by Debra Oswald
She understood that her low appetite and digestive problems were a symptom of stress. She understood that perfectly well.
On the day she killed Ian Ferguson, there was the initial rush of the act. It wasn’t a euphoric rush, but there was still a strong energising process in her body. Next, there was the thrill of getting away with it as she wrote the death certificate. That was followed by the relief of going to the movies with Anita, as if everything was the same, as if the universe was not forever altered by what she’d done.
Since that night, she and Anita had been to the cinema, to a Latin music gig at the Camelot Lounge, jogged the Bay Run. Paula kept suggesting outings that involved more activity than talk, activities in which they could be together but side by side, so she wouldn’t have to face her friend too directly. In recent weeks, Anita had been busy with a big trial and they were getting together less.
Just behind the spot she was sitting in the food court, the guy at the noodle bar chucked a handful of pork into a wok, which made a loud hiss. The pungent smell enveloped Paula, flipping her stomach over. When she got up and moved away, closer to the juice kiosk, her guts settled again.
After Ian Ferguson’s death, Rochelle cancelled the followup appointment to check Brody’s tonsils. Not surprising. The woman was dealing with the sudden death of her husband.
Paula considered sending a condolence message, but it felt obscene to send a sympathy card about a man she’d killed. In the end, Mark Lang sent an email to Rochelle on behalf of the practice. It made sense—the dead man had been Mark’s patient.
When Mark Lang first returned from his diving medicine conference, Paula waited for him to quiz her about what had happened with Ian Ferguson, but questions never came. The one time they discussed it, Mark said, ‘Nah, not surprised. I tried to talk him into taking medication and getting some tests but—well, Ian Ferguson wasn’t a bloke you could argue with. Never let you win a point.’
As more days unspooled after the murder, it was incomprehensible to Paula that nothing had changed. She kept expecting a squad of police to pound on her front door or march into the practice or show up at the food court right now to arrest her, but the police never came.
This was one of those times when she felt the ache of Remy’s absence strongly. Since his death, she’d sometimes thought her way out of problems by imagining what Remy would advise. And she often consoled herself by imagining the delight Remy would’ve taken in some funny or lovely moment. By conjuring him up, she could squeeze a bit more out of life.
Now, it was agonising he wasn’t around to talk to about the situation she was in. But, really, what wisdom could Remy have offered? There were doctors who had upped a dying patient’s morphine dosage, knowing it would suppress their respiratory system and hasten death. You could consider that to be a doctor killing a patient. But that was nothing like this.
She felt spikes of childish temper. If Remy hadn’t been snatched away from her, she never would have done this. If Matt hadn’t murdered Stacey and the children, she never would have done this. If Ian Ferguson had not happened to come into the surgery so soon after Rochelle’s visit, during a week Dr Lang was away at a conference, on the day after Paula learned about Matt’s phone video, she never would have done this. But Paula had never been a person who indulged in if only things were different thinking and she didn’t approve of shifting blame to other people or circumstances to wriggle free of responsibility for her own actions. She’d done what she’d done.
After that initial rush and then dizzy panic, Paula hoped she might settle down, regain her equilibrium. But she was surprised to find she was growing worse, unravelling inside, however normal she appeared outside. Why should it surprise her? Surprise was ridiculous. She had zero experience of the progression of a person’s mental state after they’d committed murder, had no knowledge or case histories to draw on. Now she was increasingly anxious, gullet scalded with reflux and abdomen burning, as if the remorse was her own bile eating away her stomach lining.
At the juice bar, the blender started whirring and Paula was hit by the smell of creamy yoghurt and strawberries mulching up for a smoothie. She feared she might vomit up the toast she’d eaten earlier.
By the time she made it into the ladies the nausea had passed. She stood at the basins to splash her face with water and regarded herself in the mirror, droplets of water hanging off her nose and jawline.
