A Gift for Dying

by M. J. Arlidge

  When the midwife had struggled to find a heartbeat, Faith had started to panic. When a second midwife had failed to find signs of life, this time with a new machine, Faith’s heart had broken. What happened in the few hours after that remained a blur. She’d tried to get hold of Adam numerous times, but had finally given up – his absence just another part of the inexorable, unfolding nightmare. In the end, it was her mother who’d arrived first, who’d sat with her as she endured the tests which confirmed that the placenta had come away from the uterus, depriving her baby of oxygen and nutrients.

  Adam eventually arrived – when, she couldn’t say – and he was distraught of course, but she’d had no space for his anguish, not when she was being asked if she wanted to be induced. No, she didn’t want to be induced. No, she didn’t want a C-section. She just wanted her baby girl to be alive. But in the end, she had acquiesced to taking a cocktail of pills and twelve hideous hours later, baby Annabelle was born. Of course, she was perfect – a spitting image of her mother, right down to the dimples and the thick black hair – so much so that she looked like a resting angel, having a brief sleep before making her bow in the world. Those moments had been so precious, but even these were stained by the sounds of the other mothers in the labour ward, noisily giving birth to happy, healthy offspring.

  A few hours later, Annabelle was gone. Taken away to the hospital morgue. Adam had stayed in Faith’s room that night, but neither of them had slept a wink. Nor could they bear to walk the hallways for fear of encountering mothers, babies or nurses, none of whom knew quite where to look. Faith could have stayed longer in the hospital – the doctors wanted her to stay so that could monitor her, given her history of depression – but she had wanted to get home. Eventually, they had released her into Adam’s care, with a prescription for Tramadol and a series of after-care follow-ups scheduled.

  Returning home had not been easy, watching Adam discreetly sliding the bag of unused nappies and baby clothes into the utility room, walking past the closed door to the nursery, but it had been better than lingering in that awful place.

  And here she’d remained, dreaming of Annabelle, then waking to the awful reality. She could scarcely distinguish between night and day, hadn’t eaten much, but what was she supposed to do? How did you deal with something like this? Adam hadn’t dared suggest that it would get better, that she would heal, but she knew he was planning to get her help. She wasn’t ungrateful – it had worked before and she needed it badly – but it was still too soon. She wasn’t ready yet to articulate her despair.

  She’d hoped being in the studio might arouse some kernel of interest or energy, a desire perhaps to express her pain in abstract form. But in fact being here was having the opposite effect. Her self-portrait seemed to goad her, with its wistful, happy expression, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she had given birth to death. Rising, she placed a cloth over the portrait, hiding it from view. It didn’t represent her or her life any more – it seemed wrong and untruthful. Everything had changed now. Her baby, her beloved baby girl, had died.

  And a part of her had died too.

  40

  ‘My story’s not very remarkable. It was dope and pills at first – usual stuff – but I had an experience last year which … which left me badly traumatized. After that I drank more … and eventually started doing H.’

  She was right, Kassie thought to herself, as she investigated the frayed cuff of her sleeve, picking at a loose thread. This girl’s story was just like all the rest – the nursery slopes of substance abuse, then personal trauma, then hard drugs, then burnout. Not that Kassie wasn’t sympathetic – she pitied anyone who’d had a bad time and knew how drugs could take over your life – it’s just that it was so predictable, so depressing.

  This girl was the third speaker today. The counsellor – what was her name? Rachel? Rebecca? – was determined that everyone should get a chance. But the stories were starting to blur. Kassie knew she should be paying attention, emoting and nodding at the key bits, but the truth was that she didn’t want to hear it. The girl was currently describing a family incident that had driven her to hard drugs, but right now Kassie didn’t have the bandwidth to take on somebody else’s pain. She didn’t want to be here. She’d tried NA groups before and was only attending to honour her promise to Adam. Nor did she want to share the basis of her trauma. There was no way she could do so without provoking ridicule and, anyway, she had no intention of giving up drugs. Sometimes she felt they were the only things keeping her sane.

