A Thousand Cuts

by Thomas Mogford

  Spike sat there, both hands on his desk, staring at the space where Ana had stood, realising that his heart was beating very fast. One thing was certain: he was going to have to give careful consideration to what he did next.

  63

  Ana’s delphic words of warning sat heavy in Spike’s mind as he locked up the doors of Galliano & Sanguinetti. And as he walked past the lights of Jury’s, he was struck by a renewed wave of anger. He could just imagine Peter inside, one elbow leaning on the bar, standing his cronies another bottle from the more expensive end of the wine list as they all revelled in the unexpected demise of Drew Stanford-Trench QC’s glittering career.

  By the time he got home, Spike was almost fizzing with righteous fury, so he paused on the front step and tried to shake himself out of it. Jessica had offered to cook them a special supper tonight, a proper family affair to get things back on track. Spike’s worries about Peter and Drew would have to wait. Right now, his priority must be to do what he could to make her first night back a good one. So, face reset to a smile, he pushed open the front door.

  Charlie was sitting at the kitchen table in his pyjamas, hunched in fascination over a perspex bowl covered in cling film. Spike kissed him hello, then peered at the dough inside: it had already risen so much it was pressing against the plastic.

  ‘I may have slightly overdone the yeast,’ Jessica called across from the stove. ‘It got a bit out of control.’

  Spike could hear the defensiveness in her tone. Jessica was a competent rather than confident chef, and cooking under pressure had been known to make her angry. So he walked over and kissed the back of her neck. ‘Smells delicious,’ he said, looking down at the simmering pot of salsa di pomodoro. ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Maybe chop some olives?’

  Spike found the jar at the back of the fridge and set about retrieving the olives from their watery graves.

  ‘The surveyor called,’ Jessica said. ‘He’s going to try and get to Catalan Bay tomorrow.’ She threw him a glance. ‘I mentioned the cracks in the walls.’

  Spike bisected another olive. ‘And?’

  ‘He told me he’d check them out, but he wasn’t surprised. Said every building in Gibraltar is subject to a certain amount of stress. Something to do with tectonic plates. I zoned out after that.’

  Spike nodded in sympathy. Back in his schooldays, the peculiarities of Gibraltar’s physical geography had been the subject of a thesis for a young Canadian who’d taught for a year at Bayside while completing her post-doctorate study. She’d lacked the deftness to pass onto her students the ardour she clearly felt for the topic, and Spike had wanted to lay his head down on his desk as he’d listened to her drone on about the fault line that lay between Africa and Europe. All he’d really taken away was a strong sense that the ground beneath their feet was far from stable. ‘I still think we should pay the deposit,’ he ventured.

  He expected Jessica to reply that it would be wiser to wait for the survey, but she just turned to the sink and started straining the tomato sauce with a sieve. ‘Why don’t we clear the table?’ She glanced around at Charlie with a tense smile. ‘Then we can roll out the dough.’

  64

  Once Charlie was asleep, Spike poured himself a glass of wine and lay back on the futon as he waited for Jessica to finish her ablutions.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s amazing how he can finish every sentence now,’ Jessica called through from the bathroom.

  ‘Dad’s probably been reading him the same book every night,’ Spike muttered, realising that he hadn’t had time to read to Charlie in months. He took a large gulp of wine and closed his eyes. For most of the evening, he’d managed not to brood on Peter and his dark deeds, but the man was still there, lurking in one corner of his mind, rubbing his small hands together like some second-rate Mephistopheles. Spike knew he had to tell Jessica what Peter had done. But what if she advised him to take his suspicions to the FSC? Or to leave the practice altogether? Could he hack it as a lawyer practising alone? Probably not, he concluded darkly, remembering Drew’s scathing assessment of his professional skills at the hospital.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jessica murmured, knotting her white waffle dressing-gown above her belly. She switched out the light and lay down next to him. Even at nine months pregnant, she somehow managed to make the manoeuvre look so easy.

  ‘I need to tell you something, Jess.’