She had killed a man. She had murdered someone. She was not this person. The universe was out of kilter because she had done this thing. It wasn’t superstition. It was a simple matter of right and wrong.
She must face up to what she’d done, go to the police and confess.
She shivered, dry-mouthed with fear, cortisol flooding through her system. She didn’t want to face the police all on her own. So, she would admit everything to Anita first and ask her friend to accompany her to the police station. Anita knew how such things worked and would guide her, as well as being the emotional support she needed.
She texted Anita.
Hi. I know you’re busy but can we meet up this evening? V. important thing to tell you. P xx
Finishing the afternoon’s session at the practice, Paula made some effort to tidy her consulting room and leave things in a decent state. She made sure important emails were sent and patient files were up to date.
Once she’d reported herself to the police this evening, she might not ever come back here. Probably they wouldn’t hold her in custody but she presumed she would no longer be permitted to practise as a doctor. Better not to stew about any of that now. No point speculating about lawyers and trials and the future.
For the two hours since she’d resolved to confess, she had been mentally rehearsing the wording she would use. There was a good chance the police would find her story unlikely. She would have to give them medical details, but she would also have to offer plausible motivation, talk about Stacey, all of it. She wanted to explain her exact thought process before she killed Ian Ferguson. Not to excuse anything, but to clarify.
She was terrified, no question, but still, this was necessary. She didn’t allow herself to think beyond the moment of confession. She needed to focus on the moment itself, the correcting of the universe, so she would be able to breathe properly again.
Anita plonked herself and her laptop bag on the bench seat in the Enmore restaurant where they’d chosen to meet. Paula insisted on buying the first round of drinks and bringing them to the table.
‘I ordered us some share plates too,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ said Anita. ‘It is fucking good to see you, lady. Sorry I’ve been so busy.’
It was true she’d been preoccupied with the Santino trial, but it was also true that she’d been preoccupied with Rohan Mehta.
Traditionally, she would have shared every detail of the new romance with Paula and Stacey by this point. Stacey would’ve insisted on a blow-by-blow account, mock-swooning at the excitement of it all, enthusiastically analysing the subtext of key moments. Paula would be excited for Anita too, but in a more measured way, running through a checklist of questions to ensure this new guy was good enough for her friend. Nothing important in Anita’s life felt real until she’d shared it with those two.
The way things were now, she didn’t know how to tell Paula about Rohan Mehta. The story of how they got together might be painful. And parading her happiness might be painful too. She should wait for the right time to say something.
The two friends clinked glasses.
‘I’m glad this place isn’t too noisy,’ Anita said. ‘Don’t you reckon restaurant reviews should have an acoustic rating alongside the price guide and however many stars? Do I sound like a curmudgeonly old deaf man?’
Paula smiled. ‘No, no, I agree.’
‘Anyway, sorry, I’m prattling.’ Anita made a little show of gulping her wine and wriggling her bum firmly into the seat to indicate Paula had her full attention. ‘Please tell me your “v. important thing”.
’
Paula stared at the tabletop for a second. ‘You know how we agreed we wouldn’t constantly talk about what happened to Stacey …’
‘But we can, Paula,’ Anita jumped in. ‘Anytime either of us needs to, I reckon we should.’
‘No, of course. And in fact, something happened at work and I wanted to tell you about it.’
Anita nodded, ready to listen.
‘It’s about a patient of mine. A woman. And her husband.’
Paula described Rochelle’s visit to the surgery, the marks of strangulation and other injuries her husband had inflicted on her. She described Brody’s anxiety, maintaining a watchful cordon around his mother.
‘Like Cam,’ Anita murmured.
‘Yes. Made me think about him so much.’
‘So I’m sure you’re trying to persuade this woman to—’
‘Yes, I offered all the usual advice and referrals.’
Paula explained Rochelle’s fears, the husband’s threats to kill her or their child if she ever tried to leave him again.