  ‘And how long have you been clean now?’

  The counsellor was gently moving the conversation on, shifting the girl’s focus from past hurt to present successes and future goals. Kassie receded a little further into herself, slipping her hand into her pocket to ferret out the eighth of skunk she’d secreted there. She let her fingers play over the plastic baggie, reassured by its bulk and amused at her rebelliousness in bringing it here.

  ‘I’m so grateful. I’m so grateful to all of you for your support and encouragement …’

  The girl was crying now. If Kassie could have shoved her fingers in her ears, she would have. She knew she was being unfair, unkind, but her mood was fragile enough as it was.

  ‘We’ll take a break shortly,’ the counsellor was saying, as the girl dabbed her eyes. ‘But first it would be good to hear from our newest member.’

  Kassie was jerked from her thoughts, alarmed by this sudden turn in the conversation.

  ‘Welcome, Kassie.’

  The group murmured a warm, collective greeting.

  ‘What would you like to share with us today?’ the counsellor continued beseechingly.

  Kassie tugged at her cuff, the thread coming clean off. What she wanted was to be away from here. She could feel the others looking at her – suddenly she felt hot, uncomfortable, claustrophobic.

  ‘Kassie?’

  The counsellor – Rochelle, that was her name – was looking at her entreatingly, but still Kassie avoided her gaze. She was starting to feel dizzy, even a little nauseous – why did they never open the windows in these places? – and there was a dull stabbing pain in her head.

  ‘There’s no rush. But everyone here has to participate. So … in your own time, tell us about your experiences.’

  Her words were becoming indistinct now. Kassie’s heart was beating fast, she could feel the sweat sliding down her back. She wanted to flee, to burst out of the cramped room into the cool, fresh air, but something was stopping her. And now, though she’d tried to block out her scrutiny, Kassie felt compelled to look at her interrogator.

  She fought it – fought it with everything she had – but she couldn’t help herself. Slowly, she raised her head, looking Rochelle directly in the eye.

  41

  The incident room was buzzing. Over the past few days, the numbers of analysts, operators and detectives filling the cavernous room had steadily increased, as more manpower was brought to bear on this unsettling case. Normally requests for extra resources were met with Hoskins’ blunt rebuttal, but not this time, such was the pressure from the top for a result. The Tribune’s continuing fascination with the case was not helping, and an emotive press conference from Jones’s bereaved fiancée had only added fuel to the fire. The consensus in the media, and the general public, was that the CPD was dragging its feet on this one.

  Gabrielle’s gaze was glued to her phone – she’d just received a reminder from her husband about a school baseball match later – but she didn’t need to have her eyes on her team to sense the energy in the room. If the naysayers could be here now, watching them hitting the phone lines, chasing down leads, arguing, analysing, then they would have a very different view of the department’s efforts.

  ‘Boss …’

  Gabrielle turned to see Miller approaching.

  ‘I think I may have something for you …’

  Gabrielle slid her phone into her handbag.

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘Shall
we?’

  Miller gestured to Gabrielle’s office, then stepped inside. Gabrielle followed her, catching a brief glimpse of Montgomery, who was hovering nearby, as she did so. She looked ill at ease, even a little downcast, leading Gabrielle to wonder whether it had in fact been she who’d unearthed this lead. Office politics would have to wait, however – hard intel was what they needed now.

  ‘We’ve been ringing around local construction companies, cleaning outfits, removals firms,’ Miller began, as Gabrielle walked past her, slinging her bag down on her desk, ‘to see if anyone matching Redmond’s description has worked for them in the last six months. And we found this …’

  She handed Gabrielle a faxed copy of an employee form from a company called CleanEezy.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Carpet cleaning, curtains, that sort of stuff. This guy’s been working on and off for them as a freelancer for the past five months.’

