The Waiting Rooms

by Eve Smith

  She snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and grabs my left wrist. I crumple. ‘That’s why you did it, isn’t it? Because he was the one thing you couldn’t have.’ She tightens her grip and I howl. ‘Well, now it’s your turn.’

  She stabs my thumb with the lancet. ‘It took me a long time to find you.’ Her voice is calmer now, more controlled. ‘But I never gave up.’ She watches my blood seep into the tube. ‘Remember George?’ I see an image of George, dozing off in his armchair, glasses sliding down his nose. ‘Consider it a little leaving present from him.’

  I grope for a connection as the blood whines in my ears. Legs. Something to do with his legs…

  Natalie screws on the lid. ‘That was no ordinary flu jab.’

  Her words percolate my brain and I remember: the cold scrape of the needle, the push of fluid into my vein. And I see them – all those bacteria swarming through me; thousands of rods dividing, multiplying, consuming my cells one by one. I pitch forward and retch.

  ‘The others,’ I gasp, sharp stabs of panic mingling with the pain. ‘My profile. They’ll know.’

  She sticks a label on the tube. ‘Oh, I took care of that days ago. I had a little play with the feeds. But now it’s time to let the real data do the talking.’ She slots the tube back into the rack with the others. ‘By the time they’ve analysed this you’ll be dribbling into your nightie.’

  Something deep inside me stirs. I spot my tablet on the bedside table and try to lever myself up with one arm. Before I can get my balance, Natalie darts in front of me and whisks it away.

  ‘I suppose you’d like a word with your long-lost daughter.’

  A different kind of fear coils through me. Scissors. Where did I leave those scissors?

  Her lip quivers. ‘Did he know about her?’

  I hold Natalie’s gaze as my hand creeps towards the dressing table. Slowly, slowly. ‘No, he…’ I ease the drawer open. ‘He never knew.’

  She marches over and slams the drawer shut.

  I grab her hand. ‘Please … please don’t hurt her. She’s your family too.’

  Natalie yanks her hand away. Her fawn eyes bore into me. ‘I have no family.’

  Tears roll down my cheeks. I feel as if I am drowning. As if I am back in that bath tub, the warm, minty water filling my lungs.

  She reaches the door and turns. ‘Oh, one last thing, Mary. I’ve made a little adjustment to your forms.’ The vein in her neck pulses. ‘You can forget about your directive. You’ll die alone and in pain. Like they did.’

  As the lock thuds across I lunge at the wardrobe. I cling onto my clothes and sweep my hand along the ledge. There’s nothing there. Jackets and shirts strain against their hangers and ping off, one by one. I pitch sideways and my shoulder slams into the wood, making me heave.

  And that’s when I realise. The metal tube in Natalie’s hand.

  It was my stash of painkillers she had all along.

  CHAPTER 47

  KATE

  I pad across the tiles to my locker and pull on my shirt. My body feels leaden, compressed, as if gravity has increased; every nerve and muscle clamours for sleep. I wonder how Sasha’s getting on. When I dropped her off she looked done in. At least her pale, freckled face had a smile on it.

  One line. One single, blue line. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see one of those.

  I tug on my trainers and ferret in my bag for my phone. One missed call and one voicemail: both Liscombe House. My heart sinks. I’ll bet it’s Mark’s medi-profile. If his sniffle costs us the visit I’ll be seriously pissed; I promised Lily we’d all be there.

  I shoulder my bag and clamp my mobile to one ear.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Connelly, this is Mrs Downing. I’m calling to let you know that unfortunately Lily has been taken ill.’ I stop in my tracks. My eyes widen. ‘As Lily doesn’t have any next of kin, we thought we should inform you. She’s currently in our sanatorium, but her situation is quite serious. Please do give us a call as soon as you are able.’

  Quite serious. I know what that means.

  I hit ‘call back’ and march towards the exit. Angie holds up her hand to wave but drops it when she sees my face. I shake my head at her and keep walking. Damn. They’re engaged. I dash through the doors and spot a cab just pulling up at the rank. I sprint to the head of the queue and, before anyone has time to protest, stick my medi-profile up against the driver’s window.

  ‘Liscombe House, please,’ I say into the microphone. ‘It’s an emergency. As fast as you can.’

  The lock thuds back, and I clamber in. I dial Mark. It rings four times before he answers. ‘Hi, love—’

  ‘Lily’s ill and it’s serious. I’m on my way to Liscombe House now.’

  ‘Oh God, what’s happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, I literally just picked up the message.’ I swallow. ‘But it doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘Kate, I’m so sorry. Shall I head back? I could meet you there, bring the car.’

  The thought of having Mark with me is suddenly very tempting. I hesitate. ‘I should probably see what the score is first. Assuming she’s still there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I’m not sure about anything. I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll ring when I know more.’

  ‘Alright. If there’s anything you need, just call me, OK? Anything at all.’

  ‘Will do. Love you.’

  His voice softens. ‘You too.’

