Love Until It Hurts

by Fiona Blakemore

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘David Morgan. Madeleine’s brother. He’s arrived in the UK from Brisbane. He wants to make an application for custody of Bella.’

  Ruth digs the metal into her thumb turning it round and round like a screw. She holds her breath. There will be time to scream later.

  ‘I thought it important you know now,’ Varsha continues. ‘Just so there are no surprises.’

  Australia. ‘Is it further away than heaven?’ Bella once asked her. She can picture Bella sitting on her bed clutching Roo, her only constant comfort. She’s let her down. She’s deserted her. Guilt knots her every time she sees a child in the supermarket, in the street, from her window. How will Bella ever forgive her?

  ‘I’m sorry to burden you with more information, Ruth, but progress has been made in another important area too.’

  Ruth leans in to the phone, anxious not to miss a word over the loud pulsing in her ears.

  ‘The toxicology results are back. Your hair samples are positive for codeine.’

  So it was true. He was trying to poison her. The paper clip sinks deeper. What was his motive? Control? Manipulation? But why?

  ‘I guess…I … I’m not… I don’t know what to say. Surely that’s got to act in my favour?’

  Varsha’s voice has a tinny edge. ‘All that says to the Court is that you were taking it. There’s no presumption as to how it was administered.’

  ‘What?’ Ruth wants to protest but is unable to form the words. Isn’t Varsha supposed to be on her side? She bites her lip as her anger swells, the distant voice of her solicitor reaching out to her.

  ‘Ruth, are you okay? Ruth can you hear me?’

  Ruth isn’t listening any more. The missing prescriptions. The nausea and dizziness. The rebound headaches. The hollow disappointment at not being pregnant. And now the rage. The humiliation. The poisoning. The more she discovers about Dominic the nearer she is to understanding the bigger picture.

  The disembodied voice tapers to a halt. Ruth swallows her bloodied saliva, disconnects the phone and goes upstairs.

  Ruth tugs at the sleeping bag in the bottom of the airing cupboard and places it on the bed next to a canvass holdall. She puts her trainers in the bottom of the bag, then a scrunched-up pair of pyjamas. Her sweat shirt and jogging bottoms next. What else will she need? Surely not that much. A jumper, a waterproof, her phone charger and toiletries. Underwear. She’ll need a change of underwear. She pulls open the top drawer of the oak chest and sifts through the gossamer knickers, the lacy bras. The curled edge of an envelope pokes through a jumble of tights. Ruth extracts it from the drawer and sits on the edge of the bed. She holds the envelope to her face and closes her eyes. The faint hint of musk makes her nauseous again. Why, Dominic, why? What possessed him to poison her? And why was he poisoning himself?

  Her thoughts drift back to the Coroner’s report. Alcohol, codeine and gabapentin. He never drank alcohol. Not when he was with her. What was he trying to achieve with that toxic cocktail? Mask the ischaemic pain of a wilted forearm? Blot out the memory of a violent father? Or assuage the grief of losing his wife? She opens her eyes and slides out the card.

  Darling Ruth,

  Happy Birthday,

  All my love,

  Dominic x

  Hot tears well as she pores over the words. The unmistakeable brittle strokes, the imperfect ‘R’, the incomplete ‘D’. As she traces the letters with her finger, realisation creeps over her like cracks spreading over ice. The perfectly executed signature on the green script pad. Perfect, except for the tiny anomaly of someone who was left-handed by accident. She winces as she sinks her teeth into her lower lip. Here is the evidence. Varsha must be alerted. There’s still time before next Wednesday. She rushes downstairs and rummages through her desk. Her chest feels tight, her breaths an effort. She takes a picture of the handwriting with her phone, then stuffs the card in a large manila envelope and scribbles a hasty note to her solicitor to go with it:

  Forensics need to compare this handwriting with the prescriptions.

  Madeleine Peterson was prescribed gabapentin and codeine.

  Dominic was harming me.

  Her hand hovers over the word ‘me’ as a cold wave of fear slices through her. She guides her hand over the page, her grip accentuating the tremor in her hand. Striking out the last word she tries again.

