by Robert Gott
16
CLARA WAS SURE that Tom Mackenzie’s and Joe Sable’s embarrassment and discomfort would be a source of anecdotal joy for years to come. When Tom confessed to defiling the Meissen water jug, Clara thought her own laughter was unseemly. His shame-faced offer to clean the jug was, she thought, priceless. She had to get to the hospital by 11.00 pm for her shift, so she and Helen left Prudence’s orchard at 9.30. Tom and Joe had been told that their tyres had been let down, but that there was a pump on the property that they could use to reinflate them. The image of them sweating as they manually pumped air into the tyres entertained both her and Helen on the way to the hospital.
‘Poor Joe,’ Helen said. ‘He looked so crestfallen.’
‘He and Tom both looked like naughty little boys who’d been caught misbehaving.’
‘And they thought they were being so brave. I am angry with them, Clar, especially Joe. This could have ended very, very badly.’
‘In a way it did, for them.’
Helen drove Clara first to her flat in East Melbourne, where she changed her clothes, and then to the Royal Melbourne Hospital. She waited until Clara had crossed the road and entered the hospital. She sat for a couple of minutes longer, just in case Kenneth Bussell turned up. There was no one on the street, and so she drove home to Kew.
SISTER KELLY WAS on the front desk, as she had been the previous night.
‘No visitors tonight, Doctor.’
Was that a small smirk on her face as she said this? Clara was certain that it was. Perhaps she should tell Sister Kelly that her ‘suitor’ was a murderer. That would put the wind up her. No, she’d save that for another time.
Upstairs in her office she went over the notes left by the doctor she was relieving. There was nothing that threatened to turn into an emergency tonight. That was a relief — she felt like she’d had enough excitement for one night. She began her rounds, finding the wards mostly quiet, apart from the snoring of a couple of patients. She walked the length of the last ward, checking charts. In the last bed the patient was snoring excessively. For everybody’s sake, she needed to get him to shift his position. She picked up the chart from the foot of the bed. It was blank. That was an oversight that would require a reprimand. She moved to the top of the bed and pulled down the blanket that was obscuring the patient’s face. The snoring stopped, and Kenneth Bussell smiled up at her.
‘Sorry about the noise. I had to get your attention.’
Clara was curiously calm.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘The sister at the front desk is £5 richer.’
He sat up, and Clara took a couple of steps back, as if he were an uncoiling snake.
‘Did you get my book?’
‘You know I did.’
Bussell swung his legs over the side of the bed and made to stand up. He stumbled, either accidentally or deliberately, and fell towards Clara, who instinctively opened her arms to prevent his fall. He quickly detached himself and apologised. Clara knew how volatile this man was, so she took the apology to be strategic, not genuine. She did notice that he smelled clean, which suggested that he wasn’t living on the streets.
‘I wanted to let you know in person what that book means to me. It’s a part of me. Now it’s a part of you.’
‘Mr Bussell …’
‘Ken, please. We’ve moved beyond formality, surely.’
Every word he uttered struck Clara with sinister force. She felt unsafe, despite being surrounded by patients, some of whom were well enough to come to her assistance or raise an alarm if Bussell attacked her. There was something in Bussell’s casual assumption that lying in wait for her like this, under a hospital sheet in a vacant bed, was either amusing or, worse, romantic that made Clara’s anger flare with sufficient heat to overwhelm her fear. She wanted this man out of her life, and preferably behind bars. She didn’t want him hanging from the end of a rope. She was opposed to public executions, although anyone who murdered someone in Victoria ran the risk of suffering that fate. She had to find a way of incapacitating him long enough for the police to arrive to arrest him. Thinking quickly and not knowing if the strategy would work, she asked Bussell to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘I’d like to take a look at your wound, if you don’t mind. I’ll draw the curtain around the bed for you. If you could take off your coat and shirt.’
Bussell smiled.
‘Should I take off my pants as well?’
Clara smiled back at him, and hoped that her face didn’t betray the rush of disgust she was feeling.
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Bussell. I need to get some swabs. I’ll be back in a moment.’
Bussell began taking off his coat. Clara hurried to her office, hoping and praying that no patients needed her urgently. She telephoned D24, but the operator told her that the lines were busy. Did she want to hold? Clara tried to calm herself and think clearly. The man who had murdered Gerald Matthews, the man who had brought her a bloodied trophy of the crime and who had demonstrated that he could shift from admiration to vituperation if crossed, this man was just a few feet from her. She couldn’t let him leave the hospital.
‘I’ll call back in a minute or two,’ she told the operator. With some trepidation, but with clarity of purpose, she decided to do something that would have been unthinkable in any other circumstance. She decided to incapacitate Bussell with an injection of morphine. She’d have to be careful with the dose, to avoid respiratory depression, but she wanted the dose to be large enough to work quickly. She didn’t need Bussell to be unconscious, just disabled sufficiently to keep him in the bed until the police arrived.
