by Eve Smith
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KATE
My finger darts over the phone, summoning agency success rates and prices. I click on Archway Investigations and scan the reviews one more time. I’ve pored over countless testimonials, but I’m not fool enough to believe these sugary endings come to us all. For every marketed reunion there’s probably at least one miss and three horror stories. Let’s face it, things haven’t got off to the most promising start.
I’ve narrowed it down to two out of the list Janet gave me: the tracing agencies that she deemed reputable. The industry’s much better regulated these days, but you still have to be careful. After the Crisis, cowboy operators flooded in to profit from the misery of others. With communications down, many families had become separated, with no way of knowing if relatives were still alive. The tracing market boomed. Desperate people make easy prey.
The cursor flashes at me, urging me to decide. Janet warned against rushing into this, but, to her credit, she still helped. I told her I just wanted closure, that I’d keep my expectations in check. I didn’t tell her that those two bits of paper have afflicted me like a virus: breaking down my defences and consuming my thoughts. Each morning, I wake with the same suffocating tautness in my chest.
The bus lurches to a stop. Through rain-spattered panes loom two hulking grey towers: shit, we’re here. I stumble down the gangway and jump onto the pavement, narrowly missing a large puddle. The bus pulls away, spraying my trousers with filthy water. I curse under my breath, bend my umbrella into the wind and stomp towards the crossing. It’s only when I get there that I see them: a swarm of protestors jostling by the security fence, brandishing their placards like weapons.
Assisted Living, Not Dying!
Stop the Slaughter!
Damn it. I should have checked after all the Diane Seymour business. Only yesterday, another doctor was attacked in North London. Someone injected him with a lethal dose of painkillers. Left him to die on the pavement. Those suits in Westminster are the ones who passed the laws. But it’s us that take the rap.
People shove past, spiking my umbrella, flicking cold spears of rain into my face. Surely if it was serious they would’ve warned us, sent a secure bus to the meeting point. I consider calling, just to check. Instead I hunch my neck into my coat and stride onto the crossing. But, as I reach the other side, my heart sinks. A film crew are lurking behind the campaigners, right outside the gates. I turn and march the other way, barging into people, my brolly clenched in both hands. There’s a shout behind; I tell myself not to look. My neck spins round regardless. It’s a reporter; he must have clocked my regulation green trousers. He grabs the cameraman, and they sprint after me like bloodhounds on a scent.
‘Hey! Hey you!’ shouts the reporter. ‘We’d like to hear your thoughts on legalised killing!’
I step off the kerb into the traffic, looking for a chance to cross. Car after car thunders past. Another bus pulls in, forcing me back onto the pavement. Commuters stream out, cutting me off. I glance round. The newsman’s at my heels, flushed with the chase; the rest of the mob are surging up behind. I sneak my mobile into my pocket and press the emergency key.
‘Do you support the proposed changes to the Medication Act?’ he says, panting. He shoves a sodden mic towards me.
‘No comment.’ I swivel my head, try to spot a way through. The newsman and his cameraman track me, step for step. A wet poster is rammed in my face. It’s a gun with a syringe in its butt. HOSPITALS FOR LIFE NOT DEATH!
‘Let’s face it, we all know the drugs are available,’ the newsman continues, oblivious to the water spooling down his cheeks. ‘Isn’t it immoral, what you’re doing? Why should some people get them and not others? Why should someone’s age determine whether they live or die?’
I swallow. ‘No comment.’
The protestors push closer, buffeting me dangerously close to the kerb. I scan the morass of bodies for any sudden lunges or darting hands. Hot prickles of sweat creep over my skin.
Stay calm. Follow procedure. They’ll be here soon.
‘Is she one of those “nurses”?’ gasps a corpulent lady with a black golf umbrella. Her efforts to catch up have clearly taken their toll. She jabs her finger at me. ‘Shame on you. You’re supposed to care for people. Not help them die!’
‘I do the best that I can for my patients,’ I say, although I know it’s a mistake to engage.