  Dominic was harming Bella, and me.

  53

  Ruth

  The motorway service station café is quiet at this early hour. No families, no laughter, just a few single men hunched over their breakfast baps and tabloids.

  She’d had no particular plan last night but, on reaching the end of the dual carriageway, she turned left onto the motorway and soon she was heading north, with each depression on the accelerator creating more distance between her and the imbroglio she was leaving behind. After three hours the traffic thinned, the commuter vehicles had long since disappeared and she found herself weaving between articulated lorries, straining her eyes to see through the fog. Her head felt heavy, her limbs ached. When a juggernaut came bearing down on her, the continuous blast of its horn rocking her attention, she pulled off the road at the next Travel Lodge.

  Sleep had been a welcome respite, free of intrusive thoughts. Whether it was sheer exhaustion from the drive, or the hotel room which consumed her in beige anonymity, she couldn’t be sure, but now, as she sits stirring her coffee, she feels refreshed and buoyed by her decision. She pulls open the concertina folds of the map, smoothing out the wrinkles over the UK’s northernmost region. Scotland. It makes sense. DS Bailey and Varsha Dhasmana can go to hell. Dr. Ruth Cooper is now in control. She could be in Morayshire by lunchtime. Would Elinor Mc Bride remember her from all those years ago? She drains her cup, scrapes back her chair and heads for the car park, swinging her keys.

  The straight contours of the A9 draw her into the horizon. The sun glints off passing wing mirrors, the air freshly-ironed beneath a cloudless sky. Elinor was always the epitome of discretion. Maybe she’ll put her up for a few days, no questions asked. Every year they would exchange Christmas cards until Ruth went to Australia. Ruth really should have made more effort to keep in touch, especially after all the kindness the retired nurse had showed her. Instinctively Ruth puts her foot down, guilt spurring her forward.

  She switches on the radio. Two women are debating paternity leave. A dart of pain catches her between the shoulder blades. She pictures them, smug in the studio, dressed in their mumsy catalogue clothes. The noise of a horn jolts her, a car almost blindsiding her as she drifts across the carriageway. Her attention is dragged back to the present, as she switches off the radio and checks her mirrors.

  Ten years since she last made this journey north. Her father came with her then, both of them side-stepping memories of her mother for fear of upsetting each other. It’s never occurred to her till now but it must have been hard for him making that expedition to the clinic, supporting a daughter who disproved his theory that a ‘stiff upper lip’ was the best response to splintered circumstances. Her throat constricts. She leans forward and presses the CD player into action. The road ahead opens up against the backdrop of Enya’s melodic refrains.

  The cottage should be relatively easy to find. She can remember the cemetery at the foothills of Drumnabreich, about five miles along the coast road east of Inverness. That was always the landmark for turning off onto the single-track road which wound along the densely-wooded hillside of Scots pine and Douglas firs, until the track petered out into a narrow path. Many was the time she made that journey in the depths of winter, looking out for the reflective tops of snow poles which marked the side of the road. The landscape is sure to look very different now, with the bracken and heather melding into a rich tweed of russet and magenta, but she’s bound to recognise the terrain as she gets nearer. Much easier to recall are the flickering coals
and steaming mugs of tea as they sat by the fire eating homemade shortbread, while Elinor recounted memories from her early days as a nurse. She had a genial face, the sort that would dimple with kindness when Ruth arrived for a weekend’s respite from the clinic. So different from the hawk-eyed countenance of Sister Immaculata in the convent. The memories galvanise her forward. She’s guessing Elinor must be in her late seventies now. Maybe she’d be glad of the company.

  By mid-morning the hues of the panorama change. Watercolour greys, blues and neutrals mutate into vibrant acrylics of purple, yellow and green. Cheered by the sight of the heather in full bloom, Ruth feels lighter, more energised. When the road crests a hill, bringing the Kessock Bridge and glittering Beauly Firth into view she can feel her shoulders lifting.