  She turned her face to his. ‘That sounds ominous.’

  ‘It’s to do with Peter.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I found something at the office. Documentation that suggests a degree of financial impropriety on his part.’ Jessica didn’t reply, which was unusual, so he glanced over. ‘Jess?’

  She was lying motionless, but in the darkness he could see her eyes flitting from side to side, as though she was afraid to move any other part of her body. Spike sat up in alarm and flicked on the lights.

  ‘I think my waters have broken.’

  For a moment, Spike didn’t move. Then he hurled himself onto his feet. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ He stumbled into his desk as he tried to pull on his trousers.

  Despite everything, Jessica laughed. ‘I told you you should’ve finished those antenatal classes. Just call a cab. Even you should be able to manage that.’

  65

  ‘What do you mean, wait?’ Spike squared up to the five-foot-nothing midwife. ‘She’s in a lot of pain. Any fool can see that.’

  The midwife ignored him and moved around the bed, where she guided Jessica’s arm into a blood pressure cuff. ‘She’s not even 4 centimetres yet.’

  The midwife raised her eyebrows, as though daring Spike to challenge her further. Feeling Jessica’s hand squeeze his in warning, Spike resisted the urge to ask the girl if she was old enough to vote and instead looked about for reinforcements. Where was the matronly Sheffielder they usually dealt with?

  ‘The longer you can do without pain relief the better,’ the midwife went on, addressing her attentions to Jessica with a smile that Spike felt perfectly combined sympathy and sadism. ‘But if you decide you absolutely need something, ask Dad to come and discuss it with me. Otherwise, I’ll be back in an hour.’

  The midwife turned on her heel and whipped the curtains around them in one brisk, violent movement. Moments later, Spike heard her offering a similar pitch to the couple in the adjacent bay – Moroccans, he’d concluded, though he hadn’t seen them yet, just heard the man’s basso mumblings interspersed by the occasional whimper of pain.

  Jessica’s grip on Spike’s fingers tightened as another contraction hit. She fell silent as it reached its peak then, as the pain diminished, he saw tears slide down the side of her face. But it was the small cry of relief which was worse. ‘What can I do?’ he asked.

  She didn’t answer, just closed her eyes to ready herself for the next one, so Spike sat back in his chair, hearing the soft Arabic duet resume through the curtains. This wasn’t working out as he’d hoped. He’d always thought that after the waters broke, the expectant mother would be rushed to the labour ward and within a few minutes a fragrant, bonny baby would be held aloft in triumph. The waiting had come as a surprise. He’d already expended most of his emotional energy and they weren’t even in ‘active’ labour yet.

  Suddenly Jessica’s eyes flicked open, and Spike knew enough now to tell that the next contraction had arrived. This time she screamed, and when it was over, he stood up. ‘There’s got to be something they can give you.’ He searched his mind for the right terms. ‘Laughing gas or an epidural or something.’ She didn’t demur, so Spike pushed the damp hair out of her eyes. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Out in the corridor, he scanned for the imperious, spray-tanned face of the young midwife, wondering if now might be a sensible time to start telling these people he was a litigator. But the woman was nowhere to be seen, so he walked over to the nurse at the front desk. She was on her phone, of course, so he tried what Jessica had called his most all
uring smile, but the nurse just held up a hand and continued with her conversation.

  Spike walked over to the water cooler, sinking two cups in fast succession as he stared up at the posters on the walls. More state-funded propaganda evangelising the near-magical benefits of breastfeeding – ‘lactivism’, he’d heard Jessica call it. Terrifying pictures counselling against the perils of meningitis. He thought back to that night at the police station when Marcela had been reported missing. Massetti’s mugshot on the wall. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  The doors of the maternity ward swung open, and a porter pushed a wheelchair past Spike towards the NICU. The woman in the chair wore a man’s cardigan over her hospital gown and a pair of old slippers. Her eyes were red and raw; Spike averted his gaze and returned to the desk.

  But by now the nurse was gone, so there was nothing to do but walk back to Jessica and admit defeat.

