The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  They had lit a little gel fire in the wooden house’s living room fireplace. ‘I can smell autumn,’ Moira said. ‘Damp, earthy and a bit sharp. Did you look round Tallows? Isn’t that one fabulous house?’

  ‘Yes. Where did it get its name?’

  She told him about the original owner of the house on Chandler’s Lane. ‘Before paraffin wax and so forth, candles were often made from tallow – animal fat. He bought the whole area – the lane remains unadopted to this day. And a chandler was a candlemaker, so there you have it. But Lucy’s forebears took the house on about a hundred or so years ago, and now Lucy and David are going to use it for his patients.’ She looked round the room. ‘I’ve fallen in love with Lucy’s shed.’

  ‘It’s cute,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  As he set the kettle to boil, he took in the cosiness of the place and decided that it was like being a child again in a playhouse with his friends. But now he was with just one, and she was the best friend he’d ever known. He found some biscuits and carried the tray through to the living room. She was exactly where he had left her, but she wasn’t … she wasn’t right.

  Tray, mugs and contents hit the floor, bouncing, crashing and spilling all over the place. She wasn’t breathing. He picked up the phone and dialled 999 with the instrument on speaker, barking out orders and address, making damned sure they knew he was a doctor.

  She had not been down for three minutes – he hadn’t left the room for long, and Lucy’s kettle was rapid-boil. Three minutes. A brain that lacked oxygen for any longer was damaged. He found a thready pulse, made sure her mouth was clear, and decided that the Heimlich move was no use, since she had choked on absolutely nothing. He ran back to the kitchen, found a knife and a ballpoint pen, and returned to his wife. After lifting her from the chair and placing her on the floor, he took the pen apart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered before drawing the knife across her throat. He parted skin and subcutaneous tissue, punctured the cricothyroid membrane, and inserted the outer layer of the pen into her airway.

  ‘I’ve done a primitive tracheotomy,’ he told the man on the phone. ‘Now, send that bloody ambulance, or I’ll have all your jobs!’

  ‘On its way, sir.’

  Her chest was moving slightly. She hadn’t been eating – this was one of those occasions on which even her own saliva became a threat. The heart was making some effort, and air was going in via the tube, because he could hear it rattling slightly. What now? He was a bloody doctor, and he didn’t know what to do next.

  They came eventually. Paramedics worked until she was stable enough to be carried on a stretcher. By the time they were in the ambulance, Richard felt near to collapse. Then he heard them. She’d had an infarction. ‘What?’ he cried. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her heart. Her BP’s fine, and her cholesterol’s a damned sight lower than mine.’

  ‘Stress and pain,’ said one of the medics. ‘Is it MS?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you did your best. Let’s get her to A and E as quickly as we can.’

  The siren wailed. Richard picked up the pen casing with which he had saved his wife’s life. She now had a proper tracheotomy and equipment that announced her status second by second. A heart attack? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Didn’t she suffer enough with the rat-faced, sly, evil-minded disease named multiple sclerosis?

  In his mind’s eye, he saw her struggling to walk through the hallway at home, went with her through doors behind which sat occupational therapists, speech therapists, experts in swallowing, people who knew sod all about double incontinence and the dignity it stole from the sufferer. He saw her in Sainsbury’s, a can of low-salt, low-sugar baked beans in a hand, witnessed the involuntary jerk of the limb that sent the same tin flying through the air into the next aisle. He saw her weeping with the pain, watched while she dashed away tears and painted on a smile for him. Just for him. For her husband.

  Moira showed no sign of regaining consciousness. They fought long and hard in the hospital, and Richard never left her side. But, after the second heart attack occurred, he pulled himself together. Staff were preparing to shock her yet again, and Richard held up his hand. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s had a happy week and a day that was almost pain-free. I don’t want her to die, but that’s selfish. There are times when she can’t swallow, can’t talk, can’t walk, can scarcely breathe. Tonight, she gave me a history lesson about the house where we were staying. She was as bright as a button today. Let her rest.’

