Reading Freman’s damning article about Helen, Robin wondered if the reporter had learned something about Helen’s story that he hadn’t published, because it was too bizarre. Then, he froze. Freman’s report corroborated that the nurse Helen had attacked had been Sarah Thompson. He wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it to him. But why should she? It wasn’t his business, and no doubt she’d let the incident fade into the past.
He’d phoned Helen several times after her visit, irritated at her pragmatic answerphone message – Helen here, please leave a message – before learning that she’d died. That irritation made him feel guilty, now, as he pored over the old reports.
In the early days of her daughter’s death Helen’s version had been garbled, hysterical. She had spoken of attacking a creature from hell, an alien – she didn’t know what – when the plain fact of the matter, stated by the official hospital report, was that the nurse had run to the scene in response to the emergency alarm and had arrived just ahead of the crash team who tried to revive the child. He imagined the scene. The staff had pulled the mother away and tranquilised her, while others had tried to revive the child, to no avail.
Sarah had verified that the child had been sitting up and alert for just a few seconds after she entered the room, but the autopsy had later disclosed a massive brain haemorrhage. Rachel might truly have seen an angel – strange things happened when the brain short-circuited prior to death. There were a few photographs of Helen looking wide-eyed and, he had to agree, mad. Apparently, Helen had screamed, it murdered my child.
No-one could speak highly enough of Sarah, though there wasn’t a single image of the woman as he knew her. Caught on camera, she always seemed just at the point of turning away. But Sarah had been there. She must have seen something. He would wheedle it out of her. He wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him to get her mobile number when she’d visited him.
It was a blustery evening, rain threatening, when he climbed back into his newly acquired car and drove to the hospital. He could have phoned Reception, but it had been too tempting to simply get out of the house and drive.
The main desk in Emergency was a hive of frantic activity, calculated to drive an orderly mind to distraction, confused by the permanent ringing of telephones and a variety of other bleepers. The hospital staff, however, must just have acquired several levels of awareness, because they seemed capable of running three conversations at a time. A coloured nurse at the main desk glanced at him suspiciously, before saying, yes, Sarah was due in any minute, then ignored him.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, she came into the foyer, her uniform visible beneath a dun three-quarter length coat, a concession to the chill February frosts. As if sensing Robin’s presence, her eyes swivelled immediately to his. She paused fleetingly, before changing direction, a smile on her lips, her hand out in greeting. ‘Robin! What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you.’
She glanced at her phone. ‘I have to work, I’m afraid. Another time maybe. Call me.’
‘I would if I had your number.’
‘Ah, I didn’t think of that. I haven’t got your number, either. Here –’
He tapped in the number she dictated, and pressed the call button. Her phone pinged, and she cut the call.
‘Right. Actually, don’t call, text; then if I’m at work or sleeping I can respond, later. I’m pleased to see you out and about. I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Mentally, I mean.’ She smiled fractionally. ‘But you’ve lost that angry scowl. That’s a good sign.’
‘I’m just hiding it better. Go on, I’ll send a text. See you later.’
She nodded, and disappeared briskly through a door. At the main sliding doors, some orderlies were wheeling in a gurney from an ambulance, on which an old man lay, gasping for breath, his skin already betraying the faintly blue-grey tinge of impending death. Robin shuddered faintly, wondering what ghost had just walked over his grave.
Despite the passing time, the attraction he felt towards Sarah had not diminished at all. If anything, he knew he’d done the right thing by coming. Even if it didn’t work out in the end, it wouldn’t be from apathy on his part. He wondered why she worked the night shift, though. One of the other nurses had been moaning about that shift when he’d been at her mercy after the accident.
You work from early evening, through the time you most want to be with your partner. Then just when you’re getting tired and bored, in flood the drink-and drug-related incidents: knifings, domestic violence, drunk-driver accidents. You risk your life with the no-hopers, get no thanks, and go home to fall asleep a couple of hours just as your partner is thinking about getting up for work. Hell of a way to live.