She prepared a tray with swabs, disinfectant, and bandages, loaded a syringe with morphine — she carried a key to the drug cabinet when she was on duty — and hid it beneath the swabs and bandages. When she returned to Bussell, she found him lying on his back, bare-chested, with his hands behind his head. The bandage she’d applied to his knife wound was still in place. She was a little surprised by this. She’d have expected Bussell to have been more cavalier about his hygiene. She’d based this on his unwillingness to stay in hospital on the night he’d presented, and she realised, looking at him, that nothing about him made any sense. Why did she think he was some sort of drifter? Possibly because the police couldn’t find him.
As she removed the bandage, she assessed him again. His clothes were of good quality, he was clean-shaven, with no nicks or razor burns, his hair was clean, and his body gave off no offensive odours. The book of sonnets suggested that he was an educated man, and yet he was unable to suppress expressions of lewdness. It was as if he believed that Clara would find these expressions attractive.
The wound was uninfected.
‘My trouser belt isn’t in the way, is it?’
‘Actually, yes.’ She smiled as if to encourage him.
‘Cheeky,’ he said.
‘Would you mind lowering your trousers?’
Clara kept her voice steady. Kenneth Bussell, smiling broadly, undid his belt, unbuttoned his flies, and asked Clara if she’d edge the trousers down, as he found it awkward while lying in this position. Clara pulled the trousers open, and discovered the cause of Bussell’s grin: he wasn’t wearing any underclothes. She went ahead and lowered his trousers to his knees.
‘Well, it’s not like you haven’t seen it before, is it?’
‘I’m a doctor, Mr Bussell. I’ve seen more penises than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘So how do I compare?’
Bussell’s penis began to swell.
‘You should take that as a compliment,’ he said. In response to this, Clara took the syringe and plunged it into the muscle of Bussell’s hirsute thigh.
‘Fuck me!’ he yelled. ‘What are you doing?’
He threw his legs off the bed and tried to stand, but his trousers caught around his
ankles and hampered him. He sat down and tried to pull them up. He managed to get them halfway when the morphine hit. It was a large injection, but even so it shouldn’t have worked that quickly, and Clara, horrified, thought she’d miscalculated the dose. Bussell fell back, his eyes open, disoriented, immobilised. His shouted obscenity had woken two patients, one of whom, an elderly man, began calling out. The duty nurse, who ought anyway to have been on the ward, but who’d been in the lavatory, walked quickly towards the distressed man. Clara appeared from behind the screened-off bed and gave the nurse rushed instructions. She then telephoned D24 again, and this time the operator connected her. As calmly and as clearly as she could, she explained that a man named Kenneth Bussell, who’d murdered Dr Gerald Matthews, was temporarily incapacitated in the Royal Melbourne Hospital. The police needed to come and arrest him. The officer who took her call asked a couple of questions, and Clara could hear the scepticism in his voice.
‘Should I telephone Inspector Lambert at home and tell him that his officers have allowed this suspect to get away?’
Her crisp impatience had an effect, and she was assured that officers would be dispatched immediately.
Clara felt ill as she walked back to where Bussell lay. Had she killed him? Was he allergic to morphine? The duty nurse stood by Bussell’s bed, her face an animated mix of confusion and fear.
‘Why are his pants around his knees?’ she asked.
‘Is he breathing?’ As she said this, Clara moved to check for herself. Bussell’s breathing was shallow. She checked his pulse. It was strong. His eyes remained open and unfocused.
‘Let’s make him decent before the police get here,’ Clara said.
‘The police?’
In order to galvanise the nurse into action, Clara said, ‘This is the man who murdered Dr Matthews. I’ve given him a shot of morphine.’
The nurse drew back as if Bussell might suddenly lash out at her.
‘Trousers!’ Clara snapped, and the two of them managed to pull the trousers up and do up the flies. It was Clara who wrestled with the buttons, and she shuddered when her fingers brushed against Bussell’s penis. As soon as she could, she’d wash that sensation away. They manoeuvred him into his shirt, but didn’t attempt to dress him in his coat. The police could deal with that.
When the police arrived, Bussell was still semi-comatose. They couldn’t arrest and take away an unconscious man, and Clara couldn’t release him until she was sure that he was in no danger of dying. The situation was awkward, and the police were uncertain how to proceed. One of them made a telephone call. He was away for some time, and when he returned he said that Inspector Lambert had been rung and that he’d given clear instructions that Bussell was to be guarded, and had advised that he’d be at the hospital as quickly as he could manage it. The two constables, who’d been frankly annoyed, were now more impressed than they had been by Clara’s claims. The fact that Inspector Lambert was prepared to get out of bed at this hour was compelling proof that this semiconscious man might indeed be a murderer.
Clara knew that she might face disciplinary action over her use of morphine to subdue Bussell, although, if she’d done no lasting damage, surely the medical board would applaud her quick thinking. She kept checking Bussell’s vital signs every few minutes, knowing that the drug’s effects wouldn’t fully wear off for many hours. To her relief, Bussell began to come around, and by the time Inspector Lambert arrived, Bussell was groggy and incoherent, but clearly out of physical danger.
Titus sat with Clara in her office, leaving the two constables with Bussell. They were to call him as soon as Bussell showed any signs of alertness. Clara discussed the book of sonnets and the significance of the sonnet that Bussell had claimed as his favourite.