  She heads east just before the turn-off for Inverness town centre and soon the road runs in parallel to the shores of the inlet. She parks her car in the market square of the first village she encounters. The single-storey grey stone and whitewashed houses that line either side of the main street are instantly recognisable. She spots the butcher’s shop with its chequerboard displays of Scotch pies and Lorne sausage, the newsagent with its billboard for ‘The Press and Journal.’ Even the Post Office is still there, although it looks to have been incorporated into a Spar supermarket behind the market cross.

  She steps inside the bakery, where the yeasty smell of freshly-baked bread combines with the hint of almonds and coffee. Ordering a takeaway cappuccino from the man in the floury white jacket she casts her eye through the glass display. She spots a tier of rowies, the lardy pastries only found in this part of the world. How she used to crave them on frost-ferned mornings, after she had run a lap of the clinic grounds.

  ‘Anything else, Miss?’ The man is holding out a Styrofoam cup, smiling.

  She picks up a cellophane-wrapped packet of tablet. Elinor always had a sweet tooth.

  ‘I’ll take this, please, and a couple of rowies.’ She hesitates, glancing along the counter. ‘Do you have sandwiches?’

  ‘We do indeed,’ says the man, indicating towards a blackboard with an infinitesimal list of bread varieties and fillings. ‘What would you like?’ He waits patiently as she scans the list. ‘On holiday are you?’

  Caught off guard Ruth darts him a look but he has his head down, as he separates the edges of a waxed paper bag.

  ‘Kind of. Revisiting some old haunts. Actually, perhaps you can give me directions?’

  ‘I’ll do ma best.’

  ‘Alt-na-Beinn. It’s the first turn-off past Dunbeg cemetery, isn’t it? Am I on the right road?’

  The baker twists the ends of the paper bag and places it on the counter. ‘After a wee holiday place, are you?’

  She must look perplexed because, after a few seconds silence, he continues. ‘Alt-na- Beinn? The cottage that’s for sale, up the Dunbeg track?’

  Ruth feels her cheeks colour. She’s aware of a small queue shuffling behind her back.

  ‘For sale? No, I hadn’t realised. I … I used to… I used go there on holiday … when I was a child.’

  ‘All boarded up now. Been on the market these past eighteen months. Now then, which sandwich filling d’you fancy?’

  Ruth feels confused. She orders a tuna and salad sandwich, pays for her purchases and takes them outside where she sits on a low stone wall. She hadn’t been expecting this. What of Elinor? Where had she moved? The cottage must have become too much for her. If only she’d contacted her when she came back from Australia. She takes a bite out of her sandwich then stuffs it back into the paper bag. The last of the coffee tastes bitter. The shop has emptied of customers, so she goes back in.

  The man is chopping tomatoes on a wooden board and looks up, his eyebrows arched.

  ‘Hi. I hope you don’t mind,’ says Ruth, ‘but I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Alt-na-Beinn.’

  He rests his knife on the workbench and turns to face her. ‘Aye?’

  ‘The lady who lived there. Elinor Mc Bride. I used to know from years back. Do you know where she’s gone? I’d like to trace her.’

  The man’s features soften. ‘I guess it must be a wee while since you were last here. Nellie Mc Bride died two years ago. I’m sorry if that’s come as a surprise to you.’

  54

  Ruth

  She spots the ‘For Sale’ sign on the main road, past the Free Church hall and by the far corner of the cemetery. As she negotiates the bend to follow the road uphill, she can see that its wooden post has rotted and the tin sign has erupted in rust, like a spreading pox. She switches the car heater on full blast, conscious that the darkening sky has created a distinct chill. The dried-out track is rutted with pot holes and canopied by branches weighted with elderberries. Ruth presses on and after five or six minutes comes to the clearing. Weeds sprout up through the paved surface, a stone urn lies smashed on its side. She reverses her car onto a level piece of ground with the hillside at her back and switches off the ignition. She sits with her head against the steering wheel and closes her eyes. She feels drained. Poor Elinor. She’d been a spinster but were there any other family members? If only Ruth had known, she hates to think of her being on her own at the end. Regardless of what the baker said, she still needs to see the cottage for herself. She lifts the bag of tablet from the front passenger seat, pulls on the ribbon and the cellophane springs open. Popping the buttery candy into her mouth, the sugar dissolves on her tongue. She reaches into the back of the car for her jacket, pulls it on and goes outside.

