This was the first day I noticed feeling strange. I guess I was getting depressed, after everything that had happened. I’d helped to organize the event with a few of my colleagues, and I’d been really looking forward to it. I mean, it’s nice just getting a day out of the office, as much as anything else. But when I got there, I found myself feeling completely melancholy and miserable despite everything going on around me. I mean, I was OK. I was chatting to people and guiding them around, and making cups of tea, doing some sign language interpreting for the deaf people; but every so often I’d find I was by myself with no-one to talk to, and then I’d just feel… I don’t know. Like I’d never speak to anyone again. Like I couldn’t talk, or I couldn’t trust myself to speak to people in case I said something stupid, or something. Does that sound strange?
There were a lot of deaf people there who were speaking in sign language to each other, and a few deaf people who were registered blind as well, who used some sign language but who could only understand very big, exaggerated signing because of their visual impairment. There were other people there who were completely deaf-blind and had to use hands-on signing. Like… like tracing shapes onto their palms with your fingers. And there were other deaf people with learning disabilities who used simplified sorts of sign language…
Sorry. The point is, I wasn’t sure, when I went to speak to someone, how to go about doing it. Talking to people at all at the event meant you had to be prepared for a bit of trial and error, and think creatively about what was the best way to get the message across. You know, sometimes you had to point, make up a few gestures, things like that. Things went wrong sometimes, and it might take two or three tries to get the message across, and you had to be able to laugh at yourself a little bit when you got things wrong. Generally, I’m fine with this. I’ve worked around disabilities for a long time, and once you stop being squeamish about it and get stuck in, you’d be surprised how easy it is to have a conversation with just about anybody, with a bit of give and take.
But that day, something felt different. I remember looking at all these people talking to each other and laughing, and I just felt absolutely excluded, like I couldn’t get involved. It was like that extra little bit of assertion that you need, to talk to someone who might be difficult to talk to, had vanished. I found I kept wanting to sit outside, or sit in the kitchen with the door shut, away from everyone, just by myself. Like the whole event was somehow not for me.
I remember… Can I have some more water? Thanks. I remember the end of the event. There was a blind guy who’d set up a stall there. That’s what I wanted to talk about. His name was Anthony. I’d been introduced him earlier in the day; I think he was a counsellor, or a psychotherapist, or something. He worked with blind people dealing with depression and things like that. He had all this stuff laid out on the stall in front of him, like, leaflets for his practice and sheets of Braille and CD’s. He had his guide dog sat under the table the whole time, getting petted by a couple of kids and sleeping the rest of the day.
As we were packing up at the end I looked around and this poor guy was just stood there by himself with his stall. No one had come to help him pack up his stuff, or anything, and instead people were just stacking up the chairs and tables around him. A few times he tried to talk to someone; I’m not sure if he thought there was someone there or not, or if he was just trying to catch the attention of anyone who might have been passing by. You could see his lips move, but there’d be no-one there.
I watched him for a little while, and then figured it out. He’d probably learnt the layout of the tables and chairs throughout the day so he could find his way around. Once the furniture had been packed up, he wouldn’t know where he was. He wouldn’t be able to find his way out safely, and he probably didn’t want to move at all in case he walked into someone carrying something heavy, or tripped over something that someone had left lying around.
I got really angry just then. I mean, how thoughtless can you be? This poor fucking guy was just stood there, trying to talk to people on the off-chance that someone might be stood near enough to hear him, while everyone else was shouting and dragging tables around him like he wasn’t even fucking there!
I went over to him, and said “Excuse me? Anthony? Hi, it’s Christine here, one of the social workers at the council. I think we met earlier?”
“Oh…” he smiled. I think he might have forgotten who I was and was trying to be polite about it. He had a slight, gentle Scottish accent “Hi, Christine. I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but is everyone leaving now?”
“Yeah…” embarrassed, I said, “Most of the stall holders have left already. I’m really sorry. Someone should have told you. Do you want a hand packing up your things?”
