The Pupil

by Ros Carne

  ‘Don’t fuss me,’ snapped Isabel. Then, before Mel could speak she added, shaking her head slowly from side to side, ‘All those shoes on the floor. She seemed such a tidy little person. I’m surprised she didn’t put them back in the cupboard.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. You don’t need this.’

  * * *

  Natasha was sitting among the other patients, head flopped against the wall, eyes closed. Mel went up to the counter. Eventually one of the nurses came forward to speak to her.

  ‘We’ve given her some painkillers. Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her sleep.’

  ‘How long will it be?’

  ‘Two or three hours? She could be lucky. She had a nasty bang. The doctor may want to see her sooner.’

  There was no vacant seat near Natasha, so Mel sat down at the other end of the waiting area opposite a tank of tropical fish. She stared at the tiny darts of colour. They did nothing to still her thoughts.

  Natasha would not let this lie. She would inform the Bar Standards Board, the police. Mel felt the breath catch in her throat as her imagination spiralled. Others would make the decisions now. Her career would be ruined. Any career.

  Every half hour she went to check on Isabel who had perked up, having found a gentleman admirer to keep her company. Even when looking her worst, Darcy Black never failed to attract elderly fans. She was on her third coffee when Mel returned to the waiting area to see Natasha being led away by one of the nurses through some double doors. She turned back to the tropical fish.

  Isabel’s evidence would be key; Mel’s shocked recognition of her pupil, the accusation about the ring, about Jacob, the shoes on the floor, Natasha toppling. How much did her mother see? How much did she hear? A mother would support her daughter. Of course, she would. Mel shivered.

  Twenty minutes later, Natasha reappeared on the arm of a nurse. She was limping slightly. Had she tripped on one of the shoes as she fell? If so she might have twisted an ankle. Mel flashed back to the scene in the bedroom. One minute she’d seemed to be toppling backwards, the next slipping sideways. How much had Isabel witnessed? She’d been standing in the doorway with a clear view. Looking at Natasha now, Mel could see that the blood had been washed off the wound, a small area of hair shaved, and a dressing applied. Four stitches, the nurse told them. It was a nasty cut, crossing the hairline just above the temple. She had been given paracetamol. There was visible, faint bruising stretching down her forehead below the dressing. She was no longer swaying, but she still seemed confused.

  ‘Can she take Ibuprofen?’ asked Mel.

  ‘We don’t advise it,’ said the nurse, ‘It can increase the risk of bleeding.’

  ‘I can speak,’ murmured Natasha. Her speech was slow and slurred.

  ‘She needs someone to keep an eye on her for the next couple of days,’ continued the nurse briskly. ‘Any vomiting or bad headaches, bring her back. Are you next of kin?’

  ‘No. Just a… just a work colleague.’

  ‘Is there someone?’

  ‘She lives with her boyfriend. We’ll drop her off there.’

  ‘Make sure she has her proper kit. If it wasn’t for the ID bracelet, we’d never have known she was type 1. So how did this happen?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘Hasn’t she told you?’

  ‘She’s confused. That’s why we’re worried. Were you in the room at the time?’

  ‘She fell against a glass dressing table. She tripped. Probably on a shoe. They were lined up on the floor…’

  The nurse was listening hard. Mel knew it was important to get this right.

  ‘We’ve given her a letter,’ the nurse continued. ‘We’ll see her again soon. She may need a scan. We’ll have to run tests. There could be some balance issues.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mel. She turned to Natasha, ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Weird. Can you get me something to eat?’

  Of course, the diabetes. Would that be a complication?

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Cheese sandwich.’

  Mel returned to the coffee bar, bought the sandwich and told a reluctant Isabel it was time to go.

  ‘And I was just beginning to enjoy myself.’ She smiled at her new devotee who politely shook her hand and said what a pleasure it was to meet her.

  ‘I’ll get you home. Then I’ll take Natasha back to her boyfriend,’ said Mel as they were returning to A&E.

  ‘Such a nice young man.’

  ‘Excellent. Then she’ll be well looked after.’