  Despite the tree cover on her right the wind whips her hair as she strides up the path, and the fir trees which slope down on her left bristle like an excited audience. She rounds the bend and there it is. The white-washed cottage. The gabled bedroom windows under the slate roof. The front porch where she used to leave her wellies for fear of trailing mud across Elinor’s Persian rugs. Now it carries an air of neglect. The porch door is locked but peering through the glass she can see a stack of junk mail on the floor next to a rusty milk-bottle holder. She presses her nose to a window but the reflected light from the low afternoon sun makes it impossible to see inside. Brushing flecks of green paint off her jacket she wanders round to the back of the house. The ground beneath her feet squelches as she moves into the shade. The kitchen door is padlocked, but the shadows afford a better view into the downstairs sitting room, now denuded of curtains. She leans against the sill and lurches forward as it disintegrates in rotting clumps exposing a hole between the glass pane and the frame. Intuitively she looks over her shoulder, then laughs. No-one’s watching her. How could she be so stupid? The thudding in her chest becomes more forceful as she pulls her jacket sleeve down over her hand, reaches through the gap and lifts the window latch.

  55

  Ruth

  Sunbeams filter through the front window, casting the room in a butterscotch glow. Gone is the green Dralon settee with its Antimacassar of embroidered flowers. The recess where the chenille-covered table used to be is bare, and the Monarch of the Glen no longer presides above the fireplace, casting its marbled eye on Ruth from its lacquered frame. Instead, peeling wallpaper and rust-tacked floorboards enclose a hollow space, which echoes with the sound of her squeaky boots. Despite the scent of old newspaper, which combines with a hint of leaf mould, the cottage is warm and dry. The terrain may have changed but it clothes Ruth in welcome memories. She pushes open the door at the far end of the room and makes her way upstairs. The window under the gable is knitted with cobwebs but through them she can see the slope of pine woods and the distant sparkle of the Firth. The room on the right is where she used to stay. She would lie in bed under a sloping roof, listening to the hoo hoo of the tawny owl at night, and she would feel safe, whilst Elinor slumbered in the room opposite.

  Thoughts of Elinor prick her with guilt. ‘Nellie’ the man in the bakery had called her, a term of endearment. Elinor always showed her such
kindness. It pains her to think that Ruth never enquired about Elinor’s own family or her friends. She taps open the opposite bedroom door and her eyes rest on the lavender-sprigged wallpaper, and the brass rings which dangle from a bare curtain pole. Strange how Elinor’s absence can leave large holes in the surroundings, like a moth-eaten cashmere shawl which is still comforting but never as warm. She hopes Elinor wasn’t on her own when the end came.

  Glancing at her watch she sees it is just after two o’clock. She’ll need to get going if she’s to sort out her accommodation for the night. Heading back into Inverness is probably the best option but anonymity is something she craves. That’s probably lacking in all but the big hotels, which are bound to be expensive. As she turns on her heels to make her way downstairs her eyes catch a glint of something on the floor. Bending down and scraping away the dust she lifts up a tiny tarnished pin brooch. How long had it lain there undisturbed between the cracks in the floorboards? She rubs it against her sleeve and examines it more closely. A Celtic knot with a central amber cabochon. A symbol of loyalty and friendship. Ruth smiles. She never used to believe in fate but she knows now that her decision to leave Tadwick had been the right one. She need look no further for a roof over her head tonight.

  The hardware store on the Nairn road has everything she needs in its end-of-season sale: an inflatable air-bed, a folding chair, a camping stove and aluminium cook set and a torch. The lime-scaled tap at the cottage had streamed rust-coloured water so she buys eight litres of bottled Highland Spring and some food supplies when she stops at the supermarket.

  As soon as she comes down to the main road her phone doesn’t stop buzzing. She glances at it in the car park: three missed calls from Val and one from DS Bailey. She contemplates listening to voicemail then decides against it. Having no signal at the cottage is a blessing.