‘“Patients”?’ she snorts. ‘I remember when this used to be a proper hospital, not a slaughterhouse!’
I remember it too: I worked there. After they passed the Medication Act, they converted forty percent of the hospitals into hospitals for the elderly. The government refused to call them hospices. Then they had to build some more.
I take a breath. ‘The people who come to us are in a critical condition. We provide them with the best care we can.’
‘Have you even read the Hippocratic Oath?’ She thrusts a sopping bit of paper at me and starts to read out loud like some kind of preacher. The cameraman elbows the others aside to get a clear shot. ‘I will exercise my art solely for the benefit of my patients, the relief of suffering, the prevention of disease and promotion of health, and I will give no drug and perform no act for an immoral pur—’
‘Firstly, I’m not a doctor,’ I say. ‘And secondly, I am obliged to operate within the letter of the law—’
‘Are you aware of the latest victim?’ interrupts the newsman, eyes flashing. ‘Seventy-year-old man in Devon got the flu. Bit of a temperature and a runny nose. His daughter couldn’t wait for her inheritance so she convinced him to sign the forms.’ He leans closer. ‘He was “assisted” alright. Hardly voluntary, though. In fact I’d call that murder, wouldn’t you?’
I shake my head. These people warp the truth and it doesn’t help anybody. The flu that man caught was a mutated strain, a particularly vicious one: his death was a mercy. But I am aware of more doubtful cases.
‘Travesties like this happen every day.’ He nods at the camera. ‘You know what they call you? “Angels of death”. This level of abuse can’t go on.’
‘“Thou shalt not kill.” What about that law?’ shouts another lady in a beige mackintosh who’s clawed her way to the front. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me?’ she says, with glittering eyes. ‘But I remember you.’
They should lock you up…
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s Mr Casey’s daughter: the woman with the bleeding hand. Has she orchestrated this? Is there someone here with a syringe for me?
She turns to the crowd. ‘This woman calls herself a nurse, but she’s a serial killer. In fact, she’s killed so many people she’s lost count. I know, because she murdered my father.’ She juts out her thumb behind her. ‘In that death camp they call a hospital.’
She pulls back her head and spits at me. It slicks down my cheek, mixing with the rain. The mob start chanting: ‘Murderer! Murderer!’
I’m jostled back and forth, trapped in a blur of wild eyes and angry mouths. There’s a stench of wet bodies; stale breath in my face. Barbs of fear prick up and down my spine. I’m so hemmed in that I can’t grab my mask or gel. There must be other staff caught up in this. Why the hell weren’t we warned?
‘Looks like you aren’t too popular,’ says the newsman, watching me squirm.
I manage to yank one hand free and shove it over the camera. ‘You need to take this to Downing Street,’ I hiss. The cameraman bats my hand away. ‘We’re just doing our jobs.’
‘Isn’t that what the Nazis said?’ replies the newsman, struggling a
gainst the surge. ‘Too many old people and not enough money to take care of them. Isn’t this another Final Solution?’
His words rock me to the core. A placard thumps into my back, propelling me forward. My head slams into the camera and for a moment everything goes black. I hang there, propped against my accusers, as the chanting echoes and warps. When I come to, the reporter’s lips are still moving but his words are lost in a fog of static. A searing pain presses behind my eyes.
Suddenly, the pressure relents. I have to grab someone to stop my fall. Shrill whistles pierce my skull; I’m not sure if they’re real or some kind of defence mechanism going off in my brain. The cameraman checks his lens and swivels away from me at last.
‘Miss! Miss, over here!’ A man in a black helmet is parting the crowd like Moses. Behind him I can just make out a line of security officers in full protection gear wielding batons. Some are holding up cameras. I feel strangely distant, as if I am behind one of those cameras, watching, not in front.
A black glove seizes my arm. I stare up into eyes that move everywhere at once: me, the protestors, his men.
