by Julie Corbin
‘Where’s Mark?’
‘In bed. In our house.’
‘Shouldn’t we go straight to fetch Robbie?’
‘I called the hospital. He’s had a good night – what was left of it. They won’t let him leave until midday anyway.’
‘Did you tell Dad?’
‘Yes. He was at the hospital when I left last night.’
‘Did Robbie speak to him?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I turn into the supermarket car park, slowing down for the speed bumps. ‘He didn’t seem very keen.’
‘You shouldn’t have called Dad.’ Now she’s looking at me. ‘You shouldn’t tell him about private stuff that happens to me and Robbie.’
‘I had to, Lauren. He’s Robbie’s father. He has a right to know.’
‘He left us. He shouldn’t have any rights.’
‘He didn’t leave you two. He left me.’
‘That’s just crap that parents say to try and make children feel better. It’s pathetic.’
She climbs out of the car and I do too. We’ve had this conversation many times before and she settles into the familiar groove of ‘he rejected all of us, he left the whole family.’ Last year, when he told her he was moving out, she was so stunned that she was slow to believe him. ‘We’re the perfect family. You can’t leave,’ she said, following him from room to room as he packed his belongings. ‘You’re making a mistake, Daddy. This is all wrong.’ He was kind to her, he explained himself to her, but still he left, and all her little girl’s trust and faith was trampled on. ‘How could Dad leave? I don’t understand!’ she shouted at me. ‘We have to stop him. What can we do to stop him?’ On and on, until, finally, she accepted it. No more crying, no more asking me to try and get him back, just a nut-hard acceptance that he’d let her down. We’d both let her down.
‘He pretends to care about me and Robbie,’ she says, following me into the store. ‘But really he only cares about himself and that silly bitch Erika.’
‘Don’t say words like “bitch”, Lauren.’
‘For God’s sake, Mum!’ She stamps her foot. ‘You care about all the wrong things. You’re just so stupid!’
‘Okay, that’s it!’ I stop walking and hold up my hand, forcing my temper low in my chest. ‘I have been through enough for one weekend and I am not going to have you being rude to me like this.’
She stands mute and angry for a couple of seconds before her face becomes first pinched and then stricken. ‘I’m sorry.’ She throws herself at me and hugs me as though she never wants to stop. And then she starts to cry, silently, as if her tears are worth nothing.
‘Listen, sweetheart.’ I hold her away from me so that I can look into her eyes. ‘I know times have been hard, but Daddy loves you very, very much. He absolutely does.’
‘I don’t care about Dad.’ She gulps in a mouthful of air. ‘I only care about you and Robbie.’
‘Well, Robbie and I, we care about you.’ I kiss her forehead. ‘And we’re doing fine!’ I manage a laugh. ‘We could be better – especially your brother – but nothing that can’t be sorted by some treats.’
She looks up at me then, her eyelashes wet with tears. ‘How much is he allowed?’
‘As much as you think he can eat. Fill up those hollow arms and legs of his.’
‘No limits?’
‘None.’
‘Cool.’ She wipes her tears on to her sleeve, grabs a trolley and runs a few steps before jumping on to the back of it. ‘We can buy him that ice cream with the caramel pieces in and tortilla chips and dips. Oh, and the spring rolls with the prawns in them and raspberry trifle.’
I nod and nod and nod again and in ten minutes we have a trolley full of enough treats to last a month. She watches my face as I pay for it all. I know she’s wondering whether we can afford it and so I give her a confident smile, waving my credit card around as if it’s a magic wand.
One of the conversations I regret Lauren hearing happened six months ago when Phil and I sold the family home and split the proceeds. He combined his share to buy a place with Erika and I combined my half with a mortgage on a house for the children and me, much smaller but still convenient for school and work. Although my salary is decent, after the mortgage and household expenses, there’s barely anything left over. Phil was complaining to me one day about the fact that I’d stopped buying organic food for the children and I told him in no uncertain terms why this was the case. Unfortunately, Lauren heard me, and she’s been worrying about money ever since.
