Murder and Malpractice

by Mairi Chong

  At this point, Fraser’s habit might have been nipped in the bud. He knew that what he was doing was wrong and he despised himself for his weakness. But due to the dissolute nature of a junior doctor who happened upon him in the pharmacy whilst he was procuring another batch of tramadol, things took a somewhat different course.

  ‘Naughty,’ the young medic had whispered as he walked by Fraser, shuffling along the aisle.

  Fraser had frozen, having assumed that he was quite alone and unobserved. How he could have been so reckless was unfathomable.

  ‘Oh, don’t stop on my account,’ the man had said without turning. Fraser bowed his head and saw that behind him, the doctor was reaching up to one of the shelves to remove a box of allopurinol, a gout medication. ‘I know the temptation is very real,’ the medic continued quietly. ‘I’ve seen you about and we spoke in the common-room before, didn’t we? You asked me about the cricket scores. We should catch up some time again, Fraser, isn’t it?’

  Fraser stood motionless as all of this was being said.

  With that, the doctor marched from the pharmacy, the medication he legitimately required for a patient, held in his hand.

  For the rest of that day, Fraser struggled to concentrate. What had the man meant? Did he intend to blackmail him now he had caught Fraser red-handed? Fraser had, by the evening time, decided that the only thing for it, was to admit everything. When questioned, he would declare his guilt and take the wrath of his supervisors. It had, after all, been for personal use. With extra supervision, he might continue to work, and following a couple of years, he might be trusted to continue on, unregulated. What a foolish mistake to make though, and right at the beginning of his career. Fraser felt quite sick about the whole thing.

  He didn’t encounter the young medic, who he now knew to be called ‘Jackson,’ for almost a full week following the unfortunate incident, and during that time, Fraser fluctuated between relief at possibly having been given a reprieve if the doctor waived the event, to deepest despair at having the thing hanging over him. Repeatedly, as Fraser walked the long corridors of the hospital, he thought he chanced a sighting of the medic. With this, he found himself going quite cold and his hands beginning to sweat.

  As it happened, in the end, they met in the lunch queue outside the hospital canteen. Jackson greeted Fraser as an old friend, a sentiment that Fraser struggled to match, wishing to do nothing other than throw down his tray and run from the place. But knowing that he could no longer go on in such a manner, Fraser found himself sitting with the junior doctor and eating his lunch of steak and gravy pie in the man’s company. They talked of generalities at first, but after Fraser had lain down his knife and fork, he felt at least somewhat reassured by the other man’s demeanour. Surely if he was going to expose him, he would have done so by now, and why sit and chat with him in such a manner if he intended on telling his supervisors?

  But Fraser was to be surprised, for the young medic who had now also finished his own meal of macaroni cheese, a glutinous mass of sticky orange, leaned forward and smiled.

  ‘A little suggestion,’ he had begun, and after only a few minutes of hushed discussion, Fraser’s heart sank as he understood what Jackson wanted.

  ‘It needn’t be much,’ the doctor said, leaning back. ‘Just a bit here or there for my friends. I’d hate you to get into bother on my account.’

  Fraser grimaced. ‘Can’t I pay you? Or I could give you the stuff to hand around.’

  But the man had laughed and told him that he wasn’t handling a thing. He wouldn’t be termed a drug dealer himself and had no intention of becoming involved in a scheme of the sort Fraser proposed. He had no plans to jeopardise the long and exciting career that lay ahead of him.

  Fraser felt nauseous, knowing that he had personally endangered his own.

  The plan was that Fraser should procure a small amount of either diazepam or tramadol. The junior doctors struggled to sleep when coming off night-shift, Jackson said, and a few of his friends living in staff accommodation had in the past, popped the odd pill to good effect. It might be thoughtful to offer them a helping hand given that their job was so taxing and important.

  ‘Why can’t you just help yourselves?’ Fraser asked. He had, after all, seen the medic taking legitimate medicine for a patient, and countless other doctors came down to the pharmacy to do the same.

