(2013) Looks Could Kill

by David Ellis

  Emma actually arrived at St Helena’s with time to spare, as the interview wasn’t until 2:00 p.m. She wandered around the grounds; St Helena’s had a sort of no-nonsense feel to it with solid buildings and acres of land which made her feel more as if she was in the countryside than a city. There was also a sense of purpose in the way that people moved about, which was very different to the way in which classmates at school lounged about aimlessly.

  Emma checked through the literature that she’d been sent in the post and read: “You will be welcomed by a strong, independent, and diverse College with a history of encouraging forceful and individualistic students. The college is committed to encouraging its students to excel, both academically and personally.” Although she couldn’t in all honesty imagine seeing herself as ‘forceful’, ‘individualistic’ seemed fairly apt. But Emma wasn’t sure that she’d be able to convince the college tutors.

  “Now,” said the Tutor for Medicine, “Our next candidate seems promising. She’s expected to get straight ‘A’s and her father is a GP. He didn’t go to Oxford but he sounds a solid enough fellow. And we don’t see many candidates from her school. Oh, and another thing, in her personal statement she talks about relieving suffering – whatever that means – so we’ll need to ask her more about that.”

  “Please come in, Miss Jones, and have a seat,” said the Admissions Tutor. “My name is Dr Edwards and I’m the Admissions Tutor. This here – he points to the Tutor for Medicine – is Dr Michaels, who’s the medical fellow, and over in the corner we have the Dean, the Rev Bryant.” They all nodded to say hello.

  “May we start by asking you why you chose St Helena’s?” asked Dr Edwards.

  “Well,” said Emma, “there’s part of me that’s quite conservative and respectful of the tradition of an old university like Oxford, but there’s also another side of my character which wants to break the mould and do something different; perhaps that’s the ‘individualistic’ quality which St Helena’s is well known for. I’m also a keen musician and would love to play in the new music building.”

  “I think we’ve got ourselves a musical firebrand here,” joked the Dean. The others laughed. Emma stared very pointedly at him.

  “Actually, I think my music is more likely to put out a fire than start one,” retorted Emma.

  “Very good,” said Dr Michaels. “Now, why have you chosen medicine?”

  “Well, my father’s a GP,” said Emma, “although I think I’m more interested in complex cases that need careful thought – not really run-of-the-mill general practice. And there’s something that appeals about helping people to understand their illnesses and therefore cope with them better.”

  “You mention ‘relieving suffering’ in your personal statement,” said the Dean. “Can you expand on that for us?”

  “Well, I think suffering is more complicated than just pain. People suffer if they have to take too many tablets. People suffer if they have procedures they don’t really need. And people suffer if their illnesses are beyond the scope of treatments available. So, I suppose my aim would be to help people move away from suffering to somewhere where there’s a degree of resolution.”

  “Well, that’s very interesting,” said the Dean, “and as a religious man, I can see a lot of Christian value in what you say. It sounds as if you’ve done a lot of thinking, which is unusual for someone so young.”

  “I suppose I’ve seen my fair share of suffering,” said Emma. “My aunt died from cancer last year…” She turned her face away and wiped away a tear.

  “Thank you very much, Miss Jones,” said the Admissions Tutor, embarrassed by her emotional display. “I think that’s everything we need to ask you. Do you have any questions for us, I wonder?”

  “My mother told me to ask whether the food in hall is any good,” said Emma, now fully recovered.

  All three of them laughed.

  “Actually, the food isn’t bad,” said the Dean, “although it’s not exactly cordon bleu.” They all laughed and Emma left the room after thanking them and saying goodbye.

  “Impressive, I thought,” said the Admissions Tutor, “she really held her own, and she’s obviously a thinker.”

  “I agree,” said the Tutor for Medicine. “And her ideas about illness were remarkable for someone still at school.”

  “I’d have to concur,” said the Dean. “But I felt something really quite strange when she looked at me – quite unnerving really.”