  A long pause followed. ‘Are you sure, Dr Turner?’ the main man asked.

  ‘Am I hell as like! But I’m certain of one important thing. She’ll have no more suffering if you just leave her alone.’

  The consultant crossed the room and placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. ‘Her heart is badly damaged. You’re right. With this trouble on top of MS, she’d be very ill. Even if we did manage to get her back … Shall I call it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man removed half-moon spectacles and dragged the back of a hand cross his damp forehead. ‘Time of death, eleven thirty-five p.m. Thank you, team.’

  One by one, they left the room until only Richard and the consultant remained. Both exhausted, they sank into chairs and stared at each other. ‘GP?’ the specialist asked.

  Richard nodded. ‘Yes.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘She was with me all the way through my student days. When we married, she was the most beautiful woman you could wish to see. Her hair was so long she could almost sit on it. I used to brush it for her. She loved that, said it was nearly as good as sex. Remarkable skin, huge eyes, and a waist so small – she looked breakable. I watched her eroding. I saw her becoming truly breakable. And broken.’

  The medic reached out a hand. ‘I’m Guy, by the way. Guy Morris.’

  ‘Richard.’ They shook hands. ‘Why have they been bombing Iraq when the money could be used to cure stuff?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Because they can bomb Iraq.’

  ‘And they can’t cure MS?’

  The man raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘God knows what they might manage if they concentrated. Day centres for the disabled are being closed or charging huge rates. That keeps the people in wheelchairs tucked away out of sight in their own homes. Their allowances have been slashed mercilessly – who knows how many are dying due to lack of attention and help? As for the diseases, I’ve no idea what’s being done. There’s a lot of begging via TV advertisements, so that says a lot. Charities are all we have left.’

  Richard looked at his wife. She wasn’t twitching, wasn’t gasping for breath or talking rubbish. No longer would she need those painkillers that gave her chronic constipation; no longer would he slip her a Valium 5 to calm the shakes while worrying about the same drug further impeding her breathing. ‘She can’t choke now.’

  ‘No, Richard, but you might. Get counselling. I’m serious – this is a big thing, a monumental happening. It’s my opinion that she would have been dead within weeks, but we’ll never know.’

  ‘And I must live with never knowing. Yet we do know, Guy. We know her life, however brief, however long, would have been unbearable.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Richard stood up. He had to go. Simon, Stephanie and Alice needed to be told that they were motherless. But first, he had to go back to Lucy’s little park home and clean up that last cup of tea that had not been enjoyed by him and Moira.

  ‘I’m done here, so I’ll drive you,’ Guy offered.

  ‘I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘No, you won’t. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’

  Richard smiled grimly. ‘I want her back in Crosby as soon as possible. This is foreign soil for us.’ He kissed the cooling forehead of the woman who had supported him through thick and thin, then followed Guy out of the hospital. He was alone deep inside. There was a hole in the region of his stomach, and it would never be filled. Thirty years of their life together was
being wheeled down to the morgue to be placed in a fridge. She didn’t mind the cold. Heat had troubled her, especially since the MS had entered the secondary progressive stage. ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage without her. She might have been a cripple, but she was an amazing one. Very funny, almost mischievous. And all she ever worried about was me. She’d done such a good job on the kids that they turned out great, very focused and positive. Our son married recently, and he’ll be shadowing someone like you, but at Guy’s. With your name, you should be working there.’

  The driver said nothing. He knew Richard needed to talk, to vent some of his misery as soon as possible.

  ‘My girls are at medical school in Edinburgh, one in her first year, the other in her second. Yes, Moira was a brilliant mother.’

  At last, Guy Morris spoke. ‘When you wake tomorrow, for the first few seconds, everything will be OK. Then it will crash in on you, so don’t be alone. Things change after the funeral. They don’t heal, they just shift.’

