Love Until it Hurts
Fiona Blakemore is a doctor and graduate of the MA Creative Writing programme at Bath Spa University.
Love Until it Hurts, her debut novel, was shortlisted for the Janklow and Nesbit Bath Spa Prize 2018.
Fiona writes under a pseudonym.
www.fionablakemore.com
@WriterFionaB
Copyright © 2017 Fiona Blakemore
The right of Fiona Blakemore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN: 9781697350999 (paperback)
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For BJFB
‘We see only what we know’
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Acknowledgements
1
Ruth
June 2005
Strip lighting plays tricks on the eye. The twitch of a muscle merely the reflected flicker of an overhead bulb. A bloom on his cheeks which fades when she tilts her head for a closer look. She can’t be sure.
She reaches into her bag for her stethoscope, actions propelling her faster than thoughts. Her equipment’s not there. Why should it be? They haven’t asked her here to verify death. Of course not. Her eyes focus on the shiny toecaps of the police constable.
‘Please take your time,’ he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
She lifts her head. Their eyes level. Mirroring his professional smile she turns to look at the body. The slight parting of his mouth, the depression of his jaw, evidence that rigor mortis has already set in. His hair has been parted to the left of centre, and trained in either direction. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that she reaches over and brushes it forward with her fingers. It feels lank. Matted. It dawns on her, in slow motion, the reason why his hair has been fashioned this way. She gags. The rim of a dark, oily crater is visible over his right parietal bone. The boggy depression proof, if she needed it, that death had come instantly.
She bites her lip until she can taste metal in her mouth. Her fingers are greased with congealed blood. Bile bubbles in her throat. Despite the steadying hand on her back, she resists the temptation to sit down. Inhaling deeply she turns to the policeman.
‘Just one more thing, please. So that I can be sure.’
The constable remains impassive, studying her face.
Leaning against the cold metal of the trolley, she edges the white sheet further down. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved hospital gown. A stained label is attached to his wrist but it’s the withered right arm that draws her attention. Her eyes follow its contours. His hand rests across his abdomen like a stiffened claw. If there’d been any thread of doubt, it is now dispelled. She bends down, her kiss on the back of his hand a warm imprint on a cold waxwork.
‘Yes,’ she says, her breath curling away from her in the icy night air. ‘This is him.’
2
Ruth
February 2005
Birdsong punctuates the dawn, but Ruth is already awake. Insomnia is an unwelcome and constant bedfellow on nights before emergency duty.
‘Think of it as pre-match nerves,’ Mark used to say. ‘Once you get going everything will flow.’ That was two years ago. It was never this bad when he was around. She should be used to it by now. Should take everything in her stride. But it’s the unpredictability of the day ahead that unsettles her. Every time.
She stretches her leg across the bed, seeking out familiar warmth, but there’s none to be found. A gap in the curtains deflects a thin gauze of light onto the carpet. Curious to know the time, she grapples with the switch of the bedside light. The room is cast in a sepia glow. Five thirty. She reaches for the TV remote control. Leaning back against the pillows, she presses the television screen into action.
A young man in a summer jacket is reporting on the test cricket from Melbourne. Ten thousand, four hundred and ninety seven miles away. At least twenty one hours’ flight time, depending on stopovers. The familiar skyline pulls her into the screen. Memories of walks along the Yarra. The aroma of fresh coffee on the South Bank. The wheeze of the number 47 tram from Wattle Tree Road to Flinders Street Market.
A springing sensation on the bedclothes makes her jump.
‘Ah, Tilly, there you are,’ she says, her attention jerked back to the present. ‘Did I scare you away last night, my darling?’ She glances down at the rumpled throw, cast aside in the hot rage of her dreams. ‘Mummy’s sorry, sweetie. Another bad night.’
The warm pelt of her tabby cat presses against the arch of her knees. Ruth closes her eyes, wiping her sweaty palms on the bedsheet. She reaches out to stroke the ruff of fur and the cat responds with an ingratiating purr. Damned Monday mornings. Her skin needles with anxiety. Self-doubt can’t take control. People are depending on her. She takes a deep breath. In fourteen hours she can have a swim or a stress-busting gym session on her way home.
With sleep now a futile endeavour, she drags herself into the shower and follows this with a double shot espresso. She leaves the house under a battle grey sky, and by the time she swings her car in to the surgery car park she has a thumping
headache.
‘You’re early this morning.’ A female voice permeates the damp air. The petite figure of a dark-haired woman in uniform comes into view. She’s balancing a couple of boxes on one hand, while she fiddles with the tailgate of her car.
