by Jane Shemilt
A log shifts and falls. There is silence in the room.
It is difficult to stay still. I stand up but my head is thumping and I still feel dizzy so I have to sit down again.
‘What happened next?’ Michael asks.
‘I heard about the operation, but I had to leave early the next day. I had to go to Rome for a conference –’
‘Why?’ I interrupt. ‘Would it have been impossible to stay behind and talk to the family? Explain why you didn’t do the operation, though you were the most senior surgeon?’
‘We have an obligation to let juniors do complex cases,’ Ted says sharply. ‘It’s a training hospital.’
‘What happened then?’ Michael has been listening quietly, now he glances at Ted quickly.
‘When I came back after a week, the group had got bigger,’ Ted replies. ‘There was hostility. People round her night and day as though they were guarding her.’
Of course they were. They would feel they had to stop anything else happening to her.
‘I tried to talk to them but it was as if I was speaking in a foreign language.’
Medical jargon is a foreign language, though, useful for keeping frightened people at bay.
‘Did you say sorry?’
Ted shifts irritably in his seat. ‘Of course not. That would have been admitting guilt.’
‘It would have been acknowledging their grief.’
But I was equally at fault. If I had really listened to Yoska I might have understood why he was there. If I had asked why he needed to carry his sister around, he might have told me what had happened and I could have explained how operations can go wrong by chance, not negligence, and then he might not have needed revenge. Had he been offering me a chance to redeem Ted? Perhaps all Yoska had wanted from me was time to be heard. The nightmare regrets begin to circle me, closer and closer.
Michael looks at us both, then he stands up. ‘Coffee?’ He goes into the kitchen.
Ted and I face each other. The room is dark now. I can only see his eyes, lit by the flames, staring at me.
I stare back. ‘Apart from it being a normal human thing to do, saying sorry means people have the chance to forgive you.’
‘What world do you live in, Jenny?’ He gives a small bitter laugh. ‘Saying sorry gets you sued.’
‘But they tried that anyway, didn’t they?’
Michael comes back with mugs of coffee. He gives one to Ted, then brushes my hand with his fingers as he hands me the other one; it pulls me to myself. Blaming Ted will slow us up. I see Naomi’s photographs glowing in the firelight. Wait for us, I tell her silently. We are trying to find you, we are getting closer. I sip my coffee and focus on Ted as he answers me.
‘Yes, they tried,’ Ted says, sighing sharply. ‘Fortunately it came to nothing. No negligence could be proved, so it never actually came to court.’
‘When was the operation?’ Michael asks; he has started writing in his notebook again and doesn’t look up.
‘In the summer,’ Ted says after a little pause. ‘I know that’s right because I used to talk to Naomi about it when we drove to the hospital together. She was doing work experience. She seemed so interested in the case. It was helpful to talk to her.’
‘When was the work experience?’ Michael looks at us in turn.
‘Early July,’ I answer immediately.
I know that for sure, because I still remember the disappointment. The boys were away on their expedition; Naomi’s exams were over, and she had her work experience to absorb her. I had looked forward to the beginning of July as a chance for Ted and I to do things together for once, the small things that other people do. Seeing a film or eating out. But that was when he started coming home really late almost every day. Huge amount of work, he had said. Colleagues on holiday. I had used the chance to catch up on adding to my appraisal documents, meeting a few friends, but it wasn’t what I had hoped for.
‘Did Naomi’s work experience take her on the ward?’ Michael asks Ted.
‘It was lab work mostly, but she liked the wards,’ Ted answers. ‘She talked to the patients and their families.’
‘So she was there at the same time as the little girl, and Yoska.’ Then quietly, almost to himself, Michael adds, ‘Yoska would have worked out who she was and he would have got to know her and what she did, in order to obtain ketamine. Lucrative revenge.’
Naomi would have fallen for the charm and the power, the excitement of someone different from the boys at school. She would have been thrilled with her new secret; putting on the make-up every day that I had thought was for the job, so the exotic stranger wouldn’t realize she was as young as she really was. Their developing relationship must have continued after she finished work experience, Yoska carefully gaining her trust; even while she was still with James, his hold on her must have been gradually increasing.
