The Simple Death

by Michael Duffy

  She’d been a model prisoner, excellent chance of rehabilitation, and was let out after ten months. In those days the prisons of New South Wales were bursting at the seams.

  After that, she got a job as an education bureaucrat because they weren’t hiring ex-junkies as teachers. She never touched smack again, and never experienced life as intensely again either. It was not that she was depressed, in the way she’d sometimes been at university, but her emotions seemed to exist in a narrow band, without highs or lows. She was like one of those sad people who say school was the happiest time of their life, except with her it wasn’t school. And it hadn’t been happiness, not exactly.

  There were plenty of men. Lewis, of course, and Andrew, less intense but they lived together for years. He’d left three years ago because he’d wanted children and she wasn’t ready. She remembers their final argument, when she said, ‘I just don’t want kids yet. What part of that don’t you understand?’

  ‘I guess,’ he said, ‘it’s the word yet.’

  So here she is, almost forty and with no one. Sometimes you panic, but it goes away. Then it comes back.

  In other ways her life is good, an executive position in the Department of Education, responsible for the history syllabus development and implementation. For the past twelve months she’s been on unpaid leave: the public service is helpful that way. Returning to work next week with a strong chance of promotion to look forward to. Thank God for work.

  Now she tries to pay attention to the service, listens to the vicar describing her mother in glowing terms. Elizabeth was never religious until six months ago, when Reverend Roberts started calling. A tall, thin man who seemed nervous around her.

  ‘And what about you, Leila?’ he said one day, clearing his throat. ‘Are you religious?’

  ‘I’m more a long, withdrawing roar type,’ she said, throwing a bit of poetry at him.

  He took it on the chin, looked around, said, ‘I love these old houses.’

  Leila knew her mother’s effort to befriend the man had nothing to do with any religious impulse, it was so her funeral would be done by someone who’d known her. The event started to loom large in their conversation, Elizabeth taking an interest in hymns and spending time on the phone with people she hadn’t talked with in years, inviting them to the house for afternoon teas Leila was expected to cater for. You had to respect her mother’s determination, but there was a lot of baking involved.

  ‘You should get her to stop,’ Ben said one day, surprised when he turned up unexpectedly and found Elizabeth out of bed and pouring coffee for a small crowd of matrons. ‘It’s putting a frightful strain on her. And you.’

  ‘I can manage,’ Leila said.

  His face creased in concern. ‘Carers always say that, but it’s not always true. I can see what this is doing to you.’

  ‘Don’t I look good?’

  ‘You always look good. But you’re under a lot of pressure, you need to keep your strength up.’

  ‘For the end, you mean?’

  He smiled: he liked that she was tough about these things, or at least he gave the impression he did. ‘I see carers who use up every last ounce of strength, hanging on until their loved one dies. Then there’s nothing left to help them grieve, and they break down.’

  She shrugged politely; she was not like other people.

  Towards the end, Elizabeth’s bones became brittle like chalk and she could hardly walk, no longer able to bear the touch of another human being because of the pain and the fear a hug might break a rib. The only thing that kept her going was a plan she’d come up with on account of another doctor, Stuart Emery. Her oldest friend, Tami Goddard, had introduced her to Stuart. Really, he’d changed everything. Stuart was English, fair hair and round face, glasses and smooth skin, worked as a GP in Eastwood. Tami started bringing him around, and Elizabeth made it clear to Leila that Stuart and Ben were not to meet.

  ‘An incident in the past,’ she said vaguely. ‘They can’t stand each other.’

  Before long there was a group of regular visitors whom Leila had not met before. A few weeks later, Elizabeth gravely informed her she had decided to take her own life. Some of her new friends were members of a voluntary euthanasia society, and were providing her with support.

  Leila’s first reaction was not shock but surprise: this was radical, and Elizabeth had never been a radical. She thought about this a lot in the next few weeks. The pain must be extraordinary, to have led her mother to this point. But then, Leila had seen how she’d been affected, and it made sense that she would want not just to cope with the pain but to fight it. After a while it occurred to Leila that, in the circumstances, suicide might be considered a sort of victory.

  It was a thought she rejected instinctively. But you had to wonder if this was merely the approved view kicking in, the authorised position. Leila was a public official and read the papers, she knew how you were supposed to feel about these things. Elizabeth and she had many conversations about it, and Leila started to wonder if the way you were supposed to feel was a little too convenient.

  As she watched Elizabeth suffer terribly, with Ben and the people from the palliative care service unable to relieve much of her pain, the disconnection between this reality and the law began to press on her. It was not just about pain: her mother had lost much of her mobility, and her bodily functions were breaking down. Leila had read somewhere that the Catholic archbishop, Patrick Walsh, had said about voluntary euthanasia that the dying deserved not death but love. But from her perspective, mopping up her mother’s shit, living with the stink and all the hurt of what was happening to her, love did not have much to do with it. Love does not conquer all. People who thought it could, people like Archbishop Walsh, were romantics. Or ideologues.

  One day Elizabeth, grown weary of these conversations, said, ‘You don’t have to agree with me, dear. I just want you to help me.’

