The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  It had been years since Christmas provided any kind of good memories or any memories at all really. Sophie wasn’t bitter though. She had her turkey entrée and Christmas movies shown on the telly all month so she had already reached her limit of holiday frivolity anyway, still sometimes she felt as if she was missing out on something everyone else understood, a secret no one let her in on.

  A few weeks, at least, had passed since the incident at the train station. Cabin fever was settling in, she hadn’t been out other than a few trips to the market on the corner, but she returned to the window at any siren or strange noise, waiting for the police to arrive, but they never did. Painting supplies were dwindling after she relentlessly painted canvas after canvas to keep busy between spells of staring out the window. The library books were read and past due.

  Occasionally, the handsome man popped into her mind, overshadowed by John Brinkman’s red face and panting, no better to think about the other man now, the poison had done its trick, money already deposited.

  She wondered if the man who had given aid suspected and couldn’t or wouldn’t tell. If she had any idea where he was she could watch him, see what he was doing for her own peace of mind but she didn’t. There was a hospital close to where he found her, it would be logical that he worked there but something held her back, fear she supposed. The ordeal best left alone as long as no one came looking for her.

  Her mind, however, put him in different contexts that she never actually saw him in. She dreamt of him at a hospital, maybe because he performed CPR, she reasoned but a restaurant also, maybe because he has to eat being human and all. The subconscious blends things together like a giant melting pot of information and memories. The temptation to go back to that station was almost overwhelming.

  She had to admit, she was fascinated by him. Did she find him attractive? She wasn’t sure what that felt like anyway. In fact, now that she thought about it, she hadn’t felt that way about a man ever. Not since school and her first crush on, she didn’t even remember his name now, but he was a boy not a man and he had eyes for her best friend and Sophie’s life, well, took a turn anyway.

  It was time to get back to work. The envelope had sat unopened for a week and the moment she decided to open it, the snow now came down wet and heavy. It accumulated quickly, therefore she left it unopened and the man would be able to spend time with his family for Christmas, lucky him, she thought.

  Her breath fogged the windows, blocking her own view of the outside; the snow softened the hard edges of the city. Steam drifted silently into the cold night, filling the skyline. Sophie sighed and opened the envelope, taking out only the photo, leaving the other contents until she was ready. This was the beginning of the ritual. The first envelope she ever received was shrouded in mystery, its contents made her nervous and excited.

  Maybe, in its own way, that was the last gift she received. She didn’t know where they came from. In the matter of survival, it became unimportant. Then it became second nature but now, she shook her head clearing her thoughts. First, to familiarize herself with the face, so when it was time, she could recognize him without a reference, her memory was excellent so one look was generally all it took.

  The photo of the next victim stared back at her. His cheesy smile and white teeth flashed. There was something familiar about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  She had no interest in looking at them anymore than she had to but this man reminded her a little too much of …... She tapped her fingers trying to figure it out, and then suddenly it hit her, she cringed from the memory. He reminded her of Declan.

  Declan, the memory of him vexed her. She hadn’t thought about him in a long time. The dark hair, beady eyes, and smirk on the face of this man were almost exactly the same as Declan’s. Maybe that’s why he seemed familiar to her.

  She should have put the photo back in the envelope and went out for paints before the shops closed but her mind pondered again. Picking up a felt tip pen she started shading parts of his face and coloured in the eyes to make them darker, the nose narrower, and the eyebrows thicker. Yes, he was somewhat similar but no matter how much ink she added to the portrait, it wasn’t as much of a likeness as she thought. Declan, she hated him. She drew two pointed triangles on his head and snorted, amusing herself then looking out the window again.

  She speculated if he was the same as Declan or worse. Must be for someone to pay a lot of money to make sure he didn’t make it home one day, after the poison worked on him. Would that person be disappointed to see him the next day because the weather wasn’t cooperating or there was too much light or too many security cameras? Sometimes it could take days or weeks for an opportunity to present itself.

  She liked to think they were all like Declan; she liked to think that she was possibly impeding the abuse in the prey’s household. If they had heart attacks and died did that mean someone else was saved, suffering and pain eliminated? It only took one bastard to ruin how many lives? Did he cheat on his wife, did he beat her or did he abuse his children?

  It really was none of her business and she never knew anyway. Funny, she never allowed those kinds of thoughts before to penetrate her mind; the mortal and moral thoughts associated with what she did. Not until she saw John Brinkman’s dead face, or the face of the saviour’s, his pale eyes and chiselled features, or the first time that she actually almost got caught. It made her question her own mortality but she couldn’t be afraid of it in her line of work.

  Sophie shook her head, trying to clear it. She couldn’t think any more about Declan, this bastard, or John, there’s no point. All she knew was the package would show up and she had a job to do. The only job she was any good at. There had never been an incident before, so close to being found out.

  Hope you’re enjoying your holiday sir, snow gives you a reprieve. She was hoping Declan choked on his Christmas pudding, and the man on the train, she wished …. Why did she wish anything about him? She had to admire the fact that he at least tried to save John on the train that night even though she knew it was hopeless. Her own thoughts of him could not be kept at bay yet she hoped he forgot about her.

