by Dawson, H A
‘I hate you. I hate you.’
Angela pressed on the handle and eased the door open. Alex was lying face down on the bed, but then, horrified that her privacy had been invaded, she hurried to the door and thrust it shut. Angela stumbled backwards.
She pressed her face to the door. ‘Destroying his sim-card doesn’t mean I’m don’t care.’
Silence.
‘Please Alex, can we talk?’
Silence.
‘I loved your father.’
‘No you didn’t, you were always picking on him.’
‘That’s not true.’
The door opened. Alex kept her hand on the door, threatening to slam it shut at any moment. Seeing the vehemence in her face, Angela chose to keep her distance.
‘We’ll get through this, I promise,’ Angela said.
‘You don’t understand. You don’t feel anything.’
‘Oh Alex, how can you say that. I miss him too.’
‘No you don’t. You never got on. You’re glad he’s gone.’
Angela swallowed hard. ‘I loved your father, more than you’ll ever know.’
‘Show it then.’
‘Everyone grieves differently. I’ve done my share of crying. You know I have.’
Alex lay flat on the bed, her face pressed into a pillow.
‘Please don’t be angry with me. You’re father wouldn’t want that.’
Angela perched on the bed and felt the heat radiate from her daughter’s body as her sobbing gripped. Helplessness prevailed. She smoothed her hand across Alex’s burning and sodden face and eased free her usually beautiful fronds of mid-brown hair that were stuck to her skin. Her lips and nose had swelled and her eyes were little more than slits. It was a heartbreaking sight.
She heaved a heavy sigh. If only Tim had not gone out.
Alex’s accusation that she didn’t feel anything rang through Angela’s mind. The remarks were cutting, burning her gut, and had an everlasting feel about them. Fighting her own bubbling anguish, she focused upon calming her breathing.
She had not wanted Tim to die, and despite what Alex thought, she had loved him. But she could have handled the situation differently, been more sympathetic to the cause he had been wrapped up in. She should have worked upon their relationship, and tried to recreate the feelings she had when he first called her baby-face.
When had it started to go wrong? Was it before or after she had met Jerry O’Riordan? Tim had known what was going on, or at least he thought he had, but by then, it was too late. There could never have been any going back.
Nonetheless, she had failed her husband. If only she could tell him she was sorry.
Alex turned her head.
‘Feeling better?’
Alex flung her arms around Angela’s neck. ‘I’m sorry.’
Angela stroked her head. ‘I’m sorry too.’
‘I miss him.’
‘So do I. You do know I loved him, don’t you.’
Alex nodded.
‘It was a horrid and unfortunate accident. There was nothing anyone could have done.’
Alex’s bottom lip quivered.
‘Please don’t cry.’
Angela pressed Alex’s head into her chest. Somehow, they would get through this. Somehow.
Luke leaned back into the swivel chair, urged his morning coffee to clear his head, and pondered his night out. To take his mind off Sarah, he had taken Crystal out. It was wonderful evening, filled with lively banter, serious conversation, good food, and plenty of alcohol, and he had returned home drunk and happy. If only Sarah could have seen him,
He had met his ex a few years ago, and they seemed to have a solid relationship until one day she announced it wasn’t working and had fallen out of love. It was incomprehensible; they had gotten on better than anyone else he had ever known. Never short of a word, they had chatted endlessly, sharing the same inquisitive nature. They would sit in bars and make up stories about people lives, based on their appearance and behaviour, and they would try to work out each person’s profession. She had often said, she found people’s unscrupulous behaviour fascinating, and could easily determine who was trustworthy and who wasn’t, based on a brief conversation and a careful observation of mannerisms. Luke wondered if all along Sarah had considered him gullible and weak. Had that been the attraction?
After the break up, Luke had plodded through life, heartbroken and inanimate, until one day they met in a nightclub. One drink had led to another and they returned to his house where they had spent the night. The following morning, keen to keep her satisfied, he announced it was merely a relationship of convenience. She had never seen through his lies and agreed to do it again. It had become a regular habit.
That had been a mistake. He looked into his coffee, inhaled the intense aroma, and told himself he should have made a clean break. Frequently enough, she had told him she did not love him, and he knew she assumed he felt the same. Effectively, they were friends with extras.
It would have been fine if he had not loved her.
He pondered the moment he saw her days previous, when his mouth dried and his heart flip-flopped. She had said his name and announced to her friends that she had regrets regarding their parting. What was he waiting for? Why hadn’t he rushed over and declared the same?
‘Had a big night last night?’ Imogen asked.
Vacantly, he looked to her, and waited for the words to sink in. ‘I went out with a friend.’
‘Who?’
Luke smiled. ‘None of your business.’
‘From the look in your eyes it must be a woman.’
He held her gaze, determined not to relent to her probing.
‘What’s her name? Are you seeing her again?’
‘I never said it was a woman.’
‘Why do I not believe you?’
Disguising his smugness, he reached for his pencil. ‘Did you hear Tim Canning was killed?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, in a car crash. He died at the scene.’
‘No.’
