Back at Alt-na-Beinn she climbs the path beyond the cottage and watches the sunset from the wooden bench situated on the crest of the hill. The midges have long gone but it’s still warm enough to sit here without her jacket, enveloping herself in peace and tranquillity, secure in the knowledge that her car and the cottage is not visible from the road. As she watches the winking lights of aeroplanes arcing towards the airport she wonders where Bella is now. Having a bedtime story from a foster carer? Asking if her daddy is now with her mummy? Remembering that Ruth had promised to take her to the adventure playground once her plaster cast was off?
A career, marriage, motherhood. When Ruth was a little girl that trajectory felt assured. Adoption was never on the master plan. And now she is effectively on the run. If she’s going to take on this incomprehensible responsibility she needs to draw deep on her energy reserves. ‘Take care of yourself first,’ her therapist said, ‘or you will have nothing left to give others.’
She shivers as the temperature drops and, picking up her mug she retreats down the hill to the cottage, walks round the back and passes her belongings through the gap in the window frame before clambering indoors.
56
Ruth
Ruth walks past the window of the estate agent on Argyle St for the second time. The first time she had lingered over the display, scanning the photos for Alt-na-Beinn but, amongst the grey stone houses, the executive apartments and the picturesque crofts there’s no sign of the whitewashed cottage. Of course it’s not going to be on view. Didn’t the man in the bakery say it had been on the market for eighteen months? It will have been consigned to the drawers of the back office by now. She decides against entering the shop and enquiring after it. Too risky. Especially now that she is a sought-after person. Four days she’s been gone. That’s all. But it hasn’t stopped Val ringing her every day. Each time she travels to within a phone signal there are fresh messages on her voicemail.
‘Ruth, I’m worried about you. We’re all worried about you. Please let us know you’re all right.’
We? Who’s we? The police? The lawyers? Social services? In the end she had texted her back.
Don’t worry about me. I’m safe. Just need some space. I’ll call you when I’m ready.
She turns left at the end of the street, then meanders past the Castle before heading along the banks of the Ness, until she comes to a bench on the opposite side of the river to the theatre. She sits down, content to watch the promenaders. Two women pushing buggies are chatting to each other, their lilting accents carrying on the breeze. They stop every few paces and turn round, to check on the progress of a little girl who trails behind. The youngster looks to be about Bella’s age. Shoulder-length blonde hair. A blue pinafore dress and cardigan with the buttons wrongly aligned. Dragging her feet.
The hearing is in two days. Ruth should have been meeting Varsha today. She feels sick when she thinks about it. She still can’t decide if she can face the journey south for the hearing, but she knows that if she doesn’t make the effort it will scupper her chances of being awarded custody. She can’t help staring at the little girl who is clutching an ice cream, the cone pitched forward at an angle of forty five degrees. The child is momentarily distracted when one of the women calls out to her to hurry up and the chocolate scoop slides onto the pavement and puddles like a slushy snowball. The little girl’s eyes widen and a few seconds elapse before she bursts into tears. Ruth wants to run up to her and tell her it’s okay, she’ll buy her another one, but instead she watches silently as the woman grabs her sleeve and scolds her for being so careless. Ruth looks away, an embarrassed witness. But there is something that bothers her, like a persistent toothache, as she watches the group recede into the distance. Dominic would rarely tell Bella off. He always knew how to make things better. There was always the promise of a treat, to make up for the absence of a mother. Unsettled, she gathers her belongings and heads for the nearest coffee shop.
Taking her cappuccino to the far recesses of the café Ruth sits down, pulls out a notebook and pen, which she places on the table and connects her phone to wi-fi. There’s a couple a few tables away, sitting side by side, both scrolling down their phone screens and ignoring each other.
