“Ask him what he plans to do about funding for school lunches,” my neighbor murmured quietly. I took a deep breath and repeated out loud what he’d said. As I sat down, Scott nodded as though he had expected the question and began talking about the difficulty of meeting nutritional standards with a budget of forty pence per student. I tried to listen, but my heart was still pounding so loudly that I couldn’t concentrate on his words. He had a good speaking voice, which easily filled the gym and when he finished his answer, everyone applauded.
“Thank you,” I whispered to my neighbor.
“No problem. I was a rookie once. Long time ago. Name’s Colin Butler by the way, the Messenger.”
I passed the rest of the evening in a daze, getting over the shock of my unexpected moment in the spotlight. And I was sitting next to a real journalist from a serious newspaper, and he undoubtedly knew I wasn’t even close to being a reporter. So I was relieved when Scott left the stage to thunderous clapping and cheering from the audience.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly Cicero, but it wasn’t too bad,” Butler said. I assumed he was referring to Scott’s speech. Personally, I’d found it rather boring. Scott’s colleague, Kevin Lewis, hadn’t made an appearance, so I couldn’t check on his aura. I’d learned nothing about Scott that I didn’t already know. The evening felt like a waste of time. I wanted to go home to the warmth of my centrally-heated flat.
“I hope he makes it,” said Butler, watching Scott disappear behind a curtain at the back of the temporary stage.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. “What do you mean, makes it?”
He dropped his notebook and pencils into a beige canvas bag. “I hope his party wins. It’s going to be a close race.”
“I thought they were leading in the polls?” Standing up, we waited for the crowd to empty out through the double doors at the far end of the building.
“It depends which polls you look at. Many voters are going to make a decision based on Scott as the party leader. He can’t afford to lose even a fraction of a percent. Tonight he didn’t say anything of substance. Nothing that would pull an unbeliever into the fold. Still, I’m holding out for a win. Just have to hope nothing crops up to cause any problems.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Oh, you know, the usual crazies come out of the woodwork at about this time, often dug up by the competition.”
“Anything specific?” My brain was functioning again, enough to wonder if there could be a link between the ‘crazies’ and the potential threat to Scott.
Butler took his glasses off and wiped them with a handkerchief. “Just rumors. Probably nothing to any of them.” He folded the handkerchief before putting it back in his pocket, and then carefully settled the glasses back on his nose. The lenses were strong, making his brown eyes look huge behind them.
“Rumors? What kind of rumors?”
Ignoring my questions, Butler stuck out his hand to shake mine, but I pretended not to notice, anxious to continue talking with him.
“What do these people, the crazy ones, do? Do they talk to the press?” I asked.
He headed towards the exit, so I stayed at his side. We wound our way through clusters of people who dawdled near the doors, unwilling to leave the chill of the hall for the frigid cold outside.
“They try to. The sensible press don’t listen of course, but the tabloids and the talk shows often give them air time. Another broken wall in the crumbling edifice of professional media. People don’t want facts, they want entertainment. Most papers don’t report any more. They analyze, which is to say they opinionate. And their opinions are often wrong.”
We’d reached the doors at the tail end of the crowd. The wind blew scraps of paper along the sidewalk, sending them flapping like white bats in the amber light of the street lamps. I wrapped my scarf more tightly around my neck.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to climb up on my hobby horse.”
“That’s okay. I agree with you, if that helps at all. So, are there any particular rumors? Anything that could damage Scott’s reputation?”
“Nothing I’d give the time of day to.” Butler peered out at the polar night, like a swimmer gathering courage to jump into a cold pool. “Well, I have to go. Maybe I’ll see you at another of these shindigs,” he said. “Although you might want to jot down a question or two before holding your hand up next time.”
His mouth twitched with a faint smile, taking the sting out of his words. He turned and walked away, leaving me to ponder what he’d said about the crazy people.
