Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  Alex and Flora tumble out of the car first and I follow slowly, levered from the back of David’s vast vehicle by several pairs of hands. Going along with them, letting myself be swept along for the ride, is easy. The alternative is too painful.

  The process for booking me in to the hospital is similar to that of a hotel, except here, in a private office, two nurses rifle through my possessions as if they are bargain-hunters at a jumble sale. They make a list of my meagre belongings. They confiscate the nail scissors and tweezers that Julia packed, and open and sniff my shampoo and other liquid toiletries in my washbag as if we are at an airport.

  ‘Right,’ says the first nurse. ‘Let’s get you settled into your room.’

  Instead of a metal bed in a crowded ward, I get a private space with my own bathroom and a large window overlooking the chestnut-treed drive. I can smell lavender. There is a television. A dressing table.

  After a few minutes of arranging clothes, chatter and excitement, Julia, David and Alex are led away by the nurse. I am left sitting on my bed. They have forgotten Flora. She climbs on to my lap.

  I want to stay here with you, she signs. Her perky little face stares up at me. Her nose is a button pressed into the pale palette of her skin. Her lips pout, as if she’s trying to say something. It’s then that I realise Flora hasn’t grasped that I’m not speaking. One silence is pretty much the same as another in her world.

  I wish you could stay too, I sign back. It nearly kills me.

  Then, suddenly remembered by Julia, Flora is plucked from my lap and taken away.

  David didn’t come back into the café the next day. Understandable, really, seeing as he was gearing up for first-year exams. That’s what I told myself, anyway. I imagined him in the library with his fellow students, hunched over piles of books, memorising anatomy, microbiology and a multitude of pathogens. But I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he was stewing over my careless comment.

  Meantime, I polished the tables until they shone, waiting to catch a glimpse of David behind me in case he surprised me by calling in for tea and cake.

  He didn’t. In the end, a week after the party, I made a point of seeking him out. I called his college, left countless messages, but they were never returned. I visited his boarding house, lurked outside and asked his friends where he was. They were vague and avoided me. David, it seemed, was more upset with me than I had imagined.

  Then, after a lengthy trek around university rooms and poking into places that I really shouldn’t have been – it was a thrill to venture deeper into the institution that had stolen my heart – I finally found David in a medical sciences laboratory. I crept inside, out of place yet feeling strangely at home.

  For company, David had enlisted the help of a cadaver, and before he realised I was there, I eavesdropped his one-sided conversation with the body. As I neared, I saw that it was in four pieces. Four quarters of a person.

  ‘David,’ I said cautiously. The longer I spied on him, the more dangerous the game I played. ‘I found you.’ I was wearing a floral summer skirt. It swooshed when I walked and my top was a knitted halter. I knew I looked good. As ever, when I ventured inside the university campus, I carried a clutch of books. They were my identity badge.

  ‘How did you get in?’ David scowled at me and then returned to his work. Ever so carefully, knowing I was watching, he peeled back the layers of skin, muscle and bone to reveal a shrivelled heart. There was no blood.

  ‘I walked right in through the door,’ I explained, grinning. ‘I wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.’ I had to look away from the body but couldn’t escape the smell of formaldehyde mixed with . . . something else; something vile. ‘You’ve not been to the café for ages.’

  ‘I’ve been busy,’ he replied. He stood back from the cadaver and I noticed the tiny gems of sweat on his forehead. He looked me up and down, his eyes peeling back my living layers as his hands had just done to the corpse. I was close to retching. ‘It’s fascinating, don’t you think?’ He beckoned me nearer and so I stepped up to the challenge. A farm girl I might be, but if I’d made it into medical school then I’d be elbow deep in death too.

  ‘Amazing,’ I said, trying not to breathe. The cadaver didn’t look very old. It was a woman and her skin clung drily to the chest wall. ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘The vascular system,’ David replied. ‘See, this is the coronary artery.’ The pale vessel had been snipped in two and peeled away from its host organ. ‘Clean as a bell,’ he said and poked a metal instrument inside. ‘No heart disease here.’

  ‘How did she die?’ I asked. The striations of muscle binding her features to her skull were delicate. I think she would have been pretty.

