Deadly Diagnosis

by Mairi Chong

  5

  Cathy prepared herself for a difficult discussion. She had read the letter from the specialist and had anticipated her patient’s return this week. Elizabeth Scott walked along the corridor towards her. Cathy stood by the door, trying to judge the woman’s mood. It was impossible to tell. The elderly lady busied herself, her steps small but animated if a little unsteady. She looked up at Cathy as she neared but didn’t smile.

  ‘Please take a seat.’

  Elizabeth Scott sat down opposite and removed her woollen gloves, placing them tidily on top of her handbag.

  ‘Quite some chill outside just now,’ Cathy said, feeling it a safe opening gambit. ‘I’ve been watching out my window and hoping no one falls on the ice rink.’

  ‘That’s your responsibility, you know?’ the old woman said severely, and Cathy turned in surprise.

  ‘You’ll be sued if you don’t put something down. Salt,’ Mrs Scott said, shaking her head and tutting. ‘And while we’re on the subject, that receptionist. I don’t know if you realise, but in the ten minutes I sat in your waiting room, she’s been wasting your phone bill, gossiping. Half the room must have heard her giggling away. Highly unprofessional.’

  James’s words came back to her and at that moment, Cathy thought that her practice partner was probably quite right when he suggested that the old woman had been a tartar in her day.

  ‘Anyway,’ Cathy said, ‘the hospital’s been in touch, of course. But tell me how you got on.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I knew it was bad. They poked and prodded a good deal as expected. I drew the line at them sticking a needle in me.’

  Cathy smiled. ‘Yes, the letter said. The fine needle aspiration would have helped to find out the tissue type and plan any treatment.’

  The old woman was shaking her head. ‘I told you before, and I told them too. I’m not interested.’

  Cathy began to speak, but the elderly woman raised a hand. ‘Please, let’s not fall out, Dr Moreland. I like you far too much for that, and if, as you say, I’m short on time, I’d rather spend it in a useful manner.’

  ‘What can I do? I’d like to support you the best I can.’

  The old woman shifted in her seat, crossing her legs behind her and leaning forward. ‘Well, if you’d like to adopt my cat?’ she started, and then laughed down at her clasped hands. ‘No, I’ll not ask that of you. My neighbour. No doubt she will step in when the time comes. No, I’m trying to organise things, you see? Before it’s too late. Things must be in order. The truth is, I’m very worried. Not about this,’ she said fluttering a hand across her chest. ‘But something’s been on my mind a good deal. I’ve not known quite what to do about it for some time now, but all of this nonsense has forced my hand. I’ve no one of any use, you see, to go to about it? That’s why I thought of you …’

  Cathy withdrew her hands from the computer keyboard and gave the woman her full attention. ‘What’s concerning you?’

  ‘You’ll think I’m mad saying this, but I’ve been afraid.’ The elderly eyes flickered, and Mrs Scott looked to the ceiling for a moment. ‘I was happy to keep a check on it myself. I have been doing so, but I know that I may not be around for very long. It rather changes things, do you see?’

  Cathy did not see, but now acutely interested, she leaned in.

  ‘You cleared up that little mess over the other doctor’s death, I hear?’ the old woman continued. ‘That’s really why I chose you in the first place. Of course, I’m sure you’re an excellent doctor also.’ Her smile faded and she sighed.

  Cathy waited.

  ‘I don’t want to be melodramatic, really I don’t, but there’s something in Glainkirk. It’s not quite right.’ She shook her head, perhaps trying to reframe her thoughts. ‘Something disturbing,’ she continued, more forcefully, ‘if not, dangerous. I hope you don’t think I’m some batty, old woman saying this. I think if you came into the charity shop, you might well see what I mean. I’m afraid, Doctor. Terribly afraid.’

