Do Me No Harm

by Julie Corbin

  ‘You know, you’re very good with women,’ I told him, trying to settle my leg into a comfortable position, but wincing from the pain. ‘A lot of men are bored by tears or else they run away.’

  ‘I’ve got something that can help you with that leg.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Wee bit of wacky baccy.’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Doesn’t agree with you?’

  ‘Actually it does agree with me,’ I said, thinking about my evenings with Gabe. ‘Haven’t had it for years, though.’

  ‘It’s mild, the stuff I smoke. Grow my own.’ He looked at me with a little boy’s excitement. ‘Do you want to see?’

  I followed him to the hall cupboard, four foot square and close to the kitchen. It was where I stored my ironing board, tumble drier and shelves of sheets, towels and odds and sods. Porky had the cupboard walls lined with tinfoil and half a dozen cannabis plants growing to fill the space, five hundred-watt bulbs shining down on them.

  ‘Want to try some?’

  ‘Better not. But thanks for the offer.’

  Two weeks later the same thing happened again but this time it was worse – my leg was almost paralysed and pain shot from my toes to the base of my spine. I accepted Porky’s cup of tea and sympathy and when he offered me a hash cookie I didn’t say no. ‘It’s a pure resin,’ Porky told me. ‘Comes from Afghanistan.’

  Within minutes, a feeling of relaxation flooded into every cell of my body. I settled back on the sofa, and we watched a French movie, Robbie asleep in his crib next to me. For the first time in months my leg didn’t hurt and I felt all the tension leave my body.

  I began to spend more time next door – just an hour or so every other evening. Phil was usually out until at least eight o’clock and Robbie enjoyed the company. He was often grumpy in the evening but the post-grad students always had him giggling and gurgling within minutes. I felt so relaxed when I was with them, and it made me realise that, when I was a student, I missed out this whole phase because I was always so busy studying.

  Coping skills, I told myself, when I developed a habit of saying yes to a hash cookie. That’s what it’s giving you.

  I became a much better housewife – I didn’t forget to buy milk or bread and Phil’s shirts were always ironed. To be fair to him, he knew how to roast a chicken and scramble eggs and he could do his own ironing – he didn’t subscribe to the concept of women’s and men’s work – but still, he loved that I was looking after him. ‘You’re certainly cheering up,’ he told me. ‘I feel like I’ve got the old Liv back.’

  Robbie was five months old when Phil and I were due to get married. I’d had to fight hard to keep the wedding small and would have been happy with just Leila and Archie and a few other close friends but Phil wanted more than that. ‘What about Declan?’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to share your happy day with him?’

  ‘Sure I do. Declan and Aisling and their kids would be fine. Dad would be fine. Finn and Diarmaid can come too if they want, although I can’t see them making the effort, but I don’t want my mother to come.’

  ‘Liv . . .’

  ‘Really, Phil, I don’t want her to come.’ We were in bed and we’d just made love. With my new-found ability to relax, we were making love almost every night and it was bringing us closer. ‘I still feel fragile, and she’ll see that, and she’ll kick me when I’m down. I know what she’s like. And the fact that I’m getting married in a register office would be the perfect reason for her to have a go at me.’

  ‘It would be good for you to let go of old patterns.’

  ‘I don’t feel strong enough, and anyway, it’s all very well for me to be letting go of old patterns but she won’t.’

  The day dawned and I wore a cream silk dress and delicate sandals. I’d lost all my baby weight and I felt young and carefree. Porky had made me a batch of hash cookies that I pushed to the back of the cupboard because I was sure I could get through the day without needing to have one. Carrying Robbie was what usually set the sciatica off, and that triggered a vicious cycle – the pain made me tense and when I grew tense, it increased the pain. But today Phil would carry him and I would be able to relax. I’d got my way and it was to be a small ceremony with a dozen friends. I’d spoken to Declan and we’d agreed that time and money were tight for them – they’d recently taken a mortgage out on their own farm that Declan was busy building into a solid business. It made more sense for Phil and me to go and visit them at Christmas time and then the cousins could get to know each other and the adults would have time in the evenings to catch up with one another.

