by Dawson, H A
Brittany turned onto Newton Road. She was at the end with the high numbers and her stomach churned and a bitter taste rose to her mouth. She scanned the stone fronted terraced houses at the far end and willed herself forward, her body quivering, her legs weakening.
A few cars were parked on either side, but very few were moving. There were no pedestrians, no gardens, no meandering pets and no bird life. It was eerily quiet and her footsteps sounded like drumbeats. Limiting the sound, she crept closer.
She reached number ten and number eight and hurried passed a window covered with a net curtain. It was number six, and the door was slightly ajar. There were voices, a man and a woman’s, and the tone was strained. She leaned against the wall, urging the thumping in her chest not to give her away, and listened to the conversation.
Michelle stood in the centre of the small room, her arms folded, and her jaw clenched. He hadn’t changed much and still had bushy eyebrows, a mass of wiry hair, and an acne-scarred complexion. Forcing courage, she told herself he was not a god-like creature, a symbol of all things good, and despite his overpowering smugness and self-assured manner, his immorality was as visible as if it was written into his skin.
‘Are you still saving lives?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
‘I am saving children that would otherwise die. Your daughter for one. You should be grateful.’
‘Oh I am, although I’m not sure everyone would agree. What you’re doing is wrong. How can you explain away the needless suffering?’
O’Riordan shuffled, uneasy.
‘I take it you’re still campaigning for living donors.’
‘How else am I going to acquire organs?’
‘I think we both know the answer to that.’
He rested his arm on the back of the plain, fabric armchair. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Okay, so tell me what I think.’
He stared, his eyes penetrating.
‘You and I both know what happens,’ she continued. ‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise. You’re afraid I’ll say something.’
‘You wouldn’t do that.’
A knocking sound caught her attention. She spun around and looked through the window. There was nothing there. Puzzled, she returned her attention back to O’Riordan.
‘And why won’t I say anything?’ she asked.
‘Because if you were going to, you’d have done it years ago. You’re not going to risk your freedom. Not since you’ve gotten parole.’
‘I’ve paid my dues. I’ve nothing else to fear.’
‘What about being an accomplice? That’ll cost you, especially on top of murder.’
‘They’ll let me off if I give evidence.’
O’Riordan smirked. ‘You are naïve.’
She averted her gaze and pushed a hangnail back and forth. She had spent the best part of the last twelve years planning her next move, yet still her confidence slipped. Evidently, O’Riordan still had an invisible hold over her and it was frustrating; she had hoped she had broken his vice-like grip, but in reality, she hadn’t moved forward at all.
‘Scott need not have died,’ she said, ‘there were other options.’
‘That’s not in question.’
‘So why? I had a life ahead of me.’
O’Riordan clenched his hands into a fist. ‘Yes, you had Brittany, and she’s the very reason you’ll keep quiet.’
Michelle’s gut tightened. She dropped onto the edge of the sofa and smoothed her hand across her thigh. ‘Leave her out of this.’
‘But that’s the very reason I’m here. There are things I thought you should know.’
Michelle gulped, ‘her kidney?’
‘Now, you know very well I’m not at liberty to break patient confidentiality.’
He held that same smug look that was so familiar, the one that riled, the one that caused a bitter taste to form. He would string her along, claim to be withholding information, but at the same time, he would feed her unconnected snippets. She had walked that path during Brittany’s illness and it had caused her to stray, caused her to plummet into a dark hollow with no exit. ‘There are other options,’ he had said. She had been unable to resist. Not then and not now.
She met his gaze. ‘Is she ill?’
O’Riordan smiled. ‘Put it this way. I wouldn’t put a stop to what I do just yet, you might need my services again.’
Michelle’s pulse quickened. Brittany’s kidney was failing and she would soon be on that dreaded dialysis machine, clinging to life. She would be fighting her fatigue. She would be lifeless and ashen, with no future and no one able to restore her helpless, worn-out body.
Michelle looked up, her face scrunched. He portrayed that deity figure again.
‘I can help you,’ he said, ‘if you let me.’
She would never have needed to resort to underhand methods if she had been braver, a proper mother. None of this would have happened; they would be together, her and Brittany, for always. There would not have been the hours of torment; the running through the streets with blurry eyes, the pummelling of the mattress to release tension, and the strange pleasure of her nails ripping through her skin.
Michelle’s mouth opened and shut; she was unable to speak.
‘I think we’re done here,’ he said, turning around, ‘I know you’ll do the right thing.’
She darted towards him. ‘Don’t think you can get away with this.’
‘Get away with what? I’m saving the sick . . . helping children like Brittany. That’s not a crime.’
‘I’ll . . . I’ll expose you.’
‘No,’ he said confidently, ‘You won’t.’
He stood for a moment, his hand on the door, and passed her a sympathetic glance. Then he was gone.
In a daze, she thrust it shut and headed to the living room. On the floor, under a cupboard was a box. She pulled it free, released the lid, and picked out a photo of her daughter.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Tears drenched her eyes. She held it to her pounding heart and searched her options. She could move away from Brittany and O’Riordan and start afresh, but her guilt and losses would remain. Alternatively, she could face her darkest fear. Her panic bubbled. That was not an option either.
