by Margaret Way
Morris shut the door. “I have a patient with me at the moment. A Mrs. Costello.”
“She hasn’t brought her little girl in again?” Sarah asked in what was almost a groan.
“Then you know her?”
“I know she’s had her child in fairly frequently. Joe saw her. I’ve seen her twice. Now you. Is something bothering you?”
“Something I can’t answer easily.”
“You suspect the mother might be making her child ill,” she said bluntly. “What’s wrong with the little girl, anyway?”
“On the face of it, the perfectly innocent diagnosis of diarrhea. Could be a virus. Mrs. Costello, I understand, is a widow. A nervous little thing. She needs treatment herself.” He shook his head. “I’d be grateful if you’d take a look at the child.”
Fifteen minutes later Sarah had made the decision to keep the little girl overnight for observation. Although the child’s tongue was dry and her urine output had fallen off, oral salt and fluid replacement could have been done at home, but Sarah’s instincts were working overtime. She had concerns about Mrs. Costello, given that the woman appeared overeager for attention. With any of her other mothers, Sarah would’ve left the medical management to them. With Mrs. Costello, warning bells were starting to ring. The child always presented with acute diarrhea. So what, then, was inflaming the bowel? Something the mother was administering? Laboratory tests might be helpful.
“Strange—so strange,” Morris remarked later. “You’re thinking Munchausen by proxy?”
“I’d be pleased to be proved wrong,” Sarah said, “but I think we might privately monitor the mother’s visits. If she is giving the child something, the task then becomes psychiatric treatment for Mrs. Costello. The loss of her husband was a stunning blow. She’s alone in the world with a child to rear. Her reaction to such emptiness and grief could be seeking attention through that child. She appears bright and desperately concerned for the little one, but underneath I sense intense dysphoria.”
“Terribly problematic,” Morris agreed, “but treatable. By the way, I ran an EEG on Les Taylor. You might like to take a look at the results. Not good, I’m afraid. Unilateral slow activity—”
“—which might indicate a structural lesion. Oh, dear.” Sarah sighed. “If only we could save them all.”
“At least we can save them a lot of the pain. Ready if you are, Dr. Dempsey.” Morris smiled in empathy.
WHEN SHE RETURNED that evening, all the lights were on. The ghost? She didn’t think so. Someone was trying to frighten her, especially with Kyall away. She didn’t have to look far. She could make the long, long drive to Wunnamurra homestead and tell Ruth McQueen to stop. Not tell. Demand. She knew Ruth hadn’t turned on these lights herself, but she’d ordered someone to do it. She needed to reduce Ruth McQueen to normal size, not the monster of her memories.
All the years away from Kyall, she had lived with her memories, good ones and bad. Ruth McQueen figured largely in the terrible memories. Sarah felt her jaw tighten as she went around the house switching off unnecessary lights. No way was she allowing Ruth McQueen into her future! No way would Ruth continue to have power over her. One day soon—not tonight—Sarah would confront her.
She had to place her trust in Kyall. She had to tell him all about the most significant event in her life—the birth and death of their child. She’d backed away from it for far too long, diminished by her fears and griefs. The pain never went away. She didn’t imagine it was going to be a good experience telling Kyall about those heartbreaking events. Kyall was a man of very strong emotions. A man of passion. He’d be shocked, ill with anger and suddenly realized grief. He might push her away. Physically? Emotionally? Both were possible. No matter. She couldn’t hold this in anymore. She couldn’t marry Kyall knowing she carried such a secret. Let Ruth McQueen do what she liked.
THAT NIGHT Sarah slept with her bedroom door locked, a chair propped up beneath the brass knob. Beside her bed was the rifle Kyall had given her for protection. She knew how to use it. Prayed she’d never have to. She hated guns. Nevertheless, its presence gave her a sense of security. She wasn’t worried about the house’s resident ghost, even though she’d never seen her except in that strange trance. Estelle Sinclair had been murdered. Incredible as it might seem, she, Sarah, had been at the scene watching with Estelle’s murderer as she drowned. The girl had been alive when she hit the water but terribly injured, a little girl raped. Estelle wasn’t going to hurt her. Estelle wanted help. Justice. Peace.