  We arrived at the register office for a quarter to eleven. Leila, Archie and baby Mark were there to meet us. Leila was my maid of honour and she was dressed in a green and gold dress that one of her sisters-in-law had made for her and it set her colouring off to perfection. The ceremony was simple but satisfying and I felt happy to have my baby and my man and enough friends to make a party sing. We walked down the road to the pub where we’d hired a reception room. Archie and Phil were carrying the babies, Leila and I were in the centre of the pavement holding on to our husbands’ free hands and talking to each other.

  And then I saw my mother. She was standing on the pub step, ramrod straight, the look on her face a picture of undisguised disgust. ‘What’s she doing here?’ I said to Phil.

  ‘Honestly, Liv, I thought this was the perfect time for you to make amends.’

  ‘I don’t have any amends to make,’ I said. I pulled Leila to a stop beside me and the men walked on ahead. ‘Did you know that Phil was planning this?’

  ‘As God is my witness, I didn’t,’ she told me. ‘I wouldn’t have let him do this to you.’ She looked as stunned as I was. ‘What do you want me to do? Shall I ask her to go?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it. You go on inside.’

  I waited until everyone had gone through the front door and then I approached my mother. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, that’s a fine welcome.’ She looked me up and down. ‘You’ve put on weight, Scarlett. It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Did you see my baby?’

  ‘Trust you to do things the wrong way round. Who takes a baby to their own wedding?’

  ‘Is Daddy with you?’

  ‘Why would he come?’ She puffed up. ‘How can a marriage outside of the church ever be a proper marriage?’

  I didn’t believe my dad would make that sort of judgement and while, in my heart, I knew that my mother was only here to have a go at me, I still hoped for a chink, an unbending, a fraction of a smile. ‘Are you proud of me, Mammy?’

  ‘Why would I be proud of you?’

  ‘Most mothers would be proud if their daughter had a lovely husband and a baby and was happy. Not to mention being a doctor.’

  ‘Well, I’m not most mothers,’ she said, rounding on me, her pupils pinpricks of concentrated anger. ‘You stupid, stupid girl! You could have been someone.’

  ‘I am someone and this is my wedding day.’

  ‘Finuala was right when she told me you’d never make anything of yourself.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I shouted. ‘Who cares about bloody Finuala?’

  ‘Do not take the Lord’s name in vain, Scarlett Olivia Naughton!’ my mother shouted back, crossing herself fiercely, her rosary beads coiled round her hand. ‘Don’t cheapen Him in the same way as you’ve cheapened yourself.’

  ‘My name stopped being Naughton over an hour ago and I haven’t called myself Scarlett in years,’ I said, the base of my spine beginning to tighten and burn. ‘Just go away. Now. I want you to leave.’

  ‘Why should I leave when I’ve come all this way at your husband’s invitation?’

  ‘Then I’ll go.’

  I knew that I was letting her win, walking away from my own reception, but I couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t stand her toxic mix of bitterness and religion. I hailed a taxi and went home and when I got there I rang Porky’s
doorbell.

  ‘Back so soon?’

  ‘I need a bolthole,’ I said, limping inside. ‘Just for an hour. Then I’ll go back to the reception. My leg’s on fire and I want to murder my mother.’

  They were smoking dope and I shared a spliff or two and then I threw caution to the wind and snorted some coke. I meant to go back, I really did, but Porky had some friends round and they were funny and interesting. Three hours went by and I began to miss Robbie. My arms felt empty and my heart was sending out sharp, poignant signals like a distress beacon.

  ‘I need my baby,’ I told Porky. ‘I’d better get back.’

  As I passed my own door I could hear voices inside. I didn’t have keys with me so I rang the bell, and when the door opened there was Phil, a frantic, surprised look on his face. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Where’s Robbie?’ I walked through the hallway and into the living room.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Leila kissed me on either cheek. ‘We were so worried.’