Before we climb into the car she grabs my arm. ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit-ch-eeky to you sometimes.’
‘Well recovered.’
‘You know that’s not even a bad word.’ She stares up at me through a fringe of straight blond hair. ‘Not like the f-word or the c-word.’
‘Neither of which I want to hear coming out of your mouth.’
‘Well actually, Mum.’ She’s holding a stick of liquorice and she bites the end off. ‘I heard you say the f-word once.’
‘Must have been in a moment of extremis.’
She rolls her eyes.
‘Must have been!’
‘And I can’t have moments of . . . whatever?’
‘I just don’t think it’s very becoming for young ladies to swear.’
‘La-di-da!’ she affects a posh accent. ‘How very Jane Austen.’
We both laugh and our light mood continues until we pull into the hospital car park. ‘Take some change and get a ticket, will you, Lauren?’
She stares at the change but doesn’t take it. ‘Will he look the same?’
‘Robbie? Of course!’
‘Will he smell funny?’ She climbs out of the car. ‘Will he have memory loss?’
‘Hah!’ I pretend to think. ‘You might have missed a trick there.’ I walk across the car park and slide one coin after another into the machine. ‘This was your opportunity to claim his bedroom.’
‘You mean I could have stayed at home and moved everything over and he would be none the wiser?’
‘Would have been a plan.’ I hand her the keys and the ticket and she skips back to the car.
‘He could have had the shoebox at the back of the house—’
‘Your bedroom is hardly a shoebox, Lauren!’
‘And I could have had his attic room.’
‘It’s cold up there in the winter.’
‘Benson would keep me warm. Do you think it’s too late? Do you think he might swap with me?’
‘You can ask him.’ I offer my hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go inside.’
She takes my hand and falls into step beside me. When we’re a few feet away from the building, I feel her hand grip more tightly on to mine. Both my children have been subjected to too much time waiting around in hospitals. Even before our separation, Phil would take the kids to work with him at weekends if he was on call. Emergency admissions for acute symptoms of self-harm, episodes of hypermania or psychotic hallucinations – it all kicks off over the weekend. While Robbie sat in Phil’s office and lost himself in comics or hand-held game consoles, Lauren absorbed all the activity like a sponge takes in water. She saw far too much distress and confusion, but whenever I asked Phil to please not take her, he insisted that it was a good learning experience for her. The public only shunned the mentally ill because they didn’t understand what was happening. Stigma came about because of lack of information, and while I didn’t exactly disagree with him, exposing Lauren to the sharp end did her no favours and she is rapidly developing a hospital phobia.
‘I never, ever want to be a doctor or a nurse. All those smells and naked bodies and crying and . . .’ She shudders.
‘Don’t worry, hun. This isn’t like your dad’s unit. It’ll be fine. I promise.’
I’m relieved to see that the A & E reception is a different place from last night. The queue has been cleared and there’s a feeling of calm about the place. A couple of small children, looking tired but cute, are playing with the toys in the
corner while their mother sits in a chair, holding her baby close to her chest, mewling sounds coming from within the blankets. I tell the nurse I’m here to collect Robbie and she points me through the double doors. As we’re walking along the corridor, I look through an open doorway and see Doug Walker sitting behind a desk. ‘You’re still here?’ I say.
He stands up. ‘Catching up with patient records.’ His scrubs are rumpled and drops of blood are dotted across the material. ‘This latest government hasn’t done anything to simplify the process.’ He takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘And you must be Lauren?’
She nods.
‘Your brother’s been telling me about you.’ He moves from his side of the desk to ours. ‘Would you like to see him?’
She stares up at me. ‘Is that okay, Mum?’
‘Of course. Here!’ I hold out a carrier bag. ‘Take him his clothes. I’ll join you in a minute. I need to have a quick chat with Dr Walker first.’
Dr Walker calls over to one of the nurses and she comes towards us. I give Lauren a gentle nudge and she follows the nurse into the adjacent ward where Robbie has spent the night.
