Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  ‘You’re shitting me?’

  Hemmings had been telling the truth in his letter to Sam.

  ‘No. They went out to the garden, to the new gazebo. I don’t know what they talked about, so don’t ask me. That’s what kicked off the problem with Patterson. He didn’t log her visit, something he should have mentioned.’

  ‘Did it cross your mind that a visit from the grandmother of Hemmings’ victim, a seven-year-old boy, is a very unlikely one?’

  ‘I’m not paid to think that much. That’s Doc Patterson’s job, and one he’s not been doing so well.’

  ‘So how was Hemmings after her visit?’

  ‘Bit screwed up.’

  ‘Thanks for the information, Toby. I have your mobile and your landline number. I hope if I call you in the future you’ll be willing to help me again? And that you’ll find time to let me know if anything interesting happens at Littleworth?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Toby said, with confidence.

  ‘More than think about, OK? Remember, your relationship with Hemmings, newspaper articles, the director ... and your job.’

  Jonathan waited until he’d reached his car and sat down before he allowed himself to relax. He wasn’t a ‘tough-guy’, not at all. That had been a hard one to pull off, but worth it. He wondered what Patterson could tell him, if he was home, if he would speak to him.

  But more than anything, Jonathan wondered what the fuck was going on between Margaret and Michael Hemmings.

  —

  Doctor Thomas Patterson was sitting outside in his garden. He couldn’t seem to do anything useful; his usual energy dissipated. Even the compulsion to visit Leanne had left him. His quiet suspension from the hospital by the NHS Trust had surprised him, but not unduly. Nothing, really, disturbed him too much.

  It had been Margaret Hemmings’ visit that had tipped the scales, on the back of the internal hearing that was already underway, gathering pace, and soon to explode. A different type of person would be giving themselves a hard time about this, but not Patterson; he knew more than the bureaucrats at the top, or the inept workers at the bottom. Patterson never saw himself as being wrong. Never.

  He was aware that he hadn’t defended himself as well as he could. But why should he? He felt himself beyond reproach, even as that reproach tugged at the coat tails of his career. The director had quickly, and obscenely, Patterson ruminated, installed Doctor Julian Cohen. A team player, the director had said in his email. Patterson disliked team players.

  With clear self-assurance, Patterson divorced himself from thoughts of another professional who would be far less effective in understanding the human mind than him, and instead gave thought to Margaret Hemmings’ visit.

  He remembered that ‘Windy’ Miller had mentioned her visit to him, asking for his ‘OK’. He had been distracted that day with demands from both Leanne and the principal of the university, and hadn’t properly listened. So Margaret Hemmings had visited. Michael Hemmings had complained, even though – Abbs had later told him – Hemmings had been looking forwards to the visit. The whole thing had escalated. Very disproportionately, thought Patterson.

  He stared at the old oak that sat a few metres from the edge of his patio. Michael Hemmings was complicated, as was his family situation, and Joe Dune’s death was in itself more complicated than it had been given credit for. His mind wandered towards the women in Hemmings’ life. Bridget and Margaret, the boy’s mother, Rachel. Hemmings definitely had a problem with her, and had done so for years.

  Patterson’s only hope was the private ‘off the record’ meeting he was having with the director imminently. The director would allow him to explain his argument. But Patterson trod on muddy ground; his reputation was in tatters at Littleworth. He was aware that any postulations he had formed about Hemmings would be ignored.

  Thomas Patterson was taking a sip of iced tea when a voice made him spill it down his clean work shirt. When he had dressed that morning, he’d forgotten he wasn’t going into Littleworth.

  ‘Really sorry – the side gate was open. No answer to the bell, and the car was here...’

  Patterson looked at the man standing at a polite distance, waiting to be invited onto his turf. Literally. Despite his overall predicament, he managed a smile at his own joke. The handsome man took it as a sign to come forth. Patterson decided the man wasn’t an axe murderer.

  ‘I take it you’re not selling anything?’ Patterson said.

  ‘No sir, I’m not. Jonathan Waters.’

  Patterson stopped rubbing the iced-tea stain. ‘Ah, the journalist I wouldn’t speak to on the phone? What makes you think I will talk to you now?’