  ‘We could,’ Jackson agreed.

  ‘I’d turn a blind eye if you did it on my shift,’ Fraser offered desperately.

  ‘I think it’s too risky, Fraser,’ the man said. ‘I’d hate for anyone to get a whiff of it. You keep your end of the bargain like a good man, and everything will be sweet. What’s today? Wednesday. Well, Friday evening might be a good time to receive our first delivery. Staff accommodation is the best place to hand it over to the troops. We’ll be waiting for you, Fraser. I’m so glad we managed to catch up for this chat.’

  And so, for the following year, Fraser was tied into the most horrifying agreement. It seemed that the pharmacist would never free himself from the contract. Several times, he considered throwing himself at the mercy of his supervisors and confessing all. If he lost his job, what did it matter? He was ruined whatever happened. But repeatedly mollified by the young medic who reassured him that what he was doing was of such insignificance that it should be forgotten, he continued. If he did express his desire to stop, and once he declared to the junior doctor that he was finished with it all, the man became quite nasty. Fraser was in no doubt at all that if he spoke out, he would be hauled up in front of his supervisors and nothing could be said in his defence. Jackson’s scheme had been now going on for a full six months. How on earth might Fraser excuse himself, even if he declared that he was blackmailed into the thing? No, the medics had been too clever for him. They closed ranks anyway at the sniff of trouble, Fraser knew that. All he could do was to see it out until the end of the year and hope that he might move onto another post and forget the whole sorry business.

  It was with great relief when he did finish his job in the hospital and said goodbye to the dreadful predicament to which he had become bound. Thankfully, Jackson had no idea to where he was headed, and Fraser felt sure that his troubles were at an end. It was back to community dispensing for the world-weary pharmacist and by this time, he had qualified to take on a supervisory role himself.

  He had found exactly what he was after in the small market town of Glainkirk where he now stayed. He had been in the position for nearly five months. Southern Scotland, although not his first choice, was pretty enough when one left the poverty behind. Most importantly, it was far away from the hospital in which he had worked and for a time, Fraser was quite content.

  Glainkirk High Street was undoubtedly rundown. The residents, a mix of farming folk, or families long followed through from the old tweed mill days, made up the majority. Once you settled in Glainkirk, it was often said that you wouldn’t leave. Fraser had heard this statement several times since arriving and wasn’t sure if he considered it in quite the same light as the proud inhabitants.

  Often, when the shop was quiet during those first few weeks, Fraser would look out of the window. Glainkirk was his ticket to freedom, and yet as he watched the purposeless amble of the elderly with their chins jutted out in resolute defiance at progress, he found himself falter. Rallying himself though, he knew that the move had been for the best. Although he would have dearly loved to work his way up the ranks of hospital pharmacy, he knew that things could never be the same. No. Glainkirk was the most sensible solution to the problem. It was here that he would set up his home.

  Come eleven o’clock that morning, Fraser, having worked hard to clear the stack of prescriptions awaiting his attention, saw that the first of their methadone-prescribed customers had entered the shop. This side of the business was par for the course in such a town, and Fraser, although not delighted to be involved, did not mind. He had managed methadone dispensing for hospital clients on countless occasions be
fore. This time, was the first where he was entirely responsible, however, but the accountability did not faze him. He was quite confident in his own managerial abilities.

  Kiean Watts had been on heroin for most of his adult life. Aged forty-seven, it seemed unlikely that he would ever free himself of the drug. Two years before however, his psychiatrist had instigated a reducing regimen of methadone in an attempt to get the man back into a more controlled dosage. Fraser, having dealt with him and innumerable others, knew that this would never be the case. Kiean continued to take both heroin and methadone quite openly, and his prescription had not been dropped for many months now. Kiean was affable and no trouble to the pharmacist whatsoever. He turned up every two days for his dose of drug-substitute and took away with him a second dose which he was trusted to self-administer orally every other day. Come weekends, he was given two sealed doses to take home to see him over the Saturday and Sunday.