She had tucked his sheets in violently, as if it had been his fault. He wanted to say he was a victim, too, but he’d never seen her again. Perhaps she’d managed to get onto a different shift. And Sarah did that from choice? She’d told him it suited her, but surely a young woman as dynamic as her would want a life beyond work? He wandered over to Reception, and the nurse glanced up with something nearer warmth, probably because Sarah hadn’t sent him packing.
‘Can you let me know what days Sarah has off over the next couple of weeks? She was late, so we didn’t have a chance to sort out a date.’
‘A date, eh?’ she said, assessing him candidly. ‘It’s about time. That girl really takes her job too seriously.’
He was about to say, not that kind of date, but stopped himself. Maybe she was right, after all. ‘She was really good to me after the accident,’ he indicated his leg with his stick. ‘And I said I’d take her out to dinner to make up for it.’
‘It’s a shame more of our patients don’t have that attitude.’ She pulled up a schedule on her screen, and pushed her glasses further down her nose. ‘She’s working tomorrow, but it’s her long break Tuesday through Thursday.’
‘Thanks,’ he said with a smile, and immediately texted. Within seconds, he had a response, and winked at the receptionist. ‘Wednesday it is, then.’
She looked pleased to have been of assistance, then her phone shrilled, and she was all efficiency. ‘Emergency. Yes. I’ll tell someone to expect them.’ She pressed another button. ‘Jim? 64 is coming in with a possible heart attack, yes, they have...’
Robin gave her a salute of thanks, and left.
Chapter 20
The suit Robin hadn’t worn since the accident still fitted, even if it was a bit loose on the shoulders, and when Sarah drove up, he was ready, watching from his bedroom window. She had a little silver town car he couldn’t identify from above, but as she slid out, she glanced up, as if knowing he was watching from the window. She turned slowly, nose faintly lifted, eyes half-closed, like a predator searching with some primeval sense.
Robin slid back into the darkness, pulse racing.
Where had the word predator come from? Was he imagining things as Helen had been imagining them? But he could not quite rid his mind of the sudden and terrifying thought that Sarah’s action was not quite human. Then she moved towards the door, and he bounced down the stairs on his right leg, shaking his head at his own leap of fantasy.
It was early evening, and the sun was low. He blinked against the harsh glow. With her straight brows, high cheek-bones, and a nose a model would have died for, framed by golden halo of backlit curls, she could have been mistaken for an angel. Or something too beautiful to be real. Rachel had not been mad, after all, just confused. And Helen’s reaction was understandable. She’d been sitting by her child’s death-bed for hours, willing the child to live with every ounce of belief in her body. He could imagine the depth of passion she would have put into that action. Traumatised, weary to the point of hallucination, she had probably already lost the plot. Perhaps he was reading too much into too little. It was more likely that Helen’s murder had just been an isolated incident, one of those strange and inexplicable coincidences life chucks at some people.
‘Wow! You look, ah, breath-taking.’
She wore no makeup, but was stunning in a knee-length dress that shimmered faintly in soft, night-blue folds. Her shoulders were wrapped in a brightly coloured cashmere scarf. Diamante clips held her hair from her face, and her heels were just high enough to enhance her calf muscles. The sensible nurse, assessing him equally candidly, had shed her uniform to disclose the siren beneath.
‘Do you want to come in, or shall we go straight out?’
‘Out is good, if you’re ready. You don’t look half bad yourself. Have you booked somewhere?’
‘No, have you a preference?’ he asked, as she settled herself in the passenger seat of his car.
‘Plain cooking,’ she stated.
‘Is that possible in these days of drizzling celebrity chefs?’
‘I know a place if you want me to choose.’
‘Fine by me. Point me in the right direction.’
‘Do you know Charley’s? No? Ok, I’ll just make sure he’s got a table. Take a left off the estate.’