  Gabrielle looked at the name on the form – Conor Sumner – then at the attached photo. It was a small black-and-white photo, but unless Redmond had a doppelgänger, it was him. The birthmark was unmistakable.

  ‘Have we checked out the address on the form?’ Gabrielle asked, urgently. ‘1566 West Lamont Street. Is that Cicero? Forest View?’

  ‘Doesn’t exist,’ Miller replied. ‘The street stops at 1450. But that’s not the interesting part.’

  Gabrielle could see the ghost of a smile drift across Miller’s lips, as she handed her superior a second piece of paper. Gabrielle took in the contents – it was a copy of a paid invoice from CleanEezy. Her eye was immediately drawn to the client name – Jacob Jones.

  ‘When was this?’ Gabrielle demanded.

  ‘Two months ago. Jones gets his carpet cleaned twice a year, likes to keep the house spick and span. On this occasion, the operative assigned the job –’

  ‘Was Conor Sumner …’

  Gabrielle’s gaze was already fixed on Sumner’s name, printed in bold on the company invoice.

  ‘So, two months before Jones vanishes,’ Gabrielle continued, thinking aloud, ‘Kyle Redmond has the run of the place. Carpet cleaning takes … what? Three, four hours?’

  Miller nodded.

  ‘A busy guy like Jones isn’t going to hang around for that. Presumably Redmond would have had free rein. To go where he liked, do what he pleased. Maybe there were spare keys …’

  Gabrielle petered out, her mind turning on the possibilities.

  ‘Ok, pull everyone off our other lines for the next few hours,’ she continued suddenly. ‘We need to find this guy today.’

  Miller ran from the room to do Gabrielle’s bidding. All thoughts of her sons’ baseball match had already evaporated, as the familiar adrenaline kicked in. Five minutes ago, Redmond had been one of a number of suspects they’d been investigating. Now he had jumped straight to the top of the list.

  42

  Rochelle hurried down the street, tugging a packet of cigarettes from her bag. She paused to light one, but was soon on the move again. She had never liked this neighbourhood – there was a reason the rent for the community hall was so low – and she wanted to distance herself from the scene she’d just witnessed.

  Inexplicably, she felt embarrassed. It wasn’t she who’d freaked out, who’d been ranting and raving, so why did she feel so stupid? It wasn’t her fault – though obviously something she’d said or done had set the girl off. Up until that point, things had been … ok. She had deliberately let some of the other girls share first, to avoid putting the newest member of the group on the spot. She’d hoped Kassie, who appeared closed and truculent, would relax into the session, realizing it was a show of strength, not weakness, to confide in the others about her addiction.

  She had tried to be gentle with her, to give her all the time she needed. And, after some words of encouragement, Kassie had eventually looked up at her, as if about to speak. Rochelle had taken that as a positive sign … but actually that was the moment when everything went wrong. Kassie had stared at Rochelle for a moment, as if pole-axed, then had suddenly launched herself at her, screaming as she did so.

  Rochelle had had to break up the group and send the other girls home. She’d called a cab for Kassie, but the teenager refused to leave, insisting she needed to talk to Rochelle, to warn her. Warn her about what, for God’s sake? Rochelle should have stayed perhaps, but as soon as the cab arrived, she took her leave. Her expertise lay in addiction therapy, not mental health counselling, and, besides, if she was honest with herself, she was scared. The teenager appeared incoherent, yet persistent, clinging to Rochelle for dear life. The girl was actually hurting her, so Rochelle had extricated herself as best she could and got the hell out of there. Maybe it was cowardly, maybe it was an abrogation of her duty, but she had been attacked before during sessions and didn’t want to go there again. As soon as she was home, she would call Kassie’s outreach team – this was their domain, not hers.

  A noise behind her made Rochelle turn. Somewhere in the middle distance, a can had been kicked and was now rolling into the gutter. Pulling her bag up on to her shoulder, she hurried on her way. The street was only intermittently lit and, like most of Chicago, had alleyways leading off it. Suddenly Rochelle felt scared and alone.