‘She’s very sweet,’ Dr Walker says.
‘She can be.’ I follow him back into his office. ‘Do you have any children?’
‘I have two sons.’
‘It’s hard on family life when you have to work on a Sunday.’
‘The youngest is twenty. Neither of them lives at home any more. They’re both at Edinburgh University.’
‘That’s why you moved up from London?’
He raises his eyebrows at this.
‘I’m sorry.’ I hold up my hands. ‘It’s none of my business. Phil was speaking to a colleague and—’
‘Checking me out?’
‘Checking you out,’ I acknowledge. ‘It was rude and unnecessary.’
‘It’s not a problem. Parents show their anxieties in different ways.’ He pushes the door almost closed and returns to his side of the desk. ‘Have a seat.’
‘I just wanted to ask your advice.’ I sit down opposite him. ‘Robbie’s adamant that he didn’t take any GHB last night and so I really feel this incident should be reported to the police. Don’t you?’
Dr Walker rests his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers in front of his chin. ‘Your husband—’
‘Ex.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ He gives a half smile. ‘Your ex-husband seemed to think that Robbie might be lying.’
‘Yes . . . well, I don’t. And spiking someone’s drink is a crime, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I noticed there’s a sign for Lothian and Borders Police at the entrance to A & E.’
‘They have a small office there. It’s not routinely manned but you might be lucky because I know there’s a policewoman in this morning taking down details of another case.’
‘I’ll have a word with her.’ I stand up. ‘And if she wants details about Robbie’s treatment, shall I point her in your direction?’
‘We’ll need Robbie’s permission before giving out any information.’
‘Okay. I’ll speak to him first.’ I hold out my hand. ‘Thank you, Dr Walker.’
‘Good luck with getting to the bottom of it.’ His eyes are kind as he shakes my hand. ‘And congratulations again on your nomination for the award.’
I leave him to his paperwork and follow the signs round to the Toxicology Unit. It’s not quite visiting time and a Sunday hush pervades the corridor, empty of people, the only sound the soft squeak of my trainers on the linoleum floor. As soon as I walk on to the ward, Lauren sees me and comes across, slipping her arm through mine before she whispers, ‘Robbie’s behind the curtain getting dressed.’
‘Great.’
I discuss Robbie’s care with the charge nurse, then the curtain is pushed aside and Robbie appears fully clothed, walking gingerly as if the floor is hurting his feet. After thanking the nursing staff, we head towards the exit, and I ask Robbie whether I have his permission to report what happened to the police. ‘Because if you didn’t take these drugs yourself, then someone gave them to you.’
‘Okay.’ He shrugs. ‘Whatever.’
‘And you didn’t take them yourself, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t, Mum.’ He stops and looks fully into my face. ‘Honestly, I didn’t.’
His eyes are an icy blue, exactly the colour of Lauren’s, and of my own, and I’m convinced I can read them. I’ve caught him in lies before and every time his gaze automatically avoided the scrutiny of mine and his lips tightened at the corners. None of this is happening now, and I give him a hug, relieved that I’m able to trust him.
Dr Walker’s right and we’re lucky enough to find the policewoman at the A & E reception. Robbie and I tell her about what happened overnight and she promises that we will have a follow-up visit before the day’s end. Then the children and I go out into the sunshine and stroll back to our car. All the while, Robbie’s laughing at Lauren’s attempts to persuade him out of his attic bedroom and into her smaller one ‘. . . if you think about it, Robbie, you’ll be nearer the kitchen and the bathroom and . . .’
We begin the drive home and I quieten the voice in my head by reminding myself that we need to be thankful we’ve got through this without any serious harm done. This works for a little while but, before we’ve even reached our house, a worry worm settles itself in the comfortable hollow beneath my sternum, reminding me that, glad as I am that Robbie didn’t take the drugs himself, it raises the questions of who gave them to him and why. Much as I want our journey home to mark the end of this incident, I know that it’s far from over yet.