  ‘I’m fine!’ I walked past her. ‘Here he is!’ Robbie was next to the window in his bouncy chair, kicking his legs and sucking on his fist. I lifted him up and kissed his forehead and his cheeks, a dozen little kisses that made him giggle. ‘How’s my boy been?’

  ‘What’s going on with your pupils?’ Phil said, standing in front of me, hands on hips. ‘They’re dilated.’

  ‘I’m in love,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘You look so handsome in your best suit.’ I leant forward to kiss him too but he pulled his head away from mine.

  ‘I was looking for biscuits,’ Archie said, coming through from the kitchen waving a Tupperware. ‘And found these. Is it okay to have one?’

  ‘Oops! They’re mine. Hash cookies.’ I balanced Robbie on one arm and grabbed the box from Archie with my free hand. ‘Sorry! They’re for my sciatica.’ Silence flooded the room, bringing with it the constricting weight of shock and disapproval. ‘What?’ I said. The three of them were staring at me as if I’d just admitted to a smack habit. ‘It’s only marijuana! It’s not such a big deal.’

  Phil lifted Robbie from me and handed him to Leila. ‘Would you mind taking Robbie out for an hour or so? Olivia and I need to talk.’

  ‘No!’ I tried to step between them but Phil held me away from Leila. ‘For goodness’ sake! Why are you overreacting?’

  ‘You’re taking drugs,’ Phil said, his disappointed look bruising me. ‘You’ve been looking after our baby when you’re stoned.’

  ‘The hash is for my leg,’ I said, keeping my tone subdued. ‘It does not affect my ability to look after Robbie.’

  Leila was backing out of the room.

  ‘Leila?’ I was hurt by the expression on her face – shock and judgement and a hint of embarrassment. ‘Help me out here!’

  But she didn’t. Archie closed the living-room door behind them both and I was left alone with Phil, my husband. We’d been married less than six hours and already we were fighting.

  ‘I take it you’ve been spending time with the degenerates next door?’

  ‘Degenerates? How can you say that? You don’t even know them!’

  ‘They’re leeches, Olivia. Perennial students, bleeding taxpayers’ money because they’re too feckless to get jobs.’

  ‘When did you become so bloody superior?’

  ‘And when did you become so bloody irresponsible?’ he threw back.

  ‘Irresponsible? You’re a fine one to talk!’ I poked my finger into his chest. ‘I asked you not to invite my mother. I told you why. I bloody told you. But still you went on and did it anyway because you never listen!’

  We carried on like that for half an hour or more until I was crying from frustration and disappointment with myself and with Phil, and the spoiling of my wedding, and he was telling me that he loved me and he was sorry and now he understood how painful my leg really was and how justified my negative feelings were towards my mother. We sealed our apologies by making love on the couch, a tender coming together that made up for all the harsh words. And we agreed that we would always remember to talk to each other, to share what we were thinking and feeling and respect each other’s differences; that we loved each other enough to make our marriage work.

  I meant everything I said and it was years later before I wondered whether he did too.

  17

  It’s just after seven when Kirsty leaves and I tell Robbie it’s time to get up. He reminds me that he doesn’t have a lesson first thing – he isn’t expected in school until eleven – so I leave him to sleep some more and have a shower.

  While I’m under the water, I turn what Kirsty’s just told me every which way in my head, distil the argument down to its essence and know that I can’t risk my name being linked to drug abuse. My career will survive a newspaper article telling the truth about what happened all those years ago – I can recover from that – but Phil taking Lauren? I can’t risk it. I had become hooked on my daily cannabis cookie and this fact is recorded in my medical records. And because of the dependence, I was slow to wean myself off it. The pain relief and relaxation it brought me helped me through a couple of difficult months, but when Phil found out, I had to find other ways to cope and that meant doctors’ visits and pain clinics and months of Phil watching me for signs of a relapse. I’m sure a good solicitor could argue that there’s no smoke without fire – the business with the prescriptions, the fact that I worked with recovering addicts: both are ideal ways to access drugs – and past history could be seen to indicate that I have a predisposition to drug taking when I’m unhappy. Just like Kirsty said, I wouldn’t be the first divorcee to turn to drugs for comfort. And for the sake of an impressionable child of eleven, Phil might be given full custody. The fact that I’ve done nothing more than grow overly fond of an extra gin and tonic would be hard to prove.