  She picked up her pace, marching towards the ‘L’ station. She didn’t want to run – she told herself that she was being paranoid and that it was unnecessary. In reality, it was because she feared that if she did break into a run, someone would suddenly burst out of the shadows in pursuit. She berated herself for her stupidity, but there was no denying how she felt. Her nerves really were shot today.

  Another noise behind her. Without breaking stride, she craned her neck around. To her horror, she now spotted her pursuer. It was Kassie.

  Rochelle stumbled on, dumbfounded, for a second, then turned and sprinted towards the ‘L’ station at the end of the road. The teenager had been looking directly at her, hurrying towards her – there could be no doubt that she was being pursued. Somewhere behind her, Rochelle heard a cry, but she didn’t stop, tearing down the road, her heavy bag crashing into her side as she ran.

  She was a hundred yards from the ‘L’, now fifty, now twenty. She could hear pounding footsteps behind, so she didn’t hesitate, slamming her card down on the ticket barrier, before bursting into the station stairwell and climbing it three steps at a time. As she did so, she heard the familiar rattle, felt the vibrations beneath her feet – a train was coming.

  ‘Rochelle, wait!’

  Her pursuer had vaulted the barriers and was at the bottom of the stairs, breathless and crazed. Rochelle turned away and ran on to the platform just as the train ground to a halt. Turning left, she pushed through the small stream of commuters disembarking, diving into a carriage near the back of the train.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered, willing the doors to close.

  Right on cue, the alarm sounded and the hydraulics sighed. Just as they did so, her pursuer made it on to the platform. A quick scan of the place, then the crazed girl lunged towards the train, even as the doors began to slide shut. Just as she did so, Rochelle made an instinctive decision, stepping purposefully off the train. The doors drew together and, to Rochelle’s enormous relief, she saw that her pursuer was now trapped inside.

  The train moved off, leaving Rochelle alone on the platform, caught in the gaze of the girl, whose face was now pressed to the window. Rochelle watched her go, breathless and relieved, but, even as she did so, her attention was drawn to the train on the other track, now rattling towards the station from the opposite direction. Without hesitating, Rochelle hurried back down the stairs, darting through the subway and up on to the adjacent platform. Catching the incoming train would take her in the wrong direction … but it would take her further away from her. Furthermore, there was a cab rank at the next station and today she was willing to swallow the cost of a cross-town journey.

  Now more than ever, she just wanted to get home.

  43


  Adam stood in his office, suffocated by the silence. He had worked in this well-appointed suite for several years now and had had many interesting and surprising experiences. Family fist fights, crass attempts at seduction; he’d even had to chase one teenage patient down the street, after he’d vowed to kill the Mayor (who was an extraterrestrial masquerading as a human). There had been so much noise, so many tears, confessions, accusations and arguments, but now the place seemed lifeless.

  Adam hadn’t wanted to come here – Faith had virtually kicked him out of the house – but as he’d taken the short drive to his office, his spirits had risen very slightly, hoping that being in his office, dealing with work matters, might be a useful distraction from the agony of the last few days. But standing here, listening to his answering service, looking at his full to bursting inbox, he actually felt worse, his guilt at leaving Faith compounded by a feeling of having abandoned his patients too.

  He could hardly have done otherwise, of course. Faith was struggling to process what had happened to them, and in all honesty so was he. He was medically trained, he knew how the human body worked … but even so, stillbirth just seemed so wrong. It was such a horrific, shocking dead end. All their hopes for the future, all the images they’d conjured of a bouncing, happy baby, seemed like cruel hoaxes now. The excitement had been building month on month only to deliver grief, shock and pain.

  He felt like a man standing in the wreckage of life. Faith was at home, sharing his distress, but here were countless others, their files on his desk, their emails accumulating day by day, who were struggling too. People who were psychotic, depressed, suicidal or perhaps tentatively on the road to recovery. Today he felt he understood their pain a little more clearly, though that didn’t make him feel any better.