  66

  As soon as Spike re-entered the bay, he knew that something was wrong. The curtains around Jessica’s bed were tightly drawn, and when he pulled them back, he saw the young midwife chewing on her cuticles. Robbed of its hauteur, her face suddenly looked childish and uncertain, and Spike could see the unease in her eyes as she watched a doctor analyse the printout that was spewing from the foetal heart-rate monitor. The man was remarkable only for the size of his paunch, the sort of person Spike wouldn’t have looked twice at in the outside world.

  The doctor held out a hand to the midwife, who meekly surrendered her notes. ‘I’m concerned about these decelerations,’ he said, skimming the chart with a frown that formed a pit in Spike’s stomach. ‘When did you last examine the mother?’

  The midwife removed her fingers from her mouth, and Spike saw two spots of pink flush her cheeks. ‘We’re short-staffed tonight, Dr Sacco. Isn’t it in the notes?’

  Another contraction hit, and Jessica gripped the blue bed sheets, her face pale and contorted with pain. Spike couldn’t trust himself to look at the midwife, so he turned instead to the doctor. ‘Don’t you think some kind of pain relief might be in order?’

  But Dr Sacco wasn’t listening; he was looking at the monitor, his face tense as he watched the green LCD digits plummet. An urgent beeping began, and the doctor reached out and slammed a hand against the call button.

  A siren started to wail. Spike heard the sound of running footsteps, and suddenly the bay was full of focused professionals dressed in blue scrubs. Spike stepped out of their way, and as the doctor pulled back Jessica’s blanket, they all saw the pool of blood soaking through her gown.

  ‘Ready?’ somebody said. Then they flipped Jessica onto a gurney, and everyone was running down the corridor towards the operating theatre.

  67

  ‘Just a few seconds,’ Dr Sacco warned as he paused outside the theatre to let them say their goodbyes. Jessica’s face was so pale now it frightened Spike to look at her. There wasn’t time to say any of the things he wanted, so he just kissed her hand and told her that he loved her. Then the double doors swung closed, and there was nothing he could do but sit in the corridor and wait.

  At some point, the call bell went off again, and Spike stood up and watched in dread as another team of medics sprinted past him up the corridor. Moments later, the doors burst open and Dr Sacco lumbered out of theatre, ripping off his latex gloves. Spike stared at the man in confusion, trying to understand why he was leaving if Jessica was still in surgery, and what that might mean.

  As Dr Sacco passed, he squinted slightly, as though trying to recall who this poor chap was. Recognition hit as another nurse dodged around him, and though Sacco looked like he wanted to follow her, he found the compassion to place a hand on Spike’s shoulder, applying just enough pressure to make him sit back down. Then he knelt beside Spike and looked up into his eyes. ‘It’s all right, Mr Navarro,’ he said in a voice so clear and slow that it was as though he were talking to a child, or someone who didn’t speak English very well. ‘My consultant is in charge.’

  Spike looked down at his feet, hoping that he wasn’t going to be sick. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the doctor still talking: ‘Ms Attias is very capable. If it were my wife, I’d be glad to know she was in such safe hands.’

  Spike moistened his mouth. ‘Is Jessica going to die?’

  Dr Sacco hesitated. ‘We call it a placental abruption. That means the placenta has detached itself from the womb. There’s a danger that we won’t be able to stop the bleeding. There’s also a risk to the baby – which is why we had to get your wife into theatre so quickly.’

  ‘We’re not married yet,’ Spike murmured. It seemed important to get that across.

  ‘This could have happened at any point in the pregnancy. Your partner . . .’

  ‘Jessica . . .’

  Dr Sacco gave a patient smile. ‘Jessica was lucky that this happened while she was in hospital, and the baby was at term. Speed is everything, you see, with this kind of event.’ The doctor pressed his lips together, waiting for Spike to give the small nod which would show he’d understood.