  Mel heard the edge in her own voice. It was not excellent. Luke would not accept the accident theory. He was a social worker and would examine his girlfriend with a social worker’s forensic suspicion.

  ‘You’ll have to give me the address. Can you walk OK?’ she asked Natasha.

  ‘I can walk.’

  Mel took her arm.

  ‘I said I can walk,’ barked Natasha, snatching her arm away. The antagonism felt like a punch in the gut. No, Natasha was not a woman to let this go. And provocation was no defence.

  She called Uber from triage. Natasha was once again installed in the back next to Isabel. They hurtled off up Denmark Hill.

  * * *

  Back at Isabel’s house, she settled her mother in an armchair, turned on the TV, organised tea and toast and left her, curiously calm, in front of Flog It. Mel still hadn’t asked what Isabel had seen. For years there had been areas of silence between them. Most of her mother’s life had been a performance. This could just be another one. Isabel would need time to work out what role she would play.

  Mel turned to Natasha who was slumped on the sofa, staring into space. There was a plastic NHS bag on the floor beside her containing medication.

  ‘Are you OK? I mean, with your diabetes and everything.’

  ‘They checked at the hospital. It’s fine.’ She was more lucid by the moment. ‘I need my handbag,’ she added, pushing herself up.

  ‘Don’t try to move. I’ll get it.’

  Mel ran up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. A cream handbag was open on the bed, its contents spilling over the quilted flowery counterpane: wallet, make-up, comb, some medical gadget. Nothing belonging to her mother. But where was Natasha’s phone? The image was sharp in her mind, Natasha standing a few feet away, brandishing the picture of Jacob like a trophy. She fell on her knees amidst the shoes and scanned the floor, lying down to look under the bed. And there it was, a white iPhone, just out of reach. It must have skidded across the carpet when Natasha fell.

  Stretched out on her front, Mel managed to squeeze part of her shoulder under the base of the bed, allowing her to touch the phone and nudge it towards her. The sound of the TV floated upstairs. With luck Natasha would have fallen asleep.

  The phone kept slipping away but eventually Mel managed to coax it out. She pushed herself back from the bed, clasped hold of the smooth object, stood up and stuffed it into her back pocket. Then she pulled her own phone from her other pocket and took several pictures of the shoes strewn around the floor where Natasha had fallen. There was blood on the carpet. Should she wash it out? But she was desperate to get rid of Natasha, needed her out of the house. And if there was any issue about the injury, a large bloodstain just below the dressing table could do no harm to Mel’s case. She stood motionless, thinking. What case? Nothing would happen. But the sight of the red brown patch unnerved her. She went to the bathroom, picked out a towel and soaked it in cold water. Back in the bedroom she wiped the stain ineffectually for a few seconds, merely transforming a small dark puddle into something more like a thunder cloud.

  She took the towel to the bathroom and left it to soak in the sink. Her mother had arranged a cleaner. There was no need to do more.

  Downstairs, she handed Natasha her bag.

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ said Mel starting to help Natasha up. As soon as she was upright Natasha jerked away. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she snapped.

  ‘OK,’ said Mel.

&nbs
p; Natasha was walking slowly towards the front door. Mel turned and crossed the room to where her mother sat.

  ‘I’ll call you, Mum.’ Mel lent over and kissed her mother’s cheek. It felt cool and powdery. ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be all right.’

  ‘Goodbye, darling. Look after her.’ Her mother’s words sounded neutral, neither warm nor cold. Nor did she turn from the television as she spoke.

  Natasha was waiting by the front door. Mel held it open and they both stepped across the ill-tended garden to the pavement and Mel’s parked car. Mel held open the passenger door and Natasha slid into the seat, gave Mel the address and sat in silence as the car navigated the dark streets to the Brixton estate.

  ‘This one,’ said Natasha. Mel pulled up outside a low-rise concrete block. It looked bleak and forbidding with tiny windows and snaking walkways. Mel was surprised her pupil should live in such a place. Natasha was rummaging through her bag.

