Through a Glass Darkly (9781301753000)

by Ellis, Tim

‘Why not? You’re treating me like one.’

  Nurse Dando pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll have to call the doctor to give you a sedative if you’re going to be stupid.’

  ‘Look – my partner’s life might be in danger. I need to make one call, then you can have the phone back and fill me up with as much sedative as you want.’

  ‘One call?’

  ‘One call.’

  ‘If you go back on your word . . .’

  ‘I promise . . .’

  ‘And you’re not to mention it to Staff Nurse James.’

  ‘It’ll be our dirty little secret.’

  The nurse left the room and came back with her phone.

  Xena tried to switch the phone on, but it was as much use as a lump of wood. ‘Didn’t anybody turn the phone off before they put it in the safe?’

  ‘What do you think we are – your dogsbodies?’

  ‘You wouldn’t get the job. Give me your phone.’

  ‘Who do you think you are?’

  She held out her hand. ‘I’m the person who’s going to tell Staff Nurse James that you caved in and gave me my phone if you don’t give me yours now.’

  ‘You’re a bitch,’ Nurse Dando said, taking out her phone and handing it to Xena. ‘Go on then, make your call.’

  ‘I’ve got to make a couple of calls now . . .’

  ‘You said one call.’

  ‘That was before you murdered my phone and deprived me of my phonebook. I’ve got to find out his number now.’ She remembered the number for Barking & Dagenham’s squad room, so she dialled it.

  ‘Major Incident Team, DS Dave Ferris speaking.’

  ‘A DS! They must be dredging the very depths of the septic tank.’

  ‘I don’t believe it – Xena Blake.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Xena Blake if you know what’s good for you, Ferris.’

  She heard him shout out. ‘Hey guys, it’s Xena.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking,’ someone that sounded like Bully Harris said.

  ‘Good talking to you, Ma’am,’ Ferris said and laughed.

  ‘Is it really you?’ Tom Dougall asked.

  ‘Yeah, it’s really me.’

  ‘Last time we spoke you hoped my bollocks would shrivel up and blow away in the wind.’

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Shame! How are things?’

  ‘Have you rung for a cosy chat about old times?’

  ‘No, I need your help.’

  ‘The great and powerful Xena Blake needs my help?’

  ‘If I wasn’t lying in a hospital bed I wouldn’t be asking you.’

  ‘I see. Are you going to tell me why you’re malingering?’

  Tom Dougall had been her lover at Barking & Dagenham, so she told him about the endometriosis and the removal of her baby-making equipment. She didn’t know why, but she needed to tell someone.

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘Hey, we all send our best. Even though nobody likes you, we wouldn’t wish that on . . .’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘My partner’s life is in danger.’

  ‘Since when did you care about anyone but yourself?’

  ‘I cared, Tom. Maybe I didn’t show it, but I cared.’

  ‘Sylvie left me and took the kids a month ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was on the cards.’

  ‘It wasn’t because of me, was it?’

  ‘No. There were a couple after you.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘Your begging voice needs some work.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well?’

  She told him about DC Isolde Koll coming to them from Shrub End, and how she was going to act as a witness against her former colleagues in a corruption case.

  ‘So what’s the problem? Someone who grasses on her colleagues deserves everything she gets.’

  ‘You don’t mean that. You hate bent coppers.’

  ‘I hate grasses even more.’

  ‘Koll is acting as Stick’s partner while I’m laid up in here, and he’ll get caught in the crossfire if I don’t stop it.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do?’

  ‘You know people.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Find out what’s going on at Shrub End. Stop them trying to kill her.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Who do you think I am – Jack Reacher?’

  ‘I would have put money on you being selected for the part instead of that Jim Bruiser.’

  ‘Tom Cruise. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Me? You’re fucking crazy, Tom. Why do you want me?’

  ‘We had something.’

  Tears filled her eyes and snaked down her face. Nobody had ever said they wanted her before. ‘I’m damaged goods now.’

  ‘You were damaged goods before, you just didn’t know it.’

  He was right, she’d been damaged goods for as long as she could remember. Maybe now that it was out in the open things would be better – with her – and between them.

  ‘You know I can’t have children?’

  ‘I’ve already got two of them – they’re overrated.’

  ‘You don’t want me to marry you, or anything stupid like that, do you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘It’ll be a while before . . .’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘If you want to go with other women while you wait . . . I’ve tried celibacy and it sucks.’

  ‘Very generous.’

  ‘So, you’ll see what you can do?’

  ‘You knew I would, otherwise you wouldn’t have rung me.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’

  ‘Oh, and congratulations on the promotion.’

  ‘It’s no fucking good being a DI in a hospital bed.’

  He laughed. ‘Same old, Xena. I’ll speak to you soon.’

  The call ended and she passed the phone back to Nurse Dando. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You just got back together with your bloke?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  The nurse fluffed her pillows up and tidied up the bed sheets. ‘That’s an incentive to get better then. Now, lie down and sleep, or I’ll call the doctor and we’ll force-feed you some sedatives.’

  She closed her eyes. Tom wanted her back. Maybe life didn’t suck so much after all.