  Rolling the needle between her thumb and index finger, she slid the sheath off and quickly and swiftly punctured the orange causing it to roll, caught it and tried again, over and over. It wasn’t working for her. Restlessness prevented the concentration it took to use the correct force and pressure to quickly and cleanly get the needle in and out without it moving.

  The poison is her only friend, providing for her, enabling her to survive. It shows up, does what it’s supposed to do and a deposit into her account appeared from an anonymous source. An endowment she doesn’t question, sometimes its hundreds, sometimes its thousands, it didn’t matter how much, it was better than zero. And she was all too familiar with zero.

  The top of the vial took little effort to remove and dipping the needle in, Sophie shook off the excess and put the sheath back on. When the snow melts I’ll be coming for you, she thought, looking at the photo one last time and sliding it back into the package.

  The smell of the orange was pungent. Walking into the kitchenette, she flipped the switch for the kettle and proceeded to prepare a cup of tea. Stomach growling, she unconsciously peeled the orange waiting for the water to boil. The mist of the broken peel sprayed across her hands, making them sticky. She pulled the sections apart, licking the juice off of one absent mindedly. How much poison was left on the needle? The skin and the blood of the victim for whose life it had taken still on it and now deeply embedded inside the orange.

  The kettle switched off, signalling it had boiled and she opened the rubbish bin and threw the contents of the orange into it on top of take away containers, and reached for a yogurt out of the tiny little fridge instead. Ugh, she didn’t even like oranges, just the juice and once the nectar was emptied the orange itself no longer had any appeal.

  Turning off the lights, the room was brightened only by the street ligh
ts reflecting on the snow. She yawned and threw the empty container in the bin and abandoned the tea for bed, nothing else to do. Happy Christmas Sophie and off to bed she went. She was drained, she didn’t’ know how or why. Maybe being cooped up caused the energy to be wasted and it just dissipated like her thoughts.

  Taking off her trousers, she lay in the dark in her tee shirt, no matter how cold it was, her legs had to be free to sleep. Why buy something fancy to sleep in, she never figured out why people loved their pajamas and nighties so much. Did the handsome man wear pajamas to bed? Or did he sleep in nothing at all? With that random thought, that made her blush, she drifted off to sleep with the toll of the midnight bells around the city, signalling Christmas had arrived and she was asleep before the last chime rung.

  ***

  Oliver walked into the hospital’s casualty; offering to work on holidays so that those who managed to have families could be with theirs. While in the locker room, he wondered how they managed it and he couldn’t. They all worked the same long, tiring hours but some even had children. The feeling of emptiness came and he shook it off so he could get on with work. Typically holidays were busy in casualty. Winter, especially around the holidays, brought on bouts of sadness and sickness of the lonely, every year it was the same. Oh yes, it was going to be a hectic night.

  “Are you working with us tonight, love?” Berta, an older nurse smiled widely at him. Her countenance was always pleasant. Oliver admired her for her bedside manner and her ability to put the suffering at ease. Even those considered a lost cause, she managed to comfort them. There was a sort of peace about her that drew people and her love of helping others fulfilled her. They shared that in common. The grin on her face made deep dimples on her rosy cheeks making him smile too.

  “I’m afraid so. You’ll have to put up with me all night,” he replied, winking at her.

  “I can put up with you anytime darling,” she giggled.

  Oliver just laughed and leaned one elbow on the counter. “So how is life treating you these days, Berta?”

  “Oh, same old thing,” she sighed. “At least I’ll be home in time this year to see the grandchildren open their gifts. I’ve made a special pudding for the occasion.”

  “That will be lovely for you,” he said, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck, listening to the siren, and Daphne taking the call for the incoming.

  They both started bustling to work in preparation. “I get the best of both worlds, I get to watch you all night and go home to my family for Christmas, and it doesn’t get any better than that.”

  “You’re a sweet woman, Berta and you’re good for my self-esteem,” he replied and kissed her cheek, squeezing her shoulders in a one armed hug.

  “So whatcha reckon?” She said nodding towards the ambulance.

  “Come on, Berta, you know I don’t like this game,” he said a faint smile at her amusement, and then asked, “What do you think?”

  “Oh probably another suicide, slashed wrists seem to be the trend this year,” Berta said, “the first of many, the cold has already brought in all kinds this winter.” Her smile faded and she turned serious, ready to spring into action.

  Oliver saw through the small window, a middle aged man in a suit, red faced, a worker doing chest compressions. Had she been out tonight, he wondered? What a strange chain reaction of thoughts. Heart attacks made him think of a beautiful woman that stirred and interested him. “No…heart attack,” he said.

  One night he thought he saw her when he was leaving the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but it must have been someone else. He didn’t see her face just long, dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, just past her shoulders and a long dark coat. Regardless, he was distracted all that night. Maybe he was too bored that evening. All his patients were doing well and aside from the usual checking up on them, there was nothing else to do.

  Longing to talk to her, to find out if his suspicions were valid, he wanted to see her again. Even if he did see her again would she recognise him? Because he was sure he would recognise her.