‘Did they use anything? Syringes? Needles?’ His gaze moves over me like a laser as his officers encircle me in a human shield.
‘I…’ My voice dissolves; I try again. ‘I don’t think so…’
‘Any puncture wounds?’ Muscled fingers clamp onto my pulse.
I swallow. ‘Not that I saw.’
‘What about that cut on your forehead?’
What cut? ‘I … My head … hit the camera.’
And only then, in that moment, does the full horror of what might have happened register.
He catches me just as my legs buckle. It’s as if someone’s pulled out the plug.
‘OK, we’re going to get you back inside, right away.’ He grips my waist. ‘Lean against me. That’s it. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything, don’t even look at those pieces of shit, you understand? Everything’s going to be OK.’
We all start moving towards the gates, steps synchronised, as if we’re different parts of the same organism. One massive centipede. He waves his baton out in front like an antenna as I drag my feet forward, keeping my eyes on the ground. They’re still shouting things, horrible things. I start my own chant in my head and try to picture Pen saying the words:
It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.
By the time we get through the hospital doors he’s virtually carrying me.
‘Here you are.’ He leads me into a small room I’ve never been in before. I collapse onto a seat. ‘The doctor should be here any minute. She’ll run all the checks.’ He touches my shoulder. ‘You did really well. I’ll be back later to take some details.’ His eyes narrow. ‘They won’t get away with it, I promise you. We got them all on film.’
Hot tears sting behind my eyes. Before I can muster my thanks, he’s gone. A female officer in black uniform appears and wraps a blanket around me.
‘Hey, honey. How about a nice hot drink? Tea, coffee?’
I just nod. She brings me a coffee. I hold out both hands to take it: they’re spotted with blood. It takes me a while to figure out that it’s dripping from my forehead. The coffee is loaded with sugar and tastes awful, but I drink it anyway.
She reappears with a first-aid kit. ‘Close your eyes,’ she says, wielding a can of antiseptic. When she sprays the cut I can’t help but wince.
‘Sorry. I’m no nurse, I’m afraid.’
No kidding, I think as she tapes on a wad of dressing.
‘That should stem the bleeding for now. Do you think you can hold this for me?’ She jams a cold compress against my forehead. ‘I’ll be right back. Just going to chase up that doctor.’
I feel a series of vibrations in my pocket. Three missed calls: all of them from Mark. It rings again; my fingers fumble over the keys but I catch it: ‘Hello?’
‘Kate, thank God.’ His words race out in a rush of breath. Just hearing them makes me crumple. ‘Are you alright?’
I try to answer but it’s as if a bandage has wedged in my throat.
His tone becomes more urgent. ‘Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?’
Tears squeeze down my cheeks as my head pounds. ‘I … I’m OK. Just a couple of knocks.’
‘Have they checked you over yet? You’re still at the hospital, right?’
I wipe my nose on my sleeve. ‘Yeah.’ I swallow. ‘The doctor’s on her way.’
His voice shatters. ‘Idiots. Stupid fucking idiots! These people haven’t a clue, how hard you work. How much you care.’
The throbbing in my head steps up a notch. Now I’m seeing flashes of light. Not a good sign.
‘Why the hell weren’t you warned? What are those imbeciles in security paid for? Why did they take so long?’
And that’s when I realise: he’s seen it. They must have uploaded it live.
‘Oh God, it’s out, isn’t it? You don’t think Sasha saw, do you?’ Just the thought of it makes me want to howl.
‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll deal with it,’ he says. ‘It’s already been taken down. The most important thing is you’re safe.’ A horn blasts in the background. ‘I’m at the Tube now, I should be with you in two hours, max. Call me as soon as they’ve seen you, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘And don’t you even think about going to work or anything stupid like that. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
I hear his breathing, deep and ragged. ‘I love you, Kate Connelly.’
I have to gulp down a sob. ‘You too.’
I squint at my phone, blinking back a wash of colours. Nothing from Sasha yet. Even though I know Mark will do it, I text her anyway. Just in case she thinks he’s covering for something worse.