  Richard turned to look at the driver. ‘You’ve been through this?’

  ‘Yes. I lost my wife last year. It’s a long, long process, but life goes on, as they say. I live alone, though one of my wife’s friends does my cooking and housework. She’s a nice woman. I’m working my way up to asking her out for dinner.’

  ‘And you’re still in counselling?’

  ‘Yes, but on the other side of it. Now, I listen to people who’ve had a loss. Not easy with my hours, but I always phone them back as soon as possible. It’s a bit like Alcoholics Anonymous – give and take.’

  They pulled into the driveway at the west side of Tallows. The back garden was illuminated by lights that came on at dusk and turned off at dawn, and they walked all the way down to the park home. Inside the little wooden house, Richard stood and looked at the mess. Guy picked up the knife and looked at the floor. It had been a clean job, because there was very little blood. He shifted everything while Richard sat and stared at a dead fireplace. The gel pots lasted just a couple of hours, so they had burnt out ages ago. ‘I can’t stay here,’ he said.

  ‘I have some pills,’ Guy told him. ‘You will take some and sleep. No way are you driving tonight. I shall stay with you and, in the morning, you will not leave here until I’ve filled you up with caffeine.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go and make a sandwich – I just did a twelve-hour stretch. Phone your children while I’m gone.’

  Richard stared at his phone. At this moment, his kids were happy. Simon, in Lucy’s house with his new bride, was ecstatic about life, about Lizzie, about London. Steph and Alice were up in Edinburgh, possibly drunk, probably hanging round with other students, laughing, joking, singing terrible songs. They were young and carefree, and he was about to put a stop to their joie de vivre. But it had to be done.

  He would tell Simon first, as he was the oldest. It had to be done, and he mustn’t cry. They had just one parent now, and he must not let them down.

  *

  Lexi made her way through the darkening streets. She had learned her lesson – flat shoes, dark clothes, don’t talk to anyone, walk at a steady pace. Why was she doing this? Life was looking up, she’d been out for a drink with Tom Rice, and she knew the job was hers. But Richard Turner had got to her. He had pretended to love her before throwing everything in her face. She was common. She was unsuitable. She was on the warpath.

  This was her swan song, and it would be colourful. She carried a final letter for his wife, plus a can of purple paint. It was going to be her finest hour.

  David made doubly sure that he had disabled the outside light before joining Lucy in the dining room. They sat in twilight, each staring at a bank of small screens loaned to them by the father of a boy with leukaemia in remission. The man was a specialist in domestic and industrial security, but David wasn’t. He’d done his best, and the equipment had been tested by Lucy who had played the fool in front of all three hidden cameras. They seemed to work, and they performed in near-darkness, so the pair crossed their fingers and waited.

  ‘What time is it?’ Lucy whispered.

  ‘Five minutes later than the last time you asked,’ he replied.

  She sighed. ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘Oh, diddums. Shut up and keep still.’

  Lucy shut up for about three seconds. ‘The front door’s ajar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A few more seconds limped by. ‘David?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You remember that killer conker you had?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘There was nothing vague about it. It wiped out your whole class and twenty-three of mine and Diane’s. It was a deadly bloody weapon. The Americans and the Russians argued about it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Was it concrete?’

  ‘No.’

  She poked him in the ribs. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Bog off, Louisa. We all have our trade secrets.’

  ‘Tell me. Please.’

  He pressed her to the floor and lay on top of her. ‘Do you think we’ve time for a bit of Chopin?’

  ‘No. But if you don’t tell me, I’ll tickle you.’

  He kissed her long and hard, then dragged her back into a sitting position. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here we are, behind a sofa with three television screens. We are positioned thus in order to catch a bad woman. And you want to tickle me, so that will give her warning not to venture into the house and on to Candid Camera, because I’ll be laughing like a drain.’

  ‘OK. I won’t tickle you.’ They separated. ‘Tell me about the conker, then.’

  ‘No, Louisa.’