  ‘Where’s my phone?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Maybe it fell on the bedroom floor.’

  ‘Did you take it?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She could feel the phone pressing on her right buttock.

  ‘I need it back.’ Natasha’s face was hard with anger and her eyes were narrow. One of them was almost closed, beginning to puff up. But Mel could still see the colour of the other one. Earlier that day it had been a sharp green. Now it was a pale grey blue.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find it. It must be in the bedroom. I’ll go back now and look.’

  Natasha’s good eye signalled her fury, but she said nothing. Mel sensed it was only pain and weakness that stopped Natasha from attacking her from the passenger seat of the car. And when she opened the door to let her out, Natasha did not budge. Was she about to insist on coming back for the phone? Neither woman spoke. Eventually Natasha heaved herself out and walked slowly towards her front door, pressed an intercom and waited, leaning against the wall of the cheerless building.

  After a couple of minutes, a tall man appeared in the doorway and embraced her. Mel looked on as they stood together, locked tight. Then the man drew back and stared at Mel. For a moment she thought he was about to come towards her, but after a couple of seconds he turned away, put his arm around Natasha and disappeared with her inside the flats.

  Mel got back in the car and set off for north London. She still had Natasha’s phone in her pocket.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Natasha

  Luke was leaning over her. His features were fuzzy. The room behind him was blurred. He was speaking but she couldn’t follow what he was saying. Working out what had happened was too difficult. Mel had been driving her around and had left her at the front door. And now she was in her own bed, but she couldn’t remember how she had got there. Her head was thumping, and her own words sounded slurred and broken.

  ‘Not now. I need to sleep.’

  The next morning her head was still hammering. And the pain from her wound felt worse. But her mind was clearing. The pictures were growing sharper by the minute: Isabel’s house, the clothes in the wardrobe, the shoes on the floor. And Mel, charging towards her, her face twisted in fury. Luke brought her a cup of tea.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what happened.’

  ‘I’m trying to piece things together. You better call chambers. I should be in court.’

  ‘I’ll ring them, explain you were injured.’

  Natasha nodded agreement, listening as he spoke to one of the clerks.

  ‘Badly hurt… yes hospital… it’s hard to say… concussion… yes, some memory loss… maybe… I’ll get her to call you when she’s up to it.’

  She felt strong enough to take a bath, taking comfort from the heat of the water. There was a burning pain behind her right eye. Someone had taken out her contact lenses at the hospital. She couldn’t remember it happening, but Luke had found them stored in a small plastic case in the bag with her medication. Would she ever wear them again? She doubted it. It was as if those glittering colours belonged to a different self. And there was something else.

  She ran her hands down her tummy, a slight depression between her narrow hips. Memory was seeping back. A tiny creature was growing inside her. And with that memory came the decision she thought she had made. But as she soaped her aching body she knew that what had happened last night changed everything. She had been hurled against a glass dressing table by a woman who hated her, and it was as if she had been thrown onto a different course. The creature was little more than a speck, a comma. But it was hers. Natasha couldn’t stop herself wondering if it had survived. And as she wondered, she realised she was hoping. And as she hoped, her anger was taking shape.

  The details were drifting back. Isabel had been standing in the doorway. How long had she been there? But it would be crazy to rely on Isabel.

  She needed to tell Luke what had happened. At least as much as he needed to know. If she did decide to go to the police, his account would be crucial. The evidence would be hearsay, but it would be her first report of what had happened and therefore admissible. The sooner she spoke, the better. Mel would have been careful to exonerate herself.

  Natasha stepped carefully out of the bath, still a little dizzy, wrapped herself in a towel and stared in the mirror. Her right eye was almost closed and through it she could detect only a crack of light, the faintest hint of shapes. The eyelids had begun to puff up like a ripe plum. The main wound was across the hairline and a patch of her hair had been shaved. There were greenish yellow blotches across her eyebrow and the top of her cheek. A selfie would be a good idea. But where was her phone? And then it came back to her. She had been holding it up when Mel rushed her. It must have fallen to the floor. And instead of giving it back with her bag, Mel had kept it. Through the wooziness and continuing pain, she felt a stiffening of resolve. Mel would pay for this.