  6

  Holly knew that her habit of being boastful and supercilious was the cause of all her trouble. From her earliest years, she had tried to impress. As she sat in her rented flat alone now, sipping her vodka, she cast her mind back. None had travelled as far as her or had as many wealthy relations. In her final year of primary school, she had announced to anyone who would listen that she was adopted and that her real parents were lesser-known members of the Indian aristocracy. All very hush-hush. Her father, who had fallen out with the rest of the family, had wanted her to be raised in a westernised society and had reluctantly sent her abroad. Being of a darker complexion than her very-Scottish mother, some of them had believed her. Holly smiled in recollection. Quite inventive given her age. She swilled the clear liquid around the glass and took another mouthful, grimacing as it tracked her oesophagus.

  Secondary school had been different, of course. It became clear very quickly, that to survive in a rougher academy, she was far better to blend in and keep quiet. The exaggerations abruptly stopped then.

  School was a bit of a disappointment on the whole and her home life wasn’t much better. Very loving, without a doubt, but wrong in some way. Her parents were on the older side of average. Both had been incredibly proud of her natural intellect, which far exceeded that of anyone else in the family. Despite knowing it was unkind, she repeatedly found herself mocking her mother’s gullible and gentle nature. The more entertainment she gained from this, the more self-disgust she suffered. It was like a vicious circle really.

  In her school work, she found some solace. For her, to achieve top grades was undeniably easy. A cursory glance over her term’s work was all it took. Teachers praised her understanding of the subjects; they told her parents that they saw great things in the future for her. But repeatedly, it was observed that she was aloof and a little snooty.

  It was probably due to this generalisation, that she agreed to go out for an evening of underage drinking in the first place. Of course, no one had openly said that alcohol would be involved. The group simply arranged to meet at the swings after seven-thirty. Everyone knew though, that a couple of the kids’ parents would turn a blind eye if a bottle of wine or a couple of cans of cider went astray. Holly arrived early with a rucksack full of booty. That evening would be when it would all change for her. Her reputation would be reformed and her character completely renewed. No more ‘aloof’ or ‘snooty.’ She would emerge from the park, like a butterfly from its chrysalis.

  There was a tough girl called Lorraine who sat next to Holly in Biology class. Holly had passed her the answers in the last exam, partly because she was slightly afraid of her, but also because she had overheard the teachers whispering that Lorraine would be kicked out if she failed another. They had been at the park for over an hour. Lorraine was showing off a bit to the crowd, crushing beer cans with her fist and making smart remarks if anyone walked past. Up until then, all was going to plan. Holly had chatted quietly to the others and when the urge came to laugh at the incorrect things they said, she bit her tongue and smiled.

  ‘Who’s the biggest teacher’s pet in the year?’ Lorraine suddenly called out after taking a swig of her beer. Holly took no notice and continued talking to the girl beside her. Lorraine repeated the question, but louder and then came over to where she sat on one of the swings. She stood directly in front of her. ‘Say it, Holly,’ Lorraine insisted. ‘Go on. Say: ‘I’m the biggest teacher’s pet.’ Do it, stand up and tell them all.’ By this time, the rest of the group had fallen silent. Holly said nothing. But when Lorraine leaned forward and touched her shoulder, she couldn’t help herself. She leapt up from the swing and seized by ferocious anger that even she hadn’t known existed, she punched the other girl hard in the stomach. Lorraine sank to her knees, winded and tearful. Holly had never punched anyone before and the shock of doing so was quite thrilling.

  She took a long draught of her vodka now, as she reflected on the injustice of it all. The others might have
respected her for standing up to the bully. Instead, they set on her, the whole lot of them. She scratched and spat at them, but didn’t stand a chance. Holly closed her eyes as the memories swam. She felt quite nauseous. What they did to her was more humiliating than painful, but when she crept back home and showered, she was unable to disguise the rainbow of bruises from her mother. ‘Fell off the swings,’ she lied and retreated to bed.

  The secret drinking began not long after the park incident. Holly knew that her parents were aware. Too compassionate, she mused. They’d put it down to a teenage phase, and did nothing to prevent her from continuing. Her grades slipped at school. Holly snorted now at the irony. If she had been renowned for her aloofness once, she grew even more so after that.