5
The following morning, I got up early, cleaned the kitchen, and sat down at my computer with a cup of tea. The experience of the previous evening had left me confused and unsure of what to do next, if anything at all. I’d been ten feet away from Scott, but may as well have been on the other side of the moon in terms of being able to communicate. I just couldn’t think how to get to him.
I did my best to ignore the whole issue and was working on a photo of clematis terniflora when my mobile buzzed. It was a text from Anita. “Hey, wanna have lunch. Hospital cafeteria at noon?”
I smiled. Typical Anita. We’d often met for lunch when I was working in the city close to St. Paul’s Cathedral, but today I’d have to spend thirty minutes on the tube to reach the hospital. Still, I wanted to see her and there was nothing I was doing that wouldn’t wait until later in the day, so I sent a “yes” back to her and got ready to go out.
Anita’s department was on the fourth floor of the hospital, which had enjoyed a major overhaul about ten years earlier. The original external facade of red brick and black paintwork still evoked the Victorian era. It was easy to imagine gaslights, nurses in ankle-length uniforms with starched aprons, and wards full of iron beds stretching as far as the eye could see. Instead, the new interior was a testament to modern architecture and man-made materials. A two-story atrium filled with greenery, glass and marble was busy with visitors and reception staff.
I bypassed the reception area and made my way to a bank of lifts, waiting only for a few seconds before one arrived. Inside were two men, one of them dressed in a dark suit. He was in his forties, I guessed, with slicked-back dark hair. His skin had an oily sheen, exacerbated by the bright overhead lights. He faced another man, a doctor in a white coat.
“Later,” the man in the suit said when I entered. It was obvious that they’d been talking. Now they both fell silent. The doctor had his back to me and I could only see that he was tall, with abundant grey hair that sprang out in unruly corkscrews. He also had an aura that trembled around his head and shoulders.
I pressed myself into the corner of the lift, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to look at the aura that danced just inches away from me. When I had first started seeing the auras, my body would react as though I’d been punched in the stomach. Now, I usually felt sad. Sad for the person with the aura and sad for myself for knowing it was there. It always made me deeply uncomfortable, to know something so intensely personal about perfect strangers. It felt as though I was spying on their private lives.
When we reached the fourth floor, the men stood aside to let me out and I turned right along the corridor that led to the area where Anita worked. At the reception desk, a young nurse told me that Anita was with a patient, but should be finished soon. She directed me to a small waiting room before hurrying away, her shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum.
The waiting room was bright with yellow paint, a chalkboard, and colorful posters. Baskets of toys were stacked against one wall. Today there were no children, just a young couple who stared at the muted television screen, the woman threading a handkerchief through her fingers. I remembered the anguish I’d felt when my nephew, Aidan, was in surgery for a burst appendix and how awful the wait had been. I gave them a small smile of encouragement as I sat down.
Fifteen minutes later, Anita strode into the waiting room, giving me a quick nod of acknowledgement that I was there. She ap
proached the couple, and put her hand on the woman’s arm.
“The procedure went very well,” she told them. “Joey is going to be just fine.” While the father beamed, the mother burst into tears. Anita led them out of the room and was gone for about ten minutes. My stomach was growling by the time she came back.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “The kid’s spleen was damaged in a fall. He’ll be all right now, though.”
As so often before, I found myself overawed by Anita’s ability to heal children. While I played around digitally enhancing photos and drawing pictures of plants, she dealt with the daily trauma and drama of sick and injured kids and their terrified parents. And she loved her work. I envied anyone who could combine career and passion as she did. Josh was the same. He looked forward to Mondays in the same way most people can’t wait for Friday to arrive. “Life’s too short not to love your job,” he’d told me more than once.
“Lunch? I’m starving,” Anita said.