  Luke had insisted on taking the day off work, and was sitting on the sofa, looking at his tablet when Natasha sat down next to him. He had left a bowl of cereal on the coffee table for her, but she knew she should check her blood glucose before eating. As she reached for her monitor his fingers closed gently around her wrist.

  ‘Shall I check for you?’

  Apart from a nurse, no one had ever done this for her before. It would have been an intrusion, a step too far. But today, with Luke, it felt natural.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  He picked up the monitor, holding it over the small button-sized implant in her upper arm, reading out the numbers on the graph. The reading was slightly low, but she would be fine after the cereal. She reached for his hand, squeezed it and started to eat. When she had finished, he moved the plate aside and said, ‘So?’

  She started to talk. She told him about Isabel, her kindness, her loneliness, how she, Natasha, had wanted to help, how she had enjoyed taking her out, cleaning up the lovely house in Dulwich.

  ‘We’ll have a house like that one day,’ she said.

  ‘Dream on,’ laughed Luke.

  She told him about the costumes, the loan of a vintage outfit and jewellery, the trip to the V&A, cut short by her hypo. Then she spoke about Mel, her distrust and false accusations, the sudden outburst, the brutal shove that sent Natasha flying onto the glass edge of the dressing table. After that, the mist, the faces, someone helping her up, the drive to the hospital, the sense of displacement, as if she was both present and absent. Luke listened intently, taking everything in. She knew he would remember, just as if he had written it down. She omitted her own rage, her own instinct to hurt the other woman in the way she knew best, spitting out words like poison darts. She made no mention of Jacob.

  Luke was puzzled. ‘But why would she do that? Even her mother said she’d lent you the jewellery. And didn’t she say you could have the outfit?’

  ‘Some people are like that.’

  ‘There must be a reason.’

  ‘You mean I must have behaved badly?’

  She knew what he was thinking. Amsterdam.
The one time he had caught her thieving. Since then he had noticed whenever she wore new earrings and, once, a silver necklace. ‘Cheap tat!’ She had laughed when he asked how she could afford it. ‘It doesn’t look cheap,’ he had commented. And now he was studying her wounded face and she feared he might accuse her. But instead he protested gently. ‘I don’t mean that. I mean in Mel herself, something in her background.’

  ‘I dunno. You’re the expert on psychology. Isabel’s kind of self-absorbed. I’ve no idea about Mel’s father. But Mel’s got this paranoid streak. Someone in chambers told me she was prickly. She’s prickly all right. Like a barbed-wire fence.’

  ‘But why turn on you?’

  If she couldn’t get Luke on side, what hope was there?

  ‘I can only tell you how it was. From the start she didn’t like me, didn’t want me around, like I was an irritant. She was supposed to train me, but she never taught me anything. I taught myself, watching her stupid mistakes. When I tried to help, she accused me of interfering. Once I sent her a note in court and she never forgave me. She said I interrupted in conferences. I’m an adult, for God’s sake, a qualified lawyer. I may have made suggestions once or twice. But apparently pupils are supposed to sit in total silence. We’re like ladies in waiting, in case madam needs a bit of photocopying or the name of a case. My previous supervisor wasn’t like that. I should have had Georgie. He’s a nice guy. I might charm him for a reference.’

  A shadow fell across Luke’s face.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s gay,’ she said, with the hint of a smile. ‘Oh, and one time she forgets to log off the computer in chambers. She rings from the tube and asks me to do it. I sort it for her, and she then accuses me of destroying her documents. She’s a nightmare.’

  He nodded, and she knew what was happening. He was weighing things up. Trying to be fair. He might love her, but he was trained not to rush to judgement. She needed a different tack.

  ‘To be fair, things were going badly for her. She was mugged; her son was causing trouble; she was finding work hard. She made mistakes, lost things, got confused. She needed a scapegoat. Plus, she was having an affair.’