by Dan Malakin
‘No, you don’t understand. He did this. He got into the software and did all of this.’
‘So you’re saying that someone broke into the NHS computer systems, and tampered with patient records?’
‘Yes. That’s what happened. He did it so… so you’d think I was… incompetent.’
Rachel could tell by the tight-lipped way Linda was looking at her that the question had been rhetorical, that she’d only posed it to highlight how ridiculous it sounded.
Not her job, please not her job. First her relationship and now this. Where would it end?
‘Linda, listen to me,’ she said. The space around her seemed to be shifting in different directions, and she was struggling to stay focused. ‘My phone was hacked over the weekend. He stole money from my bank account. He knows how to do this stuff. It was him – I know it was him.’ She could see Linda wanted to believe her, but she could also hear how deranged she sounded. ‘I’ve worked for you for two years. You know me.’
Linda looked at the folder in her hand, then back at the screen, her frown a little softer. ‘Well now, I don’t… I mean… Hmmm…’
‘Think about it – have you ever needed to discipline me? Or have any of the patients ever complained about me?’
‘No, but–’
Rachel didn’t try to stop the tears spilling out. ‘You’ve got to believe me. I love it here. I’d never do anything to jeopardise my position.’
‘Have you been to the police about this man?’
‘I… I haven’t.’
She saw the fragment of doubt fading from the ward manager’s face.
‘I would have thought the police would be the first place you’d go if this was happening.’
‘It’s my boyfriend. He… he got in trouble–’
‘Ahhh, the boyfriend. I’ve heard about him.’
‘You’ve what? What have you… I mean…’
Linda straightened the cameo brooch on her cardigan. ‘Please, Rachel. Can we stop this silliness now? I am well aware of your medical history.’
‘My…’
‘The time you spent on a psychiatric ward as a teenager. It’s all recorded.’
‘But–’
‘Here’s what I think might have happened,’ Linda said. ‘You are having problems with your boyfriend, and it’s been very stressful for you. You’ve been getting tired, run down, and made a few mistakes. You’re a hard worker, I know that. You didn’t want to let me down, so you carried on coming into work.’
Rachel was shaking her head. ‘No, it’s not like that. Please, Linda–’
‘In some ways, this might be a good thing.’
‘What’s a good thing? I don’t–’
‘You’ll have to go on leave while we do a full investigation.’
‘What? No! I need to come to work. I can’t sit at home doing–’
‘Until we do a full invest–’
‘Please, Linda. Please.’
Linda closed the folder. ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. You’ll be paid the whole time.’ She nodded sympathetically to the door. ‘Why don’t you go home and put your feet up, eh?’
Chapter Twenty-Five
LinkedIn
Rachel slammed open the front door and staggered inside, chest heaving, sweat dripping off her chin and leaving a trail of dark spots. She massaged the molten pain in her thighs. The thoughts the agony in her lungs had kept at bay invaded her mind. How did he do it? How could she prove he deleted her patient records? What if she couldn’t?
She hobbled around the living room, squeezing the back of her leg, trying to soften the cramp digging into her muscles. The OxyContin called to her from the money box. Just one, to take the edge off. Lily wasn’t here–
No, no, no.
The knife? The pills in the bath? No more. She needed to keep her head clear if she was going to think her way out of this.
As her laptop started, she checked her phone. No more texts, thank God. She’d expected another from the same number as last night. Ha ha! got you fired! But she did have new WhatsApp messages from Spence – he’d sent her a sweet one yesterday, saying happy birthday. She opened the app, and looked at his profile picture, which he’d changed to a selfie of Andreas’s slender olive-skinned cheek pressed to his now-tanned one.