  ‘Then tell me who stole my wedding ring from the soap dish in the shed.’

  ‘I claim the Fifth.’

  ‘You stole it.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘Moira. She stole it for me, OK?’

  ‘All right. I won’t ask about the wedding ring you’re having made specially. Don’t trust one woman to keep a secret from another woman. So, if I let you off about the wedding ring, which is to be a wedding-cum-engagement ring all in one piece, and I don’t know anything about it, tell me about your conker.’

  David fought back a force ten gale of laughter. ‘Never ask a man about his conkers. It’s far too personal.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I love you, David. Tell me about the conker.’

  He allowed a long sigh to escape. ‘Vinegar, slow heat in the oven, clear nail polish.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘That’s me. Hush.’

  Camera one showed Lexi outside. She was rattling a can before spraying the wall. David hung on to Lucy. ‘Leave it, hon. She hasn’t done enough yet.’

  Camera two saw her pushing the front door inwards. After standing still and listening for a while, she picked up some items from the coat stand shelf, then ventured into the living room. The third camera caught her stealing Moira’s jewellery.

  Lucy shot from the dining room like a bullet from a gun. David felt transfixed as he watched his fiancée knocking Litherland Lexi to the floor. She was using her fists, and was probably doing damage that would show. He jumped up in order to intervene and, just as he entered the next-door living room, tripped in near-darkness over a stool that had been kicked into the doorway. Lucy was so engrossed in her revenge that she didn’t notice. David clambered to his feet and switched on the lights. His left knee hurt like hell. ‘Louisa?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop. Right now.’

  There was something in his voice that cut through the anger like a hot knife in butter. She stopped. Silence reigned for some time. Then Lexi tried to put back the jewellery she had stolen from Moira’s little folding table, and the money she’d lifted from the hall. Lucy came back to life in a split second. Like a trained boxer, she beat her fists into the woman’s chest and stomach. David, in pain and temporarily stunned, could only watch while his Louisa took it all out
on this one woman. Lexi had done wrong, but she was in receipt of at least two decades of pent-up fury.

  He grabbed the maelstrom and eventually contained it, though he was awarded several powerful blows during this difficult process.

  Worn out, Lucy turned in her lover’s restraining arms, and it poured out of her. Language David might have expected from a chain gang flowed from her lips in a steady stream. ‘You’re dead, you whore. There’s another of your sweet letters for Moira, isn’t there? In the hall where you left dog shit, you filthy, diseased bitch.’

  The language had improved slightly, thought David as he pushed Lucy into a chair. He inhaled deeply and spoke to Lexi. ‘We have you on TV. We have you with money from the hall, and jewellery from this room. The wonderful woman you tried to destroy is not here. By the way, our cameras work in darkness, so I have you spraying the wall as well as stealing. You’d better bugger off before Louisa gets a second wind.’

  ‘And you have her beating me up.’ Lexi thrust forward a determined chin.

  David was ready for this one. ‘I’m sure a court will take our side, madam. Moira, the poor sick woman to whom you sent all those filthy letters, didn’t deserve any of this. Her husband intercepted every piece of your disgusting literature, so don’t pride yourself on having upset Moira, because we are here to protect her. She’s a bright, intelligent, strong woman, and her friend here was righteously angry with you for the letters, the graffiti we still haven’t seen, the dog dirt and now the thieving. His car isn’t here, so you thought you were safe. You thought he’d mistakenly left the door unlocked. You will never again be safe. We know people who know you.’

  ‘I’m leaving the room for a mo,’ Lucy announced. ‘It’s OK, I must just wash her off my hands. But first I want to get the letter she wrote to an absentee.’ She pulled away from him and went to retrieve the envelope. She returned, and after opening it she scanned the contents and spoke to Lexi. ‘I would advise lessons in basic English,’ she snapped before handing the paper to David and marching out into the hall.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ he asked the cowering woman. ‘Why can’t you get on with your life and leave these people alone?’