‘It was the poisonous little note he left at my house that really frightened me, Titus.’
‘Infatuations are disturbing enough at the best of times, but when the infatuated person is unstable you have every reason to be frightened. Bussell’s obsession seems to have been getting more intense and out of hand.’
‘I hate to sound Edwardian, but his indecency really bothered me. He seemed to think that, because I’m a doctor, anything goes. It very much doesn’t. Does that sound prim?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Will you arrest him?’
‘I think we can. It’s all a bit circumstantial, but there’s a pattern of behaviour that is worrying. And we certainly need to speak to him as a person of interest.’
‘It will be such a relief just to know that he’s not out there.’
‘I can’t presume that he won’t be bailed. If that happens, I’ll let you know.’
Titus was called to Bussell’s bedside, and Clara accompanied him. Bussell was coherent, but bewildered. He couldn’t make sense of what had happened to him, and when Titus declared his intention to arrest him and read him his rights, he struggled into a sitting position and was immediately restrained. It was clear that he hadn’t understood the reason for his arrest, and when Titus repeated that he was being arrested on suspicion of having murdered Dr Gerald Matthews, he began to laugh. He looked at Clara, and she recoiled automatically, but his gaze wasn’t filled with hatred, only puzzlement.
‘I couldn’t help the erection,’ he said.
As she watched Bussell being led down the ward, Clara thought that whatever disciplinary procedures were invoked against her, they would be worth it. Now that he was safely off the street, she realised how the threat of him had been hanging over her, detracting in some way from her enjoyment of every day.
JOE SAT OPPOSITE Helen at the breakfast table. Helen couldn’t bring herself to berate him, what with his bandaged head and general air of the crestfallen. He looked so pathetic, her heart melted.
‘How long did it take to reinflate the tyres?’
Her lips refused her internal instruction not to smile.
‘Half an hour. It was exhausting.’
‘I’m sorry I was out when you got back. I was driving Clara to work.’
‘I was glad you were out. There’s only so much humiliation a person can take in a single evening.’
‘Oh, Joe, it wasn’t that bad.’
‘Wasn’t it? I can honestly say, without a shadow of a doubt, that walking …’
‘Bursting.’
‘Yes, all right, bursting. Bursting into that room is the low point of my life.’
Helen laughed.
‘Now I know you’re exaggerating, unless you’re suggesting that facing four women drinking tea was more daunting than being tortured, and almost killed.’
Joe had to acknowledge that both those events in his life had put the previous night’s fiasco into perspective.
‘Nevertheless, I feel foolish, and that is an extremely unpleasant feeling.’
‘Given what’s happened recently, if all that’s been hurt is your pride, I’m happy.’
She was teetering on the brink of saying more when the telephone rang. Ros stuck her head around the door.
‘Clara,’ she said.
‘Oh, God, I hope everything’s all right.’
Helen was on the phone for so long that Joe finished breakfast, washed his dishes, and went upstairs to change out of his pyjamas. When he came downstairs, Helen told him Clara’s astonishing news: Kenneth Bussell had been arrested.
‘It’s one thing I can stop worrying about,’ Helen said. ‘Now, if she’d stop all contact with Adelaide Matthews, I’d feel even better.’
Helen gave Joe a précis of Clara’s description of afternoon tea with Adelaide.
‘She’s clearly an emotional cot-case, and Clara shouldn’t be ministering to that. It’s too draining, and her job is already draining enough.’
‘She’s an amazing person.’
Helen was looking away when he said this, so she missed the slight blush that spread over Jo
e’s face. He felt keenly that his chances of impressing Clara Dawson had diminished severely. He was trying not to blame Tom for this, but he did harbour some resentment that Tom had rushed unthinkingly into that house and had obliged Joe to follow. Blaming Tom was absurd, of course. However, that small, ugly feeling was definitely there.
‘Clara’s coming over here later this morning. I told her about your headache. She wants to check on you.’
‘That really isn’t necessary. I feel fine.’
Helen looked at him, his head bandaged, unshaven, dressed in her uncle’s beautiful clothes, and her eyes welled with tears. It happened, just like that, and she didn’t turn away. Joe watched her face, astonished.
‘Are you all right?’
She nodded, stood up from where she was sitting at the table, and walked around to him. She leant down and kissed the top of his head. His hair smelt faintly of Hungary Water, Peter Lillee’s favourite cologne, and now one that Joe used often. She said nothing, and left the room. The contact had been so small and fleeting that Joe didn’t understand its significance. For Helen, the gesture represented a shift in her relationship with Joe. Surely now he’d have some notion of her feelings for him.
THE LAST PERSON in the world that Clara wanted to speak to was Adelaide Matthews. Unfortunately, she hadn’t mentioned this to Susan, and Susan had said, ‘Yes, she’s here,’ when Adelaide telephoned. With a feeling of dread, Clara took the receiver from Susan.
‘Adelaide. Is everything all right?’
There was silence, and then a deep, racking sob.
‘I can’t believe he said those words to me,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘I can’t believe he called me those names.’