‘The stats on that are terrible,’ said Anita. ‘The period of time when a woman tries to leave an abusive partner, the risk of him killing her goes way up.’
‘And Rochelle’s husband had the skills and the means to track her.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Anita agreed fervently. ‘That’s a very real danger. A scary percentage of the women in refuges are being tracked electronically in some way by their ex-partners.’
Anita heard herself adopt a slightly lecturing tone with Paula. Since she’d started writing the feature on men murdering their partners, she’d been quoting the statistics to her brothers, her parents, her friends, her colleagues. It wasn’t as if she and her female friends didn’t know this stuff already, but wading into it waist deep, then dunking down and soaking her brain in the horrendous data, had turned Anita into a zealot.
‘What can you do to help that poor woman?’ Anita asked. ‘Oh, don’t tell me she’s—’
‘No, she’s okay now. That’s why I wanted to tell you what happened.’
Paula described Ian Ferguson coming into her consulting room, the threatening way he spoke about his wife, his untreated heart problems, then his fatal heart attack.
‘So he can’t hurt her now,’ said Anita.
‘No. She’s not in danger anymore.’
Anita was relieved—not only to hear that the woman was safe but also to see there was a calmness about Paula: the way she used to be.
Paula took a breath to steady herself and gauge how she was feeling as she described Ian Ferguson’s death to Anita, but excluding the part about injecting a lethal quantity of adrenaline. Only hours before, she had been determined to reveal every detail, but between sending Anita the text and arriving at the restaurant, Paula’s thinking had shifted. There was no confession of guilt. Instead, she went on to tell Anita about something that had happened forty minutes ago.
Paula had been about to leave the surgery when Jemma stopped her as she passed the front desk.
‘Oh, you’re off,’ Jemma said, then dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I was hoping you could fit in one more patient before you go.’ The receptionist flicked her head in the direction of the play area.
Rochelle Ferguson was crouched down by the toy table, helping Brody pack away pieces of a plastic construction set. Paula couldn’t breathe. She had killed this woman’s husband, this child’s father.
Then Paula saw Rochelle stand upright, facing Brody. She was smiling—lightly, playfully. The two of them, mother and son, were laughing about who could throw the bright plastic pieces into the box with the most accuracy. Every time Brody successfully landed a piece in the box with a satisfying plonking sound, he did a gleeful wriggle. Rochelle would make a huge fuss, as if he were a sporting star who’d scored a goal.
Observing Brody in the play area now, Paula hardly recognised the anxious, clingy little boy he’d been. This child was sparky, happy, enchanting.
And when Rochelle turned towards her son, Paula saw the delight on her face and the ease in her body, as if the armour she’d kept strapped around herself for years had melted off.
Paula felt a wave of—maybe it wasn’t like the euphoric rush from an opioid drug, but a lovely warmth spread through her limbs and she was able to breathe deeply again.
‘Hi, Rochelle,’ she said.
‘Oh hi, Dr Kaczmarek.’
‘Am I seeing you or Brody this afternoon?’
Rochelle glanced at the bags in Paula’s hands. ‘Were you about to go home?’
‘Well, going out to meet a friend,’ said Paula. ‘But I can definitely fit you in.’
Rochelle squatted down next to Brody. ‘Okay if I see the doc and you hang out here for a minute?’
Brody nodded. He was happy to keep practising his throwing skills. He was happy to let his mum out of his sight for a little while.
Paula ushered Rochelle into the consulting room.
‘I’m so sorry about your husband,’ Paula said.
Rochelle looked at the floor, pressing her lips together. ‘Well, I don’t reckon I have to pretend to be super upset with you, doctor.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Please don’t get me wrong. I feel guilty that I don’t feel sad—but y’know, it’s like someone let me out of prison. Which is a terrible thing to say about someone dying.’
‘I don’t think it’s terrible. It’s understandable,’ said Paula. ‘How are you going in practical terms? I mean, are you okay financially?’
