Guilty

by Siobhan MacDonald

  ‘I hear she kickboxes. I mean, what kind of carry-on is that for a lady? She’s not your type, Luke. And forgive me for saying, but she’s not really in your league.’

  Despite the intrusion into his personal life, he burst out laughing.

  ‘I like her, Fran. I’m a grown man. I’m well able to look after myself.’ Adopting a slightly more serious tone, he looked her kindly in the face. ‘I make my own decisions, Fran. And there’s no need for any further background checks into my private life.’

  She squeezed the empty packaging into a ball. ‘Your marriage is none of my business,’ she said frostily.

  ‘That’s something we can agree on.’

  ‘But if you are looking for that sort of thing you could do worse than that nice Doctor Mellowes. She’s really sweet. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.’

  He thought he’d seen her sizing him up. Sweet was right. Sweet enough for diabetes.

  ‘I have nothing but a professional interest in Amanda Mellowes,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Or that lovely Doctor Kelly,’ Fran persisted.

  Mary-Ann Kelly? Fran had to be joking.

  ‘And that’s all I’m going to say about the matter,’ said Fran.

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ responded Luke. ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes if anyone’s looking for me.’

  He needed to gather his thoughts, alone. On advice from Terence, Luke was setting aside more time for himself, taking more breaks in the consultants’ sitting room on the top floor of the cardiac surgery unit. Staff knew not to bother him there. He was trying to establish healthy patterns of behaviour but his new routine had been disrupted by the events of this past weekend.

  He had a long stretch ahead of him in Outpatients and he felt peckish. He needed something to eat before heading down. He went to the fridge, then settled himself in an armchair. He thought back to Fran’s conversation. He’d really have to curb her interest in his private life. He never let anyone else speak to him the way she did. Weighing it all up, it was a reasonable price to pay for diverting her attention away from talk of the police.

  The door to the staff room opened. It was Dominic Walsh, a fellow consultant.

  ‘Hi there, Luke.’

  ‘Hey, Dom. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Good now. Can’t complain.’

  Dominic headed to the fridge. He opened the door.

  ‘Fuck’s sake. Who keeps swiping my yogurt?’

  ‘Serious? Again?’ said Luke. ‘That is bad form.’

  ‘See anyone else in here?’

  ‘Sorry, Dom.’ Luke scratched his head. ‘Although, come to think of it, I may have seen a cleaner leaving.’

  They weren’t supposed to be in here but why not blame the cleaners? Fran always did.

  ‘Down to that poxy canteen again,’ Dominic moaned. ‘I could eat a scabby horse.’

  Luke could well believe it.

  Dom waddled towards the door but Luke waited for it to shut before standing up. He pulled an empty yogurt carton from his pocket and lobbed it into the waste bin. Dominic should take more care. Luke had learned early in life that if you didn’t want people to find your stuff, you had to hide it well. A lesson hard-learned at St Aloysius School for Boys. Anyway, he was doing Dom a favour. The guy could do with cutting back. He’d been piling on the pounds.

  The Package

  Luke was on his way to the postal depot in the city. He was in a hurry. A fortnight had passed since the death notice. A fortnight, too, since he’d painted over the scrawl on the boathouse. He’d locked both episodes into the jam-packed room in the back of his mind and thought instead of Nina. Not long now until she was back. He’d relax when she got home.

  The docket advised if the parcel wasn’t collected within three days it would be returned to sender. He checked the time on the dashboard. The depot shut in fifteen minutes. The car gave a low purr as it picked up speed. It smelled of wet dog, earth-rich and pungent. A smell he liked. It reminded him of the outdoors. In spite of that, he’d get Fran to organise a valet. Sophie didn’t like the smell.

  Racing along the country roads, he slaked muck against the verges. He’d swing by Sophie’s in the city after he collected the parcel. Her cat had taken a turn for the worse and she was staying home this weekend. He was aggrieved the animal was interfering with his love life.

  As he walked into the depot, a woman in a blue uniform squinted up at the clock as if to suggest he’d made it just in time. He handed her the docket.

