The Dilemma

by Abbie Taylor

  A peremptory tat-tat on the door stopped the rush of nausea, brought the room back into focus.

  ‘Come in,’ she managed.

  Elspeth’s sly, feline face appeared around the door. ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but I need to take Monday afternoon off for the dentist.’

  Even in the state she was in, Dawn’s instinct was to glance at the off-duty rota. ‘But you’re down for the late shift on Monday.’

  ‘Yes, I know – but you see, the thing is, I’d agreed to the appointment before I realized.’

  ‘Is it an emergency?’

  ‘Well – not an emergency,’ Elspeth said. ‘Not as such. But I’m booked in now, and it’s so hard to get an appointment there. The next one mightn’t be for weeks.’

  Elspeth stood with her hands clasped in front of her, looking up through her lashes in a guileless, Princess Diana way. She knew the policy every bit as well as Dawn did. If she took Monday off, the ward would be left short-staffed and at this stage it was going to be very difficult to find someone else. Unless Elspeth could produce a cert to say it was an emergency, she could not have the time off.

  Dawn could not look at her. She kept her eyes on the off-duty rota.

  ‘Go to your appointment,’ she said. ‘We’ll manage.’

  She heard the satisfied smile in Elspeth’s tone.

  ‘Thank you, Matron.’

  By the end of her shift, every last drop of adrenaline had been sucked from Dawn’s nerve endings. Her legs barely had the strength left to carry her to the door. There was no way she could go through another day like that.

  Walking to her bus stop, she passed the bank near the hospital and stopped. In the e-mail, the blackmailer had said that the money had to arrive by the seventeenth of May. Today was Friday, the twelfth. If the cash was to get there in time, the latest she could wait before posting it would be Monday. But there was no guarantee that on Monday she would get out of work in time to reach the bank.

  That meant, if she was to have the cash ready to post in time, she would have to withdraw it today.

  She debated with herself, standing on the corner of Lavender Hill and St John’s Road. What was the rush? She hadn’t even decided yet whether she was going to pay it, had she?

  No, she hadn’t. But how many more days like today was she prepared to go through? Hiding away all day in her office. Smiling ghastly smiles at people through stiff, corpse-like lips.

  On the bus, she stared out, unseeing, over the cafés and galleries and coloured canopies of Northcote Road. What if she did withdraw the money? Not to post straight away – just to have in the house. Then, if she did make the decision over the weekend to post it – and she wasn’t saying she would – the money would be there. If she didn’t have it, the option would no longer be available.

  She checked her watch. Half past four. Thirty minutes before the banks closed. Suddenly it was vital that she reached her bank in time. She leaned forward on her seat, willing the bus to hurry. They reached Silham Vale at a quarter to five. Dawn stepped out on to the green and almost ran towards the bank beside the Somerfield. Then she stopped. To take out that amount of money, wouldn’t she need her passport or some kind of ID? Swearing softly, she ran back across the green. She turned down Crocus Road and flew past Milly into the house. She hurried upstairs, grabbed her passport from the drawer in her bedside table and raced back up the road before she could change her mind. She made it through the doors of the bank with three minutes to spare.

  Just one cashier was still operating. Only one customer was ahead of Dawn in the queue: an old man in a long white robe, clutching a cheque. Dawn stood behind him, flipping her passport in and out of its plastic cover. Five thousand pounds! She’d never taken that much out before in one go. What if the bank said she couldn’t have it? The girl behind the cash desk with the knife-edge creases down the arms of her blouse looked the type to do everything by the book. What if she said that the bank didn’t keep that much cash on the premises and Dawn should have booked it in advance? Dawn’s foot tapped like a rabbit’s on the floor. She was being ridiculous. Of course a bank would have that much cash available. And it was her money. She had a perfect right to take every penny of it if she chose; she didn’t have to explain herself to anyone. But her agitation grew. She imagined herself arguing with the cashier: ‘I can’t come back on Monday. I’m telling you, I have to have it today,’ and the girl in her stiff white blouse, monotonously repeating, ‘I’m sorry, Madam, but there’s nothing I can do.’ By the time she got to the desk, Dawn’s jaw muscles were tense with rage.