She raised her knees to her chest, leaned into the sofa, and stared at an image of the dark-haired little girl that had hope, happiness and trust in her eyes. Brittany had relied upon her, and Michelle had promised her daughter that she would be well again. Her lie swelled in her gut, restricting her breathing. She wiped free a tear. She had tried, but she had not done enough.
One option remained, one that would solve all of their problems. But she did not smile. It was not a smiling matter.
Breathless, Brittany stopped at a junction and bent over, urging the tension to release and her swimming eyes to relax. Her legs were leaden and unmoveable and she needed to sit. There was nothing around, no benches and no low walls, and she had no choice but to carry on. After a few moments of gasping, she raised herself upright and cautiously put one foot in front in the other and crossed the road.
A man strode towards her. His image was blurred, splitting into two. She stopped, tried to gauge his movements, and focused on his harsh expression and blocky stride. He seemed to be aiming straight for her; he looked threatening. Panic-stricken, she squealed and leaned into a wooden fence.
He strolled by, faded into the distance.
Tears welled. She wanted to be home and glanced over her shoulder, hoping by some miraculous reason her mother had seen her spying and had come to her aide. Of course, she wasn’t there. No one was.
She plodded on, fighting the ache in her abdomen and the concrete feeling in her legs, and with the conversation repeating in her mind. Dr O’Riordan was involved in something illegal and immoral, and her mother also. How could they? Who had suffered in their hands? Far too many people, it seemed, and whilst she was grateful that the investigation would pu
t a stop to it, it came at a price. Luke was right; Michelle would lose her parole and could be charged with something more, and it was entirely her fault. How would she ever be able to forgive herself?
However, Michelle may not be the only one who would suffer. Dr O’Riordan had said her kidney was failing. Her consultant must have missed something in her blood test results; either that or he had lied. She had been right all along. Brittany placed the tips of her fingers into her mouth, narrowed her eyes, and tried to blank out the horrid sight of the dialysis unit. Before her were sick people with pasty-white faces, and solemn doctors and nurses bearing bad news. Soon she would be a part of that; soon there would be no escape.
The flat and the solitude it provided was a welcome sight. Brittany stepped into her bedroom, closed the door, and lay on her bed, allowing the pressure in her lungs and the pounding of her heart to diminish. She had to keep her blood pressure under control, and she had to forget the mess she had started. It was a necessity, a matter of life and death.
A tinkling sound eased her back to the moment. Brittany retrieved her mobile phone from her bag and accessed the message. It was Jason and he wanted to meet. A smile lingered on the tip of her mouth.
Chapter 12
Angela meandered across the lawn, stopping to peer at the early spring shoots, the daffodils, and a patch of moss hidden from the winter sunshine by a pergola. At the far side of the garden, next to a shed, was a bench. It had been Tim’s favourite spot. She sat down, gazed at her house set in the middle of a row, and absorbed the view that would have been familiar to her husband. Never again would he potter in the garden, drink beer on the bench, or chat to the man who lived at the rear. How quickly his life had ended. It seemed surreal, difficult to simulate.
Tim had rarely stayed in on a Saturday night, and then only for special occasions. It was a habit that she felt sure would never have ended, and despite her occasional grumbles, Angela had remained unconcerned, and enjoyed the quiet time. However, that night Tim’s routine had been disrupted. At a little before seven-thirty, he had been looking at his emails and she asked him if he wanted a drink and a piece of cake. He said he did, but then, less than twenty minutes later he had made a hasty escape. The car crash occurred about an hour later. She surmised that during the intervening time Tim had either visited someone at their house or had gone elsewhere for a drink.
Shuddering, Angela rubbed her hands along her arms. In her gut, she knew his death was connected to his investigation into the renal department, and her sickness swirled. If she hadn’t gotten involved with Jerry, Tim would still be alive.
She smoothed her hand across the arm, easing away an insect that had landed, and watched it flutter over the slender and uniform blades of grass. Weaving without direction and purpose, it arrived at a row of flowers and hovered above the colourful petals before disappearing into the hedge.
Like the insect, she wanted to slip away, and fought with a breaking heart to see some positive in his death. Instead, her burning anguish pummelled her insides, and it was not something she could not escape. Trying to steady her quivers, she shut her eyes and imagined her husband and his small-rounded belly, short, tight haircut, and roughened complexion. He had loved her, and she should have tried harder to connect with him. In her mind, he spoke to her in a deep, gritty voice, questioning her connection with Jerry, as he had the week before his death. But unlike then, she told him she was sorry and pressed her arms across her middle. She should have been honest. They both should have.
Ever since her first secret meeting with her colleague, she had experienced a roller coaster of emotions, from elation to shame, but never before had she felt such extreme guilt. Maybe it was time she backed out from their relationship. It seemed the right thing to do, and it would be her last show of respect.