  ‘How have you been over the weekend?’ Fraser asked the man as he led him through to the private consulting room in which he saw all such customers.

  ‘Not bad, not bad.’ Kiean said as he always did.

  Fraser, with his back to the man, rolled his eyes. ‘Come through and sit down, and we’ll go through the usual. It beats me why we have to be so formal when your prescription hasn’t changed in the three months that I’ve known you. All this paperwork and we know what you have every day. Are you still thinking about reducing?’

  The man snorted.

  ‘Those doctors are all a bunch of hypocrites really,’ Kiean said. ‘Started me on the stuff, but I don’t think they want me off it at all. I reckon they get paid extra seeing people like me anyway, so it’s in their interest to keep us on. I’m not reducing anytime soon, no. I’ve got enough trouble as it is.’

  ‘Is this enough then?’ Fraser asked. ‘Are you using the heroin way above and beyond?’

  ‘Sometimes I have to,’ the man said. He rolled up his sleeve and Fraser saw the bruising and track-marks. ‘Groins all to pot now. I’m using my feet some days.’

  Fraser was genuinely shocked. ‘Have you spoken to the doctor and asked for an increase in your methadone?’ he said, but Kiean shook his head and laughed.

  ‘Nah, and I’ll not bother with that,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll make do with what I can get. Unless you’re offering me more on the side?’

  Fraser swallowed. Taking a deep breath, he smiled.

  ‘That’s a rather unprincipled suggestion if you don’t mind me saying,’ the pharmacist said.

  Kiean laughed. ‘Worth a shot,’ he said. ‘I thought you and I had a bit of banter going these days and you’d have a laugh.’

  Fraser nodded. ‘No, I quite understand and I can see the difficult situation you’re in. I can see your difficulty,’ he repeated slowly.

  There was a long pause, during which Kiean obviously struggled, weighing up if Fraser might be trying to catch him out. ‘So, you might be able to help?’ the addict eventually said.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, no. I don’t know what you mean,’ Fraser answered brusquely. Closing the control drug register and getting up, he walked to the door. ‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding, Mr Watts. I’ll get you your day’s dose and tomorrow’s as usual and we’ll say no more about this.’

  When Kiean was gone, Fraser stood alone in the back room. His hands shook and he wished that he could settle his nerves with a drink. It had certainly been a temptation, but he wasn’t going to start up all of that nonsense again. He had messed around with mild sedatives and painkillers, but section three drugs were quite a different league. Dealing with doctors was one thing, but actual drug addicts was quite another. No, Glainkirk was his new beginning. His fresh start. What possible reason could there be to give all of that up?

  4

  ‘Where is she?’ said Dr Mark Hope, a small involuntary twitch pulsing by his left temple. Cathy watched the muscular tic with interest, having never noticed it before. She wondered about Mark’s blood pressure. All eyes were now on him, and the doctor, apparently aware of the fact, seemed to grow in height. ‘We need to get started,’ he repeated. ‘God knows, she’s been off the boil recently. Made a balls up of the alarm system on Monday and had to get in the engineers.’

  ‘She came into my room earlier,’ said Cathy. ‘I think you should give her a break, Mark. It’s a rotten job at the best of times.’

  Mark snorted and folded his arms across his chest.

  It seemed that the plans for the business meeting had changed, and much to Cathy’s dismay, the entire clinical team had gathered upstairs at the end of the day. Irene and Tracy, the practice nurses, sat together at the far end of the table, in deep discussion, and Linda, to whom Cathy had now taken an irrational dislike, was beside Brenda’s empty chair. Linda caught Cathy’s eye and grinned at her. As they had walked up the stairs together earlier that day, Cathy had imagined Linda tripping and face-planting on the sharp step edge. She imagined her nose bleeding and one of her front teeth dislodged. Perhaps it was the illness, but Cathy found such thoughts coming into her head with surprising frequency. Sometimes she felt guilty, but as she entered the coffee room with Linda intact beside her, she had smirked to herself.