  ‘A hope.’

  Patterson could see no reason why he shouldn’t ask the charismatic and well-spoken man to sit down and join him for an iced tea. He had nothing else planned that day. And on the phone, despite Jonathan Waters being a journalist, Patterson had liked the sound of him.

  ‘Take a seat, Jonathan.’

  ‘I hear that you’ve been asked to stay at home?’

  ‘For a time, yes,’ Patterson replied easily.

  ‘Big scandal, the kids. Lucky for Michael Hemmings though.’

  Patterson pulled the wet shirt from his skin. ‘It’ll be public knowledge soon enough, and you want your article, I take it?’

  Waters nodded. ‘I would, but I know I won’t get it here first, that’s the way it will be. I’m here on more personal business.’ The reporter moved closer. ‘Could you tell me anything about Margaret Hemmings, Joe Dune’s grandmother? And why she visited Michael Hemmings?’

  ‘What makes you think I will tell you anything?’

  ‘Nothing to lose?’ Jonathan replied, saying it kindly.

  ‘She visited. That’s all I know. I haven’t been into work recently, so I know very little.’ How did this man know about the visit? Nothing was sacred these days.

  ‘And what do you think about that? Margaret Hemmings going to visit the murderer of her grandson?’

  ‘I think nothing about it. Odd, yes, but now, it’s not my place to think.’

  ‘The director at Littleworth is keen to allow Hemmings to go to the step-down unit. They wouldn’t want any hiccups with visits from the grandmother of the victim. Is that why they’re trying to keep it quiet, along with everything else they’re attempting to hush up and cover over?’

  ‘The whole Hemmings scenario, as it’s worked its way out, is being used to promote rehabilitation at Littleworth and show its success,’ Patterson replied. ‘The last thing they want is me, or Margaret Hemmings, messing it up for them.’

  ‘What are your thoughts on Michael’s relationship with Margaret Hemmings?’

  ‘I have no thoughts.’ Patterson wondered how many crumbs he’d throw to the reporter. ‘I think much of Hemmings’ life was – is – shaped by the females within it.’

  ‘Are you aware that Margaret Hemmings looked after Michael when he was young?’

  Patterson nodded. ‘I guessed a little. We were moving forwards with that, before all this happened.’

  ‘What do you really think, Dr Patterson?’

  ‘My thoughts are still forming.’

  Jonathan found Patterson’s eyes. ‘Were you aware of the visits from young children to the unit?’

  ‘It was all authorised.’ Patterson wriggled in his seat, the wetness on his shirt forgotten. He avoided eye contact with the journalist.

  ‘A pretty fucked-up system, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t keep my eye on everything.’

  ‘You should keep your eye on something.’ Waters sighed loudly. ‘Seems to me you’ve had no idea what’s been going on in the place where you hold such a position of responsibility.’

  ‘What is it you want, Mr Waters?’ Finally, Patterson felt a hint of antipathy towards this confident man.

  ‘Do you think Michael Hemmings is capable of murder?’

  ‘He already has,’ Patterson felt a smirk spreading across his face, ‘comm
itted murder, that’s why he’s in there.’ Touché, you young whippersnapper.

  ‘I mean another murder, Doctor.’

  ‘I think Michael Hemmings is capable of many unsavoury actions, but not premeditated murder.’ Despite not spending enough time on his work these days, something had been brewing inside Patterson’s brain for months, and had been piqued by Toby Abbs’ remark, the bogus letter mentioned by Michael Hemmings from his mother, and the subsequent visit from Margaret Hemmings. He had ensured he’d made a note of his thoughts in his personal digital files. By talking to the reporter he was more than aware that he was effectively stirring up the pot, which he admitted, he quite fancied doing. Nothing to lose. He carried on, ‘I’m not entirely sure if Hemmings was solely responsible for Joe Dune’s murder.’

  ‘What exactly are you getting at?’

  ‘I’m really not sure yet. And to be perfectly honest, I don’t have any desire to share any of this with either you or my superiors. They’ll work it out eventually, but then it may well be too late. Let the system stew in its own incompetence. Too stupid, some of these people. Anyway, anything I say now won’t be listened to.’