Luke nodded. ‘And there’s been a delay with the post mortem. Staff shortages.
‘Do you think it looks suspicious?’
‘Maybe. A witness said Tim Canning failed to stop at the junction.’
Imogen smoothed down her hair. ‘His brakes?’
‘Don’t know . . . could be.’
He stood up, flexed his back and shoulder muscles, and headed to the drinks area. Upon a small cupboard was a small stained plastic mat, a kettle, a jar of coffee, and dried milk. He placed his mug alongside Imogen’s - his had a faded pattern and a dirty centre, and hers was pristine and colourful - and he flicked on the kettle.
‘Not for me thanks,’ Imogen said. ‘You must have returned home late last night.’
‘I did. My head feels like its glue.’
‘So what’s her name?’
A ripple of pleasure washed over him. ‘I’m saying nothing.’
Imogen grinned. ‘So you admit it you were with a woman?’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘My Mark says if a guy keeps grinning to himself, he got lucky.’
‘Really?’
‘I reckon he’s right.’
The water was bubbling, the steam rising. Luke poured the water onto the coffee granules and inhaled the delicious aroma.
‘You have some strange ideas,’ he said, returning to his desk.
‘I think we should have a prowl around the hospital. What do you think?’
‘Could do.’
‘Do you know if he had a family?’ she asked.
‘A wife and a daughter I think. There was an article on the Internet. I think she’s a nurse. I could see the top of her uniform.’
‘You’re that familiar with nurses uniforms?’
‘Yes Imogen,’ he said. ‘I have a fetish.’
She sniggered.
He edged aside, hiding behind his monitor, and slid down his chair.
‘I’ll reme
mber that,’ she said, ‘for when we discuss my pay rise.’
They headed along corridors, passing waiting areas, nurses stations, and wards, and arrived at Ear, Nose and Throat. The waiting area was empty, bar a skinny woman of about thirty years old and a man perched on the next seat and holding her hand. A nurse appeared from along a corridor and caught their eye.
‘We’re looking for Angela Canning, a consultant nurse,’ Imogen said, ‘I believe she works here.’
‘She’s not in today. What’s it about?’
‘I heard her husband was killed. We wanted to offer her our condolences.’
‘Yes. What a terrible shock.’ The nurse looked to a computer. ‘Hang on a minute.’ She strode to the couple in the waiting area and guided them to a room. She returned moments later and piled patient folders into a tray. ‘I think Angela should be back next week.’
‘Tim worked at the hospital did he not?’
‘Yes, he did, although I didn’t know him. They never shared lunches, never chatted during working hours, and never accompanied each other on staff gatherings, even when other partners were involved. Angela always said she preferred to go alone.’
‘Didn’t they get on?’
‘We wondered the same. I never saw any real indications they weren’t happy, but there again she hadn’t worked in the department long.’
‘Had she ever had an affair?’
‘An affair?’
Luke remained straight-faced.
‘Not that I know. Angela didn’t seem the type - she wasn’t overly friendly with men, or anyone for that matter. I suppose you never really know people though, do you?’
‘No, I suppose you don’t.’
After a short while, the conversation dried and Imogen and Luke drifted away. They stopped along a corridor and gazed at a sign, searching for the whereabouts of the renal department, and then, weaving past the jostling bodies they reached another corridor and turned left. It could be a long walk.
‘Their failing marriage is an indication that one of them could have had an affair,’ he said.
‘I suppose it is. Is it relevant?’
‘It might be.’
‘Why don’t we just interrogate Angela?’
‘All in good time.’
‘Any more thoughts on why Tim had a grudge against renal?’ Imogen asked.
‘Maybe he had worked there once upon a time.’
‘It’s a pity we never had chance to speak to him.’
They stopped at another sign and scanned the list. ‘Actually, I did.’
‘What? You never said.’
‘It was only very brief. He was going to pop in.’
‘What did he say?’
Luke peered over his shoulder and then lowered his voice. ‘Just that the transplant list wasn’t been prioritised as it should be. He claimed it was all Jerry O’Riordan’s doing.’
‘The head of renal?’
Nervously, he looked to a man passing by and raised his finger to his lips. The man seemed oblivious.
‘So why encourage the complaints?’ she hissed.
‘He said it was all part of it, and wanted to expose them. He seemed very certain and said he had evidence to back it up.’
‘Then why didn’t he go to the police?’
Luke shrugged.
They turned another corner and strode along a quiet corridor. The renal department was just ahead, and on the left, there was a door. It was ajar. Luke peered inside. It looked like a storeroom, and coming from within were voices, a man’s and a woman’s. They continued along.
Imogen gripped his arm and yanked him to a standstill. ‘He just said “Angela”.’
She crept back to the doorway and pressed her ear to the door.
His pulse quickened. He looked up and down the corridor, edged closer to Imogen, and peered into the room.
There was a man with mass of dark hair and a woman out of view.
‘It’ll be forgotten soon enough,’ the man said.
‘I hope so.’
‘Then we can get back to helping people. It’s important we carry this on.’
‘I don’t know Jerry. I’m not sure I can now.’