‘Priya,’ says Ruth, studying the nurse’s face. ‘Haven’t seen you in ages. Thought you’d moved to Byefield.’
The back door of Priya’s car springs open, revealing an ordered assortment of equipment: cardboard kidney dishes, a urinal, a sharps bin, bundles of incontinence pads. Priya laughs. ‘Ha, the Palliative Care Team is spread even more thinly now. Doubled my workload. I’m covering Tadwick as well.’ She places the boxes in the boot and straightens her back. ‘Anyway, how are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. Gearing myself up for an emergency duty session. Too bad we never have time for a proper chat.’
‘I know,’ says Priya, clicking the tailgate shut. She hesitates then turns back. ‘You should come to the hospice Ball next month. I’m getting a table together with some of the girls from the District team. You’re welcome to join us.’
Ruth laughs. ‘Thanks.’ She can’t remember the last time she had a proper night out. The thought of going unaccompanied panics her. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Okay. Do. Better get going, I guess.’ Priya gets into her car and waves as she reverses out of the car park. Ruth bends down to lift her battered Gladstone bag and a heavy stack of files, and wavers towards the staff entrance.
Ten minutes later, installed in front of her computer screen, a lukewarm mug of tea placed before her, she stares in frustration into the blinking blue void of a frozen computer.
Sod it. So much for her time-saving efficiency. The phone messages will be mounting already. She feels a tensing of the muscles round her neck, reboots the computer and, fifteen minutes later, the onslaught of patients begins.
As a trainee doctor her mentor often spoke to her about risk management. ‘Think of the worst case scenario,’ he would say. ‘If you can’t exclude it get another opinion or admit to hospital. If you’re satisfied with the diagnosis, treat according to best practice guidelines, whilst managing patients’ expectations. But don’t forget safety-netting advice in case things deteriorate.’
Treat. Manage expectations. Safety-net. Simple as that. But that didn’t take into account the constant interruptions, always prefaced by the words,
‘Sorry to bother you but this won’t take long,’
‘Could you just sign this prescription?’
‘Could you just come and look at this wound?’
‘Can you quickly check for me if this throat infection needs antibiotics?’
‘Could you issue this repeat medicine?’
‘I’ve had Mrs. Harris’s daughter on the phone again, can you ring her back?’
Ruth massages her brow, then calls in her first patient.
Billy’s mother enters the room first, tugging her six-year-old son behind her. He’s wearing off-white trainers with socks that don’t match. He’s still in his pyjamas, which have a faint whiff of Marmite and a brown stain down one leg. His eyelashes are dusted with green snot, but most striking is the rasp of his wheeze and the shape of his chest, over-inflated like a taut balloon.
‘I’m just going to put a little clip on your finger,’ explains Ruth, fixing a pulse oximeter to his outstretched digit. ‘It doesn’t hurt. It just has some flashing numbers on it.’ After a quick listen to his chest, she dispatches him to the practice nurse for a nebuliser to alleviate his asthma. Despite her drumming headache it makes her smile to hear him chatting to the nurse fifteen minutes later, while Ruth explains his steroid medication to his mother. Buoyed by his insouciance she continues with the unabated list of patients and, by mid-morning, manages to ignore the hunger pangs which gnaw away at her stomach.
A woman in her seventies is brought in by her husband. He’s worried about her swollen leg. Ruth notices how he interlaces his fingers with his wife’s and gives them a reassuring squeeze, causing the gnarled blue veins to contort on his crusty hand. Her milky eyes, distanced through dementia, gaze beyond him. She listens and smiles whilst Ruth explains that she’s going to organise a scan and an anticoagulant injection, in case she has a blood clot in her calf.
Next a young guy in his twenties, whose girlfriend had phoned the surgery begging for him to be seen that morning. She’d described his weeks of sleepless nights, poor concentration and panic attacks which had now come to a head when he’d broken down in tears at work. Finally, he’d agreed to see someone about it.
He slumps in front of Ruth now, eyes locked on his shoes. He twists his fingers in his lap, the soft ticking of a clock filling the space between them. Ruth senses his angst. It could so easily be her sitting in the opposite chair. Avoiding eye contact. Wondering where to begin. She wants to reach out to him, to tell him she knows how he feels, but she bites her lip. It’s one thing to show empathy, but quite another to lower your professional guard. Eventually he opens up about his father’s recent death and his fear of having cancer like his dad. As his words start to flow, his relief is tangible. Sometimes a listening ear is the best recourse.