  In the end, it was her chemistry teacher who had had a word. He asked her to stay back after class and shut the door. ‘Too clever to throw it all away,’ he had said with genuine feeling. ‘Time to think about life after school.’ One thing, in particular, had stuck in her mind. He had said that the people she knew now, weren’t her ‘tribe’. None of them was a bit like her. She would only find a genuine belonging if she dug deep and got away from the place. The only way was to get the exam results she deserved, and that meant effort.

  In many ways, Holly thought that Mr Robinson had saved her that day. His words had been strangely accurate too. Odd how things turned out though, she considered, coming to the bottom of her glass. But there was no point overthinking. Perhaps a top-up was in order. It was early still, after all.

  7

  ‘Bloody heck, it’s hot in here isn’t it, ladies? You sure you still need the heater on?’ Neil looked into the back room and grinned.

  It was the week following New Year, and after a five-day break, they had all returned. Holly had despaired when she arrived. The wooden frame which housed all of the bags was near to full.

  Neil continued past the doorway. ‘Nice Christmas and Hogmanay?’ he threw over his shoulder but didn’t wait for an answer.

  She turned to see Tricia scooping a belted pencil skirt from the mound of clothes on the floor. ‘Oh pretty,’ the other woman said, attempting to attach the garment to a hanger. It seemed that following an hour of blissful silence, now warmed up both physically and mentally, Tricia was ready to converse.

  ‘So, you’ve not told me about your Christmas,’ she said, still fiddling with the hanger and accidentally allowing the skirt to fall to the floor in a heap.

  ‘Usual,’ Holly said non-committedly. ‘Too much food and drink.’

  In truth, the break had been dreadful, but Holly wasn’t ready to reveal anything so personal to her co-workers. If they knew the extent of her loneliness, she felt sure that they would attempt to console her, if not engage her in their social activities, and Holly could imagine nothing worse.

  Further comment was halted thankfully, due to a commotion in the front shop. Holly and Tricia looked at one another, hearing Carol’s voice raised. Tricia crossed the small room and peered around the corner. Holly stayed where she was, listening.

  ‘I’m not!’ Carol was saying. ‘I’ve explained, it makes more sense that way. Every time I make a suggestion …’

  Holly couldn’t hear the reply, so she joined Tricia in the doorway and was just in time to see Betty leaning over the front desk and pointing. ‘Don’t use that tone with me,’ she was saying. ‘This nonsense over the till. When will you get it into your head? Sometimes I wonder if you’re fit to be in charge. I see you bossing them around.’ She fluttered a hand in the direction of the back room. Tricia shrank back.

  ‘Are you actually afraid of her?’ Holly asked.

  The other woman laughed. ‘Heavens no. I just don’t like arguments, that’s all.’

  Holly leaned out again as Betty was jabbing a finger at Carol’s tunic. It was odd to see the transformation. On the outside, Betty was just like any other old biddy; harmless and a bit unsteady on her feet. But looking at her now, she was quite something to behold. She’d seen Betty in action on a couple of occasions since she’d started work there. Usually, it was an argument over who should be operating the till, as it indeed seemed to be now. There seemed always a bubbling undercurrent and occasionally, the pressure became too great. Then, either Carol or Betty would blow.

  This time, Betty did seem determined to stand her ground. Holly watched in wonder, comparing Betty to a creature from Greek mythology she had read about years ago. The harpy was half woman, half bird of prey. A grasping monster. Holly smiled. The old woman’s eyes, usually a haze of cataract had now altered and were piercing. Her fingers were splayed like talons, and her voice; hissing and spiteful.

  ‘Not with me,’ she was saying. ‘I’m old, but I’m not stupid. None of you should forget it.’

  Sadly, the stand-off was prevented from further escalation by Neil. Having failed to overhear the dispute, he cheerfully called through and looking at the clock, it seemed that it was indeed ‘cuppy time’. But before Holly could step outside the room, he was in the doorway.

  ‘Thought you’d like a look,’ Neil said, barely able to contain his pleasure. ‘Would’ve shown you earlier but it went out of my head.’

  This, Holly felt sure was a lie. No doubt, he had been sitting on his little surprise, just waiting for the right moment.