As for Nurse Fairweather? Her spirit had moved out. Just as all of Sarah’s inquiries regarding her had met a dead end. It made Sarah very uncomfortable to recall Joe Randall’s concerns over Molly Fairweather’s death. Among other things, hadn’t Joe as good as accused Ruth McQueen of involvement? But how? Even if Ruth had given someone instructions to release the snake in the house, many things could have gone wrong with that plan. The woman could have spotted the snake first. Locked it in. Called for help. The snake could have found its own way outdoors. Who’d do such a thing, anyway? It was horrible. But what had happened between Ruth and Molly? One might have suspected Ruth was being blackmailed. The big question was why. What had turned a normal, competent nurse into Mad Molly? What had so disturbed the tenor of her mind, what trauma had she suffered, that she’d been reduced to full-fledged ranting monologues in the garden during her last years? Sarah had wanted to speak to some of the children, now older, about the sorts of things Nurse Fairweather had said. But she had to be careful; each of them would probably tell a different story.
Sarah tried to settle herself in the bed, lying on her back, palms upturned as she tried to relax. She concentrated on blue, the color blue. The radiant blue of Kyall’s eyes. The glorious blue of the sky. The blue of the ocean. The blue of the Madonna’s cloak.
Relax… Relax… Think of nothing but the color blue.
Gradually she drifted off.
THE OLD HOUSE was powerfully connected with visions. Tonight they addressed themselves again to the sleeping Sarah.
A child was running. A man was trying to overtake her. The ground they covered was packed with leaves. The track the child was taking led down to the water. She heard the pinched voice of the man, didn’t know what he was saying. The child, a girl barely into her teens, half turned, her long, blond hair skeining across her terrified face.
Estelle.
Sarah’s fears rose like bile, but she couldn’t open her eyes. Her lashes fluttered wildly, eyeballs twitched, but the lids were heavy, too heavy.
And then things turned far worse. The girl slipped, lost her footing, went hurtling down the slope. Sarah heard the scream even though silence drummed in her ears and her own lips were sealed.
Now the man reached the sand where the child was cowering, her knees drawn up. She was crying, sobbing piteously. “Mummy, Mummy.”
Sarah’s chest heaved in agony. That “Mummy” broke her heart. She didn’t give a thought to herself or her own safety. She broke cover, running from where she was hidden in the scrub, weaving through the tall trees to the banks of the water hole.
Now she knew where she was. Despite her shouts of alarm, the man didn’t hear her. She couldn’t understand. The man twisted the child onto her back, his hands at her clothing.
Nooooo! Sarah cupped her hands and screamed.
Abhorrence at what she was about to witness surged through her. Sarah launched herself at the man, clawing at his back, raging at him to let go. Let go!
Blood was coming from the child’s nose. She, too, reached for the man’s eyes, clawing, clawing, until he hit her hard, shoving her back onto the sand where she lay dazed and panting. There was no hint of remorse or pity in the man’s face. Not this man. All these years he’d been pretending loyalty and respect for the girl’s family. Always lusting after the blond one, Estelle. Little star.
He was going to rape her. Sarah knew this. Realized she couldn’t prevent it. Still she pulled and pulled at the man’s h
ead, tasting the sickness in her throat. The three of them were alone. No one to turn to for help. Sarah thought of a rock. She let go of the man’s head and hurriedly went in search of one, although the man didn’t appear to notice. She might as well have been absent from this terrible scene.
Nooooo! She could see a thin line of blood run down the child’s white leg….
SARAH THOUGHT she’d blacked out for a time, or her mind had closed down on such a crime against heaven. Then suddenly her vision cleared. She could see the man carrying the child to the water hole. She saw him swing his body hard before he pitched his small burden into the center of the water. It was deep there. Very deep. Sarah knew. The children of the town had been forbidden to swim there. The Palmer twins had lost their lives in this same water hole. The Aboriginals had always whispered about it. Wirrabilla, a place frequented by devil spirits.