  He pushed her out of his mind, receiving the information from the emergency mobile team about the man who had a heart attack at the annual Christmas party at his office. Too crowded, he thought, to be her doing?

  “Too late, he’s already gone,” the medic said as they hauled the gurney out of the back and Oliver checked him and signed off on him. He looked at the deceased, similar, very similar to the man on the train. He could request an autopsy but by what suspicion and it wouldn’t bring him back anyway.

  After the bells of Big Ben had chimed midnight on the telly and it was officially Christmas day, Oliver sat drinking his cold coffee. It had been busy but not as busy as he anticipated. Putting his head down on his forearms folded on the table, his mind drifted, the man laughing at his party and a beautiful woman in a long black dress, like a ghost, quiet, unglamorous, walking through the crowd, disappearing and reappearing. She glides behind the man and disappears again as he collapses.

  The intercom calling his name brought him back to reality and back to work. Maybe if he went to the underground station in the morning instead of a cab she might be there, maybe he will make it a habit to do that just in case.

  After his shift, he returned to the ward where he worked with the critically ill and made rounds before leaving. Just to check on his patients to see if any of them needed anything. Not that the doctors on duty were not capable but that he could assist any of them in any way before leaving for the night.

  The halls were filled with whispers of family members visiting for a final Christmas with their loved ones. Sniffles and tears occasionally were heard along with the subtle tinkle of the ornaments on the Christmas tree at the nurse’s station. These were the sounds of Christmas to him. Most would consider it sad but Oliver considered it to be the one place where things happened that really mattered.

  Some of his patients were in there for months and either way they chose to go, either by perishing or the door, he felt he had a bond with them. He yawned in between going from room to room, checking charts and vitals; checking morphine dosages and listening for any cries of family members, careful not to disturb. All was hushed in comparison to the fast pace of casualty.

  “Vivienne Bane died tonight,” Jacki said in an accusing manner, arms crossed. She didn’t like Oliver very much, he wasn’t sure why, he didn’t care. Maybe it wasn’t just him; she had an all-around sour disposition, unlike Berta. Cosmetics caked on her face and abuse of her skin was evident. She looked reproachfully at him trying to make out like his absence had something to do with Vivienne’s passing.

  Poor Vivienne, she had suffered long enough and he was disheartened he wasn’t there to help her in the end. He felt slightly bad about that, more than Jacki could make him feel but he couldn’t be all places at all times. Because he was filling in somewhere else, doing his good deed, letting someone spend time with their family he was unable to be there for Vivienne. No good deed goes unpunished.

  “Were you with her?” he sighed, tired and exasperated by her attitude.

  Jacki huffed, “No one was with her, Dr. Reece,” his name hissed between her teeth. “No one at all.”

  Oliver’s eyes were dry and his patience thin with this nurse. “Why do I feel like you’re accusing me of something,” he probed, pressing the bridge of his nose between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, fighting off the headache and aggravation she was causing him.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” she shrugged. “She died about an hour ago,” a flash of a grin tilted the corner of her mouth for a second. “They just took her down to the morgue.”

  “You knew I was here, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She didn’t answer but shrugged again, “I’m telling you now.”

  “Has anyone informed her family?” he asked, staring back at the empty bed.

  “Dr. Leary said he would.” She walked back into the station and proceeded to shuffle papers.

/>   “But did he? Because if he didn’t…”

  “He said he would” she snapped, “so I’m sure he did.”

  Chapter 3: Chinatown

  Sophie silently walked towards the soft lights of Chinatown, the man, head and shoulders above the hovering groups, in her sights. The brightness of the window displays hurt her eyes, still adjusting from the darkness of the street before. He stopped once to watch the blinding flashes of light coming from the firecrackers, left over from the Chinese New Year. The acrid smell of smoke drifted through the street in a white haze burning her eyes, the occasional gust of wind carrying it off. He drifted in and out of the smoke making it hard for her to fully identify him before she could make a move, just one look to confirm and then she just needed to be aware of him, and then never look at his face again.

  The wind tossed the red lanterns strung above, the sound of their delicate paper making crinkling noises. Ducks glistened golden skinned in windows under tiny lights, the smell made her stomach growl.

  Sophie only had to keep him within her range of vision until opportunity presented itself. He stepped into a restaurant and she paused looking at the crispy ducks, debating whether she should get one.

  Her dark hair flew across her face. With a gloved hand she tucked the loose tendril behind her ear. She dressed in black to blend in with the night and her unglamorous appearance never raised an eyebrow. Every few minutes she wondered closer to where the man entered the restaurant as to not look like she was loitering. She smiled and nodded to anyone who greeted her, the air filled with joyful Chinese greetings, happy voices raised, the foreign languages sounded like music to her.

  Every time she came to Chinatown, she couldn’t resist looking at the jade pendant in the shape of a heart engraved in Chinese writing hanging from a gold chain in the curio shop. It was so beautiful, she coveted its creamy green colour and she always had a fondness for hearts, maybe because hers was cold or even non-existent, but it wasn’t for her, it was too lovely.