Love Until It Hurts

by Fiona Blakemore

  ‘I’m sorry, would you mind saying that again, please?’ She’s shocked at how diminished her voice sounds.

  ‘When you’re ready we can take you to the hospital.’

  She stands up, but her legs give way, and she feels a steadying hand on her back, as she sinks down onto the sofa.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ says the young man, lightly tapping the back of her hand. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  It happened on the road coming off the dual carriageway, towards the town centre. Just after the Dog and Duck pub and the farm shop there’s a series of bends and dips before the road straightens out past the rugby club and into the new estate. There’d been a flash flood earlier in the afternoon. Seems the car had taken a corner at speed but, instead of following the camber, had ploughed straight on into a tree. There were no other vehicles involved. The police are reluctant to give her any further details at this stage. Instead they tell her, en route to the hospital, that there will be an inquest, when all these factors will be taken into account. By way of comfort, however, they assure her that there was no prolonged suffering. He was killed instantly.

  The words sound hollow. This is no comfort to her at all. Reality has taken on a twisted dimension now.

  She asks them if she can see Bella first. If she can touch her, feel the heat from her body, listen to the noise of her breathing, there is still hope. He could be just resting in another room, out of view, soon to come round and tell her not to worry.

  ‘You’re the one overthinking things this time,’ he would say, with a smile. He would guide her by the arm, and they would go home, reassured that Bella was in good hands.

  Instead, a nurse in blue scrubs leads her down a white corridor until they come to a four-bedded bay. A beeping cadence resonates round the ward, a constant reminder of the lives that hang in the balance, their physiological equilibria being artificially maintained. They come to a halt, by an oversized bed next to the nursing station, and the nurse lifts up a chart. She looks at Ruth and nods towards the mass of wires and tubes centred on the bed.

  Ruth doesn’t recognise Bella at first. The pale contours of her skin and the whiteness of the crisp cotton which surrounds her has melded into one. Her chest swells in regular gasps, like the gills of a fish out of water. Her hair, like skeins of bleached wool, has been combed back off her face. Her closed eyelids have a pearly translucency.

  A thin blanket covers the lower part of her body, but multiple crimson pinpricks stipple her abdomen and chest. Her left arm is swathed in bandages. The only clue that it’s Bella comes from the strawberry birthmark in the hairline of her right temple.

  The sight of her tugs at Ruth’s emotions. She reaches over and lifts Bella’s hand. As she strokes the underside of her fingers they feel warm and elastic. They spring back together when she lets go. She wants to wrap her in her arms. Protect her.

  She’s conscious of a presence at her right-hand side and turns to see a young man, also kitted in scrubs. He holds out his hand.

  ‘David Long,’ he says. ‘Specialist registrar. And you are Dr. Cooper?’

  ‘Ruth. Yes.’

  ‘She’s stable now. Concussion, multiple abdominal and chest contusions, but thankfully no major bleeding. The pattern of bruising is consistent with wearing a lap belt. The good news is that her scan shows no evidence of brain or spinal injury. Right-sided Colles fracture too,’ he continues, pointing to her arm, ‘but that, of course, is secondary.’ He stops and stares at the floor, allowing her to digest the information, then looks up at her, as if anticipating questions. The air feels stifling. She wants to say, ‘Please look after her. She’s fragile. You don’t know the full story,’ but instead she says nothing.

  ‘I need to explain something else to you,’ he says, drawing up two chairs and indicating for her to take a seat. ‘We need to make Bella subject to an Interim Care Order.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s so the hospital can make decisions regarding her treatment. Decisions that will be in her best interests.’

  Ruth notices how his words seem measured.

  ‘It’s necessary because both her parents are deceased.’

  ‘But why can’t I be nominated to do that? It’s what her father would have wanted.’

  ‘It may be that you’ll be able to take on that responsibility in the future. It’s just that, legally, at the moment you can’t. Bella’s needs will be considered by Social Services and the social workers will take your views, and your status as a potential guardian, into account.’

  ‘Is it really necessary to go through all this legal red tape? I’m medically qualified. I can liaise with you regarding immediate necessary treatment.’ She can feel her neck getting hot, her voice is a crescendo of anxiety.

  David Long brings his head in close.

  ‘I fully appreciate that and I’m sure all this will be taken into account. As a doctor yourself you’ll understand that we need to follow lawful procedure.’ He straightens his back. ‘We’ll need to keep a close eye on her over the next few days,’ he says. ‘Please feel free to ring the Unit at any time of day or night.’ He smiles, then rises and retreats.

  PC 1242 is hovering on her periphery. Ruth remains rooted to the spot, wanting to stay there and delay the inevitable.

  She looks again at the figure, lying like a porcelain doll, in the bed. And suddenly she feels calm. She breathes in the scent of purity and hope. She must summon every last ounce of energy she has. For Bella’s sake. So many challenges lie ahead, not least the first daunting task. Breaking the news to Bella of her father’s death. She shudders. Dominic. The police are waiting. She’s ready. She nods at PC 1242 and walks out of the ward.