  Dr Sacco struggled to his feet. Somewhere in the distance, Spike realised that the emergency siren was still wailing, another man watching in terror as his wife was wheeled away. He forced himself to focus on the doctor’s drooping brown eyes. ‘We’ll do everything we can,’ he was saying, ‘but Jessica has lost a great deal of blood. You ought to prepare yourself.’ At the door, Dr Sacco turned. ‘There’s a chapel on the ground floor. If you wanted somewhere quiet.’

  Then the doors swung closed again and the doctor was gone.

  68

  The minutes ticked past as Spike paced the strip-lit corridor. He’d spent too long in hospitals, too many hours waiting for a grim-faced medic to appear and lead him off to a private room where he or she could break the bad news. On the two worst occasions, his father had been with him: once as grieving widower, more recently as a patient. Part of Spike wished that Rufus were here now, and he felt for his phone. But then he decided that he couldn’t face the task of putting what was happening into words. Not until he knew what they were up against.

  To lose Jessica now would be unthinkable, just when they were so close to having everything that he’d only recently found out that he wanted. He’d wasted so much time, he realised, and the irony of it appalled him. He considered following Dr Sacco’s advice and saying a prayer, but as he closed his eyes, all he could think of was a line by a poet whose name he could no longer remember. I talk to God but the sky is empty . . .

  Suddenly the double doors swung open, and a woman pushing a clear plastic crib on wheels appeared. The nurse wiped her brow with the back of a latex-gloved hand, then grinned. ‘Christ, it’s hot in there.’ She gestured down at the crib. ‘Well, come on then. Meet your daughter!’

  Spike felt his knees buckle slightly as he walked over and took a first look at the long-limbed purple creature inside. ‘It’s a . . . girl?’ he said uncertainly, as he peered into the two knotted, bloodied eyes.

  ‘So it would seem. And this one’s a real beauty.’ The nurse offered her little finger to the baby, and she grasped it as though she were holding on for dear life.

  ‘Really?’ Spike looked again into the crib. A short tuft of dark hair was growing from the back of the baby’s wrinkled head, as though she were a small but aged member of some strange religious cult. ‘Are you sure she’s OK?’

  ‘Ten fingers and toes. And her Apgar scores are terrific, considering.’

  Spike felt his chin start to crumple. He fought it off. ‘And the mother? Jessica? My fiancée?’

  The nurse gave another toothy smile. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood. But Ms Attias is very pleased.’

  69

  Later, once they’d moved Jessica from the recovery ward to an amenity room, Dr Sacco agreed to let Spike see her. He found her awake, some kind of contraption feeding oxygen through her nose and a plastic tube looped over each ear. A midwife was fussing about with pillows, helping Jessica to sit up, and though
her damp hair was sticking to her white cheeks, when she saw Spike the smile she gave was luminous.

  The midwife dropped a straw into a plastic cup of water and held it to Jessica’s mouth. ‘Not too much,’ she warned.

  Jessica took an obedient sip, then sank back into the pillows. ‘So you managed to get out of it after all,’ she croaked, throwing the midwife a conspiratorial glance. ‘My fiancé wasn’t too taken with the business end of labour.’

  The midwife scoffed as she bent down and picked up the baby. ‘They never are.’

  ‘Have you seen her yet?’ Jessica whispered to Spike, eyes filling as she took the child in her arms. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

  Spike gave what he hoped passed for an enthusiastic smile, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He reached over to touch his daughter’s soft downy head as she started to feed.

  ‘Look at that. She’s a natural,’ the midwife said in approval as she picked up a tiny pink wrist-tag from the side table. ‘Baby Navarro, is it?’

  ‘Juliet,’ Jessica said without taking her eyes off the child’s face. ‘Juliet Navarro Sanguinetti.’

  Spike felt his throat thicken. Juliet Sanguinetti. She’d given their daughter his sister’s name.

  And watching the midwife loop the plastic tag around Juliet’s tiny wrist, he felt a tear roll down the side of his nose. For once in his life, he didn’t brush it away. He just told himself to hold onto this moment. A single moment of unblemished happiness.