Tentatively Ruth taps EMF into the search engine. A blue icon winks from the screen as gradually the pages of the Electronic Medical Formulary load. She takes her notebook and draws a chart on the paper, then scribbles a list in the first column: codeine, gabapentin, ibuprofen, tizanidine. What else did she find in the box under Dominic’s bed? She turns her head and gazes absentmindedly at the wall maps of Costa Rica and East Africa, while trying to picture the scene in Dominic’s house that day. Oxybutynin? Dantrolene? Diazepam? Baclofen? She can’t be sure but she writes them all down. She lifts her cup and a swig of hot coffee hits the back of her throat. Meticulously she works her way down the list, writing the drug name in the electronic search box and reading the adverse reactions. Her fingers hover over the results for gabapentin: urinary tract infections, leucopenia, convulsions. She double checks the search box. Gabapentin. No mistake. Her hand is shaking and she accidentally taps the back button and loses her place.
‘Excuse me, miss, but are you okay?’
Her eyes adjust to the young man in the long apron who is looming over the table.
‘Yeah, fine. I’m fine, thank you.’
He leans in a bit closer and lowers his voice but the café is empty, save for the couple on their phones. ‘Only you sounded like you were in pain and you look a bit pale. Can I get you anything?’
Ruth digs her nails into her palms. ‘Maybe a glass of water, thanks. But I’m fine, honestly.’ She smooths her hair, placing a loose strand behind her ear.
Gabapentin. White capsule. Adverse reactions: Urinary tract infections. Leucopenia. Convulsions.
Taking a packet of wet wipes out of her bag she runs one across her face, and uses another to rub across her hands. Her T shirt sticks to her back and, as she unpeels from her skin she’s conscious of the stale smell of sweat. She reloads the screen.
I-b-u-p-r-o-f-e-n. A pink convex tablet.
The guy with the apron returns and places a plastic cup of water on the table. He’s about to go but Ruth taps his arm. ‘Actually, could I have another cappuccino, please?’ He nods and disappears.
She scrolls down to section 4.8 Undesirable effects. Skin rashes. Risk of bleeding. Bronchial asthma. Asthma? She sighs. Why does she have to check this? She knows it. But she’s not quite finished. She writes on her pad, returns to the website, then stops and leans back.
Ibuprofen, a pink convex tablet. Gabapentin, a white capsule.
A Smartie that is given as a treat. A white capsule that goes fizz in pop.
The waiter returns with a coffee and she takes a gulp, burning the roof of her mouth.
The hearing is in forty eight hours. She’s going to have to act fast. This time she taps a number into her phone. It’s answered on the second ring.
‘Val?’
‘Ruth? Ruth! Is that you?’
‘Listen, Val, I’m fine. Please don’t ask me any questions. I needed some space.’
‘We’ve been worried sick about you. We’ve even …’ There’s a hesitation then a cough.
‘Sorry? You’ve what?’
‘Never mind. Where are you?’
‘I’m safe. Listen you’ve got to help me. I’ve been doing some research. I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me sooner. I guess my thought processes have been a bit clouded.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Side effects of gabapentin and ibuprofen. UTIs, low white count, convulsions, asthma. Not to be confused with Systemic Lupus Erythematosus.’
‘What are you talking about, Ruth?’’
‘I’m saying that they weren’t Smarties that Dominic was giving to Bella. I want you to promise me something.’
&n
bsp; ‘Go on.’
‘I’m about to e mail Varsha a statement and I’ll copy you in. I want you to make sure that it’s produced for the hearing on Wednesday.’
‘Will you not be there?’
‘I don’t know yet. But promise me. Will you?’
‘Yes. I promise.’
‘Are you sure? You promise?’
‘Yes, of course, now just…’
Ruth disconnects the phone. The back of her neck feels hot as she composes her statement. She had been so convinced that Bella’s symptoms were suggestive of SLE. Maybe the authorities were already on to this. But how can she convince them that it was Dominic, not her, poisoning Bella?
57
Ruth
The humidity in the foyer feels oppressive. The attendant hands her the locker key and pushes a rolled towel across the counter. Muttering her thanks Ruth grasps it and crosses the tiled floor towards the changing rooms. Tinkling laughter echoes through the glass panel on her right. The pool looks busy. A red swimming cap and a blue one move in opposite directions, slicing through the water like traffic on two sides of a motorway. Two young boys at the far side chop the swell with their hands as they throw a ball. A third one takes a running jump at them from the poolside, disappearing in feathered spume. She’s glad she’s only here for a shower. Four days of sleeping rough have taken their toll.