  ‘I’ll listen.’

  ‘And you will submit an article to your newspaper? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I’m a friend of Rachel Dune’s. This is all personal, nothing to do with my newspaper. From what I can see of “the system”, although I think you’ve been negligent, you’re just a symptom of the real problem within what is a mental health rehabilitation system that beggars belief.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re really looking for, Mr Waters, but I suggest you look at Margaret Hemmings and Michael’s parents if you want a story.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry about what’s happened to you.’

  ‘My fault, Mr Waters, my fault. Boredom and routine is a terrible thing, it makes the best of us sit back and not take note.’

  ‘I won’t be able to let the “Littleworth” story go, but I’ll try to be fair with you.’

  Doctor Patterson got up and shook Jonathan’s hand. ‘And I think you will. Life can be disappointing sometimes, even for the best of us.’ His mind tripped back to when he was a young and keen psychology student. ‘Good luck, Mr Waters.’

  Waters nodded and made his way out of the side gate.

  Patterson went inside to change his shirt.

  —

  Jonathan jumped in his car, swigged back the dregs of cold coffee and headed home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mid-January 2005

  Warsaw, Poland

  Something held my eyelids down.

  I took a laboured breath through a parched mouth and the air ripped at my throat. As my brain hauled itself from unconsciousness, like tyres inflating, my muscles came to life, too.

  What had I done?

  Remembering where I was, who I was, and why I was here, I stopped myself from tearing at the light dressing that covered my eyes. My life flashed through a drugged mind, as I imagined it would do at the point of death.

  And then Joe’s image emerged inside my darkness. Had Joe’s short life replayed in front of him before his death? This thought caught me, taking away more of the oxygen that my lungs craved. Joe.

  Unable to see, my other senses were heightened. The nurses spoke in Polish and I understood nothing.

  What had I done? Joe, what have I done?

  The nurses giggled. I tried to talk, to interrupt their conversation, let them know I was there, awake, but no sound came from my mouth. My throat itched. I needed a drink.

  I needed my son.

  The thought of iced water made me try harder to form a voice. Finally, I croaked. ‘Please, please may I have a drink?’

  I heard the door open.

  ‘Ona budzi!’ A nurse shouted.

  ‘Malina! English please. I’ve told you. English, please.’

  It was Marek Gorski. He coughed, clearing his throat.

  ‘Doctor, I think she’s awake,’ Malina said in English.

  ‘She should be awake now. The anaesthetic was mild,’ he said gently.

  I heard him moving towards my bed; his shoes squeaked on the lino floor. He was a big man; not fat, but tall and heavily set. When I’d first met him, before I fell pregnant with Joe, I’d thought he looked nothing like a doctor, a cosmetic surgeon, at all. Thinking of my first meeting with Marek, of Sorojini Jain, about my life, brought my thoughts in a full circle back to Joe. I read somewhere that a human life moved in seven-year cycles. The image of Joe imprinted behind the bandage was vivid, brilliant; his blue eyes like small pools of ocean, his hair the colour of thick, golden honey. I squeezed my eyes shut beneath the gauze.

  Seven-year cycles.

  There was a light touch on my hand and I smelt a waft of aftershave.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Marek asked.

  ‘A little rough,’ I said, feeling the cool touch of his finger on my arm.

  ‘You’ll be fine. In a few days you’ll feel completely normal. This is all routine stuff.’

  Again, Marek’s touch, and it calmed me, yet I heard mild exasperation in his voice. Was he was already regretting his agreement? But I heard warmth in that voice, too. When I’d asked him to be my surgeon, he had asked very few questions, sensing I would go elsewhere if he said no. ‘I want to know as little as possible, Rachel,’ he’d said. I had only to remind him once that now Rachel wasn’t my name.

  I tried to move further up the bed and failed. I was too weak. My fists clenched; it was a misguided rage and I knew it.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Please can I have some water?’ It was difficult to talk. I’d never realised just how wide a mouth has to open to form coherent words.

