Ruth unstrings the words in her head. ‘Oh God, I thought I was getting over this. When I was a teenager I suffered from low self-esteem, lack of confidence. Nothing unusual in that, you might think.’ Her voice escapes in strangled gulps. She can feel the acid rising in her throat again, but she has to keep going. ‘My parents really pushed me to get into medical school and I didn’t think I was up to it. Then when I did get accepted there was always the pressure to do well in my exams. It started a spiral of anxiety. Then depression.’ She turns her head sideways. ‘Do you remember the electives we did in fourth year?’
Val considers this for a moment. ‘Sure. I went to a missionary hospital in India. And you had a research attachment in Scotland.’
‘A research attachment? Is that what I told you?’ She squints at her friend. ‘Well I suppose that’s one way of describing a private psychiatric clinic at the foothills of Ben Nevis,’ she says, ‘but it’s also where I was admitted with severe depression following a suicide attempt.’ She feels Val’s grip tighten. They sit in silence until the tension in Val’s grip lessens.
‘Ruth, I’m sorry. It must have been so hard for you.’ Val hesitates. ‘But, you know, you don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to,’ she continues.
‘Oh, but I have to, it’s important. And I have to prove my innocence.’ She lifts her head, twisting her hair round her fingers as she looks at Val. ‘I had a rocky time to start with. I can still recall every tiny detail of the ward where I was admitted.’ Suddenly she laughs. A look of concern flashes across Val’s face. ‘Ha, it’s bloody ironic. I was banged up in a place just like this.’ She gets up and walks over to the wall, giving it a resounding kick. ‘My room was like a cell and I had a bed with a rubber mattress. I had to sleep with my door open so that someone could keep an eye on me, and the glaring light from the corridor kept me awake every night.’ She clicks her tongue against her teeth. ‘Well, what do you know, life has come full circle.’
She turns and looks at Val, who appears to have shrunk against the wall.
‘I was really, really low, Val. But gradually with medication and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy I improved.’ She rolls up her sleeves and extends her forearms in Val’s direction. The pale white and lavender lines which criss-cross her arms are barely discernible now. ‘And slowly I healed. On the outside, at least.’
Val stays silent, but her eyes flick between Ruth’s arms and her face.
‘I really thought I was over this, Val. I continued my studies and I passed my exams. But then I was admitted to hospital in Australia. Investigation of chest pain, palpitations, spells of breathlessness. At one point they thought it was my thyroid. Turns out it was recurrent anxiety. Panic attacks. I was put back on the tranquilisers and had another course of CBT.’ She walks over to the bench and sits down, pushing her hands underneath her thighs, to stop them from shaking. ‘I’m not on medication now,’ she adds as an after-thought.
There’s a calming hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s okay, Ruth. It’s okay. You’ve been ill. There’s no shame in that. Honesty is always the best policy. You need to be up front with Varsha and tell her everything.’ She lowers her voice, so that it’s barely a whisper. ‘Listen. You know the symptoms you told me about: the nausea and dizzy spells you were getting when you thought you were pregnant?’
‘I wasn’t though. I had my period.’
‘I know, but the nausea and dizziness carried on, didn’t it? Until recently?’
Ruth tries to think back but her timescales are too muddled. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Exactly. The sickness and giddy spells stopped. But your headaches have got worse.’
‘Hardly surprising, all the fucking stress I’ve been under.’
‘No, you don’t get it. Look at me, Ruth.’ Gently Val takes Ruth’s chin in her hand and turns her face towards her. She takes a long look at her face. Then she takes her phone out of her pocket, switches it on to torch mode and shines a beam in Ruth’s eyes.
‘Fuck,’ she says, switching it off and returning it to her pocket. ‘I need you to be honest with me, Ruth. Have you been self-medicating: opioids - codeine, whatever?’
‘No. Definitely not.’ She can’t stop her body from shaking. She makes fists with her sweaty fingers.
‘You’ve been getting rebound headaches from codeine withdrawal.’ She grasps Ruth’s shoulders. ‘Look at me, Ruth.’
Ruth studies Val’s face. Concern is mapped across her brow but sympathy reflects in her eyes. ‘And you’re telling me the truth?’