The hospital cafeteria was busy, all the plastic-topped tables and chairs occupied by a mix of ambulatory patients in robes and slippers, doctors in white coats, and visitors dressed against the cold. The smell of boiled vegetables and frying oil transported me back to my school dining hall and lunches of overcooked food concealed under granite-colored gravy, with gelatinous dollops of tapioca or semolina for dessert. Surprisingly, the selection of food in the cafeteria looked quite appetizing. After gathering mugs of tea and plates of quiche and salad, we settled at an empty table where we chatted for a while about Josh, my project, and my dad.
“How are you doing?” I asked, watching her cut into her quiche with surgical precision.
She paused to swallow before answering. “The usual crap with my father. After I refused to marry that fellow from Mumbai, Dad seemed to give up on the arranged marriage thing, but now he’s found someone else. The son of a business acquaintance. We had dinner last night and the poor sod doesn’t want to marry me any more than I want to marry him. But his dad is threatening to cut him off from the family money if he doesn’t accept a girl preapproved by his parents. At least my father can’t pull the inheritance threat on me, as there isn’t any money to withhold.”
She gave a humorless laugh before taking another bite of the quiche.
“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t imagine being forced to marry someone I didn’t love. “What does your mum say?”
Although Anita’s mother was also Indian, she’d been born and raised in England. It seemed that for the most part, her English side was the dominant one, but, for some reason, she’d married a very traditional man from Chennai. I had seen for myself the fireworks that erupted when their views clashed, as they often had when Anita and I were students at University College in London. Her father had been angry about Anita living in a co-ed dorm, and had gone ballistic when Anita and I moved, in our second year, to a cramped studio in a dubious neighborhood. He thought she should live at home while she studied.
“Mum’s doing her best to convince my father to drop it,” Anita replied. “But even she sometimes caves under pressure from the rest of the family and gives me the dutiful daughter lecture. You’d think they’d be thrilled to have a doctor in the family, a mature woman who’s independent, but no. I should marry Jamal and have babies. It’s a load of cobblers, is what it is.”
I patted her hand. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “Just stick to your guns and they’ll come round eventually. They’re extremely proud of you. I think your dad is a little scared of you, actually.”
Anita grunted and finished the last few crumbs of her food.
“How’s Dr. Reid doing?” I asked, to change the subject from Anita’s family. She frowned, playing with one of her pearl earrings while looking around to make sure we were out of earshot of anyone else. “Not good. That’s one reason I assisted with the operation on that kid this morning.”
“What’s going on?”
“Yesterday, Dr. Reid was doing a pulmonary lobectomy, but he was about to make the incision on the wrong side. As soon as I noticed, I pretended to drop some instruments so that the two nurses were distracted and came over to clean up. I just guided his hand to the right place and asked if he was all right. He said yes, and he got through the op without any more issues, but, bloody hell, Kate, can you imagine cutting a kid open in the wrong place? That could have been the end of Reid’s career. Afterwards, I tried to ask him what happened. I wondered if he felt ill or if there were problems at home, but he kept saying he was fine, just a little tired. All I can do is keep an eye on him and hope he doesn’t do anything reckless when I’m not there.”
“You don’t think you should report him?” I asked.
A look of anguish passed over Anita’s face. “I don’t know. He helped me so much when I first started here and he’s incredibly supportive, which isn’t very common among surgeons. Usually they think they’re God’s gift, and they treat first-year residents like dimwits. I dread to think what would happen to him if I make an official report.”
“Then tell him you don’t want to do that, but convince him to take some time off,” I suggested.
Anita nodded, and we fell silent for a minute, sipping our tea.
“Anyway, that’s enough about me and my problems,” she said, pushing her empty plate away. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say. I wasn’t a good friend to you last year and I want to apologize. You lost your mum, your friend was murdered, and you were attacked in your own apartment. I mean, that’s a lot of bad stuff to happen to someone and I didn’t know about most of it until after the fact. And even then, I didn’t come running to help.”
“You were busy and you were far away. There’s not much you could have done.” I wondered how she would feel if she knew that last year had also been the start of my aura sightings. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Can I buy you another cuppa?” she said with a grin, obviously relieved that I was letting her off lightly.
