  Mark

  Connie

  Mark

  Connie

  Mark

  Frank

  Connie

  Mark

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Mark

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Frank

  Connie

  Mark

  Connie

  Frank

  Mark

  Frank

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Connie

  Mondays and Wednesdays have always been my least favourite work days. You’d think that weekend evenings would be much worse, but here’s the thing: on Fridays and Saturdays, things are expected to get out of hand. People let loose at parties, drive drunk, there is one crash after another, fights break out. The phone never stops ringing and the doors to the police station never fully close before someone else pulls the handle. But those cases are more or less manageable though some crashes aren’t pretty, especially when someone loses their life. But they are accidents.

  What I found abhorrent about Mondays and Wednesdays were two facts. First, all of the weekend dramas led to a lot of paperwork which needed to be dealt with at the start of the following week, on top of all our standard work. Second, these two days meant direct contact with a string of more or less repulsive individuals released on bail, who came to our station to be sighted and signed off.

  Like so many times before, I was grateful for the protective glass separating my desk from the entrance hall. It had just caught a huge gross gob of phlegm which slowly started making its way down. I had no doubts that if it wasn’t for the partition, this guy would have me in a chokehold. His face turned an angry shade of red. The vein on his forehead throbbed and his dark eyes turned into two narrow lines.

  “How dare you talk to me like you’re something special, you filthy bitch?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. If I had a dollar every time someone said that to me I could dive into a pile of money like Uncle Scrooge. I’d never stoop to treating anyone, however questionable, with arrogance, but there was something about being at the station which made my tone more reserved. The way our “clients” interpreted it wasn’t something I could control. Either way, in this particular case, the guy standing in front of me just wanted to go crazy, so he found himself a good-enough reason. He would have called me a filthy bitch even if I’d been giving him a bright smile and a hot drink.

  “I need to see your ID,” I interrupted his monologue about the kind of respect he thought he deserved, holding my breath and counting to ten.

  I know what you did, I thought to myself bitterly and looked up from his file. You beat up your wife so bad both her legs are broken and she has a concussion. And you want more respect from me?

  But I couldn’t say that out loud. It might be true, but also unprofessional. I wasn’t there to judge anyone, even if I couldn’t help myself sometimes.

  The guy was still gesticulating wildly and spouting profanities which would make a sailor blush, but eventually he pushed a driver’s licence in my direction. I glanced at the growing line of people behind him with a sigh. Today’s lunch would be a short affair.

  “You’re lucky you can clock out at two,” my colleague and friend Emma whispered my way from the adjoining desk, reminding me that my shift was going to be shortened by two whole hours.

  It was a joy to work by her side. Emma’s kind nature usually managed to fill the whole room, and made dealing with criminals a little bit easier. Normally I’d be ecstatic to leave this parade of walking violence and cruelty early, but this time, I’d give anything to be able to stay. I’d rather go through several more rounds of being called a filthy bitch than go to the hospital.

  My doctor’s receptionist had phoned that morning to back me in to give me the results of my tests. How could they have come in so quickly? He said it’d be at least a week, and twenty four hours haven’t even passed yet… The lady on the phone didn’t say urgent, but she might as well have, the way she urged to squeeze me in today, that the doctor insists on it.

  “Dammit,” I heard myself say as a wave of fear swept over me. Since that phone call my hands hadn’t stopped sweating, I had to keep wiping them on my trousers. All my old memories of essentially living at the hospital came rushing back. But that was all meant to be over!

  So far I’d managed to keep my recent health issues secret, even from Dad who I lived with. I wasn’t going to start talking about them at work and couldn’t admit to Emma just how unappealing my shortened shift was to me.

  The guy in front of me eventually signed his papers, swearing and complaining as he did so, the line wasn’t getting any shorter, and time was running away from me.

  At two I got up in a daze, said goodbye to Emma, the sergeant and my other colleagues, and walked out into a sunny autumn afternoon. Even though I knew the short journey to the hospital by heart, I typed the address into the satnav. In this anxious state I could so easily take a wrong turn or miss my exit. My phone started buzzing in my handbag as soon as my car hit the road. I’d never answer the phone while driving, but in this particular instant, the idea of the appointment being cancelled was just too tempting.