She phoned as they drove, her soft laugh suggesting that Charley was an old friend.
Charley’s turned out to be a small, thriving restaurant about five miles towards the City. It was located up a flight of stairs over a small rank of shops on the outskirts of a modern shopping mall. Inside, though, it was a culture shock. An odd assortment of wooden tables looked as if they had been bought at charity shops, and the lamps around the walls sported bead-encrusted lampshades, lending a slightly bohemian air. The candlelit tables were neatly clothed with rich coloured damask cloths, and traditional silverware. The clientele already seated comprised a mixed bag, some wearing jeans and tee-shirts, others work clothes, and some, like themselves, dressed for the evening.
‘Nice,’ he remarked, taking it in at a glance. ‘And no background musak.’
‘Decorum is pretty much Charley’s only rule.’
‘I appreciate a little decorum.’
She smiled. ‘You’re very old fashioned.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’
The waitress indicated a small table at the side of the room. ‘Do you mind squeezing in there, Sarah? We were already pretty booked, but Charley said to fit you in.’
‘That’s grand, thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘They know you, here,’ Robin commented.
‘I come here sometimes, with my brother.’
Robin pulled a chair out for her, and she laughed as she sat.
‘That’s a first for me. Never mind equality. Sometimes a girl wants to feel special.’
‘Not a feminist, then?’
‘I’m human enough to want the best of both worlds.’
‘I didn’t know you had a brother. What does he do?’
‘Joel works at the hospital, too, as an orderly.’
‘So, you’re pretty close?’
‘Too close.’ His brows rose, and she flushed slightly. ‘His mother did a runner when he was too young. I became his mum overnight pretty much, even though I was just a child myself. We had live-in help, but no-one lasted too long. Our father could be, ah, difficult. He was an academic. To him, family meant a list of obligations that you ticked off every so often. I didn’t tell Joel I was coming here, with you.’
‘Would it matter?’
‘Joel can be a bit possessive. It was OK when he was young, but now – Well, I just didn’t want to open that can of worms.’
‘Difficult when you both work in the same place.’
‘That wasn’t my choice, believe me. Everyone at the hospital likes him, because he’s strong, and does whatever they need without quoting regulations. He’s not bright. I think the term is a brick short of a load.’ She smiled to take the sting from the words. Obviously, she loved her brother, despite his neediness.
The waitress dropped a couple of printed sheets on the table, and Robin’s eye took it in at a sweep. ‘Cottage pie?’ he said, startled. ‘Real cottage pie? I haven’t had that since Mum died.’
‘Charley makes everything himself from scratch. The veg is real, not out of the freezer, too, and you won’t find a single drizzle on the menu. And if you get in here late, you just have to have what’s left.’
‘I wonder why I didn’t hear about this place before?’
‘You worked for a bank. They’d be patronising the shiny places in the city, at a guess.’
She was right, there.
At one point Charley himself came over. There was no doubt who he was; he radiated ownership. Small, clean shaven, casual clothes topped by a white apron, features that betrayed eastern origins. ‘Sarah! How lovely to see you again. Where is that beautiful brother of yours?’
‘He’d be a bit of a gooseberry today, wouldn’t he? This is Robin, an erstwhile patient.’
The man gave a belly laugh. ‘Robin. You’ve got a girl in a thousand, there. Mind you take care of her as well as she took care of you.’
Robin wasn’t sure he’d got Sarah in any way whatsoever, but returned the smile as Charley executed a neat bow, and left them to it.
‘He fancies Joel,’ Sarah whispered. ‘But it’s a big secret.’
‘He’s gay?’
‘I’ve seen the way he looks at Joel. Mind you, Joel gets those looks from women, too. He’s a good-looking guy.’
‘A family trait?’
She smiled. ‘Maybe. But we don’t look the same at all, really. Different mothers.’
‘What happened to your mother?’
‘She died when I was born, apparently.’