  ‘Water? Of course ... water,’ he said, as he scraped the chair back.

  More movement; another trail of aftershave, then Marek placed a cold glass in my hand, pressing my fingers against its contours with his own.

  ‘Try to relax.’ His hand remained touching mine for a moment longer. ‘There’s a straw. You’ll find it difficult to sip.’ Then I felt him gently taking away the dressing from my eyes, but I kept them closed.

  I sucked the liquid, ice cold and heaven to my parched mouth, and immediately it loosened my vocal cords. The thought of heaven brought Joe back. I wanted my beautiful son to be there, but he was not. He was still waiting.

  Already my throat felt better, but a smile never made it to my lips. I said nothing.

  ‘Get some rest,’ Marek continued.

  I heard the sadness in his voice. ‘I will,’ I said.

  The squeak of lino told me he was moving away.

  ‘And, ladies, please converse in English while in this room, even if talking about personal matters ... which, of course, you shouldn’t be.’

  ‘We will,’ I heard Malina say. Malina was the nurse I’d met when I’d first arrived at the clinic. I liked her, and so did Marek.

  The door closed with an industrial, fire-door click.

  ‘Now is time for soup.’ I felt a warm, soft hand on my arm and a lighter scent. Malina.

  ‘I’m really not hungry,’ I managed to croak.

  ‘No matter, you need to eat. I lose job if do not.’ She was silent for a moment, but then carried on. ‘My little boy, Kacper, no eat after Dr Gorski fixed his ears ... I told him, you won’t feel better unless eat. It took me three days to get food inside him. Please do not take three days.’ She rubbed my arm and moved my feet back under the blanket, and then, efficiently, tucked it securely under the mattress. ‘Too tall for bed.’

  How old was her boy? Why did she have to mention her son? Malina had no idea, and why should she? I was a single, middle-aged, childless woman, whom Malina saw as a rich westerner, spending thousands on improving her looks. She must despise me. However, her tone was jovial and reassuring.

  ‘Six feet,’ I said, opening my mouth so Malina could feed me soup.

  ‘Good girl,’ the nurse said, her Polish accent somehow soporific.
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  My head lolled to one side and I smelt her sweet breath. Malina said something in Polish; I had no idea what, but it sounded lyrical. I felt myself falling into semi-consciousness, allowing only the most sublime of thoughts to pass through my mind. I imagined a strong wind blowing unwanted images away, as they might do to billowing grey clouds on a winter’s day – revealing the crisp blue of a morning sky. But, as always, it was an impossible task. Exhausted acceptance slithered in. There was no escaping. Against my will the image, as always, appeared.

  A tall man with long, muscular limbs. A bald head. Perhaps the hair had left its follicular home in protest, not wanting to belong to such a soul as Michael Hemmings. His face came into focus and then fragmented, and he became unrecognisable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  March 2005

  London

  Amanda McCarthy stepped off the plane at Heathrow and stood motionless. Her new British passport, together with the new photo, sat nestled in her pocket. Another passport – American – was sewn into the lining of her case.

  The courier had delivered them to Malina’s home.

  Thinking about both the fake passports and the drugs Marek had allowed her to bring, Amanda McCarthy surprised herself at how little she sweated passing through customs.

  I’d left the clinic in Warsaw in early February, leaving for Gdańsk. Malina’s parents had given me a room, and friendship, while I recovered from the surgery. I returned briefly to Warsaw and the clinic before leaving for England.

  I’d thought that being in the same home as Malina’s son would be bad for my mental wellbeing, but it had been fine; I enjoyed his company as much as her parents’. Kacper spoke good English. Joe only visited me once, the first night I spent in Malina’s parents’ home. Kacper had come up to my room with a sandwich and a drink and sat on the chair. I was perched on the bed. The smell of toffee popcorn was strong and I’d felt Joe’s calmness. He’d not visited me in the clinic and I knew he didn’t agree with my plan, but I kept telling him, ‘It’s all right, Joe.’

  A man with a protruding stomach bumped into me, muttering something I couldn’t quite catch. I hitched the flight bag higher on my shoulder and began moving along with the other passengers.