‘Who was the ward sister at the time?’ Michael looks at Ted.
‘Beth,’ Ted says quietly. He looks away from me, out of the window, though it’s too dark to see anything. ‘Beth Watson.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Beth Watson. There was a fire at her flat on the night of November the nineteenth.’ Michael pauses for a moment and glances at me; he knows that was the last time I saw Naomi, so hearing the date is like a knife turning in a wound. Then his voice continues slowly: ‘I was telling Jenny earlier about the disturbance in the hospital. Traveller kids from Yoska’s family.’ He glances at me again, then carries on: ‘We always thought the fire in Miss Watson’s flat was a coincidence.’
I watch Michael as he gets up from his chair and stands in front of the window. Behind him the glow of the firelight is reflected in the pane. From the outside it will look as if we are a warm and happy group, family and friends together.
‘However, I now think that Yoska may have worked out the relationship between Ted and Miss Watson.’
All he needed to do was watch them together. Like I am sure Naomi did. Yoska would have picked it up quickly; Naomi might have told him anyway.
‘I think it’s possible the travellers deliberately set fire to Miss Watson’s flat, knowing she would call Ted,’ Michael says quietly.
Ted had stood in the hall that night and smelt of burning. I look at him briefly; his face is dark with guilt.
‘It would have been in Yoska’s interest to make sure Ted was later than usual going home, giving him more time to escape with Naomi. They would have hoped Ted’s being late would delay the alarm being raised.’
Michael looks at both of us in turn. ‘The real target that night was Naomi.’
Target. Why did he have to use that word? It makes me think of bullets thudding into a circle in paper, a circle that represents a heart, her beating heart.
‘There’s something else …’ A pause, then Michael says slowly, almost reluctantly, ‘We already know Ed exchanged the drugs he took from Jenny’s bag for ketamine. It seems that as part of his revenge against Ted, it was Yoska who made it his business to give Ed the ketamine in exchange for those drugs.’
We both stare at Michael in disbelief. Ed as well?
Ted gets to his feet. ‘That’s not possible. He wouldn’t have ever met Ed –’
‘I went to see Ed yesterday,’ Michael interrupts, speaking quickly. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I felt there was no time to lose. I took the photo with me. He recognized Yoska as the man who supplied him with ketamine. He thought he was very generous; you see, Yoska had continued to supply him with ketamine long after Ed had run out of the drugs he stole from Jenny. Ed had nothing to exchange, but that didn’t seem to bother Yoska.’
I see Ted struggling to take it in, pacing backwards and forwards in the room. Then he turns to face Michael.
‘He couldn’t have known who Ed was – how on earth could he have found him? Where?’
‘It would have been simple for Yoska to track Ed down from what Naomi would have told him about her family,’ Michael replies with quiet certainty. ‘His name would have
been enough. Any dealer knows where to find potential clients: the school gates, the pub, clubs. Once the contact was made, he would have carefully manipulated Ed to obtain the drugs and, in return, supply ketamine to him. And continue to supply it.’
A man in a club. Ed’s words come back to me.
Ted continues to pace back and forth, hands balled in his pockets. ‘Why didn’t Ed tell us? He must have known about Yoska and Naomi, so why the hell didn’t he say something after she disappeared?’
‘For the simple reason he didn’t know.’ Michael’s voice is very definite. ‘Ed had absolutely no idea about the relationship; Naomi obviously kept it completely secret. Yoska wouldn’t have dreamt of telling Ed he was involved with his sister. Wouldn’t serve his purpose at all.’
His purpose, of course, being to strike at the heart of our family, inflicting all the damage he could in vengeance for his sister.
Michael tells us that the search will move forward quickly now, with the new information. He leaves later; he has work early the next day. He brushes my cheek with his lips as he goes out of the door. Ted is waiting at the foot of the stairs.
‘How can you do this with so much at stake?’