  ***

  Thursday, April 12

  Viktor wrapped the rubber strap around Marie Altamirano’s head, making sure the metal contacts were touching the electrical conduction gel that he’d applied earlier to the skin of her temples.

  ‘This machine is called a Magneto-Electro Therapy Machine. Yes, you’re quite right, they now call this treatment electroconvulsive therapy – or ECT for short.’

  Dr Marie Altamirano was strapped into the Bergonic chair that he’d found in an antique shop in the backstreets of Lowestoft and purchased for twenty-five pounds – a bargain.

  ‘It was first used to induce a seizure in 1785 by a Hungarian neuropsychiatrist called Ladislas Meduna – who, as you very well know, is the father of ECT.’

  He connected up the wires to the machine and checked that everything was in order. ‘For your information you will receive 450 volts of Direct Current through your brain for six or so seconds. The first time is always the most traumatic, but it will get easier. Oh yes, I’ve prescribed a course of twenty treatments, which is normal for patients with severe conditions such as yours, Miss Altamirano.’

  He was about to activate the switch when he realised he’d forgotten something. ‘The rubber mouth bit! Of course, we don’t want you biting your tongue now, do we?’ He tried to push the bit into her mouth, but she kept her mouth tightly closed and moved her head from side to side like a petulant child. ‘If you don’t let me put the rubbe
r bit into your mouth, I’ll smash all your teeth with a hammer – there won’t be any problems getting it in then, will there? But without teeth to bite down onto the bit, it won’t be very effective.’

  She stopped struggling and opened her mouth.

  ‘Very good.’ He pushed the bit into her mouth and said, ‘Bite down hard, Miss Altamirano. Oh, and don’t worry if you piss yourself this first time – it’s to be expected. ECT is a barbaric treatment for schizophrenia. Admittedly, today they anaesthetise patients, but we’re recreating a piece of history, so anaesthesia won’t be available today. You’re in the last chance saloon before I resort to other procedures – one of which I’m sure you’ll like very much. Anyway, are you ready for the first treatment?’

  She struggled against the leather straps.

  His hand hovered over the electric switch. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you – not that you’ll remember anyway – but afterwards you will suffer some confusion and memory loss. After the course of twenty treatments your memory loss will be quite severe – you’ll suffer both retrograde and anterograde amnesia. Sadly, it can’t be helped, it’s just the way things are.’

  He pulled the switch down.

  Marie Altamirano – who was quite an attractive thirty-seven year old neurosurgeon – thrashed about in an induced epileptic convulsion, frothed at the mouth and urinated as 450 volts of Direct Current jumped around inside her brain.

  He forgot to check his watch, so the duration of the treatment was closer to fifteen seconds than six.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, as he switched the electric current off. ‘I’m ashamed to say that my mind wandered for a few seconds. Seeing you jerking around like a whore having an orgasm stirred something down below, Miss Altamirano. I hadn’t noticed before, but you have a very nice body.’

  The scalpel made short work of her blouse, bra, skirt and sodden knickers. ‘Yes, very nice indeed. I see you’ve had no children. Well, it doesn’t look as though you’re ever going to have any now – your biological clock will stop working in the next few days.’

  He unzipped himself and took out his flaccid penis. ‘Ah, too late, I’m afraid. It was a fleeting moment only.’ He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had sex – if ever. As a doctor he should have known the cause and been able to correct the situation – physician heal thyself. But sadly, it was not to be. He had been unable to do anything at all.

  ‘No, I should have checked before cutting through your clothes. Never mind, your body will give me something to look at while I continue with the treatment.’

  He smiled. ‘Ready?’ he said and yanked the switch down.

  She jerked and shuddered. Her eyes rolled backwards into their sockets until all he could see was the whites of her eyes. She vomited and the rubber tongue depressor shot out and bounced across the floor.

  ‘Oops, twenty seconds this time. Was I this sloppy when you examined me? No, I don’t think so. I think it was personal. You failed me because you took a dislike to me. Why? As you’ve seen, I have a very good grasp of anatomy and physiology, of the side-effects of ECT on the mind and the body, and my bedside manner is second to none. Yes, I’ll admit that trying to have sex with a patient was probably not something a doctor should be doing, but it was your fault – you excited me for just a moment.’

  He trailed his hand up her body as he moved towards her head, leaned over to look in her eyes and said, ‘How are you feeling, Miss Altamirano? Do you think the treatment is working? No, you probably don’t remember who I am, where you are, or even what day it is. Never mind, snippets will gradually come back to you.’

  The cannula slid easily into the vein in the back of her hand. ‘Don’t want you dying of dehydration, do we?’ He withdrew the needle from the plastic sheath, connected up the bag of Hartmann’s solution – adjusting the gauge to twenty drops per minute – and secured a splint to her wrist.. ‘I have to go now. As you know I have to be at the hospital for eight o’clock in the morning, and . . .’ He checked the time on his father’s old Technos wristwatch. ‘It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning already. I shall return later today – after my shift is over.’ He touched her face with the tips of his fingers. ‘I have a surprise for you later.’