  It was well put, and Leila accepted what she had to do. Time was running out. In the universities and in the opinion pages, debate went on. But in life, with pain filling the big house, the smells drifting through the long days, decisions had to be made. She told her mother she would help.

  Elizabeth looked at her and said, ‘Thank you, dear. Maybe things have worked out after all, don’t you think?’

  Leila smiled tightly. Her mother had always had the ability to confuse her own interests with those of the cosmos. But that was not the point. The time had come when she could stop thinking and turn her attention to practical arrangements.

  One of Elizabeth’s new friends was planning to go to Mexico to buy some Nembutal, a barbiturate that Stuart Emery said was the best way of killing yourself. Leila looked into it on the internet, read books, found he was right. The arrangement was that Elizabeth would pay for the trip, and the friend would bring back an extra bottle for her. But the friend died before she could travel, so Elizabeth asked Leila to go.

  And she had.

  After the service, Leila stands in the bright sunshine accepting condolences. It is ridiculously hot and everyone is uncomfortable, and this seems appropriate for her mother’s funeral. Lewis and Wendy are among the first to approach her, Lewis having to get back to work.

  ‘Nice church,’ he says, hands on hips, squinting up at the brick and slate bulk above them.

  He is still good-looking, a big man with strong limbs, a bit of weight around the middle but not too much. His suit with the Prince of Wales pattern is elegant. For a moment she is carried away.

  ‘The sea of faith,’ she says, quoting the poem they used to recite to each other, ‘was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore—’

  ‘Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled,’ says Wendy.

  Leila looks at Wendy, smiles and hugs her. Wendy has that thin pale skin that often goes with red hair and doesn’t age well. Lately
Leila always wants to get her out of the sun.

  ‘Sorry we have to rush,’ Lewis says. ‘I’ve got my interview this afternoon.’ He smiles, and when Leila says nothing adds, ‘For the head’s job.’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I did mine on Monday.’

  ‘Leila!’ He seems surprised. ‘That’s very resilient of you.’

  Well, she thinks as she waves them off and prepares to hug someone else, life goes on.

  Some of the members of the group are there, but not Stuart, whose support for voluntary euthanasia is too well known. Ben is approaching, looking distinguished in a dark suit although his tie has too much red in it for the occasion. She can tell he desperately wants to hug her, take her away somewhere and provide consolation. To be honest she would like that, to go back to his house and fuck each other to exhaustion. But it is not going to happen.

  ‘I have to get back,’ he says.

  Yesterday he raised the possibility of cancelling today’s surgery to be with her, was disappointed when she told him not to be ridiculous. She has to let him out of her life more gently.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done. I’m so very grateful.’

  ‘I’m glad I could help,’ he says, seeking to lay the lightest of burdens on her. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘My feelings are very confused at the moment. Let me call you.’

  He risks a hand on her arm. ‘You loved her very much, didn’t you?’

  She tries not to flinch. All that matters now is the cremation. There can be no autopsy after that. She hates having to think like a criminal still, but it is almost over.

  ‘Thank you again,’ she says, pressing his hand, and then he is gone, almost pushed out of the way by the jostling of others behind him in the queue. Leila wonders if old people are always so stimulated by the funeral of someone younger than themselves.

  Still, it is a good crowd. Elizabeth would have been pleased.

  Eleven

  The main building of St Thomas’ was a massive Victorian pile. Like an unnecessary argument, its elaborate facade reared above the simple propositions of terrace houses that ran up and down the surrounding hills. The three detectives were met in the large lobby by David Saunders. The acting CEO was a tall man somewhere around sixty, his big face handsome and lined. He was wearing pinstripe trousers but no coat, as though the whole hospital was his office. There was an easy authority to his manner, and Troy sensed this was based on solid foundations: here was someone used to making decisions and keeping secrets. His normal job was chief financial officer, and McIver had explained yesterday this covered a lot more ground than in most organisations. Troy wasn’t surprised McIver should know this: he’d once said he didn’t know everything about Sydney, but usually he knew who to ask.

  After the introductions, McIver announced the discovery of Mark Pearson’s body. Saunders winced and looked away briefly.

  ‘Tragic,’ he said. ‘Does Emily know?’

  ‘I’ve got someone calling on her,’ said McIver.

  ‘He was so young. You just . . .’ He made the sign of the cross, just a flick of fingers over chest. ‘Anything more on the pethidine?’

  He seemed to have absorbed the fact of Pearson’s death quickly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I hear you had a witness, a possible witness, but he got away?’

  McIver nodded. Saunders was staring at him, not exactly accusing but wanting to make it clear he knew there’d been a stuff-up. Wanting to see how Mac would react. After a few seconds of this he said, ‘Let’s talk in my office.’

  The bright white corridors were busy with people, doctors and other staff with stethoscopes and security passes hanging off their clothing at different points, members of the public moving more slowly and clasping bags, magazines and flowers. As they walked, Saunders made small talk, explained that he’d been in the job fifteen years, had seen the hospital double in size.

  ‘Where do you get the space?’ Troy said, thinking about the location of the hospice, almost a kilometre away.