“Yes, you can, and some of the ginger cake too.”
Just as she got back to the table with the refills, I saw the man in the dark suit from the lift heading in our direction. “Dr. Banerjee!” he called.
Anita muttered something under her breath, but shook his outstretched hand when he offered it. “Hi Eric.” Although her tone was glacial, he didn’t seem to notice.
“Do you have a few minutes?” he asked.
Anita waved a hand in my direction. “I’m busy, as you can see.”
“How about later this week then?” he said. “Tomorrow or Thursday?”
“Please check my schedule with Mary,” she said.
“I’ll do that. See you soon then. Thanks, Dr. Banerjee.”
“Snake oil salesman?” I asked Anita once he was out of earshot.
“Yeah. There’s something about him that just rubs me the wrong way.”
“Do you have to meet with him?”
“I’m the designated gatekeeper to keep the drug reps away from the senior doctors as much as possible. That way, the higher-ups don’t waste time, but the reps can still tell their bosses that they are meeting with a doctor. It’s a game, but everyone plays it.”
“I saw him talking to a doctor in the lift,” I said. “But maybe they were just passing the time of day.” As I spoke, I realized I wasn’t sure that was true. Eric had said “later” as though they’d planned to meet again.
Anita shrugged. “I’m sure Eric does everything he can to bypass the admin staff and me. If he can grab a minute in a lift, he’ll make the most of it. Who was the doctor?”
“I didn’t see his name tag,” I said. “But he had a lot of wild hair. A bit like Albert Einsten.”
“Oh, that’s Dr. Reid,” Anita said. “Odd. He’d usually walk up the stairs rather than get stuck in a lift with a sales rep.”
There was an aura over Dr. Reid? I gasped loudly enough for Anita to notice.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Air went down the wrong tube.”
“Air doesn’t usually do that,” she replied drily. “Really, Kate. You look upset. Did I say something?”
This was it, I thought. Anita was my best friend. I had to tell her.
“It’s complicated,” I began.
She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got time, so why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I decided to plunge straight in. “Last year, about three months after my mother died, I saw her and talked to her. On a hill not far from Dad’s house in Tuscany.”
Anita’s usually open and animated face tightened. Her eyes narrowed.
“I know,” I said. “It sounds mad. But wait, it gets worse. After the bizarre encounter with my dead mother, I began seeing auras over people. Auras that predict death.”
“Auras,” Anita repeated.
I nodded. “And the stronger the aura, the sooner the person will die. But, I also worked out that it is possible to change the fate of the victim so that they don’t die and then the aura disappears. I saved my nephew. His aura has gone now.”
Anita tapped a manicured fingernail on the table. “But we are all going to die at some point, so surely we all have auras?”
“I only see them when death is imminent, anything from a few days to a few weeks in the future.”
Anita leaned back in her chair, as though trying to put some distance between us.
“What does an aura look like?”
I hesitated before answering, thinking of the ways I’d tried to describe them before. No one really understood. “It’s as though the air is rippling around the person’s head and shoulders. You know how air is all wavy over hot asphalt? It looks like that.”
Anita pursed her lips. “Does anyone else know?”
I kept the answer simple. “Leo, Dad, Josh.” I didn’t want to recall the painful details of those conversations, the confrontations with my brother Leo, and my father, who hadn’t wanted to believe me. And poor Josh, torn between loving me and doubting the impossible stories I was telling him. There were other unbelievers too, like Clarke, the detective chief inspector who’d handled the investigation into the deaths of my friend and her neighbor. When I’d told him about the auras, he’d closed up like a sea anemone poked by a crab. Sometimes, during the trial, when we had to be in the courtroom at the same time, he’d looked at me warily, as though I was an unexploded bomb. He’d made me swear not to tell anyone about my strange gift, convinced it would demolish the prosecution’s case if the jury thought that I, as a key witness, was mentally unstable.
The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries Page 29