The changing room is empty and much cooler. She unwinds the stained crepe bandage from her wrist and stuffs it in her pocket. Discarding her clothes she wraps herself in the off-white towel, steps over the pile of garments on the cubicle floor, into the shower and turns on the taps. Soon the steam starts to rise. She submerges herself under the rapid-fire spray and lets her imagination drift.
Never a deep sleeper, last night’s dream had been particularly unsettling. She was in the courtroom. Before the judge’s summing up Ruth was asked if she would like to add anything to her statement.
Yes, please, Your Honour, she said, standing up. And then her words came tumbling out, in a continuous loop, crackling through the courtroom audio system, the truth is my best defence, the truth is my best defence… From the public gallery a figure had shouted ‘Truth above all’ and she’d looked up to see a man in a check shirt and red braces. Niall Freeman. It disturbed her.
When she woke in a cold sweat the crackling noise from her dream continued and she realised it was coming from the adjoining room. She’d tried to ignore it, sliding as far down as possible in her sleeping bag and pulling the quilted material closely round her ears. But sleep was ineffectual. In the end she’d grabbed her torch and kicked open the door of the neighbouring bedroom. Scanning the room quickly the beam had landed on a scrunch of newspaper, which had been stuffed into a gap in the windowsill and was now pulsing in the breeze. It was hard to get back to sleep after that, as she tried to orientate herself in terms of time scales. Tuesday. Twenty four hours until the decision on Bella’s future. That had been the deciding factor for Ruth. The reason she had packed up her things and resolved to go home. But not yet.
The changing room door clashes, then a whistling tune stops abruptly.
‘Oh, hello,’ a voice calls through the fug, ‘it’s just the cleaner. No worries, I’ll come back later.’ Another resonant clang.
Ruth reaches round the curtain for her towel and pats her legs and arms dry. The scars on her wrist are pink and tingly, criss-crossing like a skewed chequerboard.
She dries her hair, and looks up at her reflection in the mirror. Still dark circles under her eyes but a definite improvement on the dishevelled creature she feared she was becoming.
‘Too busy for you in the pool today?’ says the young man in reception, taking back her key and handing her a clipboard.
Ruth nods. ‘Another time, I think.’ Satisfied that her signature is a squiggle that only her postman could decipher she slides the pen and chart over the counter and walks towards the cafeteria.
Within seconds her phone comes alive, like a wasp trapped in a jam jar. She pulls it out of her pocket and glances at the screen. Seven missed calls from Varsha.
Seven?
Surely that’ll have been over the course of the last few days? But why have they all come through now? Must be the absence of phone signal at the cottage.
She orders a coffee and takes it to a table near the window, then dials voicemail.
‘Ruth, Varsha Dhasmana here. I hope you’re okay. You must call me when you get this message. There’ve been some important developments.’
The clock on the far wall reads nine thirty. Will Varsha will be in her office? She tries the number. No answer. Maybe she’s in court. Or even the police station. What good would it do to leave a message? No, she’ll try again later. She sips her coffee then turns her attention back to her phone, tapping ‘Niall Freeman’ into the search engine.
Several pages load with a consistent theme. High profile cases of criminality, child abuse, wrongful accusations and his role as a forensic psychiatrist. She clicks on a link from a tabloid newspaper. There he is, in his trademark red braces, standing outside the Old Bailey. The headline reads: ‘Accused mum’s relief after baby drug drama.’ Intrigued, she reads on.
The story involved a twenty-four-year-old single mother, Bridget Weaver, accused of harming her nine-week-old baby who had suffered recurrent breathing difficulties and abnormal heart rhythms. Niall Freeman, who had been giving evidence in the case, as an expert on Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy, had stunned the jury by stating he believed that Bridget had not induced illness in her baby son. Instead he thought that the symptoms exhibited were due to a drug the baby had been prescribed for reflux. Freeman produced data on the number of adverse reactions caused by this drug, Absorbix, and it had been withdrawn from the market. Bridget was acquitted and her baby was returned to her care.