‘I swear.’
‘I believe you. Have they taken DNA samples yet?’
‘Just fingerprints and buccal swabs.’
‘Okay we need to speak to Varsha, and you need to request hair samples.’
Ruth’s eyes feel gritty. ‘I don’t understand. And I’m tired.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? You need toxicology tests on your hair. Nausea, dizziness, rebound headaches, slow reacting pupils. Opiate withdrawal.’
She cups Ruth’s face in her hands. ‘Dominic was trying to poison you.’
46
Bella
July 2005
Bella sits on her bed. She opens her notebook at a white page, picks up her red pen and chews it. What can she draw? Having a notebook is much better than talking to someone because YOU CAN’T TRUST NO-ONE.
Yesterday she told Jenny she was upset. Jenny is the nurse with the cartoon apron.
‘Promise you won’t tell anyone,’ said Bella.
‘Promise,’ said Jenny.
Then the next minute Brenda comes in and sits down on Bella’s bed.
‘It’s okay to be sad, Bella. Everyone feels sad sometimes. Do you want to talk about it?’
See? Her daddy always told her that secrets are meant to be kept. She’s not telling nobody nothing. Instead she takes big gulps, because the lump in her throat keeps bobbing up and she needs to squash it.
She misses her daddy. And Ruth. It was her birthday and only Granny came to see her.
‘Now I’m five,’ Bella told her.
‘Five? Well, look what I’ve brought you,’ said Granny Zuckerman, giving her a present. It had eyes like shiny orange marbles. A nose like a chocolate button. A red bow round its neck. ‘I thought he could be friends with Roo.’
His name is Little Ted.
Brenda and Jenny brought a cake. Everybody sang ‘Happy Birthday.’ She asked if she could have fizzy pop but Brenda said no.
‘Only squash, Bella,’ she said.
Her mouth felt wobbly when she heard this. She told Brenda that Daddy always gave her fizzy pop as a treat. Can’t she have a treat on her birthday? When she was good she got special sweets too. The pink Smarties and the white ones that make the pop go fizzier.
‘I hope you cleaned your teeth afterwards,’ was all Brenda said, giving her a tickle.
She looks down at the white paper and draws a big circle. But then she has a better idea. If she dots the pen over her hands she can pretend she’s ill. She feels a smile unzipping across the cracks in her lips.
Dot, dot, dot, she goes, over her fingers. Measly spots.
This is fun.
Roo and Little Ted lean back on the pillow and watch her.
Slash, slash, slash, up her arm. Just like Horrid Henry.
She looks up when Jenny comes in and wonders if she’ll notice.
‘Lunch is ready,’ says Jenny. ‘Oh my goodness, Bella, what have you done to your mouth? You’re bleeding.’ Jenny looks worried. She presses a buzzer and two nurses run into the room.
Bella drops her pen. She’s frightened. Why is her mouth bleeding?
She puts her hand up to her mouth, then Jenny starts laughing.
Jenny lifts up Bella’s arm. ‘Oh dearie me,’ she says. ‘You silly billy. Just look at the mess you’ve made with th
at pen.’
47
Ruth
The slow, excruciating onset of cramp moves up Ruth’s right calf. She jumps up, trying to evade the paroxysm of pain, but it’s too late, and she hobbles around in the darkness. Her dreams have been splintered with drunken arguments but, as she sits down on the wooden plank bed and orientates herself, she realises that the disruptive nocturnal clashes were authentic.
As if on cue the fluorescent lights flicker into action, bringing the blue plastic mattress and white toilet bowl into sharp focus. Despondency envelopes her. A police cell. It’s beyond belief that this has happened.
Lifting her hand to her head, she sieves strands of greasy hair through her fingers. The nylon track suit clings in patches to her back and the odour of stale sweat lingers. Her throat fissures with thirst. She’s desperate for a pee but she’s pretty sure that’s a camera, not a smoke detector, on the ceiling. Instead she stares at the plastic strap of her flip flops and counts the ridges on her toenails.