“Oh, that’d be wonderful. Thank you.” He smiled.
Between us, we loaded his CDs and Braille cards into a folder, and then I moved the stall out of his way. I asked him how he was getting home, and he laughed again.
“Well, my wife has come to pick me up but I think she’s lost. Do you know where… what was it… do you know where a Lloyd’s bank is, near here? She’s parked near there.”
“I do, yeah.” I felt glad to be doing something, and it was a bit of a kick up the arse from the weird, helpless mood I’d been in earlier. “I’m going that way anyway. Do you want me to show you?”
“Oh yes, please. Thank you. And, I’m really sorry to ask, Christine, but would you mind awfully if I held onto your arm?”
We walked slowly. I think I spoke too much; I told Anthony about every single step and speed bump in the road. The dog seemed pretty happy to mooch along next to us, letting me do the guiding for it. We came to a set of stairs, and I fumbled trying to guide Anthony’s hand towards the railing. I looked up at him nervously. He was smiling, obviously seeing the funny side of something that I didn’t quite understand.
We started talking about Anthony’s work. He began telling me about the different conditions that are common with blind people; things like depression and anxiety but also some psychotic disorders, especially aural hallucinations.
I think I said something like “no-one with their eyesight will ever understand what it’s like to have to live without it.” Anthony was quiet after that. It was the wrong thing to say, looking back. I mean, it’s what you’d say to a client, not to another professional. Do you know what I mean? I meant to sound sympathetic, but I think instead I just sort of put up a barrier between us that hadn’t been there before. Instead of being two professionals talking about work, I’d made us into one sighted person and one blind person talking about being blind, and suddenly we weren’t equals any more.
We got to the car park behind Lloyd’s. There was a woman stood at the far end, and when the dog spotted her he started whining and dragging Anthony off towards her. The two hugged, said thank you, awkwardly, and drove off.
I walked home. I wasn’t really sure what to think. At the junction of a busy road, I closed my eyes, and felt my stomach drop through the floor at the sounds of cars passing.
I got home late. The rain held off. Sean asked me how my day was, and I told him I didn’t want to talk about it. It’d been miserable but I didn’t know why, and I couldn’t be bothered to try and explain.
Is this... Is this what you wanted to know? I think if I try and tell you everything that led up to… you know... then it might help me remember what actually happened. I’m trying to think, but my memory is really patchy. That day...
I remember Sean had a day off work the next day and I took the car before he got out of bed. I still felt like... you know. Weird. It was the kind of day where you don’t feel like you’re going to be able to do your job properly until you get there. Do you know what I mean?
When I got into the office there was an email waiting for me from the care worker, saying she’d had to take emergency leave, and that I needed to find someone to look after Joan for the next four or five days. You know, like I can magic up carers out of thin air. I b
raced myself, and rang Derek.
“Yeah? Is that social work?”
“It is, yes. Hi, Derek.” I was doing my friendly-but-formal voice, and trying to talk quickly so he didn’t have time to argue. “I’ve just been notified by the care worker that she’ll be unavailable for the next few days, and the agency we usually use won’t be able to provide someone at this short notice. We just need someone to go in temporarily to make sure that Joan is eating, washing and taking her medication. Is there any chance you could look in on her?”
“What… well, yeah, of course.” Derek said, sounding put out, “I mean, I always end up picking up the pieces after Elsie anyway, so I’m used to doing it, all the care and that. I just…”
“Oh, so you’ve been caring for Joan anyway? OK, that’s brilliant.” Derek had basically trapped himself into agreeing. “Joan will need someone to come round first thing in the morning, at about seven AM, to make breakfast for her and to give her her morning medication, help her get dressed and have a wash, use the toilet, things like that. Then she’ll need another visit at about five PM to prepare an evening meal, and a third visit at about nine PM to give her her evening medication and help her wash before bed. Is that alright, Derek?”