Wirrabilla. She could see the remarkable contours of the rocks. In the wet season, the golden clay that surrounded the water hole turned into a dangerous bog. Cattle got stuck there. It had never been known why the Palmer twins, boys of ten, had ventured in. Wirrabilla was a place of black magic.
As Estelle disappeared under the black water, holding one hand aloft, Sarah burst out of her nightmare into full consciousness. She threw herself sideways so violently she fell off the bed, landing on the rug with a heavy thud. She made an awkward attempt to rise, fell back, her mouth so dry she could barely swallow, her head filled with revulsion from her dream.
Estelle. The child’s name hung in the air.
How the poor child had suffered while her defiler had lived on, never for a moment suspected by those around him. She had focused on his face. Didn’t recognize it. How could she? This terrible event had taken place more than a century before. Everything had changed. Except for Wirrabilla.
Sarah stumbled to her feet, lowering herself distractedly to the bed. She was stunned such dreams could come to her, but she understood the house had evoked them, drawing her into another reality.
You can’t rest, can you, Estelle? Not until your poor little bones are given a Christian burial.
She knew the job fell to her.
FINALLY IT WAS Friday. With Kyall away, the week had seemed endless. Sarah had missed him in her head, her heart and her bed. The rapturous nature of their sexual relationship flowed from their spiritual rapport. But then, that very fact had got her pregnant in the first place. She’d known so little in those days it hadn’t even dawned on her that she could get pregnant from her first sexual encounter. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, dwell on the years of loneliness she had endured because of it.
But today Kyall was coming home. He was due late afternoon. They’d arranged to spend the night together, and she’d bought all the things he liked for dinner. She already had the wine. They would make love. Afterward, entwined in each other’s arms, she would speak of what she’d never spoken of before. It would be a monstrous blow to him. She knew that. She had long since begun to rehearse what she would say. She could hardly expect him to take it all in, without withdrawal or rejection, when she had never come to terms with the loss herself. Despite what she’d achieved as a doctor, the loss of her child and the guilt she felt because of it had left her with feelings of inadequacy as a woman. Hadn’t she isolated herself from relationships as a result?
She hadn’t been able to do what other women did so easily. She hadn’t been able to produce a healthy child. As a doctor, she’d treated other women who had suffered in the same way but went about the business of living. Trying again. It wasn’t as though her patients hadn’t gone on to bring healthy children into the world. She was very good at guiding mothers through their pregnancies, grappling with their problems. Unfortunately she’d never been able to do much about herself.
Until now. There was no safe place to hide with Ruth McQueen. Even now, Ruth was exploiting her silence. She might attempt to blackmail her. She could no longer let Ruth have the upper hand.
After ward rounds were finished, Sarah returned to her office, surprised when a nurse entered with a long silver box. She opened it to find a sheaf of white lilies.
“For me?” Sarah found herself shaking her head at what it could mean.
“Dr. Dempsey,” the nurse confirmed, smiling uncertainly at Sarah’s expression.
“Is there a card?”
“Yes, there is. It’s tucked away amid the greenery.”
“Thank you, Helen. You can leave them on the desk.”
After she’d gone, Sarah inspected the box’s contents more closely. They were very beautiful lilies, perfect in every detail, yet a chill went through her. Sarah opened the white envelope, carefully pulling out the card.
“For Sarah. Best Wishes. You’ll need them. There’s so much Kyall’s going to learn about you.”
She turned the card over. It bore not a name but the initial R, elaborately wrought. Sarah fought back her anger, conscious only of a determination to bring her tragedy—however small compared to others she’d witnessed—into the open. She hated the way Ruth McQueen treated people. Hated the way she treated her.
Sarah hurried to the door, calling to the nurse, who’d returned to the nurses’ station. “Who delivered these, do you know, Helen?”
“It looked a lot like Kathy Plummer’s husband. I only saw him as he was moving off. He dropped them here and left.”
“Thank you, Helen.”
Sarah went back to her desk, not to slump in her chair and brood, but to take action. She reached for the phone. Put a call through to Wunnamurra homestead. It was highly likely Ruth would refuse to take her call, but Sarah felt she had to try.