‘The doctor’s here to see you now,’ says the security officer. ‘Are you OK to walk?’
‘I think so.’ I stand up. The room spins violently, and I pitch to the left.
She grasps me firmly around the shoulders. ‘Feeling dizzy?’
‘Just a little.’
Her eyebrows arch. ‘Don’t play the saint, Kate. It won’t help you or us if you keel over.’ She slips one arm around my waist and grasps my arm with the other. ‘Come on. Let’s take this one step at a time.’
We shuffle towards a cubicle like decrepit dance partners. I glance at her. ‘Why weren’t we warned?’
She puckers her mouth in a way that tells me she’s probably not meant to say. ‘They hacked the emergency plan. Took down the back-up as well as the operating system.’ Her jaw tightens. ‘But keep that to yourself.’
She helps me onto the bed. I slump into the pillows as the pale-blue curtain panels sway back and forth. I think about the reporter and that preacher lady. Mr Casey’s daughter. There was a time when I would have been executed for what I do.
You know what they call you? ‘Angels of death’.
You’re supposed to care for people, not help them die.
We all have to take our share of the blame for what happened. For the laws that followed. For the whole damned shitty lot.
But if I look into my heart, if I strip away the ‘for all the right reasons’, a doubt still lingers.
Can what I do, day in, day out, ever really be justified?
CHAPTER 16
LILY
The security lights filter through the curtains, casting a sickly glimmer across the room. My eyes flick over the walls. I can’t see the flowers, but I know they’re there. It’s a curse, this sleeping thing. Recent events haven’t exactly helped. You’d think the home would have a schedule for our insomnia, organise late-night film clubs or something, but Mrs Downing refuses, in case we keep the other residents awake. Ironic, really, because here we all are, fighting our demons, ticking off the slow, silent hours before morning. Wondering who’s up for the Waiting Rooms next.
The clock flashes four. I hear the mournful cries of two tawny owls, calling to each other as they hunt. I imagine their soft, brown bodies gliding through the
dark like spirits. Last night, I woke to the sound of screaming. I froze in my bed, unable to breathe. Then I remembered: foxes. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that haunting bark. Not since the last culls. They call it the vixen’s scream, but believe me, males can scream too.
I lever myself up on my elbows and switch on the light.
But the wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt…
I see Mother, belting out those verses with a glint in her eye. She was particularly fond of the prophet Isaiah. She used to march me up that hill and deliver me into the bleak clutches of a pathological Presbyterian. I don’t think she actually believed in God. But she believed in discipline. And if she couldn’t beat it into me, then that minister certainly could.
I glance at the wardrobe, circling the same old questions. And I reach for my tablet. Maybe Graham has insomnia too.
No messages.
I type another chaser. I have to edit it twice for diplomacy’s sake. I thought the press cutting would make him take this more seriously. But then, it’s not Graham who’s getting the notes. Perhaps he thinks he’s untouchable. But I know things. I’m not going down alone.
I open the spreadsheet. The cursor circles as the cells spill into view. The residents’ names read like some memorial to the fallen, a presage of things to come. It took me nearly a week to collect them all, shuffling past every damned door in this place. One of Graham’s minions should be doing this, not me. He’s the one with access to all the information. Or so he claims.
Elspeth Hartley, Oxf.
I tap her name into the search box. A few blue names appear. I scroll through, checking dates and locations, but none of them amount to anything. I try the alumni site. Nothing. Probably her married name; the women always make it harder. I expel a long, slow breath. The hours I’ve spent on this already. And the sum total of my achievement? Eleven unknowns, twenty-two rejects and no suspects. Ninety-one to go.
My eyes skulk back to the wardrobe. It pulls at me, the thought, like a dangerous old friend. A craving I have learned to ignore. I push it away, but my ghosts crowd in, whispering with their sweet, velveteen tongues, urging me on. I glance at the calendar. On yesterday’s square is scribbled the number 24.