Rochelle grimaced. ‘Money’s tricky.’
‘Did your husband have life insurance?’
‘No. Ian thought all insurance was a waste of money. His money was tied up in the business and there’s actually heaps of debt. That’s one of the things that used to make him riled up.’
‘Ah,’ said Paula. ‘If things were going badly in his business, he used to take it out on you.’
Rochelle nodded. ‘But it’s alright. My mum’s helping now. Ian couldn’t hack having my mum around. She hated his guts and he knew it. But now Nana picks up Brody from school two afternoons a week. Means I can work longer shifts. We’ll get there.’
‘I’m really glad to hear that, Rochelle. And how is Brody going? He looks pretty happy.’
‘He is. He is.’ Rochelle choked up and Paula handed her the box of tissues. ‘I used to kid myself Brody was okay. But when I look at him now, it’s like, “Oh, that’s who you are, Brody. That’s the happy little kid you were supposed to be.” Because he doesn’t have to worry about me all the time.’
‘Well, that’s great.’
‘Yeah, yeah, it is great. But makes me feel guilty. For letting it happen.’
‘Don’t waste emotional energy feeling guilty, Rochelle,’ said Paula. ‘You’re a brave person and a loving mother who did the best she could in an impossible situation.’
Rochelle looked up at Paula, desperate to believe what was being said to her.
‘Yes,’ said Paula firmly. ‘I’m a doctor so you have to believe me.’
Paula smiled and Rochelle laughed. They filled out the paperwork for a mental health plan so Rochelle could see a psychologist over the next few months.
‘Thanks for this. And thank you for being so kind to me and trying to help when everything was, y’know …’
Paula reached forward and hugged Rochelle. She felt the strength of this woman’s body.
‘The thing is,’ Rochelle said, ‘when you’ve been in a situation for so long, it feels like that’s normal life—well, even if you know it’s not normal, it’s how things are. But then something changes and it’s like, “I remember this! This is what safe feels like.”’
By the time Paula finished telling the story, Anita was sniffling and rummaging in her handbag for tissues.
‘Jesus, Paula,’ said Anita. ‘That’s spectacular. That’s … fuck …’
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you cry.’
‘Don’t apologise. I love
that story.’
‘Yeah. It made me feel a little bit better about everything,’ said Paula. ‘I mean, it doesn’t change anything about Stacey and the kids but it’s … I dunno … I think there’s some consolation in it.’
‘Yes. Yes. Thank you for telling me.’
Paula shrugged. ‘I guess I wanted us to share the good things as well as all the painful stuff.’
Anita nodded and reached across the table to squeeze Paula’s hand.
Paula twisted around in her seat, trying to catch the eye of the bar staff. ‘I wonder where our food is? We ordered it ages ago. I’m starving all of a sudden.’
‘Hey, can we go back a step?’ Anita asked. ‘The guy died in your surgery?’
‘Well, he had a heart attack in the surgery but he actually died in the ambulance shortly after.’
‘So when this homicidal piece of shit started, you know’—Anita mimed a man clutching his chest in agony—‘you helped him?’
Paula nodded.
‘Jesus, Paula. You must’ve been tempted to stand back, not lift one of your highly qualified fingers to revive him and let that man die on the floor in front of you.’
‘Well, you tend to go onto automatic pilot and do the standard emergency stuff.’
‘Sure,’ said Anita, but she flipped her head, dubious. ‘Not sure I’d be so fucking nice.’
Paula gave in to an urge to push it—not to confess, but she wanted to poke a little, tease out what Anita would think. ‘Well … the thought did run through my mind.’
‘I bet. I mean, you could’ve found some ingenious way to kill the fucker outright, couldn’t you?’
Paula shrugged, playing it nonchalant, even though her heart was beating fast now. ‘I could.’
Anita leaned forward and gripped Paula’s hands, this time with jokey concern. ‘Are you telling me you murdered that guy?’