Rachel’s smile slipped when she read his messages. Linda had contacted him, asking if he’d noticed anything strange about her behaviour of late, or seen her standard of care slipping. She’d not mentioned the missing eMAR records, but said enough to leave the impression this wasn’t a trivial matter. His last message read: Ring me! I’m freaking out!! XXX
What she wouldn’t give to hear his voice. He’d make some jokes, assure her that she was a good nurse, a good mother, that she wasn’t going insane. But what if he came back early? How guilty would she feel then? No. He said ring, and he was a good enough friend to say it and mean it. She pressed the call icon, and waited while it rang, but he didn’t pick up. Probably gone for a swim, or to sunbathe. She tapped out a quick message: Don’t freak out, I’m fine. Will try you again later. You and A look gorgeous :-) xxx
She put her phone on the coffee table and tentatively logged into LinkedIn, expecting to see a load of gibberish from her middle-of-the-night updates, but it read okay, at least to her. Was it convincing enough to trick Griffin though? Then she realised – her profile was missing one crucial thing. Friends. Fortunately, on LinkedIn, people seemed less discriminating about who they connected with than on other social networks; she simply clicked on the connect button beside every profile in the Who You Might Know sidebar. As it was during work hours, she got a lot of accepted invitations, and soon Sophie Thomas had a hundred friends in her network.
Rachel sat back, amazed at how easy it was to spawn a bogus identity and insinuate yourself into someone’s life. Once she was connected to their profile, she could see their e-mail address – often their phone number! How could everyone be so open about something so private? Despite the scare stories about scams, the government campaigns saying don’t trust anyone you don’t know online, people were still so unsuspecting, so gullible.
When her friend count hit one fifty, Rachel sent Griffin a connection request and an introductory mail. The agency she worked for, a mention of a possible job, and would he like to meet to discuss it?
As for after that, who knew? It would depend on what he replied. The idea she had was to record him admitting something criminal, like stealing her money, or getting Konrad beaten up. Something she could use to make him leave her alone.
He may hate her, he may want to ruin her life, but surely he didn’t want to go back to prison.
She’d have to tell Mark about it though. Even if she and Griffin met at a public place, she couldn’t take the risk. No doubt Mark would try to talk her out of it, but unless he had any smarter ideas, they were going with this.
She wasn’t prepared to wait to see what Griffin would do next.
She stretched, the muscles in her back painful from bending over the screen. Then she double-checked the front door was locked and went for a shower. The heat of the water on her skin felt wonderful, but she didn’t linger. She couldn’t relax. The splashing sounded too much like a phone alert.
Dressed in her pyjamas, she drifted back downstairs. Whether it was sleep deprivation, or lack of food, or the unknown doses of whatever she’d taken still in her bloodstream, but she felt hallucinogenic. Walls glowed, the floor tilted. Outlines drifted from objects. She staggered to the kitchen, hand out as though it were dark.
A power nap, that’s what she needed. Half an hour with her eyes closed, like she used to do when Lily was teething.
She found a mug not too crusted with old coffee, washed it, got the tub of Ensure from the cupboard, and paused. Her mind parsed and rejected the thick texture of the liquid. Why shouldn’t she have what she wanted? Why feel guilty about it? Was it so strange that she liked feeling hungry? Some people enjoyed being choked during sex. Othe
rs worshiped feet. Every man and woman alive was a mental mess. Why was she always giving herself such a hard time?
Rachel found a sachet of sugar-free hot chocolate mix at the back of the coffee cupboard, and poured it into a bowl. She took it back to the living room, rolling her finger in the brown powder and putting it in her mouth, the sweet cocoa flavour spreading over her tongue.
She lay down on the sofa, pulled the blanket onto herself, and flicked on the television. Good Eats UK was still showing repeats of Bake Off, although this episode looked to be from a different series than the other night. Had she ever been this tired?
Griffin – her phone. What if he replied?
She dragged her eyes open, but it wasn’t on the coffee table. Must have left it in the kitchen. Through a barricade of eyelashes, she caught the clock in the corner of the television screen. Nearly one. Plenty of time. She probably wouldn’t even sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Qui
Her first thought was that she was still dreaming – she’d been going from room to room in the house, her father following, mumbling something she couldn’t quite hear – because the clock on the screen couldn’t be right. If it was after seven then… Oh no, Lily!