Sixteen patients seen, twenty seven cases of telephone advice given and still fifteen phone calls to return. With only seven minutes allocated per patient, it’s inevitable that she’s going to run late. Ten past twelve now and the mug of tea, stone cold and rimmed with scum, remains untouched on her desk. Pinpricks of pain behind both eyes cause her to squint at the computer. Her pace is slowing to a halt.
Her final phone call is to Mrs. Tremayne, a fifty-eight-year-old woman, complaining of upper abdominal pain since the early hours of the morning. Ruth glances at her records and at her watch. Two home visits still to do. No time for a break. It must be Mrs. Tremayne’s gallstones playing up again. She picks up the phone, advises her to double up on her painkillers and take an anti-sickness pill.
‘I’ll ring you later this afternoon,’ she promises, ‘to see how you’re getting on.’
By now the combination of central heating, body odour and stale urine from the samples building up by the sink is stifling her consulting room. Feeling slightly nauseous, Ruth lets reception know she is leaving and, embracing the fresh air, sets off on her rounds.
3
Dominic
February 2005
Plink. Plink. Plink. Plink. Drips hits the base of the tangerine-ringed pan, marking time like a melancholic metronome. Dominic brushes toast crumbs off the kitchen table. A hairball clings to the chair leg, trapping motes of dust which glimmer in an unforgiving draught. A morsel of fish finger pokes out from under the cooker. Perhaps he should leave it there. Maybe, if he leaves it, she’ll come back and order will be restored.
‘Eurgh, a scratchy kiss,’ complained Bella, wriggling out of his grasp, when Courtney arrived earlier to take her to school. No wonder. The stubble on his chin feels like coconut husk, rough with each reverse stroke.
There was a time when he would have welcomed no deadlines. A whole day all to himself? Luxury. No need to sprint for the 7.44 to Waterloo. No requirement to deliver on his portfolios. No more demands. Now? Only emptiness.
He decides to make a list. A list will help.
Answer mail.
Empty bin.
Ring bank.
Sort study.
He herds the pile of mail towards him. Quite a few letters, the envelopes handwritten. But who are the wordsmiths of the looped scrolls, the staccato fonts, the hasty scrawls? New best friends? Long lost friends? Of hers? Of his? Of theirs? He pushes them to one side.
There’s a flyer advertising family-size pizzas, two for the price of one. He screws it up into a ball. The Indian takeaway menu might come in handy, though. He clips it to the fridge, along with the leaflet on cleaning services.
‘Big Apple, the city that never sleeps’ taunts the fridg
e magnet. God, that must have been ten years ago, at least. He’ll hang on to it for now. It serves a purpose, holding all this shit together.
He tosses pellets of paper into the bin, then heaves the unwieldy sack out of its container. It splits, extruding its contents over the kitchen floor. A smell of smoked fish and melon juice assaults his nostrils. There is a temptation to sink to his knees and wallow in this rancid magma, but he snaps another black bag off the roll, transfers the rubbish, then lugs it up the steps from the basement and out to the front gate.
Steve the postman makes his way up the street, weaving in and out between green wheelie bins. He’s wearing shorts, a defiant badge of office against the morning chill, and he whistles as he sorts envelopes.
A truck, bearing scaffolding planks, draws up, almost level to the house. A man jumps out and runs round the back of the vehicle. He shouts an instruction, then beckons the driver to reverse the beeping truck into a parking slot. The hollow clanking of poles blunts Dominic’s senses. He wants to wrestle the steel tubes out of the builder’s grasp, to kick the wheels of his vehicle, to berate him for going about his usual business. Instead he bites his lip and retreats.
A glass casserole dish sits by the front step. As Dominic lifts it, a scrap of paper, torn from a notebook, quivers in the breeze. He grasps it and reads, ‘Thinking of you both, the Robinsons xx.’ As he looks up at the townhouses opposite, he’s not sure if he catches the twitch of a curtain from one of the flats.
The frost scissors his breath. He shivers, picks up the dish, and goes inside.
Filling the kettle, he flicks the switch, then picks up the phone. A sequence of jarring noises connect him to a crisp, enunciated message.
‘Thank you for calling. In order to direct you to the most appropriate department please state clearly the reason for your call.’
‘Probate.’
Pause.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t catch that. Please state clearly the reason for your call.’
‘PROBATE.’
Love Until It Hurts Page 1