  “So, we’re agreed that Miss Jones should be offered a place for next year?” said the Admissions Tutor. The other two nodded. “Excellent,” he said.

  Emma thought the interview had gone quite well. Despite her nerves, she felt in control. Staring at the pompous Dean hadn’t been sensible though. But she pulled things back with the small fib about her aunt. Emma wasn’t really much of a musician either. And there’s no way that her mother would ever inquire about college food.

  March 1981

  Back at school, Emma found that teachers took more notice of her now that she had the offer from St Helena’s. Studying for her ‘A’ levels almost seemed an irrelevance, although she realised that she wouldn’t be going anywhere unless she achieved the two As and a B that St Helena’s had requested. She felt that some broadening of her horizons before going up might help, so she offered to do some voluntary work in a nursing home.

  There was one particular home that Emma visited which was conveniently located near her school. She’d been welcomed with open arms when they knew she was a daughter of a local GP and planned to study medicine. So, once a week, during a free afternoon, Emma would visit at tea time and go around talking to the residents.

  Emma had her favourites: Mr Thomas with his ready smile and penchant for a joke; Mrs Francis with her nursing background and travels; and Miss Johnson who liked to talk about music. What really made them stand out for her was the sparkle in their eyes; they might be elderly, but they were still very much alive.

  “Emma,” asked the matron, “would you mind having a chat with Miss Carlisle in room 12? She comes from a village near you and doesn’t have anyone visiting her these days. Her first name is Joanne.”

  “No problem,” said Emma, “I’d be happy to.”

  Emma went to Miss Carlisle’s room and knocked on the door. There was a barely whispered “Come in.” The occupant was in her early 70s, extremely frail and sitting up in bed against propped up pillows. Her medication was on the bedside table and she was on a lot of different drugs. Emma noticed that these included a bottle of insulin and there were some syringes nearby. There was a plate of barely touched food on a table at the foot of her bed.

  Emma sat by her side and took her hand. “I’m Emma,” she said, “Matron told me you might like a visitor.”

  Miss Carlisle slowly turned her head to look at Emma. The faintest glimmer of a smile crossed her features. Emma smiled in return and crossed to the windows to glance outside. “It’s a lovely spring day, Joanne. I really wish you could see it. It’s so beautiful,” she said.

  Emma returned to her bedside and sat down. With her white hair spread over the pillows and her fine features, Joanne reminded her of a Large White butterfly. She felt compelled to peer into her eyes. She saw suffering, despair and hopelessness, but there was dignity and beauty as well.

  She held Joanne’s bony hands, the veins mottled and her skin paper thin. She found herself talking about her childhood, her parents and the place she had at Oxford to study medicine later in the year. She wasn’t sure why she’d opened up, as this was something that Emma had never done before. From time to time, Joanne would give a gentle smile and she seemed content for Emma to continue talking. After about thirty minutes, Joanne nodded, closed her eyes and leant her head back into the pillow. “Thank you, dear,” she whispered.

  Emma quietly got up. “Goodbye, Joanne, I’ll see you next week.” She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  She went to the matron’s office. “I had a bit of a ch
at but she seemed very tired,” said Emma. “Perhaps I’ll try again next week.”

  “Thank you, dear,” said the matron. “We really appreciate your visits.”

  When Emma visited the following week, she found that the entrance to room 12 was blocked by some sort of brightly coloured tape. She sought out the matron to find out what had happened.

  “I’m really sorry to have to tell you, Emma, but Joanne passed away the same day that you visited,” said the matron.

  “Gosh, I’m so sorry to hear that, she was such a nice lady. Do you know how she died?”

  “Well, we’re not absolutely sure how she died, but our GP thinks it could have been an overdose of insulin, as there was a used syringe by her bedside. I’m afraid we may be in for some trouble as we allow residents to take charge of their own medicines if they’re able.”

  “I can’t believe that she had the energy to take an overdose; she seemed so frail.”