‘Do what?’ I try to push past him. ‘I’m exhausted, Ted, and I need to sleep. We’ll talk later.’
‘Have an affair if you want. Who am I to criticize?’ But his voice begins to rise. ‘He’s a police officer. It’s completely unethical.’
‘How can you even think about this now?’ I take in his flushed skin, his eyes bright with fury. ‘Michael has helped more than you could know –’
Ted gives a contemptuous snort. ‘Of course he has. Men like that seek out women who are vulnerable; he’s probably done this before.’
He’s jealous. I turn away without answering and climb the stairs slowly, sensing him watch me as I go. Now he knows what it feels like, but I’m too tired, too heartsick to feel any satisfaction.
Sleep doesn’t come. Yoska set a trap for us. He caught both Ed and Naomi. Does Beth know that the night she called Ted was the night Naomi disappeared? I wonder if she feels guilty. If Ted had come home as normal the dynamics of the evening might have been different. I would have woken sooner; we might have called the police earlier.
I found Beth’s scarf once. Giving up on sleep, I go downstairs to get my sketchbook. I make a cup of tea and, sitting at the table in the quiet kitchen, I find the next blank page and draw a strip of silk, as thin and twisted as the flames in the grate.
BRISTOL 2009
TWELVE DAYS AFTER
The length of unfamiliar crimson curled itself loosely round the old CDs in the glove compartment. I had opened it looking for sweets for Ed to suck because he felt carsick. As I bent closely over the open compartment, the scarf seemed to glow in the dark space: red for danger. A faint scent of lavender rose towards me.
‘Any sweets?’ Ted asked.
The lid shut with a metallic click. Everything in his warm, leather-scented car shut smoothly, edge to edge. The van I had seen in the wood two days before had no doors.
‘No.’ I didn’t turn to look at him as I replied. Someone had taken her away in that van. I needed Ted. We had more chance of finding her together. I had to put everything else out of my mind. What had happened with Beth was behind us now. The scarf didn’t matter.
‘We can stop at the next service station.’ Ted looked into his driving mirror at Ed, behind him. ‘You managing, Ed?’
I twisted round to look at Ed. His face was grey, pressed into the angle between the back of the seat and the window. His eyes were closed and he didn’t answer. He was pretending to sleep; perhaps he really was asleep. I edged the window down. Ted preferred air conditioning but Ed could do with fresh air.
I sat back and watched Ted’s hands on the wheel. The fingernails were clean and close-cut, even the thick fair hair on the back of his hands looked neatly brushed. His face in profile was calm, even faintly content. How could that be? It took all my focus not to scream out loud and tear the skin off my face and arms.
When I’d got home the night before, I couldn’t get that little wood out of my mind. The place had been sinister. Now my mind began to go down dark corridors, seeing Naomi being pulled out of the car, her terrified eyes, hands over her mouth muffling her calls for me, for Ted. The flames leaping, terrifying her. My own hands started to tremble. I pushed them under my thighs.
The quietness in Ted’s face calmed me in spite of myself. He dealt in facts; he liked things that made sense. He was good at detail. I was glad of him after Michael had dropped me off. He had taken my sodden raincoat, washed my muddy boots, fed the dog. He told me that while Ed was sleeping he had made a next-day appointment for us to see around a rehabilitation centre in Croydon that a colleague had recommended. He had taken the day off.
‘We have to stop this now, Jenny. He needs help very quickly. The sooner the better. Being at home is terrible for him, you can see that.’
Of course I knew Ed needed help. I was the one who had bargained with him for his cooperation, but it had all been organized so quickly. I had hardly had time to get used to it.
‘What do you want us to do about school?’ Ted asked, his eyes on the road.
I turned to the back seat again. Ed was watching the road, his eyes flicking rhythmically backwards as the telegraph poles went by. He didn’t answer, but his cheeks were tinged with pink, he looked better.
‘Let’s not worry about school,’ I said, looking at Ed. ‘We’ll sort it all out. It doesn’t matter.’
Ed’s eyes flicked to mine and away. He didn’t believe me but it was true. We had lost one child; we had to keep Ed safe. Nothing else was important.