She thinks about Bella, sitting on the ward, surrounded by toys, but not by a loving family. She wants to wrap her arms around her. Tell her everything is going to be all right. But is it? What the hell is going to become of her? Is there a future for both of them in each other’s lives? At home there’s a toy pony sitting on her kitchen table ready to be wrapped for Bella’s birthday, waiting to be added to her collection. Bella’s birthday. Has she missed it? She doesn’t know. She’s at a loss to work out what day of the week it is.
There’s the tinny sound of a window panel being scraped. The door opens. She glimpses the black and white cravat of the female custody sergeant, then the smartly clad figure of Varsha Dhasmana, who enters the cell.
‘Morning, Ruth,’ she says, hovering, her phone in one hand, the other hand clinging to the shoulder strap of a bag bulging with files. ‘What sort of night did you have? Hope you managed to get some sleep.’
‘Crap, if you must know,’ she says, forcing a pinched smile. ‘What time is it?’
Varsha looks down at her phone. ‘Eight fifteen.’ She pushes it into her pocket and extracts a card, which she extends to Ruth. ‘The good news is that you’re being released on bail. I want you to take this and call me if you need anything. Go home and get some rest.’
Ruth stretches her legs. Fatigue has suppressed any relief she might feel. What she wants more than anything right now is a pee, a shower and her own bed. ‘So what happens next?’
‘Your case will be referred to the Family Courts.’ She pauses. ‘Because ultimately this is about Bella and what happens to her.’ Ruth tries to digest this information but is distracted by her ballooning bladder. ‘Then, if the Crown Prosecution Service think there’s a case for pursuing criminal charges there will be further proceedings in the Crown Court.’
Ruth slides her feet into her flip flops, stands up and takes a few paces. A stale yeasty smell follows her round the cell.
‘I’m hoping it won’t get that far,’ continues Varsha, resting her bag on the floor and straightening up. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth. This is a protracted business but I’ll do everything I can for you.’ She hesitates. ‘As things stand you’re innocent… unless proven otherwise.’
The bitch, thinks Ruth. She’s supposed to be on my side. Was she about to say ‘until proven guilty?’
‘This means you can apply for Bella’s custody,’ Varsha continues, ‘but the Local Authority will want a psychiatric report. The toxicology reports will take several weeks.’ She lifts her bag, then swivels on a stilettoed heel and adds, ‘And I can tell you the date of the inquest. August the fifteenth. Only I wouldn’t worry about that now. I’ll call you over the next day or two and we can have a recap.’ She hesitates, then turns back. ‘Are you going to be okay on your own?’
What kind of question is that, Ruth wonders. She doesn’t really have any choice.
Val’s car stutters to a halt outside number twenty seven. She turns to look at Ruth.
‘I’ll come in with you. I’m not in a rush to get back.’
Her neighbour across the street is putting out his bin. Ruth slinks down in her seat until he has retreated out of view, then sits up.
‘Thanks.’
Ruth picks her way carefully up the drive, which is chequered in shadow by the sloping sunlight. Dewdrops glisten on the laurel bushes, like brimming tears. It feels soothing to be out in the open air. She takes her keys, and is about to place them in the front door when she hears someone calling her name. Wheeling round she is confronted with a ricochet of shutter clicks.
‘Could I have a word, Dr. Cooper?’ barks a man in a bulky gilet, from over the hedge. He lowers his camera. ‘For the Tadwick Gazette?’ The intrusive words cast a net of confusion over her. But her front door is open now and, as she pushes against the mail which has crested behind it, Val looms in her wake to block his view.
The door snaps shut behind them and, as Ruth bends down to pick up the letters she can feel her heartbeat galloping away from her.
‘Christ, I wasn’t expecting that,’ says Val, her voice wavering. Her face is milk-bottle white. ‘Don’t go answering the door, unless you know who it is.’
‘No chance of that’, says Ruth, her eyes drawn to the envelope with the conspicuous frank mark, GMB. ‘Listen, Val, you wouldn’t mind hanging on for a bit, would you?’ She clasps the mail tightly, but can’t stop her hands from shaking.
‘Sure. I’m going to make you some breakfast, for a start. Better to wait till the coast is clear any…Ruth, what’s the matter? Are you all right?’