  David shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ He prodded the organs. ‘Perhaps it was a broken heart.’ Then he gave me his sexy grin, pulled off his white coat, and clattered the dirty instruments into a metal tray. He beckoned me to follow him out of the lab. We walked in perfect step down the tiled staircase.

  ‘What about . . .?’ I gestured back to the cadaver.

  ‘She’ll get put away,’ he replied, leaving me wondering how he could cast aside death so easily; just walk away from a body.

  We stepped out into the sunlight, each of us squinting, each trying to focus on the other. ‘Now,’ David said seriously. He pinned me against the wall, his arms barricading me to the left and right, his thighs pressed against mine. He still smelled of the cadaver. ‘What would you like to do?’

  I suddenly felt happy. Finally I’d got David back. Anything was possible. We could have seen a film, taken a walk on Jesus Green, browsed the bookshops together, hired a punt and trailed our fingers in the river as we glided nowhere in particular. I thought very carefully before I answered, blinded by the sun behind David. His hair was long and unkempt and cast a silhouetted aura around his face as I decided our fate for the afternoon.

  ‘How about you show me your college room?’ I suggested. To sneak into the boarding house would be a certain thrill. Even now, so many years after academic rejection, I was keen to infiltrate the premises. There might be a chance contact, a new opportunity . . . I wasn’t ready to give up.

  ‘Fine,’ David said and released me. So that was what we did.

  I watch them drive away, rustling the leaves of the chestnut trees as they go. My world is now not only silent, but empty too. Julia and the children are gone. It is ironic, I think, that David should be taking them away. Loving him is such a distant memory. I can almost convince myself it never happened.

  Periodically, a nurse comes to check on me. I haven’t moved since Julia left. I have had my blood pressure taken, my pulse measured and the dilation of my pupils checked with a bright light. She carries a clipboard and jots down her findings.

  ‘Well then, Mrs Marshall. What would you like for your dinner tonight? You can choose from fish pie and broccoli or vegetable lasagne.’

  She thrusts a menu at me but I don’t look at it. Food has been slivers of cheese and crumbs of bread eased between my lips by my desperate daughter. That they want to stuff me with pie shows how little they know of me, my illness.

  ‘Fish pie, then,’ the nurse suggests, and when I don’t object, she scuttles off.

  Sitting perfectly straight on the bed, I wonder what will become of my goats, my chickens, Brenna and Gradin. Me. A single tear leaves my eye when I consider what will become of Julia.

  MURRAY

  I arrive at the police station exactly ten seconds before Sheila Hanley struts through the automatic doors. Her face betrays annoyance at being there. She is wearing an evening dress and scarlet lipstick.

  ‘Sheila.’ I greet her as if this is all perfectly normal. My slow body is unable to cope with action, my mind unable to make decisions. ‘What are you doing here?’ She can’t be on duty, not Sheila. She always delegates.

  She looks me up and down, and even though Julia helped me into a clean shirt, it’s creased and below it I’m still wearing dirty jeans and anc
ient trainers. ‘Oh, Murray,’ she sneers, avoiding my question. I try to detect humour mixed in with her words but I can’t. ‘Been arrested?’ She strides up to the custody officer’s desk, ignoring me, as if I am just another nuisance in her life. ‘Why?’ she demands, slamming her hands on to the counter. The desk sergeant recoils. ‘Was I called away from the hottest date of my life when I’m not even on duty? Mel bloody Gibson is waiting for me at his hotel. His five-star hotel. With champagne. In the penthouse suite.’ She draws a sharp breath. ‘Na-ked.’ Sheila takes a packet of Marlboro from her bag and lights one. She only smiles when the smoke from her first drag, blown deliberately over the sergeant, makes him cough.

  ‘Really?’ I ask.

  Sheila glares at me for a second, remembering that I’m there, before turning back to the sergeant. ‘Well?’ she screams.

  ‘You’re on the list, ma’am, and no one else was answering or available. Someone’s been brought in ...’ The sergeant coughs again. ‘A big case, I believe. He wanted the duty solicitor and . . .’ The sergeant shows Sheila a laminated list of the poor suckers who’ve drawn the short straw at Redman, Hanley and Bright. Thankfully I’m not on it. Not likely to be, either. Only reliable solicitors, ones with lives that haven’t fallen apart, are able to step up to the mark.