  I dry myself quickly and plan my morning – four phone calls, two meetings and then maybe I can take a breath. As soon as I’m dressed – jeans and a T-shirt and flat sandals – I call O’Reilly and ask him if I can meet him at the police station instead of here. ‘Why?’ he asks.

  ‘Can I tell you when I see you?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Next I call the surgery and leave a message to say that I’m sorry but I won’t be in to work. ‘I had an accident yesterday,’ I say. ‘I injured my face. Nothing serious, but it needs a couple of days to calm down.’

  My third call is to Kirsty. ‘I’ll do it,’ I say without preamble. ‘But how can I trust that you won’t just go along with your whole back-up plan anyway?’

  ‘When I see the newspaper article, I’ll give you the prescriptions and that will be that.’

  ‘But the article won’t be in the newspaper before next week. I don’t want to wait that long.’

  ‘Too bad.’

  ‘Wait! Don’t ring off.’ I pull thoughts together in my head. ‘I have an idea. I’m going to call Carys Blakemore, the journalist, and ask her if she’s free for lunch. You could come too.’

  ‘As the dead woman’s baby?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘I don’t want.’

  ‘Then I can say you’re a soon-to-be medical student who’s shadowing me. You’ll hear me tell her about what happened and you can give me the scripts.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I’m not bullshitting you, Kirsty. I want to put an end to this. Today. Once and for all.’

  ‘You’re not going to have the police there to arrest me, are you?’

  ‘No. But they will keep looking for you. That’s completely out of my hands.’

  ‘I know that. And I have an idea how to fix it. Nothing that concerns you.’

  ‘Okay. So will you come to lunch?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘I’ll text you with the details.’

  Feeling like I’m getting somewhere, I call Carys and tell her I want to give her a story – the other side of Olivia Somers, as it were. ‘Intriguing,’ she says.

  ‘Let me t
ake you to lunch,’ I say. ‘We can talk about it then.’

  We agree to meet up town and I text Kirsty the details, then drive to the police station and find a parking space just in front of the building. I’m feeling nervous about meeting O’Reilly because it isn’t easy to lie to him – firstly because I like him and secondly because he’s practised at lassoing lies and dragging them to ground.

  ‘DI O’Reilly will be with you directly,’ the desk clerk tells me, and I smile my thanks then walk in circles round the foyer, stopping a couple of times in front of the poster board to look at advice about crime prevention, my eyes reading the words, my brain incapable of processing them.

  ‘Dr Somers.’

  O’Reilly is by my side and I try to swallow my anxiety before saying, ‘We need to have a chat.’

  He waves his arm in the direction of the interview rooms. ‘After you.’

  There’s a kerfuffle going on further along the corridor with a suit-clad middle-aged man swearing and flailing punches in all directions while two policemen talk him down. O’Reilly opens the door of the room we were in last time and I walk in ahead of him. ‘You need a lot of patience for this job,’ I say.

  ‘As you do with being a doctor, I expect,’ he says. ‘They’re similar roles in some ways, aren’t they? There’s a certain amount of detective work involved in your job, I’m sure.’ He points me towards a chair and sits down on the one opposite. ‘So what’s going on?’

  I rub my hands on my jeans. ‘Kirsty isn’t going to show up today.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  My mouth is completely dry and I run my tongue around it, but there’s nothing happening. Saliva production has stopped in favour of adrenaline that’s coursing through my blood, flooding my capillaries like a river in spate. ‘Is it possible to have a glass of water, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ He jumps up. ‘In fact, I’m sure we can stretch to tea or coffee.’