  He handed her a piece of newspaper. Its folds had been stressed by time, and the paper was so delicate and grainy as to twist and almost fracture with her touch. It had been cut with the precision of a surgeon. She held the translucent piece in her hand, knowing already what it was.

  ‘What we were talking about the other day before Christmas,’ he said in explanation, scuffing the side of his shoe, as was his habit.

  ‘Right,’ Holly said and looked down again. The paper was yellowed and the newsprint faded. The words were slightly off-set in places, giving the article a drunken slant.

  ‘DEATH AT FERNIBANKS HOSPITAL’ the title read. Holly scanned the bare facts, knowing that his eyes were on her, and despising him for it.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said and handed it back as if it were the most tedious thing she had ever seen.

  ‘Thought you’d like to see,’ he said. ‘I’ll pass it around. Maybe show it to Carol.’

  He moved back along the corridor to the kitchen. The kettle was vibrating on its stand. Holly glanced across at Tricia.

  ‘Coming?’ she asked, not caring a bit one way or another. Her hands were shaking and she hoped that Neil hadn’t seen.

  She was aware of Neil moving back through the corridor with a mug of tea for atrocious Betty, who still refused to be pried from her beloved till. Holly paused in the doorway and watched him, ingratiating and jovial even with the old woman. He handed Betty the mug, which she positioned at the side. Then, reaching into his pocket, he produced the scrap of newsprint. Holly wasn’t sure what happened at that moment, perhaps he jogged her elbow and knocked it, but within seconds, Carol, who had obviously forgiven Betty, was swooping in and about, and hastily mopping up the spilt, hot liquid. Repeatedly, she checked that Betty hadn’t burnt herself, and generally made a fuss.

  Neil returned to Holly with an air of indifference.

  ‘Looked like she’d seen a ghost,’ he said. ‘I thought she was having a stroke for a second.’ Chuckling, he returned to the kitchen once more.

  In truth, Holly had thought of little else since she had heard his story. Even though the period should have been festive, she had found her mind returning continually to the grisly tale. Over the past few days, she had begun to wonder if the whole thing had been a charade, a misconstrued, befuddled memory, twisted and embellished over time. She had chastised herself for being so gullible but now she had seen the evidence in newsprint, it must be so.

  It was a relief when her four-hour shift ended that late-afternoon and she was freed from the confines of the back room. Following Carol’s strict and pathetic protocol of signing-out in the spiral notebook kept behind the front desk, she found herself wandering without any rea
l purpose. Neil’s story was still very much on her mind as she walked.

  The Glainkirk high street was pretty rundown by anyone’s standards. It seemed to Holly that the charity shop was, in a way, the heart of the community. Here, locals gathered and conversed, if not in the shop itself, then outside by the postbox and bus stop.

  Carol had told her that times had changed. Since Carol had started working in the shop (and that must have been more than ten or fifteen years ago), she said that the tide had turned. Whether it be due to necessity or fashion, people were now willing to pay for second-hand goods, as long as they were of reasonable quality. Carol also reliably informed her that they were one of the more affluent shops in the area. She believed it was because of the parking outside. In reality, it was a bus stop and not an actual parking space, but it did allow people to offload their bags before hoofing it back to the car and driving away. Sometimes, they seemed embarrassed to be caught in the act of depositing a bag, and at other times, they wanted heartfelt thanks for this act of generosity.

  It had rained during the day and the pavements still shone. Before Holly had thought about what she was doing, she had walked the entire length of the high street and had turned inexplicably left rather than right. Given that she was in no hurry to return to her empty flat, she instead continued, walking slowly towards the railway line. She looked into the windows of the houses that she passed, seeing that the Christmas-tree lights that had shone garishly before, had all been packed away.

  As she neared the bottom of the street, the houses petered out. Some of the residents seemed to have used the scrap of wasteland as a makeshift dump. An elongated mound of grass cuttings and leaves was heaped at the side. The railway line lay beyond. Some of the grasses, although dead or dying, remained high. The architecturally intricate umbellifers, now naked of their flowers, reached upwards to the sky, like despairing hands.