  She pushed her bank card under the barrier.

  ‘I need five thousand pounds, please. In cash.’

  The girl glanced at the card. ‘Of course, Ms Torridge,’ she said. ‘Are you sure about the cash? You wouldn’t prefer a cheque or transfer?’

  ‘No. It has to be cash.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Dawn held the ledge, her heart slowing. It was all right. She was going to get it.

  And then? Hand it all over to the blackmailer? What if the next time they e-mailed her it was to demand ten thousand?

  The girl behind the cash desk was saying something. ‘Have you got some ID?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Dawn slid her passport under the barrier.

  ‘I’ll need to photocopy this.’ The girl rose to her feet.

  Dawn flexed her fingers, opening and closing her sweaty hands. This was fine. It was fine. Photocopying the passport was standard for such large sums. That was the reason she’d brought it in the first place. But she couldn’t keep her eyes off the door the girl had gone through. Was that whispering she could hear from the room at the back?

  Keith, if I could just run this by you. There’s a woman here wants to take out five thousand pounds in cash.

  In cash? What on earth for?

  She didn’t say. Do you think we should inform Mr Braintree?

  The door opened. The girl returned to the desk.

  ‘That’s all fine.’ She was flicking through something in her hands. ‘Here we are.’

  She counted the notes out in front of Dawn. Then she slid them into an envelope and pushed it under the barrier. Dawn took the envelope. Smaller and slimmer than she had expected. She had envisaged a large parcel.

  ‘Tuck that somewhere safe before you leave,’ the girl advised. She beamed at Dawn. ‘Have a lovely weekend.’

  Dawn sat on the gold-coloured couch in the sitting-room. In front of her, on the coffee table, the coloured bank notes lay fanned out like a rainbow. The outer curve of red fifties, the blue and purple twenties in the middle, the orange inner arc of ten-pound notes. Beneath them, compressed under the glass table-top, the selection of lace doilies that Dora had always used for visitors.

  Dawn got up off the couch. With her hands on her head, she walked up and down the room, from the cabinet by the window to the double doors leading to the dining-room and back again. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t do this on her own. If only there was someone she could talk to. Someone she could bounce ideas off instead of just going around in circles here on her own. Crazy, of course. This was not the sort of thing you could tell anyone about.

  But some people did. Her friend Judy had told her that there was nothing she wouldn’t tell Andy, her husband; that even if she committed the most terrible, awful crime, Andy would still be on her side.

  ‘He’d spring me from the clink somehow,’ Judy had said. ‘I’d just have to do my nails and wait.’

  Could she talk about this to Judy?

  They’d been very close once, as close as sisters. And Judy was a nurse. She would know what Mrs Walker had been going through. What Dawn had done wouldn’t seem so awful to a person who had witnessed that sort of suffering many times for herself.

  But Judy had left nursing years ago. She and Andy had moved abroad for Andy’s work. Even though they were back in London now, Judy never had returned to nursing. And apart from Dora’s f
uneral, when was the last time Dawn and Judy had seen each other? Both had been busy with their own lives; Dawn with work and Dora, and Judy pregnant with her fourth child. How would Dawn even begin to raise the subject? ‘Hi, Judy. How are you? Morning sickness and bloating? Poor you. Me? I’m fine. Well, perhaps a teeny bit stressed. I recently murdered someone at work and now, would you believe it, I’m being blackmailed.’

  Judy would be very shocked. She would pretend not to be. She would do her best to see things from Dawn’s point of view. But she would not understand.

  In the hall, the phone rang.

  Dawn stopped her pacing at once.

  The blackmailer!

  Her legs had gone flubbery again. No. No, it couldn’t be. Whoever Well-wisher was, they had made it very clear that they only wanted to communicate by post. Why on earth would they do something so stupid now as to phone up and let her hear their voice?