  36

  Ruth

  After a short drive the patrol car passes through an automated barrier into the car park at the back of the General. It’s a stark contrast to the Children’s Hospital which, from the exterior, resembles a wedding cake, with its tall sandstone pillars. Here the wards are all on one level, reflecting its past as a TB sanatorium. A single corridor, with heavy-duty flapping plastic doors at either end, bisects the length of the hospital. At this late hour it’s deserted, save for a couple of housemen who glide past them avoiding eye contact, either totally absorbed in their thoughts, or not wanting to be delayed on their way back to snatching a few minutes’ precious sleep.

  Halfway down the corridor PC Rob Collins, for that is PC1242’s name, unlocks a door, which opens onto a small courtyard. The rain slants across their shoulders as they walk briskly to the building on the far side. The policeman rings a bell and a few moments later a man, wearing a pigeon grey lab coat, opens the door and ushers them in.

  It’s much colder in the mortuary. Ruth can feel the prickle of goose bumps on her arms. A wash of grey surrounds her, from the smoke-coloured walls, to the filing cabinets at the far corner of the room, to the nameless individual gesturing for her to take a seat. She draws up a plastic chair and turns to look at the man who’s addressing her. He looks to be in his fifties, with wires of grey hair clasping his egg-shell skull, and a goatee beard trimmed short to resemble a pan scourer. Metal-rimmed spectacles perch on the end of his nose. He flicks through a foolscap folder and extracts a form.

  ‘I just need to take a few details, before you go through to identify the body.’

  Ruth flinches, but he doesn’t look up. Instead, he presses a Biro down on a scrap of paper and scores across the sheet a few times until the ink bleeds through. He then asks her a series of questions: what’s her relationship to the deceased, what’s the deceased’s ethnicity and religion, did the deceased have any distinguishing features, tattoos, for example? She answers in robotic fashion until the last question, then deliberates over her words as she describes Dominic’s previous injuries. The mortician meticulously completes the form, without once making eye contact, or passing comment.

 
He puts down his pen and sits back.

  ‘Obviously, the body can’t be released to the funeral directors until the Coroner’s Officer is satisfied. As there’ll be an inquest this may take some time. We’ll know more on Monday.’

  A strained cough can be heard behind Ruth. The mortuary assistant looks over Ruth’s shoulder, then addresses her directly. ‘Ah, yes. I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  There’s the scraping of chairs, and Ruth feels a light touch on her shoulder. Her eyes meet those of PC Collins.

  ‘Ready?’

  She nods and drags her feet as the policeman leads the way, with the policewoman following closely behind.

  A single strip light illuminates the adjoining room. Against the far wall is a tall bed, on top of which lies a discernible mound, covered in a white sheet. Ruth’s legs feel spongy and she looks away. There’s a sink by the opposite wall and beside it, in front of a frosted glass window, is a vase of flowers, their bent, plastic petals shrouded in dust.

  A chair is pulled up alongside the bed and Ruth sinks on to it, but then realises that, soon, she will have to stand up. The wrapped bundle is now above her eye level and the plastic sheeting under the body has come adrift, revealing wooden rollers within a metal frame.

  She grasps hold of the chair to steady herself and pulls herself up. Taking her nod as his cue, PC Collins slowly peels back the corner of the sheet.

  She reaches into her bag for her stethoscope, actions propelling her faster than thoughts, but her equipment isn’t there. Why should it be? They haven’t asked her here to verify death. Of course not. Her eyes come to rest on the shiny toecaps of the police constable.

  ‘Please take your time,’ he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  As she lifts her head their eyes meet. She mirrors his professional smile and turns to look at the body. The slight parting of his mouth and depression of his jaw is evidence that the leathery muscles of his neck have contracted. 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, and bile bubbles in her throat. She feels a steadying hand on her back, but resists the temptation to sit down. She swallows hard and turns to look at the policeman.

  ‘Just one more thing, please. Just so I can be sure.’

  The constable is studying her face intently, as if searching for clues.

  Leaning against the cold metal of the trolley she edges the white sheet further down. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved hospital gown. She swallows her revulsion when she spots the label attached to his wrist, but it’s the withered right arm that draws her attention. Her eyes follow its contours across his abdomen, where his hand rests 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 Dominic Peterson.’

  As she turns, she stumbles over the chair, and pushes past the policeman, just making it to the sink in time before she throws up. The back of her throat burns and her stomach feels as if it has been wrung out. Speckled circles of light appear before her eyes. She sinks to her knees. And now she feels as if she’s hovering over the scene, a mere observer, watching a disaster movie, as the credits roll and the screen goes black.

  37

  Ruth

  Val is on Ruth’s front doorstep. Eyes red-rimmed. No words. Ruth hugs her and stands back.

  ‘Where are the kids?’ asks Ruth.

  ‘My next door neighbour said she would have them for the afternoon.’ Val steps over the threshold. Mike is hovering not far behind. He clasps Ruth’s arm but avoids conversation.

  In the kitchen Val fills the kettle, smells the milk.