  Chapter Seven

  His feet were hurting, his calves and thighs were hurting, his chest was hurting, and he didn’t think he’d survive the next five minutes. His whole body was on the verge of shutting down, but the gym attendant hadn’t shown him how to switch the treadmill off.

  He tried to control his breathing, but he knew that there was a general shortage of air. Other people were obviously breathing his air. They were trying to kill him by taking more than their fair share. He would have arrested them, but he’d forgotten to bring his handcuffs.

  ‘Another kilometre, Sir?’ the attendant said from behind him.

  He didn’t hear those words, he heard the judge uttering his death sentence:

  "You shall be taken to the place from whence you came, and from there be taken to a place of execution. You shall be hanged by the neck until the body be dead . . . dead . . . DEAD!"

  His feet smacking on the rubber mat was like the sound of the judge banging the gavel each time he said the word “DEAD”.

  ‘No, I think . . .’

  ‘Just one more, Sir. No pain, no gain as you English say.’

  ‘I’ve never said that,’ he gasped.

  It was ten past six in the morning. He’d decided, after Richards had pointed out his spare tyre, that he’d make the effort and do a bit of exercise. His plan was to start off slow and work up to a gentle sweat. Especially when he tried to recall the last time he’d done any exercise – which was somewhere in the distant past.

  ‘There we are, Sir. Two kilometres. Tomorrow we’ll go up to four.’

  ‘I thought I was going to die.’

  ‘No, Sir. You will not die. You are young and healthy, but a little in need of some gentle exercise. That is why you have come here to seek the professional advice of Niko. Now, if you would be so kind as to lie down on the mat and take hold of the medicine ball . . . that is it. Twenty-five sit-ups today, Sir. Fifty tomorrow, seventy-five the next day . . . When do you go home?’

  ‘Today.’

  Niko laughed. ‘You will need a sense of humour, Sir . . . Three, three and a bit . . . Come along, Sir, put slightly more effort into these exercises . . .‘

  After the sit-ups Niko guided him to the exercise bike . . .

  ‘Ten kilometres please, Sir.’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking?’

  ‘Of course, Sir. I meant to say fifteen kilometres. My English is maybe not so good.’

  After he’d cycled fifteen kilometres, he did ten repetitions on each of five exercises on the multigym, rowed three kilometres on the rowing machine and swam ten lengths in the pool.

  ‘See you tomorrow morning, Sir,’ Niko said with a wave.

  He felt like a seized-up old relic as he creaked back to his room. Every part of him ached. Maybe he’d done too much. Maybe he should go back to bed. Maybe . . .

  Richards was sitting in his easy chair watching Sky News on the television and nursing a mug of herbal tea.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Haven’t you got a room of your own?’

  ‘I thought I’d . . . Why are you all red, sweaty and panting like a . . . ? You’ve been down to the hotel gym, haven’t you?’

  ‘What’s so unusual about that?’

  She laughed so hard she had to put her mug down on the coffee table.

  ‘I don’t think I said anything that could be considered the slightest bit humorous.’

  ‘You never go to the gym. You’ll kill yourself.’

  ‘Just because you never see me go to the gym, doesn’t mean I never go. How do you think I stay so lean and mean?’

  ‘It’s because I said you were getting fat, isn’t it?’

  ‘You have an inflated opinion of your own importance. I was planning to get back into traini
ng when the Chief told me to come here anyway.’

  ‘Back into training for what?’

  ‘I’m setting my sights on next year’s London Marathon.’

  She laughed again. ‘You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?’ she said holding her sides. ‘You’ll be watching it on television like you always do.’

  ‘I think you can leave now. Some of us have to get ready for work.’ He pushed her out through the connecting door. ‘I’m going down to breakfast at seven-thirty. If you’re ready, you can come with me. If not, I’ll see you down there.’

  ‘You might need my crutches.’

  He shut the door and turned the catch. The London Marathon was doable. He’d missed it this year, but next year – why not? Admittedly, he’d never run further than a hundred yards before, but . . . Yeah, he’d do that, and . . . He opened the connecting door slightly and called, ‘Are you decent?’

  ‘Do you need help getting into the shower?’

  ‘We’re going to be running the London Marathon together next year for charity.’

  ‘We? No, I don’t do running.’

  ‘You’re my partner, aren’t you?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we have to do everything . . . Anyway, I have a swollen ankle.’

  ‘Which will be healed in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I’ll still be recuperating.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You’re willing to laugh at the efforts of others, but when it comes time to step forward yourself . . . ’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘No, it’s not, is it? Oh well, I’ll just have to do it on my own, and only raise half the money for those poor children . . .’

  ‘What poor children?’

  ‘Those poor children at the Battersea Children’s Home. It’s all right, I can see you’re not up to it, anyway. You probably wouldn’t last a mile . . .’

  She laughed. ‘That won’t work with me. If I wanted to do it, I could, but I don’t want to. Aren’t you meant to be getting ready for breakfast?’

  He pulled the door closed after him and locked it. She’d be running it with him he had no doubt. He smiled and dived into the shower. Yes, there was some direction to his training now. Running the London Marathon for charity – that would be something worthwhile.