  The number on the screen wasn’t the same as the one in the morning, but that meant nothing, hospitals used many different phone lines. Right now I’d rather listen to an insurance guy than my own mind, I thought to myself and answered the call with a pang of guilt. I put the phone on hands-free and immediately heard a
voice from the speaker: “Connie Fiala?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Mark from the Animal and Environment Protection Association,” said a pleasant male voice. “You filled out a subscription form for our newsletter yesterday, and ticked the box indicating you’d be interested in attending our events…” He paused, clearly waiting for me to confirm.

  I felt like it was ages since I was looking at a website of the Perth branch of this well-known association, when in fact it was less than twenty four hours ago. Ever since, age seventeen, I received my first pay check, I’d been financially supporting several charities of this nature, and even attended some protests. But since I joined the police six years ago I couldn’t afford any trouble, so I stuck to the occasional volunteering and a not-so-insignificant sum of money leaving my account every month.

  Until, very recently, a shocking event pushed me back into activism, regardless of trouble. We had just wrapped up a horrific case of several young males who’d tortured and brutally killed three kangaroos, and were arrogant enough to film the whole monstrosity–luckily for the police. We’d managed to bring them to court, but the sentence they’d received seemed a joke, even to the eyes of the wider public. What is a few months in prison, compared to the horror and suffering of those innocent animals?

  I heard Mark’s awkward cough on the other side of the phone line and quickly blurted out: “Yeah sure, I remember.”

  “We’re arranging another protest and a petition, for a more severe punishment of cruelty to animals.” He’d just summed up why I wanted to join the Association and was no doubt aware of it.

  “I intend to take part in that protest,” I confirmed and my heart sank. A large sign appeared in front of me, with the name of the hospital and an arrow pointing left.

  “That’s great! We really appreciate it, every voice counts,” he said passionately. “I’m calling about something else too, though… We’d like to know if you were interested in a personal meeting here at the Association?”

  My mind was still focused on the upcoming appointment with my doctor looming closer and closer, so it took a while to process what this man… Mark… was saying. I couldn’t say I wasn’t taken aback.

  “A personal…” I cleared my throat and massaged my forehead. Why am I having this conversation? I thought. Even now, feeling so off, I just couldn’t put animal rights aside. But there was something strange about Mark’s request. “Do you invite everybody who subscribes to the newsletter to a personal meeting?”

  I parked in the first available parking space, got out of my car and pressed the phone to my ear.

  “Well, no,” he admitted, a smile in his voice. “Not many people fill in the additional comments section with ‘I work for the police’.”

  “Oh,” I breathed. I could just see myself hesitating over that part. In the end I decided to mention my occupation, hoping it would get me a sort of an excuse and patronage. I may have gotten rid of my fear of attending protests after the kangaroo case, but I wasn’t exactly excited about getting into trouble if things got out of hand. Not just because of my job, which many–including me–considered prestigious, but also because of my family. I couldn’t be selfish and just do whatever I felt like doing, otherwise I’d be first in line to fight for animal rights and the environment. “And what would be the purpose of the meeting?”

  “I’d rather explain that when you’re here.”

  “I…” My mind went blank. I’d walked into the main entrance hall of the hospital without really being aware of it. I walked towards the stairs to the first floor and checked my watch. Just three minutes left until my appointment. “Alright then,” I accepted his offer. “But we’ll have to arrange the details another time, I’m about to have a meeting.”

  It sounded like an excuse even to me. What reply could Mark give me? He politely said his goodbye, promising he’d try to call later that afternoon or the next day. I didn’t have time to think about what this Association could possibly want from me.

  “Connie Fiala,” I introduced myself at the reception, and my Dad’s face flashed before my eyes. You’re half Czech, Fiala is a beautiful surname, be proud of it. We’d often laughed at Australians and other foreigners trying to pronounce it or spell it phonetically. I was lucky that after settling down here in Perth my Dad didn’t decide to stick -ová at the end of my surname. It may be typical for Czech female surnames, but the locals here would find it even more difficult.

  But the receptionist didn’t struggle with it at all. She repeated it flawlessly, clicked her way through the computer system and eventually said: “No need to sit down. The doctor will see you straight away.”

  She pointed towards the right door and I obediently entered the lions’ den.