  ‘Upwards and outwards. People leave us money, we have a secret buying program in the neighbourhood. The local real estate agents know, of course. It takes a certain guile, but we don’t have much choice.’ He smiled at Troy, as though to imply he had no secrets from the detectives.

  Saunders’ office was big and there were three seating options: a large desk with chairs in front; a table with eight chairs; and a sofa and two armchairs grouped around a rug. He pointed to the table and his secretary took orders for coffee. When they were seated, McIver explained the state of the investigation and asked Saunders to tell them about Mark Pearson’s job. Conti took out a digital recorder and turned it on.

  Saunders described how the nun who’d run the hospital for decades had retired two years ago. Her replacement, Alan Bellamy, was not a member of a religious order. He wasn’t even a Catholic.

  ‘That decision marked an important turning point for St Thomas’,’ he said, his eyes switching between the detectives as he spoke. ‘The board was sending a clear signal that times had changed. Most of those who ran the place were Catholics who’d known each other, been here a long time. There was a perception by some that they were too close.’

  Troy wondered what any of this had to do with Mark Pearson.

  ‘You’re a Catholic yourself?’ said McIver.

  ‘That’s right.’

  One of Bellamy’s initiatives had been to create the position of hospital ombudsman, an independent person to consider complaints from patients and their families.

  ‘It’s a relatively new idea for Australia, an ombudsman in a hospital,’ Saunders said, crossing his legs and staring at the cloth of his trousers. ‘Complaints are a big thing with us; New South Wales is supposed to be the most litigious place in the world for suing hospitals, even worse than America. So we’ve always had people dealing with that sort of thing—naturally we want to sort it out before it gets to court, if possible.’

  ‘Doesn’t the Health Care Complaints Commission deal with serious complaints?’ said Conti.

  ‘Usually we’re their first port of call, and Bellamy thought we could do better. He thought if the position was more high profile, that was good for everyone, and if it was more independent, people might have more confidence. The HCCC wasn’t too happy but Bellamy got the minister’s approval.’

  ‘So did Mark Pearson make a lot of enemies?’ McIver said cheerfully.

  Saunders recrossed his legs so one ankle rested on the knee of the other leg, and transferred his attention to his shoe.

  He said, ‘The idea is wonderful in theory. It tells the public we care, and it keeps the staff on their toes. But the hospital performs millions of procedures every year, so the potential for dissatisfaction is considerable.’ He shrugged and looked at McIver. ‘To cut a long story short, the new position has been overwhelmed by the volume of complaints.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Mark started nine months ago, spent three months setting up processes and systems, recruiting a secretary and three investigators, went live six months ago. Basically he advertised for complaints. He’s received three hundred and eighty-two so far. It’s been a popular initiative, at least with the public. The office has been swamped.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve asked Mark’s deputy, Paula Williams, to join us in a few minutes. She’s been talking to Sergeant Rostov, going through the complaints and identifying anyone we think might bear Mark a grudge. There’s one in particular she mentioned to me last night, a man called Valdez.’ He looked at the door and tapped his left shoe impatiently.

  Troy said, ‘How many complaints have been dealt with so far?’

  ‘Two hundred and twenty. They were mainly the easy ones, including over eighty that were rejected out of hand because they don’t fit t
he guidelines.’

  ‘So there are many people who might be angry with the ombudsman?’

  ‘Yep. As far as unhappy patients are concerned, you might say Mark was the hospital’s public face.’

  ‘Wow,’ said McIver.

  Saunders grimaced. ‘It’s been getting worse. It was thought the public would only use the ombudsman for serious matters. Either that was wrong, or their idea of what’s serious is different to ours. Now, every week that goes by, the backlog grows.’

  Conti said, ‘So you need more staff?’

  ‘It’s not going to happen. Mark was under pressure to deal with the complaints more quickly.’

  ‘From you?’ said McIver.

  ‘From Bellamy. He’s not happy.’

  Saunders was looking at McIver only now, his eyes a little wide, no trace of a smile. Maybe a hint of triumph. Troy wondered if he’d applied for the CEO job himself.

  He said, ‘How was Mark coping?’

  ‘The media haven’t helped. A Current Affair did a segment last month, some of the rejected complainants went to them. Cheryl Hurst has been onto it.’ He winced. ‘Those people can rip your heart out.’ Cheryl Hurst was a new star of the city’s often-savage talkback radio culture.

  ‘You reckon Mark was depressed?’

  Saunders considered this. ‘He seemed all right to me. It’s one of the reasons he was hired, he was very mature. Last week he was as keen as ever.’

  ‘Keen?’ said McIver.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked at his trousers and said bleakly, ‘The enthusiasm of youth was undiminished.’

  There was a knock on the door, which was opened by a stocky woman in her forties. She had short blonde hair and was wearing a brown suit that didn’t fit very well. She was clasping a folder to her chest.

  ‘Paula Williams,’ said Saunders, ‘doing Mark’s job for the moment.’

  She smiled and shook hands; it was a good smile, but it disappeared when Saunders told her about the discovery of Pearson’s body. She pulled out a handkerchief and went to work on her face while the detectives watched with discreet curiosity.