  Cathy glanced at the clock. It was now gone six-thirty and already the top light in the conference room was on, a sign that autumn must be drawing in. Outside, the sun was dying. Positioned upstairs and at the back of the building, the room offered its occupants a strip of sky. Oranges and pinks decorated the clouds, which themselves ran like wispy vapours. Cathy wished that she could paint. She would have painted that sky with such enthusiasm, layering the lowest cloud with a forceful stroke, and then the next coating, an almost pure white, the tips, a flush turning to a deeper, more permanent glow. Below them, she could hear the back door being opened and then banged shut. Her eyes blinked inevitably with the jarring sound. Several car engines were started; the reception staff leaving at the end of another busy day.

  Cathy looked across at Mark, who was now drumming the table with his fingertips. Had he always been this bad? Cathy couldn’t remember it being so obvious; the impatience, the rudeness. Mark was only ten years her senior, and having worked together now for almost five years, Cathy thought that she knew her partner well. Perhaps her absence had only served to highlight his intolerance. Had she never gone off sick, she might not have noticed the gradual escalation in his ego. Strangely, as Mark had seemed to grow, her other partner James, who now sat beside her, had apparently wilted.

  She leaned in towards James. ‘Why does Brenda want us all here tonight?’ she asked quietly.

  Mark, although sitting opposite and knowing the question was not directed at him, answered before James could speak. ‘Your first week back, Cathy. Bit of a party,’ he snorted. ‘Not really,’ he laughed. ‘It’s a significant event analysis first and then the business meeting. Brenda’s been trying to tie us all down for ages, but the nurses have had meetings of their own at lunchtimes and there’s been CPR training going on. I think it needs doing before the re-evaluation next month. You tell her about the significant event, James. It was your one after all, wasn’t it? Bit of a blunder from what I heard. Getting on a bit, and making mistakes.’ This final caustic remark was made directly to Cathy in an exaggerated, hushed tone.

  James shook his head sadly but didn’t speak. It had become worse between them, Cathy thought, glancing from one to the other. Even before she had left, things had been tense, but the increased workload inflicted upon the two of them due to her absence had clearly intensified their dislike for one another.

  James was nearing retirement now. Cathy watched as he spun the ballpoint pen between his elongated fingers. His hair was now quite grey. His face had a weathered look, as did his clothes, which although perfectly smart and well-pressed, were worn and tired as their owner.

  Dr James Longmuir had done his time. He was one of the more respected general practitioners in the area, having worked both as a tra
iner and mentor to some of the junior practitioners over the years. Regularly, he was asked to attend dinners and meetings, holding close associations with the Royal College of General Practitioners. Cathy wondered if this annoyed Mark; to know that his partner was acknowledged as one of the ‘wise men’ in higher circles. She thought it probably did. Several times in the past, he had made scathing comments about James’s repeated absences to attend college conferences. Cathy saw things somewhat differently. She had only been in the job six months when James had lost his wife. She herself, had been taken on as a new partner following the retirement of her predecessor and had witnessed first-hand the strain that the bereavement had had on James, and the force with which he had thrown himself into his work to combat it. Had Maureen still been alive, Cathy wondered if James might have retired far sooner.

  James looked sideways at Cathy, perhaps sensing her thoughts upon him. ‘How’s it going then?’ he asked conspiratorially, ignoring Mark completely now.

  ‘Fine,’ she replied firmly. ‘I hope that you think I’ve been doing alright too. I know it’s early days …’

  She studied his face and saw nothing but affable geniality. ‘Good, good,’ he said, but Mark was getting impatient.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, where is bloody Brenda? Irene, go and round her up. We can’t be kept waiting like this.’

  The senior practice nurse hesitated, clearly unsure if she should pander to this offensive request.

  ‘Well?’ Mark challenged. ‘Above taking orders are you now? We pay your bloody wage.’