Angela trundled back to the house and dialled Jerry’s number. A recorded message sounded. She replaced the handset and leaned into the sofa, and decided she must speak to him in person. It was unlikely that he would accept her decision to end their relationship and certainly not over the phone as he saw no wrong in their covert behaviour. A convincing argument must be formulated, and it must be more influential than her last failed attempt.
A photograph upon the sideboard accentuated her need. It was an image of her family, herself, Tim and Alex, and her heart swelled. They had been having the most wonderful day in London, visiting sights and attractions, from the London eye to Buckingham Palace, but it could never happen again, and all because of her need to acquire fulfilment. She had lost a husband and Alex had lost a father. Tim’s death felt devastatingly real.
To Angela, the bustling shopping centre was a discord of sound. There were car engines revving and brakes squealing, there were chattering of voices and the melodic sounds of the violin, there were the clattering of feet and the heavy breaths of an individual at her rear. She peered over her shoulder. The man, unshaven and with a blemished skin-tone, avoided eye contact and scurried on.
He had the same pinched eyes as her deceased husband, as though he was exhausted and couldn’t open them, as though his eye sockets had shrunken. She heaved a heavy sign. She missed the meticulous way Tim tidied the house. She missed seeing him snuggled on the sofa with Alex. She even missed seeing him chew his food with his mouth open, something that had often caused her anger to rise. Then there was the way he progressed about his daily business, from chopping vegetables to doing the weekly shop. Everything he did was done at double-quick speed. He told her she was painfully slow and would throw her a sideways glance when she retaliated. They would bicker and she would mooch. She missed those days.
Life had a monotonous beat to it. Nothing inspired, not even seeing Alex at the end of the day. She was plodding along, putting one foot in front of the other, and waiting for her ache to lesson. It hadn’t so far.
Angela hurried across the road ahead of a bus, and continued up a hill and into a back street. It was a curious location to meet, but it was what Jerry had insisted and she did not have the energy to argue. If it appeased him, he may be willing to allow her, her freedom. This time she would stand her ground. Tim would not die in vain.
At the top of the road, Angela turned left and followed some steps down to the station. A woman wearing a grey skirt-suit and carrying a leather bag strode towards her. Angela pulled into the side, inhaling her strong scent and noting her steely gaze, and continued to the bottom to where a train was waiting. She passed the guard and headed towards a café. Jerry was seated at the rear, and a coffee was waiting for her.
‘I can’t do this anymore,’ she said, sitting down.
‘We’ve been through this.’
‘And you didn’t listen.’
Silence.
‘Everything’s changed . . . without Tim-’
‘There’s a boy I want to help,’ Jerry said, ‘he’s only six years old and taken a turn for the worse. You should meet him. He’s very sweet.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘I don’t want him to die.’
‘No!’ She slammed her hands onto the table. ‘Don’t do this. It’s not fair. Enough is enough.’
‘You can’t mean that.’
‘Yes Jerry, I do. Tim is dead. I never appreciated how hard it would be losing someone until now.’
‘All the reason to help that little boy. You have a daughter and you wouldn’t want to lose her. Imagining how the boy’s family feels.’ Hesitating, Jerry looked to a man at the newspaper stand. ‘And I promised.’
‘Then un-promise.’
Jerry leaned forward, his hands clenched. ‘He’s relying on me. Think of the good we’ll do.’
Angela sipped her coffee and glared. If Tim had not have been killed, he would have put an end to this for her. She was weak, pathetic. She needed him.
‘This will be the last time,’ Jerry continued.
‘You promise?’
Jerry nodded, and then reached out his hand, stroking her cheek. She shut her eyes, imagin
ing it was Tim, and let the ripples of pleasure spread and grow. He had held her close and stroked her head as she nestled into him, and he had sang softly, lulled her into their together place.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he said.
She looked up and gave him an assertive stare.
‘I’ve found a match for him,’ he said, his eyes dancing.
‘Later. We have a problem. I checked Tim’s emails. He was liasing with a private investigator, Luke Adams.’
‘For how long?’
‘I think just recently. I only found the one email, and it was sent the day before he died. It sounds like the case has just been started.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘As much as I can be. I deleted his emails.’
‘What about his phone?’
‘I cut the sim-card.’ Nervously, she rotated the mug in her hands. ‘Do you think he knew what we were doing?’
‘Did you ever tell him anything?’
‘No. Never.’
Jerry nodded, thoughtful. ‘Would he tell anyone else? Close friends perhaps.’
‘No. I didn’t really know anyone that well. I also checked his bank accounts. He didn’t pay Luke Adams. Someone else must have hired him.’
Jerry pinched his lips with his fingers.
‘What is it?’
‘I think I know who could have started this,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Remember Michelle Handley? Well, she’s got parole.’
‘Revenge?’
‘Yes, in her mixed up world. I warned her away, but it might be too late. We might have to lay low for a while.’
‘But what if they find something out.’
‘Like what? Who’s going to tell them?’
Angela withheld her woes. Someone would let something slip. These investigator types had a way of squeezing out the truth. ‘Maybe I should get to know her.’