  I’ve always had an abundance of patience, but there was one area of life where I seemed to come up short. I couldn’t stand drivers bolting down the road like maniacs, driving into other cars as if they wanted to peek into their trunks, those who had no idea how to merge, didn’t bother with indicators and just drove straight in, hoping that a gap between cars magically appeared for them. The worst were those slow crawling snails, taking their sweet time, blissfully unaware of the traffic jam behind them, and of the middle fingers being frantically waved in their direction by other drivers trying to blow off some steam.

  If I weren’t already so shaken, I’d have been surprised that someone was honking at me. I blinked, focused on the intersection in front of me and realised I was standing on a green light. I quickly stepped on the pedal and moved away as smoothly as possible. The driver behind me stopped abusing his car horn and his car, tires screeching, shot out of the spot like a bullet.

  As soon as I could, I moved into a side street, partially to get rid of that bloke, still gesticulating wildly behind me, partially to calm down a little. I can’t go home in such state!

  I stopped by a house with a spacious driveway, my breathing shaky, staring into the void and wondering how I could have left the hospital, when I couldn’t even remember fishing my keys out of my bag or sitting down behind the wheel and making my way through the maze of streets.

  I’m afraid your cancer has returned.

  I could hear the doctor’s words crystal clear, as if I was still sitting in his office.

  “But you took that lump out, and the chemo was successful,” I protested in a small voice, reminding him of my last battle with this illness.

  At that time I thought it strange that the cancer must have been sprouting in me for some time, growing and rejoicing at the new territory it was acquiring. But when I first noticed the little lump, the diagnosis and surgery took place so quickly that I still sometimes wondered if it had really happened to me. It was all over in a few months, I didn’t have to fight for years like others do, so sometimes it was easy to believe this was more of a glitch than a catastrophe. But in any case, that was three years ago, ages ago…

  “Metastases,” the doctor explained apologetically, as if it was somehow all his fault. “Into the other breast, lungs and liver.”

  “And what’s next?” I blurted out in a tight voice. I wasn’t thinking about the kind of treatment ahead of me, I already had an idea. I wanted to know which target would cancer choose next. My stomach? Pancreas? Brain? Is it going to keep taking me apart like a LEGO, like a robot which eventually stops working because it doesn’t have enough parts?

  “You were lucky the last time, we discovered it early on and removed it quickly.” He took a deep breath and looked into my eyes. His back straightened, while I was sinking into the chair, making myself smaller and smaller in anticipation of the next blow. “This time it won’t be so straightforward. I’m afraid your chances of recovery are slim. We can try to give you more time with intensive care, but…”

  “More time?” I interrupted and felt my whole body going cold. “You mean… this is it?”

  He nodded and
repeated: “I’m afraid so.”

  It occurred to me, slightly morbidly, how many people a week does he give this kind of news to, and does he get an approving pat on the shoulders from Death when he fulfils a certain quota. But this nonsensical thought was quickly replaced by another, more urgent one.

  I was afraid to ask, but I had to know. “How much time do I have left?”

  The doctor answered without hesitating. “Six months. Maybe twelve.”

  His hand moved involuntarily, as if he wanted to place it over mine. Would he be shocked by this piece of ice, or would he be brave and stroke it reassuringly?

  “I…” I opened my mouth but couldn’t continue. What is expected of a person who was just given a mere one year of life? And even that as a best-case scenario!

  My God, this was meant to be just a routine check up! I’d often felt so stressed it made me feel faint, but otherwise I was good! I also checked my breasts often, out of fear that the cancer would come back, but I never found another lump. I’d never dreamed it could be located so deeply that it would only show up in an ultrasound.

  I was just about to ask how come the metastases weren’t discovered in one of my last appointments, when I remembered that I had missed quite a few. Because of Dad moving in with me, Ruby’s tonsillitis, work…

  Tears forced their way into my eyes. I thought of my carefree little girl and my breath got stuck in my throat. Being a Mum was the best thing that’d ever happened to me. I wanted to see Ruby with her friends, braiding their hair, painting their nails, chasing boys and looking for a part-time job to have money for clothes and the movies. And now I won’t even be there on her first day of school… Why did I take so long to go for this check up?

  “I sometimes feel a bit off,” I said and remembered the other reason I finally came to see the doctor. Occasionally I felt a blunt stab in my chest. I may be too young for a heart attack, but you never know. But I certainly didn’t think it had anything to do with cancer! “I thought it was just stress…”