“Wunnamurra Station.” To her surprise, Ruth herself answered. Her body might be increasingly frail, but her voice resonated down the line, clear and mellifluous.
Sarah identified herself to a momentary quiet, then a dark, derisive, “Ah, Sarah…”
“I received your message,” Sarah said in a level voice. “The lilies are perfect—for a funeral.”
“Really? I thought it was a nice idea. They’re from my garden. And what’s your ghost doing these days?”
It occurred to her that Ruth might be a touch mad. “You’re getting a little tiresome, Mrs. McQueen. You should come up with something better than ripping my clothing and leaving the lights on.”
Another silence, then the expected explosion of outrage. “As if I’d do such a thing! You’re not the only one, my dear, who’s had a bad experience in that house.”
“Yes—Molly Fairweather. I thought it quite extraordinary, but Joe had the idea you might’ve been involved there.”
White-hot fury this time. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Ruth poured on the contempt. “I don’t have to listen to this rubbish from you.”
“I don’t mean you personally. You’re too smart for that. But you have people in your employ. People who are prepared to do whatever you want.”
“And you are without sin, are you, my dear?”
“I’ve committed no grave sins, Mrs. McQueen, only sins of omission. But I’ve had sins committed against me.”
“Look ahead, my dear,” Ruth warned. “Your sins could be your downfall.”
“And yours.” Sarah’s voice was low, solemn. “God knows why you hate me the way you do.”
“Aren’t you the one who tried to destroy my grandson? Ruin his life? I wasn’t going to let that happen. Why don’t you stop whining? You wouldn’t be what you are today without my help.”
“Blood money.”
“The hell with you!”
“I hate to say this, but you might be spending quite a bit of time there. How did Joe die? By design or natural causes? There was no autopsy, was there?”
But Ruth McQueen wasn’t easily intimidated. “Don’t talk like a fool,” she snapped. “Joe Randall was a dying man. He told me that as if I needed to be told.”
“Dying maybe, but he should’ve had more time.” Sarah was disturbed at her own line of questioning. She hadn’t me
ant to say any of this, but the words kept tumbling out.
“My God, you’ve got a nerve!” Ruth’s fury resounded down the line. “You mention any of this, even a word, and you’ll find yourself in court. Better yet, kicked out of your profession. That might be too much, even for Kyall. Attacking the grandmother he adores.”
“Then you stop playing God, Mrs. McQueen,” Sarah warned, not caring where it led. “As for Kyall, I intend to tell him everything tonight.”
“Go ahead,” Ruth invited, sounding totally self-assured. “You’ll lose him.”
“I’m prepared to take my chances,” Sarah answered. “Lord knows what he’ll have to say to you once he learns your role.”
It seemed as though Ruth McQueen would hang up; instead, she muttered, “I wonder if you know what you’re doing. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to expose you—”
“Except that in doing so, you’d expose yourself.”
“I would advise you, Sarah Dempsey, for your own safety, not to tell your story.” The tone was dark with threat.
Sarah didn’t bother to hide the steel in her own voice. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McQueen,” she said, “but nothing you can say or do will prevent me.”
After she’d put down the phone, Sarah didn’t linger, didn’t mull over the things that had been said. There was a great deal still to be done at the hospital. Patients were coming in all the time, one she was particularly worried about. He was a town councillor who’d only come to her because his wife was sick to death of his loud snoring. According to the man’s wife, it reached such a crescendo she couldn’t sleep in the same room. It was a syndrome Sarah was familiar with. Obstructive sleep apnoea. The trouble was, men who produced such loud snoring, followed by episodes of absent breathing, were twelve times more likely to die from a heart attack than men without the disorder. The councillor, even on medication, had high blood pressure. Sarah would try another drug, but the councillor would be helping himself enormously if he lost weight and reduced his alcohol intake. He hadn’t so far, preferring not to take her warnings seriously. But strokes and heart attacks were serious. She would have to speak more severely, but in the end it was up to the patient.