  Brrrr.

  Maybe they wanted to check that she’d got their message. Maybe this was some friend or accomplice they’d got to phone her up on their behalf.

  Brrrr.

  Well, if she didn’t hurry up and answer it, the person, whoever it was, would hang up. That would be one way of solving the problem. Then, as soon as she thought that, she realized she had to know. She flew out into the hall, snatched the receiver up before the ringing stopped.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dawn?’ A deep, cautious voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Will.’

  Will! It took a couple of seconds for her to remember who he was. In the past couple of days she hadn’t so much as given him a single thought.

  Will spoke hesitantly into the silence. ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘No. No, I’m fine.’ But she wasn’t. At the sound of his accent she had felt a kind of panic, looking through the doorway to the sitting-room, seeing the money there lying all over the table.

  ‘How are you?’ she said inanely. ‘Have you been well?’

  ‘Very well,’ Will said. ‘I got that job.’

  ‘Job?’

  ‘The one I applied for. In Cumbria.’

  Dawn had no idea what he was talking about. She had to think back before it finally came to her.

  ‘The IT job. Of course.’ It took an enormous effort to make herself sound enthusiastic. ‘Congratulations! That’s wonderful. You must be delighted.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ There seemed something different about Will this evening. He was speaking much more animatedly than usual, as if the words were vying to burst out of his mouth. He blurted, ‘I was wondering whether … if you’d like to meet? During the week, maybe? Or even this weekend?’

  ‘Meet? To walk Milly, you mean?’

  ‘Well. I was thinking …’ Will cleared his throat. ‘More for dinner.’

  When she didn’t answer, he added quickly, ‘Or whatever. I understand if … I mean, we could go out just as friends. Just to celebrate.’

  Dawn was gazing into the sitting-room, at the red and purple and orange rainbow spread out over the glass. The last time she had met Will she had sat across from him under the trees and the pink sky, seen the admiration in his eyes as she told him all about what a wonderful nurse she was.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She stretched the phone cord taut between her fingers. ‘But this is a really busy … this really isn’t a good week for me.’

  ‘Some other time, then.’ Will’s eager tone dipped a little.

  ‘Maybe. But if not, the very best of luck with your new job.’

  ‘Oh—’

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ Dawn said. ‘Goodbye.’

  She put the phone down, cutting him off. The day in Sussex was with her again, filling her chest with a dull pain. There was no doubt now about how Will felt about her. The disappointment and confusion in his voice had been hard to hear. She had hurt him and she was sorry. But it was the best way. Even if there had been any kind of future for them, there was no way she could involve someone else in this mess. And by the time it was all over, Will would be gone, back to his old life in Cumbria. She had never really known him, and now she never would.

  The fight had gone out of her. She had no stomach for it any more. Time to get this over with.

  On the table in front of her was a package. She had put all the banknotes back into their envelope, then placed that into a larger envelope with the address printed on the front. Well-wisher’s address in Essex. She remembered all the details from the e-mail.

  She had written a letter, too, and tucked it in with the cash.

  This is all the money I have, she had written. There’s no point asking for any more.

  The blackmailer could ask to see her bank statement if they liked. If they thought they were on to a good thing and their plan was to bleed her dry, they would have to think again. She just had to pray that whoever the person was, they would accept that she had done what she could to stick to their ‘agreement’. And that they would return the favour by honouring their side in their turn.

  She took Milly with her when she went up to the green. Milly was thrilled to be out. She trotted over the grass, sniffing at the empty burger cartons and crisp packets under the bushes. The post box by the railings was a blurry red oblong in the dusk. Before posting her letter, Dawn glanced about her at the other people on the green: a woman in a blue dress coming out of the Somerfield, a boy kicking a ball against the railings, two men holding beer cans, sitting side by side on a bench. None of them were paying Dawn any attention. And why should they? There was nothing so unusual about her. She was just a woman, not old, not young, posting an envelope. She dropped the package into the post box and walked away.