“Sure. Yeah. I can do that.”
“OK, great. I’ll put this into an email and send it to you, then, so you can refer to it later if you need the details. Now, you’ve told me you’ve been providing care for Joan until recently anyway, is that right? So you’re confident in doing all of this? You know how to administer food correctly, how to give personal care, and things like that?”
“Well, I mean, obviously I’ve been… “
“OK, that’s great. Can you go start at five PM this evening? Yeah? OK. Brilliant. That’s really helpful. Thanks Derek. Bye.”
I sat back in my chair, feeling pleased with myself. The phone rang again, making me jump. I though it might have been Derek trying to renege. The line was bad, and I had to strain to hear, but it definitely wasn’t him. It was a woman’s voice on the other end of the line; quiet and hoarse, like a lifelong smoker’s voice. “Am I speaking with Ms. Bone?”
“Oh. Yeah, speaking. Can I help?”
“Hello. Yes,” She cleared her throat, messily. “I’m ringing to make a complaint.” I thought at first she meant she wanted to complain about me, since she’d asked for me by name. I got quite defensive, and said
“OK. If you want to make a complaint about the social work team, or a specific staff member, you need to call Bristol City Council’s main number and follow the options...”
“No, no.” She interrupted me. “I mean a complaint about a... a member of the public, not one of your staff. I was told you were the worker I should speak with? It’s in regards to Joan Webster.”
Something clicked. I almost cried out
“Elsie?” I think I probably sounded half mad just then, just blurting out a name like that. I must have been thinking about Elsie without realizing I was. “Is... this is Elsie, right?”
“No.” The woman said, slowly. The voice seemed to crackle, like it was coming from far away. The office fan was making it hard to hear her properly. “My name is Stephanie. I’m a friend of Elsie’s. A friend of the family’s. Are you aware that that police have ordered me not to go to the house anymore?”
“I... what do you mean?”
“A police officer rang me today to tell me that no-one with any connection to Elsie is allowed to visit Joan, apparently on Derek’s instructions. Derek thinks that Elsie will use us to try and steal from Joan. Were you aware of this?”
I remember feeling like I was on the back foot in the conversation. That weird, weak feeling was beginning to creep back in. Trying to assert myself, I said, “No, I wasn’t aware of that. As far as I know, the police don’t have power to restrict the movements of anyone unless they’re suspected of a crime.”
“Oh, they didn’t say I wasn’t allowed. They said I wasn’t advised, but the implication was clear. They said if I contacted Joan I’d leave myself open to accusations relating to the current investigation. I’ve never been so insulted.” Stephanie coughed, wetly. Her voice was strange; the accent and the language were pure aristocracy, but the obvious smoker’s cough was so severe it put me in mind of someone homeless. I thought about what Derek had said about Elsie and her friends; drug users and alcoholics, but the kind of old money alcoholics you only ever find on somewhere like Coldharbour Road. “Excuse me. They didn’t tell me that Derek was pulling the strings, either, but it could hardly be anyone else. It’s criminal. I mean, Elsie’s never been perfect, but we’ve always tried to help. Joan is more-or-less family to me now. What do they think she’s going to do all day, sat in her bedroom with no-one to talk to? We’re closer to her now than Derek has ever been, whatever he might say about us.”
I looked around. No one was listening. I said, “Just between you and me, Derek does seem a bit... you know, controlling over the whole situation. You’re not a fan of his then, I take it?”
She laughed at my colloquialism.
“No, I’m not a fan. What’s there to be a fan of? It’s Derek I’m calling about, actually. I understand you’ve recently appointed Derek as Joan’s carer. Are you aware of the history between Derek and Elsie?”
I paused.
“Sorry, how did you know that? I’ve only just got off the phone to him.”
“He just called me. To gloat, I suspect.” said Stephanie. I was listening for a hesitation in her voice but I didn’t hear one. I don’t know why I’d thought she was lying. I was beginning to feel a bit paranoid.