The outposts of London began to appear. Bridges, a power station, a biscuit factory. Ted stopped at a service station, where we bought sandwiches and I checked Ed’s temperature; it showed a small spike. The bandage round the crook of his arm had a wet yellow patch in the centre. I gave him his midday antibiotics and more paracetamol. As Ted filled the car with petrol, I thought we probably looked like a normal family on an outing, taking our son to university perhaps. No one would guess that this calm-looking, handsome man in fit middle age with fair hair and bright-blue eyes had lost a daughter in the last two weeks, or that the thin, dark-haired woman sitting in the front seat of his car was holding on to her sanity with both hands. If they had glimpsed Ed in the back of the car they might have thought he looked like any teenager.
The centre was set back in its green space, on a quiet back street of Croydon, an old Victorian building with wide windows and a Gothic front door.
Ted parked on the gravel in front of the main house. A barefoot boy with a sweet smile answered the door. The tight knot inside my chest loosened just a little.
‘Hi there.’ The voice had a soft Irish lilt, welcoming, gentle.
‘Thanks, Jake. I’ll take it from here.’ A small middle-aged man with light-coloured eyes appeared behind Jake, and opened the door wider; he had grey hair in a long ponytail and a T-shirt stretched over freckled biceps. The boy called Jake smiled at Ed, and walked off slowly, looking back over his shoulder.
‘Come in. You must be Ed. I’m Finac.’
We followed Ed into the hall and stood, uncertain, rumpled and cold. Ed yawned repeatedly. Finac’s glance took us in, rapid, dismissive. The parents, his eyes said: the problem.
He shook hands with us, unsmilingly. ‘Follow me.’
He led us to a small room, where the thick smell of cigarettes hung above shabby furniture. Chairs with worn greasy patches were arranged in careful groups. Outside, large leafless trees stood around a lawn.
‘Wait here. I’ll get Mrs Chibanda.’
After a few moments a woman walked in, wearing bright colours in softly draped clothes. Her dark skin was smoothly stretched over the bones of her face. She smiled as she shook hands; she smelt faintly of roses. Everything about her made me feel better.
‘I’m Gertrude Chibanda, the manage
r. The buck stops with me.’ She leant forward, smiling. Her teeth were perfect. ‘Finac here will be Ed’s co-worker if you all decide this is where Ed should be.’
Finac glanced at us briefly and nodded.
‘If you’re okay with this I’ll talk to Ed on his own while Finac shows you round and then we can talk while Ed sees where he might be staying if he agrees to come …’
We followed Finac down narrow passageways and into quiet rooms. There was a bleak canteen and a music room with peeling posters of Jimi Hendrix on the wall, a new drum kit and guitars propped against the wall. We weren’t allowed in the bedrooms.
Ed was finishing a large mug of coffee when we got back; he disappeared quickly with Finac. Gertrude looked at me, sorrow printed on her face.
‘I’m sorry for what’s been happening in your family. I lost a son to illness some years ago.’ There was a little pause. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again simply.
I looked at her. ‘I’m sorry about your son. I can’t imagine what that must feel like; but Naomi’s not dead. She’s just … just …’ I couldn’t continue. Conscious of Gertrude’s stricken face and Ted’s worried one, I turned to the window. The green blurred and swam as the tears poured down my face. Gertrude, still standing close, held out a folded lawn hanky. It smelt of roses as well.
Two hours later, all the arrangements had been made. Finac had told us about the twelve-step programme for recovering addicts and how it would work; Ed had decided to stay for a few days on a trial basis. I spoke to the nurse on site about his dressings. The doctor would be coming in that afternoon and he could get more antibiotics then. We could come up with his stuff in a few days and in the meantime I would speak to the school. Ed was silent before we left. He wouldn’t look at us, and we left him sitting on his bed, staring into space.
‘I like it,’ Ted said on the journey home. ‘I liked that woman, but not Finac. What is it about these people who want to make everything the parents’ fault, as though we are the enemy?’