Rachel tumbled off the sofa, the room dark, looking in the light of the television for her phone. She felt spaced out, not right. Did she take something when she got home? Come on, get it together. She scrabbled to her feet, hit the lights, searched the living room. Not here. She found it in the kitchen, underneath a tea towel. Three missed calls from Mark, and an irate stream of WhatsApp messages, finishing with a simple, Thanks a bunch for ruining my night. Of course, it was Monday. Every week he got together with the nerd collective to take part in something called a LAN party, which sounded as though it should be fun, but was in fact a stuffy room crammed with Doritos-stained manboys playing army games on their laptops.
She grabbed her coat from the hooks by the door, and caught her reflection in the oval mirror. Her face was too angular, all shadow. Mark was already on about her eating, and if he saw her like this he’d make a fuss. She raced upstairs and put on another T-shirt, a long sleeve cotton top, and a turtleneck jumper. In the bathroom, she tipped the plastic basket of make-up onto the toilet lid, digging around for foundation. A bit of colour, that was all she needed. She found some Clinique, but it separated when she rubbed it on her cheek. She checked the bottle – a year out of date. Ugh, she thought. FML. She rubbed it off with a towel, grabbed the juice glass they used to hold the toothbrushes, and slugged glass after glass of water, hoping the hydration would plump her features.
It didn’t work.
When Mark yanked open his apartment door, his angry bearing softened.
‘Jesus, Rach,’ he said. ‘Look at you.’
‘Just stop it, okay?’
‘What have you got on your face?’
She rubbed the residue of the foundation from her cheek. ‘Nothing.’
‘And you’re wearing two jumpers. It’s so obvious. I can see the hems.’
‘It’s a crime to be cold?’ She zipped her coat to her throat, a dumb move for two reasons – one, it was much warmer inside, and two, he could still see all the hems at the bottom. Why hadn’t she noticed the turtleneck was shorter!
‘You going to let me in?’ she asked.
‘You know I look forward to Monday night.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Can we–?’
‘Let me guess? Zonked on painkillers watching Man vs. Food.’
‘Jesus, Mark. Do you have to be such a dick?’
‘Me a dick?’
He splayed his fingers on his chest. He had on yet another smart T-shirt, this one showing Darth Vader and a Stormtrooper making peace signs in front of the Eiffel Tower, so new the fold marks ran down both sides of his narrow torso. And what was that? A thumb ring? It was the same kind you found on festival trustafarians, usually before they whipped out a couple of bongos and made you wish you were somewhere else.
‘Nice ring, Geldof,’ she said.
He covered his hand guiltily, like it was making an obscene gesture he was powerless to stop. ‘You’re the one who forgot to pick up our daughter. Heaven forbid you should take some responsibility for your life, Rach.’
This was going wrong already. She was hoping to talk to him about Alan Griffin, not bicker like irritated siblings. ‘Look, I’m so–’
‘Sorry,’ Mark said at the same time. He gave her a conciliatory lift of the eyebrows. ‘I’m worried about you, that’s all.’
She followed him into the hallway. In the sudden heat of the apartment, she broke into a heavy sweat. A rich roast-tomato scented cloud wafted out of the kitchen, and she staggered to the side, as though the smell carried a right hook. Mark’s Quorn chilli – her absolute favourite. His secret? Four squares of dark chocolate melted into the sauce. Some of the happiest nights of her life had been spent there, the three of them watching television and sharing a bowl of chilli nachos, doused in cheese so luminous it could pass for nuclear waste. The memory of the taste filled her mouth, along with so much saliva she thought she might gag.
Mark took her arm, as if she were an old woman who needed help across a road, and led her into the kitchen. She wanted to tell him to get off, but thought if she said something, the saliva would spill like drool.
‘I thought you might like something to eat,’ he said.