  ‘You have ID?’

  Damn.

  He’d left his hospital badge on the dashboard.

  ‘I’ll just go and get it—’

  ‘Oh, never mind. I trust you. You have an honest face.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’ That always made him smile.

  ‘Here you go.’ The postal worker slid a cardboard box across the counter towards him. He wrapped his arms around the box and headed for the door.

  ‘Wait a minute …’

  He turned slowly.

  ‘I saw you a few months ago. You’re the doctor on the telly, the one that—’

  ‘That’s right,’ he cut her short, discomfort lingering about the documentary.

  Alison had convinced him to do it. She said it would raise awareness about the programmes for which he had volunteered. It would encourage others to follow suit. When the programme aired, he’d been surprised to see it also contained footage of Alison and the charities of which she was patron. The screening had been timely for her – the day she had announced she was running for election.

  The postal worker came out from behind the counter and ushered him to the door in a hurry to lock up. ‘You take care now, doctor,’ she said.

  He was curious about what was in the box, not recalling any online orders. It felt heavy and filled the cradle of his arms, and for a moment he wondered if he’d indulged himself online after a late-night whiskey. With only Duffy at home for company, it was entirely possible he’d clicked the buy button on that website.

  He returned to the car where he’d parked on double yellows just outside the depot gates. Balancing the box, he fumbled for his clump of keys, pointing with the remote and clicking to open the boot. It opened, thankfully. The locks were acting up.

  He bent and laid the box on the dog blanket. Splatters of rain trickled down his back. Using the heavy basement key, he scored through the sealing tape. The cardboard casing separated. Underneath, he spied a layer of bubble-wrap and Styrofoam. Was it a gift? It was a long time since anyone had bought him a present.

  Snapping through the Sellotape, the object had an odd but vaguely familiar hexagonal form. Something fashioned from black and shiny lacquered wood. He breathed in the moisture-laden air. A raindrop found its way under his sleeve and shimmied down his arm. He stood, indecisive. Realising he’d been holding his breath, he exhaled. He reached for the metal clasp. About to open it, he stopped. He’d check the despatch notice first.

  It was in a plastic pocket. Wiping it dry, he tried to read it. Some of it was in capital letters and in the contents section he was able to make out the words ‘tinned goods’. Apart from that, the sender’s scrawl was indecipherable. Curious. He shrugged. He shoved the note into his pocket and returned to open the clasp.

  It was the smell that got to him first. He recoiled. He covered his nose and mouth. It was putrid. Rancid. He gagged. He took a step away, repulsed by the open unseeing eye staring up at him. The mouth was stuffed with rubber tubing. The lips set in a macabre half smile.

  Luke had come across countless gruesome sights. He wasn’t squeamish. But this – this was grotesque. Half the doll’s head was missing, half its body under wraps. He guessed the smell was coming from a bag of matter taped to the head. The bag was punctured, the contents seeping over a satin pillow and into a white satin coverlet.

  He searched inside the car for a pen. There was one in the door pocket. He grabbed it. He’d need a tissue too. He reached for the pack on the dashboard. Covering
his mouth with a tissue, he lifted the elasticated satin with the pen. Holding his breath, he peered underneath. There was something shiny and metallic. Like a badge. It was taped to the doll’s stomach in a small plastic package.

  As he poked to try to free it, he jumped back, noticing the bag of matter on the head was moving. Looking closely, he could see it was full of maggots. Writhing maggots.

  He wanted to shut the lid. But first he had to see what was taped to the stomach. This time he applied more force. He flicked it free. It spun high into the air and landed on the road. Trembling, he went to fetch it and he leaned back against his car to examine it. It appeared to be nothing more than a plain metal tag. He turned it over. He went cold.

  My Lady’s Chamber

  He wasn’t sure if he had the right bungalow. It sat on the edge of a housing scheme. He’d only been here in the dark before. Then he spotted her small red Polo. It was parked at the side of the house. A line of washing hung underneath the tin roof of an open shed. In the top-right corner of the garden he could see the rusted stumps of what was once a greenhouse. Sheltering from the rain underneath the porch, he pushed the bell.

  Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Luke rang the bell a second time. He thought he detected movement, the twitch of a curtain perhaps. When Sophie didn’t come, he pulled out his phone and dialled her number. She answered immediately.

  ‘Oh, Luke …’ She sounded out of breath.

  ‘I’m at your front door.’ He was beginning to regret not phoning first but he wasn’t thinking straight. After the shock of the doll, he wanted to talk to someone. ‘I know we agreed to give this weekend a miss, but I needed to come into the city. Maybe this isn’t convenient …’

  ‘No, not at all. I was just in the middle of … it’s perfectly fine, just a minute.’

  She answered the door in sweat pants with her hair tied up. She looked distracted, and for a moment Luke pushed aside his own distress.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Fidget. He’s ill. He was sick all night.’

  She directed him into the kitchen. Luke looked at the wretched creature huddled in the basket next to the radiator.

  ‘Poor thing.’

  He approached the basket and bent down.

  ‘You’ve had him at the vet?’

  ‘Several times. It’s a tumour.’

  The animal went into spasm as if to confirm its sickly state.

  ‘You’re very fond of him, aren’t you?’ he asked, making for a kitchen chair.

  She didn’t reply. The answer lay on the washing line outside. Apart from a duvet cover, it was pegged with the cat’s soft playthings.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ she asked. ‘I’m mortified … the place is such a tip.’

  She was flustered, different to the first time he’d been here. There’d been no unease or inhibition that night. They’d both had several cocktails beforehand in the bar near St Matthew’s.

  A potted plant sat on the windowsill. On the wall was a calendar with cats. By the kitchen table underneath the plastic wall clock was a large wooden crucifix. It was a simple home. Fran’s unwelcome words with all their snobbish prejudice echoed in his head, ‘She’s not for the likes of you.’

  ‘Coffee, please. Remind me where the bathroom is?’

  He was still queasy and wanted to splash water on his face. He headed to the door. ‘This way? We’d both had a bit to drink the last time I was here.’ He grinned.

  ‘Just a second.’ She abandoned the kettle. ‘I haven’t got round to cleaning down there just yet.’

  She whizzed past him into the hallway. There followed a succession of doors being shut.

  ‘It’s not a hospital audit, Soph. I only want to use the bathroom.’ He laughed and followed her into the hallway.

  ‘Oh, I know.’ She laughed as well. ‘I’m not normally so behind with my housework. Just with Fidget being sick.’

  She stepped over the hoover and pointed to the bathroom.

  ‘There you go. I’ll get that coffee now. One sugar, right?’

  ‘One sugar,’ he confirmed.

  He was careful to put the toilet seat back down when he’d finished. Turning on the tap to wash his hands, he looked at the bathroom shelves lined with cosmetics and feminine toiletries. He thought back to his first night here.

  She’d surprised him, that night in the bar. With her guarded, professional exterior he’d never have thought it. He’d been surprised when she’d taken his hand, and placed it under the wool of her fitted grey office skirt. She’d slid it up her thigh so he could feel the buttons of her suspender belt, and she’d danced her tongue around his ear. She’d whispered that they should get a taxi back to hers.

  It was the first time he’d been unfaithful to Alison. Not because he owed the woman any loyalty but because no one had ever intrigued him so. They’d stumbled out of the taxi, giggling and hanging on to one another. Sophie had borrowed the long navy wool coat Alison had bought for him, saying it made him look distinguished. Inside the house, he remembered swaying down the hallway. That transition from bungalow to bordello.

  Lights were switched off and candles lit on the bedside lockers and dressing table. Waxy smells of mandarin and lime. The awkward conversation about contraception over, she slipped the condoms back into the bedside drawer. She examined the vasectomy scars and pushed him back on the pillow.

  He watched her in the flickering light, catching glimpses of her pleasure. Her eyes closed as he moved his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. She shuddered. Her breathing grew shallow and she stilled. ‘Hold it there,’ she whispered, grabbing his wrists.