  “Yes, it’s strange, isn’t it? I suppose where there’s a will, there’s a way. But I really wouldn’t have considered her as being the sort of person who’d want to take their own life.”

  “And why’s there that tape in front of the door to her room?”

  “I’m afraid, dear, that the police are treating the death as suspicious and they may want to speak with you.”

  March 1981, one week later

  Early one Friday evening, when the Jones family had just sat down to their supper, there was a loud knock on the door. Emma’s father got up to open it and was surprised to see two police officers.

  “Is there a Miss Emma Jones residing at this address?” asked the male police officer.

  “Yes,” said Emma,” that’s me.”

  “We’re sorry, miss, but we need to ask you to come down to the station to assist us with our enquiries,” he said.

  By this time, all three of the Jones’s jaws had well and truly dropped.

  “What’s this about, officer?” asked Emma’s father.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not in a position to tell you,” said the same officer.

  “Which one of you is able to accompany Emma to the station?” asked the female officer, addressing both of Emma’s parents.

  “I’ll go,” said Emma’s father.

  Emma and her father got into the police car in silence and he looked at Emma very quizzically. Emma really had no idea what the police wanted to talk to her about and just hoped that it was nothing to do with the dying spaniel that she’d found in the lane at the bottom of Mr Smith’s land.

  The two of them arrived at the police station and were shown into a small interview room with metal chairs and a table with some sort of tape recorder on top. Two men dressed in suits stood up and introduced themselves as detectives, and then they all sat down.

  “We’re sorry to bring you out on a Friday evening,” one of the detectives said, “but we need to ask Emma here some questions about one of the residents of Holly Lodge nursing home – a Miss Joanne Carlisle – whom I believe you, Emma, visited on Wednesday, 4 March 1981. Is that correct, Emma?”

  “Er, yes, sir,” said Emma, suddenly putting two and two together.

  “Emma, perhaps you could tell us in your own words what happened that afternoon?”

  “Well, sir, I normally visit the home every Wednesday afternoon as a volunteer from my school. The matron asked me to visit Miss Carlisle because she was in a room on her own and had no-one visiting her. She seemed very old and very frail and had lots of medicines on her bedside table. She didn’t say much but I talked with her for about half an hour about all sorts of things like the garden, my family, going up to Oxford and things like that. She got very sleepy, so I left her and told the matron that I’d see her again the following week.”

  “And what happened when you visited the home the following Wednesday?”

  “The matron told me that she’d died the same day as my visit and that the doctor thought she might have taken too much medicine. And that made me very sad because she seemed such a nice lady.” Emma turned to her father for comfort and was clearly upset.

  “Thank you, Emma,” said one of the detectives.

  “Now, Emma, the reason why we wanted to speak with you is that it seemed strange that someone should take an overdose just a short time after having a visitor; in other words, you, Emma.”

  “You’re not suggesting that my daughter had anything to do with the death, are you detective? I mean, this is just ridiculous,” said Emma’s father.

  “No, Dr Jones, we’re just trying to exclude certain lines of investigation and we’re grateful that you and Emma are helping us today.”

  The detective turned his attention back to Emma: “Now, Emma was there any point when you were with Miss Carlisle that she asked you to give her any of her medicine?”

  “No, sir, Miss Carlisle didn’t ask for any medication, and if she had, I’d have told the matron.”

  “So, Emma, you’re absolutely certain that no-one touched her medicines during the time you spent with her; not her, not you, no-one?”

  “Yes, that’s right, no-one.”

  “Okay, Emma, Dr Jones, I think that’s all we need to ask you. You’re free to go and I’ll arrange for a car to take you back home. I’m sorry we had to disturb your evening.”

  The two detectives looked at each other after Emma and her father had left and sighed simultaneously.

  “There’s something there that doesn’t add up, you know, Tom, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “I agree, Mike. I’m sure she’s telling the truth but it’s just too damn circumstantial.”

  “We could try fingerprinting her, but we’d probably have all hell to pay with the father.”