  Chapter Eleven

  That weekend was one of the longest she could remember.

  Dawn did her best to get on with all her usual pastimes – walking Milly, cooking dinner, sitting on the couch staring at the television. But the parcel of money was all she could think about. How long until she heard back from the Well-wisher? The package should reach the address by Tuesday at the latest. Maybe even Monday. But Well-wisher probably wouldn’t receive it then. It would still have to be forwarded to the real address.

  As the weekend dragged by, Dawn began to develop a fixation that she had put the wrong address on the envelope. She’d been so certain she had remembered the right one from the e-mail, but now that the parcel was posted she wasn’t so sure. She wrote the address down again on a piece of paper, trying to gauge from the shape of how it fitted together, whether it matched her memory of the e-mail. Had she got the house number right? The postcode? The last thing she needed was for Well-wisher to go ahead and report her to the police because the deadline had passed and they had assumed she wasn’t interested.

  By Sunday, she could stand it no longer. The blackmailer had insisted on only communicating by post, but surely if Dawn actually sent an e-mail they wouldn’t delete it without reading it? This Well-wisher person must be as on edge as she, as curious to know what her response would be, what she would do. She sat at the dining-room table and opened up her laptop.

  I have posted the money, she wrote. This is where I sent it to.

  She typed the address in bold, block capitals. Now if she’d got it wrong, Well-wisher could get back to her and they could sort something out. But although she checked her laptop obsessively for the rest of the day she received no reply.

  On Monday morning, the familiar crackle in her hair as her uniform slid over her head sparked a fizz of dread in her stomach. Another day of having to face the ward, pretending everything was normal. Once again she had hardly slept. What if the parcel got lost and the blackmailer went ahead and reported her? What if the parcel did arrive and the person took the money, then reported her anyway? There wouldn’t be a single thing she could do about it.

  She was a few minutes late for the ward round. Professor Kneebone was already listening to the first patient’s chest. Mandy and Trudy were there amongst the crowd of white coats, jotting down notes
on their ward sheets. Elspeth was off today. At least that meant Dawn only had two people to avoid.

  If it was one of those three.

  If only she knew! That was the worst part – this endless waiting, this not knowing who or when or what. She could cope with anything that was thrown at her; it was only when you didn’t know what you were dealing with, when you couldn’t plan or prepare or do anything because you didn’t know what to expect that things became so intolerable. Last night she’d had a dream that the Nursing Council had somehow discovered what had happened. Dawn had been ordered to appear in front of the Fitness to Practice Committee at their offices in Holborn. Dressed in the dark skirt and jacket she had worn to Dora’s funeral, she had walked up the aisle past the public seating area, hearing the murmurs and whispers grow louder as she reached the top of the room. She took her seat facing the long table where the nine stern-faced Committee members were sitting. The members stared down at the papers in front of them, refusing to meet her eye. Then a voice said, Make way for the Chief Witness, and there was a flurry of activity to the right. Dawn turned. Someone was being led to the witness stand. She fixed her gaze on the back of the brawny Council clerk’s head, waiting for him to move out of the way so that she could see. Any minute now she would know who Well-wisher was. Any minute now the blackmailer would have to look her in the eye and tell her what they knew and what they had seen instead of sneaking about behind her back, hiding behind fake names and made-up e-mail addresses. But when the clerk finally stood back and the Chief Witness came into view, Dawn saw that she was looking into the icy, vengeful face of Ivy Walker.

  ‘Matron? Matron!’

  Dawn started and blinked. The white coats rematerialized around her. Professor Kneebone was in front of her, his eyebrows pleated into a line.

  ‘Welcome back, Matron. I was just asking if you thought it would be all right for Mr Cantwell to go home today?’

  Mr Cantwell, bearded and bright-eyed in his polka-dot pyjamas, watched Dawn eagerly from his bed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, of course he can.’