by Abi Silver
‘Don’t say that. She was our mother.’
‘Maybe someone should have told her that, explained to her what the word meant. I’d rather we could just have the funeral and move on.’
‘Hang on, Joe. Mum is hardly cold yet. I haven’t even had time to tell anyone she’s dead and you want to “move on”. I know you didn’t get on – not since, well never mind that now. But you’re wrong about her. The last year or so she had been more interested in us – all of us, including you – always asking how you were, and Janice. And she was so positive when I saw her at the hospital, like a new woman. She talked about painting again. Said she had an unfinished one of me. Asked me if I would sit for her again, like in the old days.’
‘You used to hate it, said it was boring.’
‘And she said she wanted to paint Pete, too. And the kids.’
Joe bit the side of his thumb, the tips of his ears flushing bright red.
‘She was a self-centred bitch and I don’t want people sniffing around us – our family – because of her. I don’t like it. First it’ll be the police and then the newspapers too.’
‘What is it you’re worried about exactly?’ Tracy finally succumbed and took a biscuit, waving it around as she spoke, and the relief associated with the sugar rush of that first bite was palpable. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’ Now she felt capable of going on the offensive. ‘You’re worried about them finding out what you got up to at Mackenzies. They let you go without any fuss. That’s just like you. Mum’s dead, maybe murdered, and you’re just thinking about yourself.’
‘No!’ He roared out the word and it reverberated off the bare walls. ‘No one cares about that stuff now. I’m thinking about all of us, Trace, including you. That’s why I came here, to tell you what to expect when the police come around. I could’ve just called, or not bothered.’ Joe stood up straight. ‘I’m off now. Another stupid bloody idea that Janice had.’
‘When did you last see Mum?’ Tracy sat quietly, hunched over, her back to her brother.
‘None of your business,’ he replied.
‘Or even speak to her? She asked me, you know, “Is Joe going to come and visit, do you think?” That’s what she asked me, pretending she didn’t care too much. She even checked over my shoulder when I arrived, as if you might be waiting outside in the corridor and I was just the warm-up act.’
‘Shut up Trace. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just trying to make me feel bad. Well it won’t work. She never wanted to see me. Or if she did, it was only to remind me of how I disappointed her. Well, now I don’t have to hear it from her any more.’
Joe exited the room swiftly, and Tracy heard the front door bang in his wake.
9
Ahmad finished his shift at 5pm and hurried home. It had been a difficult few hours. All the time he had been thinking about Mrs Hennessy. He tried not to imagine her lying dead on the cold, hard ground, but when he had passed the police tent on his way in and on leaving, and had seen the people wearing white suits hovering around, it was hard to block it out.
The nurses had congregated in the corridor over lunch, as the staff room was ‘off limits’, and all they had spoken about was Mrs Hennessy and how awful and who had been the last one to give her her meds and who had been the last to take her blood pressure, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues. He had shrunk back, stumbled his way up the corridor, and sat down on the floor of the toilet cubicle to escape it all.
When he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could hear Barbara’s voice. ‘Ahmad,’ she was whispering in his ear. ‘This is such a treat. I don’t have a cleaner at home.’ She had imparted the information proudly.
‘You do yourself?’ he had replied. ‘Oh no. I just don’t clean. My apartment is very dirty.’ And she had laughed, a high girlish laugh like the trilling of a bird, and he had laughed too, a genuine laugh, not the one he put on so often for politeness.
It was just before he got off the train at Acton Central that Ahmad remembered he had left his apron behind in the hospital. He could picture it lying folded on the seat of the chair in the corridor, and imagined it scrunched up and discarded or, worse still, confiscated overnight for incineration. Then he’d have to go cap in hand to Sinead in Supplies to ask for another one, and he could imagine the disdainful response he would receive. He almost headed back to retrieve it, but Shaza would be waiting by Suzy’s door, brimming full of her day at school, and Aisha would worry if he was late. And, anyway, Mrs Hennessy was dead, so what importance did a dirty apron have in comparison?
Ahmad stood at the bottom of the staircase leading up from the platform to the outside world, as the other disembarking passengers streamed past him. Suddenly, for some reason he couldn’t articulate, it was as high and impassable as the Berlin Wall. He retreated to a nearby bench and placed his bag down between his legs on the smooth concrete. Did you know Mrs Barbara Hennessy? the policeman had asked him. And when did you clean her room? And did you notice anything unusual? And he had heard his answers – yes, yesterday and no – echo loudly in his head, even though in reality he had spoken feebly.
He disliked police officers and the lawyer he’d requested had been next to useless. She had just sat there and allowed the policeman to ask all his questions in his slow-witted manner. Still, at least he had walked out in one piece. Ahmad shivered. All this stuff with Mrs Hennessy, it had made him forget his apron. You’ve lost another one? He could hear the disgust in Sinead’s voice and the way she would tut and glower at him until he stammered out an apology.
He stared blankly at his hands, turning them palm up and then palm down before clenching them into fists. But they rotated before his eyes as if through a mist, and within seconds he felt unnaturally cold. It began at his toes and spread rapidly along the length of his feet, hovering around his ankles to sear into his flesh before worming up his calves. He had to stop it early on; he knew that from past experience. Otherwise it would overwhelm him – that slithering, scrambling, clambering cold.