  ‘What about Schilder’s firm? He can get his bloody ass down here.’ Sheila turns to walk away, satisfied she’s taken care of the matter.

  ‘Ma’am, it’s your firm’s turn. I can’t call anyone else.’

  Sheila stops and pivots on her stilettos very slowly. She stamps out her half-finished cigarette on the grubby tiled floor before immediately lighting another one. She grins, holding the filter between her teeth, and walks towards me.

  ‘No problem.’ She smiles at the desk sergeant as if they have only ever exchanged poetry for conversation. ‘No problem at all,’ she says, looking me up and down again while nodding her head, rolling her lips together. Sheila takes me firmly by the upper arm – her talon-like scarlet nails digging into my flesh – and leads me over to the waiting area. ‘I like you, Murray. I always have done.’ She pauses for effect; stares into my eyes, knowing that she is blurred to me. ‘But we all know that you’ve been letting the side down recently.’ She grins again and I nod, because it’s the only thing I can think of to do. Half of me can see where this is going and half of me doesn’t even want to look. If I was sober, it would be easy. ‘Thing is, I really don’t want to let down my date.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And the other thing is, you really need to score some serious points if I’m to convince the other partners that you’re worth hanging on to. You need your job, don’t you, Murray?’

  Of course I need my bloody job. ‘But I thought you said I was—’

  ‘Sshh,’ Sheila says, placing a finger over my lips. It smells of smoke. ‘Just take the case, Murray. Get the guy some bail. Get him through his interview. Get him a suit and a tie if he’s up in court in the morning, and for God’s sake, Murray, get yourself a bloody wash and a shave before dawn breaks.’ She steps back and says sweetly, ‘OK?’ As far as she is concerned, the problem is solved. She can go back to the penthouse suite.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, my eyes widening, my heart thumping. Through the glass doors I see Julia running along the pavement. She has been to park the car. ‘You really don’t understand, Sheila. I can’t take this case. I’ll do anything for you, anything, but don’t make me do this.’ I gesture to where the cells are located, but already I know it’s hopeless. Sheila’s made up her mind.

  Julia pushes through the doors and comes up to me, panting, freezing, smelling of the night. ‘What’s happened?’ she asks. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Sheila says, butting in and tapping the side of her nose. She stares directly at the back of Julia’s head. ‘What were you doing here anyway, Murray?’ But she doesn’t even wait for my answer. ‘See you . . . back . . . in . . . the . . . office, then,’ she sings deliberately, coded to say that if I want to keep my job I’m going to have to do exactly as she says.

  ‘What was all that about? Why was Sheila here?’ Julia has never particularly liked or understood my boss. She stares after the older woman as she strides down the street, leaving another cigarette butt in her wake. ‘Murray? Are you OK?’ Julia is breathless; beautiful. She is puzzled as she draws up to me. ‘Have you found out about David yet?’

  I snap back to some kind of reality. ‘No, not yet.’ Suddenly, I feel very sober.

  ‘Why was Sheila here? She looked really angry.’

  ‘Here you go,’ the grizzled sergeant says, handing me a load of paperwork. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing the good news.’ He briefly looks at Julia as if he’s not seen anything so beautiful in the station for a long time. ‘I’d smarten yourself up a bit if I were you, mate. You’ll be hitting the breakfast news in about five hours.’

  I assimilate this observation before Julia can reply, which, of course, she will. My drunken world slows everything to poured treacle. The sergeant is right. The assault on Grace Covatta has caused a flurry of interest from journalists both locally and nationwide. Television crews and newspaper reporters have already latched on to Grace’s story as one to watch. Public sympathy is running high, especially as there’s always the chance this could be the work of a serial attacker.

  ‘What does he mean?’ Julia asks. ‘What does he mean, you’ll be on the news?’