  She forced his arms behind his head. His heart was beating wildly. Alison had never made him feel this. For all he knew at that moment, Alison was with Gilligan. He didn’t care. He saw her now as sexless, fired by desires completely alien to his own.

  ‘Wait.’ Sophie reached for something behind. He gasped, startled at first, then filled with expectation and excitement. She brushed against his cheek as she reached across to fasten a handcuff to the bedpost. He lay there entranced as she secured his wrist.

  ‘Hurry,’ he urged. He couldn’t wait much longer. ‘Hush,’ she said, and nipped his shoulder with her teeth. She took her time as she secured his other wrist. Getting off the bed, she pulled open a dressing-table drawer. Looking coquettishly over her shoulder, she smiled. He felt a tiny prickle of alarm. She turned around in slow deliberation, raising a questioning eyebrow. His eyes travelled to the object in her hand. Her expression changed and she climbed on top of him once more.

  ‘Lift your head,’ she commanded.

  He obeyed. Pulling a pillowslip over his head, she laid his head against the pillow. For a few brief seconds he was claustrophobic. He wasn’t sure about this. She started to move, moaning. When the first lash came, it took his breath away. Shocked, he drew in sharply, the fabric of the pillowslip sticking to his lips. As he flailed to free himself, she brought the switch down across his chest.

  ‘You like that?’ She panted and whipped again. It hurt but as she continued to move with him he felt his pleasure heighten until he could no longer control himself. His body relaxed and he was spent. Still the lashes rained down, across the arms, across his chest. He called out in pain, exhorting her to stop.

  ‘Sorry, sorry …’ she gasped, coming to a stop. She tugged off the pillowcase and he was able to breathe freely. Embarrassment flooded her and she covered her nakedness with the pillowcase.

  ‘That was … that was …’ He was lost for words. ‘You enjoyed it.’

  He laughed then. A great belly laugh at the earnestness of the role play. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, as if he were considering the matter. ‘We’ll have to try again later, to make sure.’

  She laughed then too. ‘I’m going to the bathroom.’ She got up, wrapping the sheet around her as she left.

  Sex with Alison had been a hasty affair. Something to service a need, rather than something to
savour and enjoy. Alison demanded nothing more than an animalistic interaction much like a stallion covering a mare. No intimacy, passion or excitement.

  With this woman it was different. As his relationship with Sophie developed and deepened, Luke abandoned himself to whatever games she cared to conjure up. The role play he found intriguing. He allowed himself to be blindfolded, cuffed, caressed and whipped, never knowing what might come next.

  With the tap in full flow, he washed his hands with care. He allowed the liquid soap to seep into the creases of his skin. He wanted to cleanse away any residue from the hideous casket that now sat in the boot of his car. He looked in the mirror and checked his appearance. Nothing betrayed the shock he’d had, save for a twitch above his eye. He turned off the tap, folded the towel on the handrail, opened the bathroom door, and headed back down the hallway, back to Sophie in the kitchen.

  ‘Tuna sandwich with your coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Regular meals helped with his migraines. They had become fewer the more he engaged with Terence Black.

  Sophie opened a cupboard. She stood on her tiptoes. The cans on the top shelf all had pictures of cats.

  ‘I sincerely hope that is tuna,’ Luke joked.

  ‘I’ve made that mistake before, opening tins without looking!’ She laughed. Reaching for a can on the bottom shelf, she set to and made sandwiches. She cut the crusts off and handed him a plate.

  ‘I’m quite the charwoman today,’ she said. ‘You’ve caught me in all my cleaning glory.’

  ‘You look great,’ he countered. It wouldn’t take long to get those sweat pants off, he thought.

  ‘Why, Luke Forde, I do believe that’s the first compliment you’ve paid me.’

  ‘No? Really?’ He felt sure he’d articulated his admiration for her. He’d be more attentive from now on. He’d never had to consciously flatter or pursue a woman before. All the females in his life had chosen him.