He stamped his feet repeatedly, one after the other, and rolled his shoulders back. Then he inhaled and exhaled deeply and tried to clear his mind. That was what the psychiatrist had taught him; to help him relax, to make it go away.
There. He was beginning to get the measure of it. As he brought his breathing under control and wriggled his toes inside his boots, the cold began to recede. By the time he felt able to stand, it was retreating along each foot, driven away by his efforts. He dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief; despite feeling cold himself, he was aware he had been sweating profusely. He shouldered his bag and climbed the steps away from the platform, two at a time.
Five minutes later, Ahmad and Shaza were walking alongside each other. She was chattering away about Mrs Crane and Mr Martin and what they said today in assembly and how Mrs Crane had said her Maths was very neat. Usually Ahmad would ask a question or two and provide some encouragement, but not today. Today he was moving quickly and focusing all his energy on getting home. Shaza had to skip her fastest skipping, with her hugest giant-step leaps, to keep up with her father’s strides, her attempts to grab his hand being rejected without explanation.
10
Dr David Wolf was a slim, slight man, around five foot seven in height, although he identified with five foot nine. He was an orthopaedic surgeon of considerable skill and some years’ experience. But Inspector Dawson’s visit to the hospital that afternoon, and his blunt, trampling questions about Barbara Hennessy, had left him anxious and bruised, and he hovered, tapping papers on his desk ineffectually and tweaking the ends of his burgeoning moustache, until he was certain the police officer had left the hospital.
His wife, Jane, had suggested he grow the facial hair, and he was now attached to it; she propounded a theory that his lack of promotion to the highest echelons was the result of his youthful appearance. He thought it was more
likely the work of senior doctors who refused to retire despite less-than-optimum working conditions, so that it was truly ‘dead men’s shoes’. And he wasn’t a ‘team player’ according to Hani Mahmood, his immediate boss, in his last appraisal. That was rich, coming from a man who was head of the team but had never attended one of its Christmas parties, forever pulling the religion card.
And it was Dr Wolf’s chance meeting in the corridor with Hani, just an hour earlier, that had made him even more jumpy when Dawson called in.
‘David. Any update on how she died, the Hennessy woman?’ Hani had begun.
Dr Wolf had stammered over the words.
‘No. It’s nothing to do with me. It’s hardly a medically related death. I’m letting the police get on with it.’
Hani had fixed him with a hard stare.
‘She was your patient, David. I think you need to take an interest. We wouldn’t want anyone pointing the finger at our team – unfairly, of course.’
Dr Wolf had opened his mouth to protest at how ludicrous that sounded but thought better of it.
‘We’ll have to add it to our list for the monthly review, so be prepared,’ Hani had said.
‘Why would we do that? She didn’t die as a result of her treatment.’
‘We don’t know that yet, do we?’ Hani had said. And he had marched off leaving Dr Wolf open-mouthed in his wake.
Dr Wolf pulled his mobile from his pocket and paused with his fingers hovering above the screen. It had started off innocently enough with Dawson. Who carried out the operation? Dawson had asked. But instead of providing a couple of job titles or simply referring to ‘the usual team’ he had found himself reeling off names and embellishing. ‘Myself, Dr Bridges was the anaesthetist; she’s very experienced, our ‘go to’ person for tricky operations – not that there was anything remotely complex about this one – Nurse Li, another key member of our nursing staff, Steven King, a highly able specialist registrar.’
‘The team you mentioned – they work together on many operations?’ Dawson had asked.
‘Yes. But I don’t see that any of this is relevant.’
‘Just part of our enquiries. Gathering all the facts. I may need to speak to the others in the team who operated on Mrs Hennessy.’
‘If you want to waste your time, of course, go ahead,’ Dr Wolf had said. ‘Anyway, we’ll have our own internal review of procedures.’
‘Will you?’
‘Yes, our head of department, Dr Mahmood, is going to examine all aspects of Mrs Hennessy’s care at our monthly meeting; it’s standard when we have a death in the hospital. Nothing sinister, or anything like that.’
‘There’ll be a note of this meeting?’
‘There’ll be a report.’
Then Dawson had asked how Mrs Hennessy was after her operation, in his slow way. And Dr Wolf had reported she was ‘fine’ and the officer had left shortly afterwards.
Dr Wolf made his call.
‘Hi. It’s me. I know you’re busy, so just listen; you don’t have to speak,’ he barked into the phone.
A pause.
‘The police were here asking questions about Barbara Hennessy. It’s possible they’ll come to find you and Steven and Nurse Li. They asked about the team involved in the operation.
‘I just said you were the anaesthetist; that’s all. He made a note of your name.
‘Yes I know. Crazy isn’t it? Although Hani seemed to think it was perfectly normal.
‘I saw him just before. He told me I had to protect the team – as if I would do anything else.’
Another pause.
‘Hani says he wants to review the procedure in the monthly meeting next week.
‘I know, it’s pointless, but he wants to. So we’ll need to be prepared, with our version of events. Will you speak to the other two? And the police want to see the report.