  ‘Julia.’ I plant my hands on her shoulders but she shrugs them off. I worry that my breath still smells of whisky. ‘Julia, Sheila was here because she was called in as the duty solicitor. Our firm is part of the Criminal Litigation Accreditation Scheme.’ That was hard to say.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it means that, because Sheila had a date with Mel Gibson . . .’ I stop for a second and then it all comes out wrong. ‘Julia, I’ve been assigned as David’s duty solicitor. Just for tonight until . . . just because . . . I didn’t want to . . . Sheila said . . . She made me and . . .’

  Julia has already walked away with her face buried in her hands. ‘No way,’ she whispers, peeking between her fingers.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, knowing it isn’t. ‘Just a formality. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time. Sheila was on a date and didn’t want to take the case, so she forced—’

  ‘It’s not right. It’s not ethical.You’re hardly going to give it your best shot, are you?’ Julia rarely gets hysterical, but she is doing a fine job of it now. She paces back and forth across the width of the waiting area. ‘Murray, you have to call someone else.’

  I shrug and turn to the desk sergeant for support. I know he’s been listening to every word. My face implores him.

  ‘He’s right, love. Ms Hanley threatened this chap here with losing his job. I’ve seen some things in my time, but—’

  ‘Will you be able to help him?’ Her words cut through everything; shatter as they drop on the tiles. Julia is cold and the skin on her face has hardened to alabaster.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I have to read the file. But Julia . . .’ and I go up to her; allow myself within an inch of an embrace. ‘I will treat him as I would any other client. You have to believe me on that.’ Our eyes lock for a second, just long enough for her to see a glimmer of honesty in me. ‘I won’t let you down.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies, and hugs her coat around her body. The shivers don’t stop. ‘Thank you, Murray.’

  Her desperate tone, poorly concealed beneath a measured voice, makes me believe she’s known the man for twenty years; that he’s been a long-standing friend of the family; that he is her brother, an uncle, a long-lost relative, or worse . . . her lover.

  ‘Do you want to help?’ I ask, trying to lighten things up. Julia nods solemnly. ‘Then fetch me a suit,’ I say. ‘The grey one in the cupboard at the front of the boat.’ Her face slumps when she realises she won’t get to see David.

  I fish in my pocket for the keys, turning away from the custody
desk. I pull in close to Julia and speak into her ear, taking the opportunity to let her hair brush against my lips. ‘Old Groucho here is right. Once the press find out there’s been an arrest in relation to the Covatta case, it’ll be headline news. Bring me a toothbrush, aftershave. The whole damn bathroom.’

  And it’s at that moment, as Julia nods and sets off to begin her mission, that I realise two things. One, I am more deeply in love with my wife than I have ever been, and two, if David is charged, I have very limited experience of this type of case. Earlier in the week I was dealing with a client who had thirteen unpaid parking fines. However hard I try, it’s going to look like I messed up on purpose.

  David’s back is broad and square and facing me when I enter the interview room. His arms splay out to the sides, his cuffs are unbuttoned, and his shirt stretches in a fine cut across his shoulders. ‘Dr Carlyle?’ I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s clearly not going to be anyone else. Rather I’m giving him the chance to recognise my voice, to kick up a fuss at my presence and send me away before we are locked in together. It would be a relief if he did. The bang of the door destroys any chance of that.

  ‘Guess what?’ A pause for effect. ‘I’m your solicitor.’ Slowly, he turns. ‘Murray French,’ I add. ‘At your service.’ I suppress the bow, the smile of triumph when I see the flash of shock widen his eyes and raise his brow. I’ve still got a decent amount of whisky inside me.

  ‘I asked for a solicitor, not a clown.’ He ignores my extended hand and speaks like a careful machine, already one hundred per cent on guard and very different to the man I met at Northmire. His expression is rock solid now and betrays no concern at his predicament. I wonder if this is how he treats his patients in the surgery.

  ‘No extra charge for the entertainment.’ I resist the urge to punch him and dump my battered leather bag on the table. Julia gave it to me aeons ago, when I first qualified. ‘Assault, Dr Carlyle. Grievous bodily harm, aggravated battery. Call it what you like. Call it murder if the girl dies.’ I remember the newspaper article. Grace’s current lifeless state. ‘That’s the unsavoury little cocktail you’re about to be questioned on and possibly charged with. I suggest if you want to be out of here in time for breakfast, then we get down to discussing things.’