  ‘Help yourselves,’ says Ruth, ‘but not for me. I’ve had enough tea for now.’ She lifts a pile of papers and couple of carrier bags off the table to make room for their cups. ‘They gave me these last night,’ she says, picking up a set of keys and twisting the keyring round her finger. ‘As well as his watch.’ Her voice breaks. ‘I went round to his house this morning.’

  ‘Darling, we would have come with you. You don’t need to do that kind of thing on your own.’ Val’s forehead creases with worry.

  ‘I just wanted to pick up a few things for Bella. You know, for when…’ Her voice trails away.

  ‘How is she?’ asks Val. ‘What’s the latest?’

  Ruth runs her fingers through her hair. ‘Still on a ventilator. Going to be on ITU for a few days, then transferred to the Children’s Ward. The main thing is she’s stable. I’m not going in tonight. I’ll ring them instead and go in tomorrow.’

  ‘I can come with you, if you like,’ says Val, coming over towards Ruth and laying her arm on her shoulder.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll be okay.’ She shrugs away from Val’s grasp and looks at them both. ‘You know it was only a few days ago that Dominic asked me to be Bella’s guardian.’ Her words are stilted, her voice not her own. ‘It was if he had some ghastly premonition.’

  Val and Mike exchange anxious glances.

  ‘What?’ says Ruth, trying to read their expressions. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘How did he sound when you last spoke to him?’ asks Mike, his eyes glistening.

  Ruth thinks back to their conversation the previous night. Guilt and sorrow envelop her, like unwelcome friends. ‘He was worried about Bella and I brushed him off by telling him to go and see his GP.’ She hesitates, parking her thoughts. She had told Dominic she was too busy. She interlocks her fingers and closes her eyes. ‘For fuck’s sake, how could I be so selfish?’

  ‘Please, Ruth, don’t beat yourself up about it. I’m feeling guilty too.’ Mike searches her face. ‘Did he mention my phone call on Wednesday?’

  Ruth opens her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He had a bit of bad news.’

  ‘I …I don’t understand.’

  ‘Dominic and I have been working together on his investment portfolio. I think you probably knew that?’ He waits until Ruth nods, then continues. ‘When the Grant of Representation came through for Madeleine’s estate I helped him put together a trust fund for Bella. But instead of putting his investments into it he wanted to speculate a bit. He was convinced he could make a killing on a deal with the Lucky Pagoda telecoms business.’

  Ruth’s heard all this before. How can this have any relevance?

  ‘Anyway, he went ahead, and sunk a large amount of money into shares, which took off when Lucky Pagoda announced their F1 takeover bid.’ Mike’s voice begins to waver. ‘And then last week it all went wrong. The Chinese State Tobacco Enterprise, or CSTE, which holds the monopoly of all tobacco trading in China, announced that it had subcontracted twenty percent of its business to Lucky Pagoda.’

  ‘Mike, darling,’ interjects Val, ‘I don’t think this is relevant.’

  ‘Except that the Formula One Association withdrew its contract and Lucky Pagoda has gone bust, taking Dominic’s money with it.’ His breath escapes in a low whistle. ‘Do you know what he said to me last week? “Risk is a great aphrodisiac, Mike.” Jeez. Where the hell did he get that idea from? He lost more than five hun-’

  ‘Darling,’ interjects Val. She fires him a reproachful look.

  Ruth sits in silence. She thought she knew Dominic so well. She’d hoped they had a future together. But he hadn’t told her an
ything about this. What else did he keep from her? So many questions. She must focus on Bella now, but it’s hard not to reflect that sympathy and resentment make poor companions.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruth,’ says Mike. ‘That was tactless of me.’

  They sit, with their heads bowed, as the kitchen clock ticks away the silence between them.

  ‘As I was leaving the house this morning I met one of the neighbours,’ says Ruth. ‘Felt like I’d been ambushed, you know, the way she suddenly appeared, as I was coming down the steps. Said she’d heard the awful news and wanted to know how Bella was.’ An image tugs at the corner of Ruth’s memory. It’s of Bella, running around in circles, chasing bubbles, the day they went to Windridge. She wants to allow this picture space to breathe, to relive the sound of the little girl’s squeals when she caught a gloopy sphere on her wand and it burst, sprinkling her with soap suds. The scuffed knees, the gappy smile, the hair pulled back into a French plait in different shades of barley. Instead the sketch is being drawn over by another scene. A little girl lying in a hospital bed, blending into the pillows, transfixed by bleeping monitors and pulsing tubes.

  ‘Yeah, it was on local radio this morning. Apparently the road wasn’t reopened until around noon.’ Mike looks as though he could go on, but has thought better of it. He stands up and paces up and down the room. He pushes his hands deep down into his pockets causing his jeans to ruffle down his legs.

  The air in the kitchen feels weighted with predicaments.

  Ruth’s head pounds. The pain around her temples is exaggerated with every movement. As she lifts her hands to rub her forehead she can still smell the formalin under her fingernails. The smell of the mortuary is still on her, despite having scrubbed her hands in a manner which would put Lady Macbeth to shame. The cloying odour makes her gag. As she rubs her eyes, a gritty sensation scours the inside of her eyelids.