‘It just kind of slipped out.
‘No, I wasn’t trying to drop anyone in it. Why would I do that?
‘No. I’m fine. I just don’t like being interrogated, that’s all. It’s not a pleasant experience. Speak later.
‘No, I don’t think I should see a solicitor.
‘I’m not talking to a solicitor about this and neither should you. I’ve told the police we’ll follow usual procedures and there’ll be a report at the monthly meeting.
‘Yes. I’ll remember. Don’t worry about me.’
11
‘Shadya? Baba was a bit weird today don’t you think?’ Shaza was sitting cross-legged on her bed with a selection of toys surrounding her.
‘No. Like I think he had been crying but when I asked him he said it was dusty at work – working in a hospital was a dusty job, he said – and that made his eyes sore.
‘Well, Mrs Crane showed us a programme once about miners digging for coal in somewhere called New Castle and she asked if we knew what happened to them. Then Jamie Green said their eyes got sore. And Jamal Khan said they got lung cancer. Then Mrs Crane told us they took yellow birds down under the ground to check for gas. We all laughed then. Although afterwards I didn’t think it was very funny because the birds couldn’t fly away and they died.
‘But there must be a lot more dust under the ground for the miners than there is at the hospital and it was the morning, so I said to Baba that he’d had all night to get rid of the dust.
‘No, me neither. Maybe someone was mean to him, like that lady that time, and he’d been thinking about it.
‘You remember. When she said “all migrants are thieves”. I asked Dad “What are migrants?” but he didn’t reply. Then she said “I think you’d better leave” in a funny voice, staring out into the street, as if she had been waiting years to say it.’ Shaza giggled.
‘You do. That time dad took me for a new dress. He saved up, too. I’d seen him counting the money in his wallet when I was sitting on the stairs.
‘I told you about it. He chose a blue one but he said it was purple. Then he said it was “perfect” and it would suit me. But I still said it was blue. So Dad said if we took it near the door we could see the colour better. Then the alarm went off. That’s when she said it. And she folded her arms, but only after she called a guard, too.
‘And I said, “No, we have the money, lady; show her, Dad. My dad has the money. He’s saved it all up. It’s just because the dress is blue”, and then his eyes went all red and he pushed me out of the shop and he didn’t speak again until we got all the way home. And he did that scary stamping thing with his feet.
‘It wasn’t my fault. I don’t like blue.
‘Suzy let me borrow one. She said her daughter only wore it once but it smelled of dogs and it was too long because Suzy’s daughter is the tallest girl in the class, almost as tall as Mrs Crane.
‘It was OK ’cos mama washed it for me. Then I wore it. You remember?
‘Yes. It was blue, but I didn’t say anything this time.
‘Maybe it was just the dust.’
12
Chief Inspector Dawson arrived at Tracy’s house around lunchtime on Saturday. He had postponed seeing her the previous evening, as a number of other matters had kicked off and he would have preferred some developments to report on his visit. He brought with him Mrs Hennessy’s bag with her clothes and personal items from the hospital.
Tracy was alone in the house and her eyes were red and puffy. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail but the bottom of each leg of her jeans was frayed and they pulled tight across her stomach as she sat down on the sofa. Inspector Dawson remained standing for a few moments and then sat too.
‘Mrs Jones. I know this must be a very difficult time for you. I’m so sorry for your loss.’ His grandmother had repeatedly reminded him that on occasions like this you had to say something friendly and empathetic to the relative of a victim. It didn’t come naturally
to him.
Tracy sniffed her appreciation. Dawson took out his notepad and pen and laid it down on his lap.
‘I have a few questions to ask you. Just a bit of background about you and your mum; when you last saw her, that kind of thing. Is that all right?’
She stared out towards a family photo on the window ledge.
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I’m a teacher.’
‘High school?’
‘I teach at the local primary. I’ve been there for ten years off and on. Years 3 and 4, usually.’
‘Off and on.’
‘In between having my own kids; full time for the last year.’
‘And your husband?’
‘Pete? He’s not working at the moment.’
‘He’s unemployed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And before that?’
‘He had a successful business – property developer. But he had an accident, hurt his back. He’s not able to work at the moment.’
‘And your children?’
‘Pete’s taken them out, thank goodness.’
‘How old are they?’
‘Oh. Eleven and nine.’
‘Your mother went into hospital on Tuesday?’
‘Yes, that’s what’s so crazy. She wasn’t ill; just her feet.’
‘Did you see the doctor with your mother?’
‘No. She was very independent. And I am busy with work and the kids. The first thing I knew was she called me the night before, on Monday. Said she was going into St Marks the next day, not to worry but it would be nice if I visited.’
‘And when did you visit?’
‘On the Wednesday. I couldn’t make it on Thursday. I had, well, I had something planned all afternoon, but I was going to pick her up, drive her home yesterday.’
‘Was she worried about anything?’
‘No. Well, of course, she did the usual, like I said, told me the anaesthetic was a risk and all that. She was a bit like that, Mum. She wanted me to know it was nothing but then she couldn’t resist adding that bit, so it sounded dangerous.’ Tracy sighed; the irony was not lost on her.