Luke’s excitement rose; it was O’Riordan.
‘I thought you were with me on this,’ Jerry said.
‘It’s just . . . it’s Tim . . . I-’
‘It was an unfortunate accident, but it shouldn’t stop you doing what you believe in.’
Silence.
‘So you’re still with me?’
There was movement and Luke jolted. He scanned the corridor and tugged on Imogen’s arm. They hurried towards a staircase and out of view.
‘Did you see that?’ Imogen asked. ‘They hugged.’
The click-clack of her heels and the alluring smell of her perfume calmed his racing pulse. So, Angela was involved with O’Riordan. That was motive enough for Tim to cause trouble within the department. But where had Scott Cole fit in? He had no connection to the hospital or to the renal unit, in anyway whatsoever. At least none that was apparent.
He glimpsed at Imogen, noting her lush fawn hair, clunky necklace, and vivid red handbag, and his thoughts faded. Instead, he decided to put her out of her misery regarding one other matter.
‘Her name’s Crystal.’
‘I knew it,’ she squealed, ‘is she hot?’
‘She’s hot.’
‘Are you seeing her again?’
‘I don’t know, maybe.’
‘That’s so cool. Good for you.’
He smiled, satisfied.
Chapter 9
Brittany was in bed, snuggling under the duvet and gazing at the ceiling. Hanging in the centre of the rippled off-white paintwork was a red pendant-style light fitting in the shape of a globe. It had an adjustable height, a matching red cable, and was dimmable, and when the light was on there was a cosy and relaxing feel about the room.
She gazed towards the window. Seeping from around the edges of the white and red curtains, were dazzling strips of light radiating warmth. She could tell from the intensity that the skies must be cloudless, and her eyes twinkled with joyous expectation. It was perfect weather for her planned day out with Jason, and made even more special by her decision to take a days leave.
Over the four years she had worked at the library she had never taken a day off impulsively. Everything she did she planned well in advance, as she hated having anyone cover for her unnecessarily. Her conscientious attitude was one of the less significant reasons she feared the onset of kidney failure. Not only would her sick days multiply, but depending upon the options available to her, she may need her employer to show leniency for dialysis. She may even lose her job. It wasn’t unheard of.
She levered herself upright, battling with her aching back and legs, and eased aside the maroon and white duvet. With a surge of effort, she padded to the bathroom and into a stimulating floral aroma that enhanced the hygienic ambience. The bathroom was always scrupulously clean, and aside from a shower, there was a white basin and toilet, a circular mirror, a large towel heater, and matching chrome accessories.
Brittany pulled her nightshirt over her head and stepped into the cubicle for a soothing and invigorating shower. The water pressure was quite poor, one of the few negatives about the flat, so she never took long, and quickly washed her hair and sponged down her body, and as always, glimpsed at her scar. It was a reminder of how lucky she was; someone had been kind enough to be on the donor register.
Over the years she had often had conversations regarding organ donation after death, and the majority said they would do it. Unfortunately, very few people seemed to get around to registering their thoughts, and many never even discussed it with loved ones. It should be compulsory, and the register should be for opting out only. If this were the case, there would be fewer people on dialysis, less suffering, and less needless deaths. No wonder Dr O’Riordan was helping with the charity to acquire living donors. He was a kind-hearted man, who understood
the value of life.
Jason’s comments regarding the underhand methods niggled. As Brittany dressed, she made a mental note to bring up the subject. Who ever had started the rumours that something wrong was occurring must be carrying a grudge. There was nothing in it; there couldn’t possibly be.
She drifted back to the days of her illness when Dr O’Riordan was doing his rounds and asked her how she felt. He had been like a father figure to her, and squeezed her hand and touched her clammy forehead with his cool fingertips. He always managed to instil hope and confidence, even on the darkest days when he was the barer of bad news. On those days, he had told her he would do all he could to help her recover, and as had expected, he had kept his word.
She ambled through to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle to make an herbal tea. How could Jason consider Dr O’Riordan as anything other than the best? He was patient, compassionate, and diligent. He would not be involved in anything immoral or illegal. It was an outlandish accusation.
Brittany was still mulling over the conversation, when the doorbell sounded. She hurried to the lobby and swung open the door. Her expectations danced and a smile stretched across her face. Jason looked stunning. He was wearing a lime green polo shirt and a cardigan, and tight faded jeans that accentuated his long lean frame.
He smiled and said hello. His facial structure was more angular than she remembered, more masculine, and his lips were soft and succulent, so kissable. She welcomed him inside, and floated to the living area where they exchanged a few words about her accommodation.
‘How’s Ethan?’ she asked.
His cheery expression dissolved and he perched onto the edge of the sofa and breathed a heavy sigh. ‘He’s struggling.’
‘No improvement at all?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Dr O’Riordan will find a way to help him.’
Jason looked to her, frowning.
‘You have to trust him.’
‘I do.’
‘Good. Then Ethan will pull through. Is he at the top of the transplant list?’
He told her he was, but there was an anxious gaze in his expression. Something unsettled him.
‘You like Dr O’Riordan, don’t you?’ he asked.