Rachel stared blankly at the chilli simmering in the saucepan. The smell seemed to be obstructing her synapses, rendering her mute and immobile.
He got a bowl from the shelf, and a spoon from the drawer. ‘It’s been cooking down for an hour, so it’s ready to go.’ He ladled a small portion into the bowl. ‘Got that cheese you like.’
Her brain sparked again. Why was he making chilli tonight? Mark kept to a strict dietary schedule, the same three meals on the same days, plus two allocated snacks, which he logged in a spreadsheet. Whether she was here or not to share it, Wednesday night was chilli night.
‘What about your schedule?’ she asked.
He stopped squeezing Easy Cheese over her bowl, leaving a worm of radioactive paste dangling from the tube. ‘What?’
‘Monday night, what’s that? Something with beans, right?’
‘Three bean salad with mint vinaigrette,’ he replied, cocking his head, looking pensive, maybe, she couldn’t read it. ‘I thought, you know… You might be hungry.’
Something was off. She was late, she’d ruined his night, so to demonstrate his, justifiable, anger he’d made her favourite meal. ‘Why don’t I believe you,’ she said.
‘Because you’re paranoid.’
‘I just think it’s strange–’
‘You think everything’s strange.’
‘How you’re so upset with me about your night, and yet here you are making me dinner.’
Mark put the bowl on the counter and shook his head. ‘It is possible to be worried and annoyed, you know.’
The smell of the food was crippling. Everything she’d wanted to tell him about Griffin was disappearing into the swirling vortex of hunger. Mark was right – she was being paranoid – and if she didn’t get out of here soon, she could imagine herself saying something she regretted.
‘I’m getting Lily,’ she said. She’d call him when she got home, when she had her thoughts in order. ‘I need to get back.’
Mark moved past her, blocking the way to the lounge. ‘You’re not taking her.’
‘You try to stop me.’
They stared each other down until Mark lifted his hands in surrender. He looked away, mouth tight, and said, ‘She was so right about you.’
‘Who was right? Lily?’
‘I’m your little lapdog. Come here, Mark. Do this, Mark. Sit like a good little boy, Mark. You have no respect for me. Or anyone else.’
‘It’s not true. I–’
‘Isn’t it? Yesterday morning, you expected me to drop everything because you couldn’t be bothered to get Lily.�
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‘It was my birthday! You didn’t need to bite my–’
‘Then you spoiled Jim’s day–’
‘Leave my dad out of this.’
‘You’ve ruined my plans tonight.’
‘What? Your impromptu chilli night?’
‘You think I can’t see you’re starving yourself? And you’re lying to my face! Does that sound like respect to you?’
She couldn’t deal with this. Her emotions were wrung out. A thumping had started in the front of her skull, slow and debilitating. She needed a dark room with a locked door.
‘Let me get Lily,’ she said.
‘She’s not safe with you.’
Rachel felt something animal rising. ‘Are you going to stop me from taking my daughter?’
‘I think… I think you should go back to the clinic. Until you get your head together.’
‘What about Lily? How are you going to take her to the nursery, and pick her up, and – and put her to bed every night?’
Mark cleared his throat and smoothed the front of his T-shirt. Her eyes followed that thumb ring all the way.
‘Key can help out,’ he said.
‘Key? Key? What key?’
‘My… My girlfriend.’
‘Your what?’
Rachel winced at how that sounded. The what could have been picked out the question, what kind of woman would go out with you?
‘Glad you’re happy for me,’ he said.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just–’
‘Just what?’
‘Doesn’t matter. What kind of name is Key?’
‘It’s Qui. With a Q. She’s from Vietnam. Well, originally, but she’s been in London quite a few years… So it’s not, like, a mail order thing. If that’s what you were thinking.’
I don’t like my new mummy.
Fresh sweat rolled down Rachel’s neck. The thumping in her head was getting louder and faster. Mark was looking past her shoulder, as though this woman was standing there, ready to take her place.