Afterwards, Robin couldn’t truly recall what they’d talked about most of the time, but as they were feeling their way with each other, he experienced a sense of peace, of being OK with the world. He told Sarah of his fairly unremarkable childhood, and learned that Sarah and her brother had been brought up in a large, inherited property. Their father had been an independently wealthy eccentric, known mostly in scientific circles for work on the regeneration of animal and human cells.
‘For medical purposes?’ he asked.
‘No, because he wanted to live forever.’ She grimaced. ‘He wasn’t a nice man. You know we get old because our cells continually reproduce themselves, mutating a little each time. His reasoning was, if you copy a computer program a million times, you would pretty much end up with the same program, so why can’t cells do that? He thought, if he could eradicate the cell’s propensity for mutation, he could stop old age in its tracks.’
‘That’s a scary thought. If people lived forever, kids would be somewhat redundant.’
‘Among a bundle of other ethical questions. It’s just as well he wasn’t successful. If he’d succeeded, it would have been a tragedy for humans. A select few would live like gods, and everyone else would hate them. The present separation between rich and poor would be nothing compared to that kind of divide.’
‘So, he died before discovering eternal life?’
She nodded. ‘He took old age hard. He was an uncaring father before, but age made him cruel. We were no more than scientific experiments, to him. I think he was a sociopath. I guess we should be grateful he died before he could do us any real harm.’
Robin reached over and took her hand. ‘Poor child. Poor children. And yet you came out of it fairly unscathed.’
‘Scars aren’t always visible.’
‘What happened, then?
‘Joel and I inherited the place. It’s big, but it’s a wreck. He stays there when he’s not working. He wants me to go back, but,’ she shuddered, ‘I couldn’t bear to live there.’
‘It’s surprising that can happen in this day and age. I mean, what with social services and all.’
‘We were too afraid of father to tell social services, and he would have spun a good line. He had a big house and money. Who would have interfered? The best times were when he was abroad. When he died, we were finally able to think about a life beyond his influence.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Now, we’ve moved on.’
When they got back to his place, she pleaded t
iredness, and drove home. Although Robin was disappointed – he was only human – in a way, he was also pleased. He’d never wanted a girl who slept around, even though he wasn’t supposed to be that old fashioned.
But in the small hours before dawn, he awoke, his heart thumping panic. During sleep, his analytical brain worked at its best, sifting the data of the previous day, stacking it into logical piles for recovery when he woke. That’s why he’d been so successful in the bank. He could go to sleep with a niggle in the back of his mind, and wake with a solidified query that could be investigated.
Now, he awoke in a cold sweat, with knowledge that scared him shitless, because until that moment he hadn’t even realised these things had been churning around in his subconscious: Sarah’s dad had been fiddling with cell regeneration. Sarah had given him her blood in the ambulance. Her actions were sometimes not quite, ah, normal. He was healing faster than he should.
When she’d been standing outside his house, her head raised as if testing the air, he’d had the fleeting thought that she wasn’t quite human, and had laughed at himself. But now he wondered if there truly was something different about her. Had her father experimented on his own children, on Sarah and Joel? From what she’d said about him, it seemed entirely feasible. Were they different in some way? Did Sarah even know she was different? And most pertinent, if she was, and he’d been given her blood, was he now different, too? Had his cells been mutating inside him ever since the accident, turning him into – what? A flood of fear washed through his body.
He felt soiled, as if she had given him AIDs.
Several times his hand reached for the phone. He wanted to ask her outright, but was scared – either of finding out some nasty truth, of being ridiculed, or of losing her. Or all of those things. Instead of calling her, he did what he always did when he wasn’t sure: he researched.
On the internet, he found absolutely nothing about Sarah or her brother. They had no internet presence that he could discover, aside from their names listed as employees of the hospital. He found many academics who were experimenting with cell regeneration, but none called Thompson.
Stations of the Soul Page 11