  I try Liscombe House again. Still engaged. They must have more than one line, surely? I grip the phone, willing the traffic to go faster. A column of cars crawls along in front of us, like a colourful cortege. The driver mutters something and starts punching buttons on his sat nav. I stick my head through the hatch. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘They’ve shut the bypass. Must be another demo. So now they’re sending all the traffic this way.’

  Christ. ‘How long, d’you reckon?’

  He shrugs. ‘Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.’

  I grit my teeth. A lot can happen in twenty minutes.

  I listen to the message again. Mrs Downing said ‘taken ill’ which rules out accidents or falls. I run through the usual contenders: UTI, heart attack, stroke. I’ll bet it’s a UTI; care homes are notorious for them. Although, with their state-of-the-art monitoring, Liscombe House ought to be catching things early. Before they progress.

  I try calling again. No answer. At least the traffic begins to move. Hedgerows and roads converge in twisting tunnels of grey and green until, eventually, we pull into the gravel drive. My guts spiral as the austere building looms towards us.

  I pay the driver and haul myself out. I ignore the cameras above the entrance and slam my hand on the bell. I’m about to ring it again when the door opens. It’s one of the carers I met before.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Connelly. Please, come in.’ She keeps it professional but her doleful green eyes give her away. The hairs on my neck prickle. ‘Mrs Downing knows you’re here.’

  I’ll bet she does. ‘Take me straight to Lily, please.’

  She sucks in her lips and hovers in front of me, uncertain. ‘Oh. You … you didn’t get the message?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you back for the best part of an hour. What’s the diagnosis?’

  Her mouth opens and closes. ‘I’m sorry, I … I’m not permitted to go into details.’ Now I see it on her face: not just worry. Fear, too. ‘Please. Follow me.’

  She leads me through security. We pass the first gate but instead of turning left after the scanners she heads right through a different door. We go down another carpeted corridor with rooms on either side. I stick one pace behind her, trying not to step on her heels.

  She stops outside a wood-panelled door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ My tone is harsher. ‘This isn’t the sanatorium. I’m a qualified nurse, I’m entitled to see her.’

  She gives me a desperate look. ‘Would you mind just waiting here? Please … just for a moment.’

  She kno
cks once and disappears inside. I hear hushed voices. The door opens and a woman who I assume is Mrs Downing appears, all collars and glasses.

  ‘Mrs Connelly,’ she says, with practised calm. ‘Do come in.’

  I don’t move. ‘Where’s Lily?’

  She blinks once then turns to the carer. ‘Anne, would you please bring us some tea? And ask Dr Barrows to come to my office.’ Her gaze swivels back to me: shrewd, brown eyes magnified by her spectacles. ‘Mrs Connelly?’ She waves her arm towards a chair. ‘I think you should sit down.’

  Those six words, they’re such a cliché. But they hold a terrifying power.

  I move an inch over the threshold. ‘I’m a ward sister, Mrs Downing. Cut to the chase.’

  She appraises me with her owlish eyes and takes a breath. ‘After I rang you this morning, I’m afraid Lily’s condition deteriorated.’ Now my fear is real, I can taste it, bitter on my tongue. ‘She had an abscess. On her arm. We drained it, but the infection was already advanced.’

  My forehead throbs. ‘She’s not here, is she?’

  She hesitates. ‘No.’

  My eyes squeeze shut. I think of Lily strapped down in one of those death wagons, making the journey alone. I want to beat my fists on the floor. Not now. Not when we’ve only just found each other.

  ‘Why didn’t you call the hospital? They could have paged me. You’ve got all my details, there are least three other numbers!’

  ‘Mrs Connelly, your mobile was your preferred contact number. I assumed that you would pick up your voice—’

  ‘I was working on isolation! I can’t exactly answer the bloody phone!’

  Her face tightens. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Connelly, but you have to understand that, legally, we’re only obliged to inform next of kin. We called you out of kindness, and you’ve Anne to thank for that. She told us how close your mother was to Lily.’

  There’s a knock at the door. A middle-aged woman in a white coat appears like a spectre. Mrs Downing looks visibly relieved.

  ‘Ah, Dr Barrows. I was just telling Mrs Connelly about Lily’s … condition. She’s understandably very upset.’

  Dr Barrows’ face is grave, with a veneer of empathy. I know it well. It’s the face of a professional who deals with death for a living.

  Mrs Downing swallows. ‘As you’re aware, Mrs Connelly also works in the medical profession. Perhaps you could explain to her in a little more detail what happened?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Dr Barrows folds her hands in her lap. I note the red lines around her wrists: marks of the trade. ‘When we tested Lily’s bloods this morning, the platelet count was significantly lower than usual. She was also exhibiting a high temperature and abnormal heart and respiratory rates.’ She pauses. ‘On examination we found an abscess on her left shoulder. It seems she had been hiding it for at least three days, possibly longer. Which explains why the infection had already advanced into her bloodstream.’

  ‘Three days?’ I’m incredulous. ‘How on earth could she have concealed something like that? Apart from anything else, it must have been incredibly painful. I thought you people were supposed to provide round-the-clock care?’