Ruth remembers the case well. It was widely publicised. She had discussed it with her colleagues because this was a drug that they prescribed frequently, before it was banned. She remembers the slightly eccentric dress sense of the psychiatrist issuing his press statements on TV but she hadn’t paid much attention to the accused, or her family. Until now. She magnifies the image on her phone. There’s Niall standing outside the Old Bailey with Bridget Weaver and her sister. Ruth’s heartbeat accelerates. She looks more closely at the features of the sister: dark shoulder-length hair, drawn up in a clip on one side. Narrow eyes. Eyebrows like slugs. Courtney Weaver. Bella’s babysitter.
Ruth’s stomach clenches. Thoughts whirr in her brain, like a helicopter’s rotor blades before take-off. She needs to stay focussed. Remain calm. This is significant but she needs to determine why. Courtney’s sister had been accused of fabricating illness in her baby. She was found innocent and the cause attributed to the side effect of a drug, but not before her baby had been taken away from her. Niall Freeman had helped secure her acquittal.
Ruth thinks back to Bella. The urinary tract infections. The asthma attacks. The convulsion. The side effects of ibuprofen and gabapentin which mimicked those exact same symptoms. Surely Courtney couldn’t have been involved in inducing Bella’s illness? What would be her motive? On the other hand, hadn’t she been found as the source of those abusive on-line messages about Ruth? Why had she felt the need to do that?
Ruth taps more words into the search engine on her phone and tries to digest the result:
Fabricating or inducing illness, formerly known as Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy- a rare form of child abuse…occurs when a carer exaggerates or deliberately causes symptoms of illness in the child…usually in children under the age of five…most cases caused by the mother but can be a father, foster parent or childcare professional at fault…a large number of perpetrators have borderline personality disorders and a history of self-harm…
Ruth gasps as she traces over the words of the last sentence again. The cards are stacking up against her. She pushes
the table as she jerks back her chair. Her coffee cup rattles on its saucer and her phone smashes to the floor. She needs to speak to Niall before it’s too late. Scooping up her phone she rushes out of the café, her shoulder bag smacking her thigh. The rush of cold air pinches her face. Hurriedly she dials his number…and listens:
‘Thank you for calling Dr. Niall Freeman. I am sorry I am unavailable at the moment but if you would like to leave a message I’ll return your call as soon as possible.’
‘Niall,’ she howls, ‘I’m innocent. You’ve got to believe me. I need to speak to you, Niall.’ But her words, whipped by the biting wind, disappear as vapour trails.
58
Ruth
September 2005
It will take at least six hours to drive home, but Ruth doesn’t need to leave just yet. Much better to arrive home when it’s dark. There’ll be time to contact Niall Freeman in the morning, before the hearing.
Punctuating the journey back to the cottage she stops at the garden centre on the Nairn Road, and by ten thirty she is reversing her car into the parking space at Alt-Na-Beinn.
She loads up the car with her belongings and takes a last look round the cottage interior. It’s freckled in sunlight, a warm valediction. One day she hopes she’ll be back.
Long strides take her up the hill, following the public footpath, and past the wooden bench. She continues climbing until she reaches the glade, where the sound of trickling water mixes with the rustle of leaves. Looking up, crystals of light shimmer through the tree canopy, mirrored by the droplets that trickle from the spring. The clootie well. A place of healing.
Ruth takes the small crepe bandage out of her pocket and unravels it. As she dips it in the water it deepens in colour from eggshell to deep oatmeal, and the wrinkles of congealed blood ingrained in its fibres mutate from red to brown. She pulls it from the water, wrings it out and walks over to the conifer. Its branches resemble bottle brushes and, as she pulls on one, several pine cones tumble to the ground. Lassoing the crepe strip over the branch she fastens it into a knot. She’d seen clootie rags on a visit to Culloden. Lengths of cloth left tied to branches by the well, as part of a healing ritual. Strange, yet fitting, that she had come to this place seeking healing. This place was her refuge. Her sanctuary. Here she had found strength. The time was right to say goodbye and head home to defend herself.
Love Until It Hurts Page 26