  “And I don’t think it’d help because the only set of fingerprints on the syringe was that of the deceased.”

  “Are we agreed then; case closed?”

  “Yes, agreed; one for the X-Files.” They laughed.

  It was a funny journey back home in the police car. Emma and her father didn’t say much but their silence spoke volumes; clearly he wasn’t sure what she’d got up to that afternoon but didn’t feel comfortable interrogating her further; Emma was quite sure that she hadn’t been directly involved in Miss Carlisle taking an overdose, but, like the police officers, was puzzled that the overdose had followed her visit.

  March 1982

  Emma’s ‘A’ level years at school were highly structured, but this didn’t really prepare her for the amount of work that had to be squeezed into the three eight-week terms of the Oxford year. She thought she was coping reasonably well, but things came to a head at a biochemistry lecture when the lecturer asked her a question about a metabolic pathway called the tricarboxylic acid cycle.

  “Miss Jones, can you remind us about oxidative phosphorylation?” asked the lecturer.

  “I’m sorry, sir, my mind has gone blank,” said Emma, feeling uncomfortable and very exposed.

  “Perhaps you can tell us what ‘ATP’ stands for?” he asked.

  “Sorry, no idea,” said Emma, blushing.

  “Miss Jones; am I correct in thinking that you passed ‘A’ level biology?” asked the lecturer, with a barely disguised sneer.

  Emma ran out of the lecture theatre, crying, his sarcasm and laughter from fellow students ringing in her ears. She went back to St Helena’s where her next-door neighbour found her huddled against the door to her room. She noticed that there was some blood on her hands.

  “Emma, what’s wrong; have you hurt yourself?” asked Karen.

  “Christ, Karen, I thought I was over it,” said Emma.

  “What do you mean? Why’ve you got blood on your hands?”

  “I should have stood up to him, why did I have to run back here?”

  “Emma, come in to my room and have a coffee; you can tell me all about it.”

  And so Emma found herself in Karen’s room and it all came out: the stuff with her mother; the stuff with her father; and the stuff with her
grandparents. She wasn’t a pretty sight by the end of it. Karen helped to bandage the cuts. Karen advised Emma that she needed to see someone. It turned out that Karen volunteered for The Samaritans and she gave Emma a card for someone who offered free counselling for students.

  Emma arrived at the rather drab front door on Cowley Road and knocked softly. She didn’t really want to be there. The door was opened by a surprisingly young man with scruffy, curly hair and wearing jeans and a corduroy jacket.

  “Emma? Come on in, I’m Robert.”

  And so she started six sessions of counselling. Robert was like a blank canvas that Emma was able to use to paint all her past memories and experiences. At the end of the sessions, he took a long breath and said he thought she’d benefit from long-term psychotherapy. Emma said that the six sessions had done a lot of good in getting stuff out into the open and that she didn’t think she’d self-harm again. She was also aware that she’d become rather too fond of seeing Robert and had even fantasised what they might do together if she wasn’t in counselling.

  April 1982

  Emma examined the penis in front of her and noted that it was five inches long and one-and-a-half inches in diameter and uncircumcised. There were a few rogue strands of pubic hair right on the foreskin, which seemed to Emma a strange place for hair to be. The penis had a rather leathery appearance and was a mottled brown colour. Formalin had achieved its purpose, but the organ had done rather better than the rest of the body in retaining some semblance of vitality; ‘membrum virile’, a term used by her grandfather instead of penis, would definitely have been an appropriate description for what she was looking at.

  Week by week, Emma and her fellow anatomy students were making their painstaking, systematic deconstruction of a body of a male who’d left his body to the medical school at the ripe old age of 82. Emma was aware of apocryphal tales of dissected penises ending up in curries or attached to locker doors of female students, but didn’t believe any of it. Some medical schools encouraged medical students to add some identity to their cadavers and even to write thank-you letters once all the dissection had been finished, but Oxford hadn’t signed up to that yet.