“Alright, I was aware, yeah. Was there something in particular you wanted to tell me?”
“Well, there are certainly things you need to know. To start with, Elsie was in a psychiatric hospital, about ten years ago. She was a patient there for a long time. When she was finally discharged she had nowhere to go. That’s how she ended up living in the house on Coldharbour Road. Her father left it to her to manage, so that Joan could carry on living there with Elsie taking care of the maintenance, the bills, the correspondence and the upkeep, and so on. Obviously, he didn’t know at the time that Elsie was going to get herself in such a mess. I don’t think he ever intended her to live there. Anyway, Elsie was still very out-of-sorts after she was discharged. She’d been detoxed from heroin and put on these anti-psychotic mood drugs instead, that left her like a sleepwalker. She wasn’t in a fit state to take care of herself. And Joan had obviously just lost her sight, so neither of them was really able to look after the other.
“So, Derek offered to look after them both, and he moved into the house with them. Coldharbour Road became like an old-fashioned infirmary, with poor, ill Joan and poor, mad Elsie cooped up in there together, and Derek acting like the warden, walking round giving out the tablets and rattling the keys. Did Derek tell you any of this?”
“I... No. No, he didn’t.”
“Well, I came to visit one night, quite late. Elsie and I used to drink together, as Derek likes to remind people.” she said, bluntly. “Obviously I didn’t want to encourage Elsie back into her old habits. She was in recovery, and I didn’t want her to relapse. But I used to visit at night anyway. I think late at night was the time when she missed us the most. Do you see? But the tablets the hospital used to give her were unspeakable; great big things like you’d give to a dog. She took a whole fistful of them every morning, and they kept her half unconscious for weeks on end. Most nights when I visited, I’d just sit next to her and pat her on the head and listen to her mumble at me until she fell asleep. It was... it was hard. Even when she was using heroin, Elsie had been bright and articulate and good company. It was like this new person wasn’t really her. Still, I thought it was better someone was with her than no-one at all.
Stephanie coughed again. “I’m sorry, I’m digressing. Anyway one night Elsie didn’t take the tablets. She started to come round, and... I don’t know what happened, but she ended up relapsing. I su
ppose it was the shock of waking up after being half asleep for so long. She drank half a bottle of something vile that Derek had left lying around.
“I arrived at the house later on, and no-one answered the door so I let myself in. Joan was upstairs in her chair like normal. It was nearly midnight, and she was awake, which was unusual in itself, and when I tried to talk to her I couldn’t get any sense out of her at all.
“Elsie was in the upstairs front room when I found her. When I found her she was unconscious, and not breathing. I remember her skin had turned yellow, like old leather. I phoned an ambulance, and they took her to the hospital and pumped her stomach.”
I swallowed. “What happened? Where was...where was Derek?”
“I don’t know. Derek told the police that he’d been trying to get Elsie to take her medication, that he’d been giving Joan and Elsie both their medication, and that he must have got them mixed up. Joan was delirious because she’d had one of Elsie’s mood tablets, and Elsie... do you know what Joan is prescribed normally?”
“Ora... Oramorph. Opiates.” I felt like a shadow had fallen over me. I knew what Stephanie was going to say next.
“Exactly. Do you know what half a bottle of spirits and a fistful of opiate-derivatives would do to a person? I mean, Elsie was a recovering addict, as I said. It’s possible she took them herself, but... Ms. Bone? I’m sorry, are you alright?”
“I... yes. I’m fine. Look, thank you for calling me” I said, trying to pull myself together. “I’m going to phone a police officer now who’s been working on this case. I really think the police need to know about this. If there’s any suggestion at all that Derek was involved in... in what you’ve just said, then we need to be seriously thinking about whether he’s the appropriate person to be looking after Joan.”
Onyx Neon Shorts Presents: Horror Collection - 2015 Page 18