  Mrs Downing rushes in. ‘Mrs Connelly, I appreciate you’re upset, but I can assure you, Liscombe House provides the highest standards of care. Nothing on Lily’s profile prior to that point had given any cause for concern.’

  Dr Barrows glances at Mrs Downing. She clears her throat. ‘Shall I continue?’ Mrs Downing nods. ‘We administered fluids and oxygen, but, by mid-afternoon, Lily’s breathing had become even more irregular and her mental state severely compromised. We had to make a judgement based on the level of infection. I’m sorry, but the rules are very strict about that. She was taken to a hospital for the elderly just under an hour ago.’

  I sit forward. ‘Hang on, why didn’t anything present on her profile earlier? That level of infection doesn’t just happen overnight.’

  The doctor hesitates, and I glimpse a tiny chip in her veneer. ‘We are investigating that.’ She arches her fingers. ‘But, according to the data, there were no substantial changes to any of the vital signs until this morning.’

  I rub my forehead. There’s definitely something not right here. ‘What about a directive?’ My throat constricts. ‘I assume she’s signed?’

  They exchange looks. ‘She did.’ Mrs Downing’s hesitation stills my breath. ‘But she changed her mind.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘Just before her birthday.’ She pauses. ‘It happens quite a lot.’ The rehearsed way she says it makes me want to hit her.

  Dr Barrows takes over. ‘Once people reach cut-off the procedure becomes a lot more real.’ She swallows. ‘They worry about decisions being made prematurely. Or that, later on, they may not be judged fit to change their minds. So they rescind their directive.’ She looks at Mrs Downing. ‘It’s my understanding that Lily rescinded hers a couple of weeks ago.’

  Whatever fight’s left in me fizzles out. So this is how it is. For those countless relatives I’ve had to deal with. This is how it feels, the other side of the fence.

  ‘Which one is it?’ I ask, already moving to the door.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Which hospital have they sent her to?’

  Dr Barrows hesitates. ‘Penworth.’

  My face falls. ‘Penworth? But she isn’t high risk!’

  She just manages to meet my gaze. ‘I’m very sorry. It was the only one that had any beds.’

  I hurl the door open and clatter straight into the carer. I push past her, and race down the corridor.

  Thirty minutes. With that traffic, forty. I can’t be sure Lily’s even got that.

  I grab my phone to call ahead. Penworth. Why did it have to be fucking Penworth?

  I’m almost at security; I can see the gates.

  ‘Mrs Connelly? Mrs Connelly, please, wait!’

  I turn. A woman is running towards me. It’s the other carer, from last time. The one who dropped the tray.

  I hold up my hand. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got—’

  ‘Please, it’s important. It’s about Lily.’

  There’s something in her face that halts me, even though I know every minute counts. ‘What is it?’

  She glances behind her and ushers me away from the gates. ‘There are things you need to know,’ she whispers. ‘About her past. But we can’t talk here.’

  I step away from her and shake my head. ‘I don’t know who you are, but I don’t have time for this.’

  She comes closer. ‘We both know Lily’s not her real name. But I’ll bet she hasn’t told you everything.’ Her lips tighten. ‘Like who your father is, for example.’

  Our eyes meet. And, with a jolt, I recognise her: it’s the woman from the shoe shop. The one who was staring at Sasha.

  My blood chills. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’ll explain everything. It won’t take long.’

  I stare at the gates. I should leave. Now. I know I should.

  She follows my gaze. ‘If you care about your family, you’ll want to listen.’

  My pulse goes into overdrive. ‘What is this? Some kind of threat?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  I swallow. ‘Five minutes, that’s all. And I mean it.

  CHAPTER 48

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  LILY

  There’s that ringing noise again. Is it one of them? They aren’t human. I don’t know what they are. They look like beekeepers. Or spacemen. They don’t speak, just check your tubes and they’re gone. Maybe they’re machines. They always said that would happen. They’ve got me stuck in here, for their little experiments. Nowhere to hide now.

  Where am I? It’s not the San. I remember those men coming. Dr Barrows, she was there. She smiled at me. She never smiles. She spiked my arm and it slid through my veins like a snake, ice cool. I tried to fight it, even though the pain was making me weep. Then they strapped me down and put me in that box. Is that the right word, box? No, something else. A wild white face. He knew it. That poet.

  The wailing. I can’t bear it. It just goes on and on. I can’t stay here. Bad things happen.

  I stretch my fingers across the sheet, try to lever myself up. My arms are clamped to my sides as though they’ve wedged me in the mortuary rack already. That woman must have done it. Strapped me down, like a lunatic.

  ‘Take them off! Please, someone!’

  I dig my elbows into the mattress and arch my back. Oh, God! The pain. Like a thousand cuts. They’re butchering me alive. Darkness swoops. I can’t c—

  There’s that sound again: metallic grating. Those poor children; their coughing never stops. There are hundreds of them. Hacking and spitting. I hear them crying for their mothers. They never come.

  ‘Is that you, Kate?’

  Skin all pink and wrinkly. Tiny fingers, curling up to mine.

  ‘Where are you? Have they taken you already?’

  Please. Let me hold her. One last time.

  ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t help any of you. Please, just let me go…’