Ruth feels her legs buckle and she staggers over to the stairs. She sits hunched over her knees, her head in her hands. The envelope slides from her sweaty palms onto the carpet. ‘It’s this. It’s from the General Medical Board. This is just the last straw. I don’t know if I can take much more.’ She looks up. ‘Can you break the, I mean can I open the … oh, I don’t know what I mean. Just take it, Val. Give me the bad news.’
She tries to swallow but the roof of her mouth feels shrivelled. Then the pounding in her head starts again, and within seconds her heart is hammering like a horse kicking its way out of a stable. She knows what to do. Slow, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the … nose…out…through… she closes her eyes and tries to think of something pleasant: of lowering her aching muscles into a steamy, luxuriant foam bath, listening to her favourite music, of inhaling the rose bouquet of scented candles.
When she opens her eyes Val is watching her. Empathy. Patience. Both are mapped over her face. She waits, until Ruth is prompted to occupy the silence between them.
‘Well?’
‘Well it’s here in black and white and it’s good news.’ She holds the piece of paper out towards her. ‘The Professional Standards Committee held a meeting last week. Given recent circumstances they decided your presence wasn’t necessary, although you can request the minutes if you want.’
‘Go on,’ says Ruth impatiently, her heartbeat quickening.
‘They’ve considered your response, and that from several others, including your appraiser, and the case has been closed.’
‘Closed? The Tremayne case? Closed?’
‘Closed. Completed. Finished. Resolved.’
Ruth holds her hand out to see for herself, but Val grasps it and pulls her to her feet and into a tight hug. She can feel the breath being squeezed out of her. Eventually the tension in her arms is released and Val takes a step back to look at her.
‘Onwards and upwards, my pal.’
Hunched at the kitchen table, Ruth watches the timer on the cooker, as it meters out the beats. Twenty four minutes since Val left, and she hasn’t moved from the spot, twirling the paper in her hands.
A minestrone of words stir in her subconscious, and sporadically a phrase bobs to the surface, like a pasta alphabet.
…Satisfied that yo
u have provided adequate reflection … Serious Untoward Events that were brought to the Professional Standards Committee…taken steps to ensure your medical knowledge and skills are up to date…considered the testimonials to your conduct and behaviour for the period of time in question… satisfactory conclusion…now closed.
Satisfactory. Closed. She repeats the words out loud. She should be pleased. Elated even. But all she feels is numb. She rewinds events to remind herself what started this angst. Margaret Tremayne and her heart attack. The duplicitous gang of blood cells that had clotted Margaret’s arteries and mimicked the pain of gall stones. Will Margaret be able to forgive her? She picks up a pen and starts doodling on the envelope. She starts off with small circles but then the swirls get bigger. Then she writes her name, as if signing an autograph. She repeats it, until it looks like a schoolgirl’s detention homework. Line after line of her name. Her signature never looked that neat when she was signing prescriptions. She was usually in a hurry, leaving a hasty scrawl. The only time she was careful was when she was witnessing official papers. Like probate documents. Her breath quickens. Of course, Dominic had her signature from Madeleine’s probate documents. The signature on the prescriptions was an exact copy of the one on the probate document. He’d copied it. But it was too neat. Too careful. Not her usual prescription signature.
Shadows move across the wall and she glances out across the back garden. The newspaper reporter who doorstepped her has unsettled her. She looks in the direction of the perimeter of the garden and across the wooden panelled fence. There’s no access into the property from the back, but she feels nervous, so she gets up and pulls the blinds in the conservatory. A clicking noise by the back door makes her jump and she becomes aware of a movement, at floor-line. The familiar warmth of Tilly, brushing against her legs, makes her smile.
‘Tilly, my darling girl, I’ve missed you,’ she says, bending down to stroke the grey and white fur. The cat leans into her legs and gives a throaty purr. Ruth picks her up, finding comfort in the pulsating heartbeat, palpable through the warm pelt. The cat unfurls her body from Ruth’s embrace as Ruth walks over to the counter and picks out a pouch of cat food. She presses the meaty chunks into a bowl, places it on the floor and straightens up.
Love Until It Hurts Page 21