3
‘Obviously drug abuse of any sort is something that we in the police service want to clamp down on.’ Detective Inspector O’Reilly looks around at each one of us. ‘But drink spiking is particularly corrosive and if found guilty the person can be sentenced to up to ten years in prison.’
It’s late Sunday afternoon and we’re all jammed together in the living room – Phil, Leila, Archie, Mark, Robbie and myself, spread out on the three couches and two easy chairs, facing each other. I prefer not to invite Phil into the house, but it was either this or we all went down to the police station, and Robbie, despite his assertion that he feels fine, has dark smudges under his eyes and looks as if he hasn’t slept for a month.
Lauren has gone for a walk with Benson and Erika. On her way out she gave me an injured look as if she’d drawn the short straw being stuck with Erika. Phil denies that he left me for Erika but he did, and much of my own and the children’s animosity has been directed her way when, in actual fact, she isn’t so bad. A bit serious, but essentially well-meaning, and I don’t envy her the task of trying to persuade a moody and anxious Lauren into conversation.
Leila is sitting forward on her seat, her expression unusually solemn. Even at forty-one she has an exotic beauty that always draws a second glance. Her hair is jet black and lush with natural curls that sit on her shoulders. Her eyes are tiger-orange, a blend of old gold and autumn leaves, and normally her teeth flash white against the caramel warmth of her skin, but at the moment she isn’t smiling.
I telephoned her as soon as we got back from the hospital and told her what had happened. She listened in silence – very un-Leila like – until I got to the part where I was waiting in the hospital, aware that Robbie was in the Resusc room but with no idea as to how critical he might be.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Leila said.
‘I would have if you hadn’t been an hour’s drive away and celebrating Archie’s birthday.’
‘You should still have called me! I can’t believe you’ve had to go through this on your own.’
‘Fortunately I wasn’t kept in the dark for too long but it was scary while it lasted.’ I told her that the police were taking the possibility that Robbie’s drink was spiked seriously, and were due at my house later in the afternoon.
‘We�
�ll drive back straight away.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I think we do.’ She inhaled a sharp breath. ‘Are you sure the boys are telling the truth?’
‘About taking drugs? Yes, I am. Phil isn’t, though. He thinks Robbie’s lying and that I’m being naïve for believing him.’
‘Well Phil’s going to disagree with you, isn’t he? But still.’ She paused. ‘I know we read a lot about drink spiking these days, but isn’t it usually for date rape?’
‘Not exclusively. I’ve heard about cases through the centre. I think it might be more widespread than either of us realise. I’m hoping this incident with Robbie will be part of a pattern that the police already know about.’
She gave an impatient sigh. ‘Wait till I get hold of Mark.’
‘It wasn’t his fault, Leila. The boys shouldn’t have been in the bar drinking but I think their mistake ends there.’
‘But haven’t we always told them that they should be honest and that they should look after each other?’
‘He did look after Robbie. He was very brave actually. And he came to the hospital in the ambulance.’
She mumbled something I couldn’t hear. Leila has four children but Mark is her eldest and her only son and she has high expectations of him. When, almost two hours later, she arrived at my house, there was no stopping her taking Mark aside and giving him an earful. I watched him make repeated attempts to argue back, but Leila wouldn’t listen and finally he simply stood with his head bowed, stoically taking the verbal punishment.
Since the two policemen arrived, we have all sat listening as they talk us through the investigation. DI Sean O’Reilly is doing most of the talking. He is broad shouldered and dark haired and, although he has an Irish name, he talks in a very definite Scottish accent. More Glasgow than Edinburgh, the rhythm of his speech has a relaxed, singsong quality unlike most east coast accents. His colleague is PC Harry Bullworks, and on the few occasions he speaks, he sounds as though he’s come down from the Highlands. His hair is red-blond, his freckled skin covers delicate, almost feminine features, and he writes everything down with a hurried hand and a watchful eye towards the boss.