Richard would never manage to wish his wife dead. The character he had loved for half his life was still there, and he enjoyed her company. When she wasn’t begging Lucy to give sex to her husband, or to marry him in the fullness of time, that was. Oh, the shame of it.
Patients were arriving. They all sat together in the waiting room, and he didn’t like to leave them for too long. Which was silly, because germs transferred in seconds, and hung around long after their carriers had disappeared. Whatever, he went to do the job that many thought less worthy than work performed by surgeons and hospital medics. They were wrong. Because here was the hub of medicine; here was where a decent diagnostician performed the most awesome of all tasks. Without a good GP, there would be no chance for anybody.
They came and gave him his pre-med. He was already dressed in the hospital’s best off-the-peg frock, open all the way down the back, pretty bows at neck and waist, to hell with any danger of modesty.
The sheep-lover entered. ‘How are we today then?’
‘I’ve no idea how you are, but I don’t care if you cut my head off. Whatever was in that needle’s made me happy as a pig in muck.’
‘OK. Good. Just thought I’d pop in before I scrub. I was very careful this morning – killed only two sheep. But I’ll get their blood from under my nails before starting on you. When it comes to the sewing up, what is your preference? Blanket stitch, chain stitch, cross stitch? And would you like a particular colour of sewing thread?’
Alan found himself laughing. ‘Oh, how glad I am to have a mad Welshman as my doctor. Go on, Taff, owld lad. Get ready to do your worst. You’ve got me in stitches already, and we’ve not kicked off. Just make sure the referee’s fair. I don’t want a red card before I’ve even dribbled.’
He was placed on a trolley and wheeled out to the corridor. It was very Holby City, all ceiling lights and pinging lift doors, but without the urgency displayed on TV. Someone called his name. ‘Alan? Is that Alan from room seven? Hang on a minute, you lot.’
Too tired to raise his head, he tried to place the voice. Last night. Remember. Styles – her first name was Trish, and she was standing over him. ‘All the best, love,’ she said. ‘I’ll be here later on when you come back.’
Would he be here later on? He couldn’t manage to care. One of the porters explained to the woman that the patient had been given an injection, and wasn’t fully responsive. ‘It’ll be a longish job,’ the man said. ‘We’ll be sure to let you know when he’s back, Mrs Styles.’
‘Thanks. Look after him.’
Well, somebody cared, then. He was pushed into a lift that travelled very slowly because it was for sick people, and the porters were talking about runners in the three-thirty at Haydock. Life went on, it seemed. Whether he lived or died, nothing would change, and only his daughter and the wife of a man with a brain tumour would give a toss. Anyway, he had a chance, didn’t he? Taffy the sheep man thought there was a chance. He had quite a decent sense of humour for a Welshman, did old Taff. And if Alan could only get his hands on the drug they’d given him, he’d never need another drink.
Lucy and Lizzie went on a huge shopathon at the Trafford Centre while David made phone calls and took the dog to the neighbour in Bolton. Samson liked going next door, because there were children who rolled in mud, water and any other forbidden substance that happened to be available, and the dog shared their enthusiasm for such naughtiness.
Phone calls were made, and David returned to the scene of the crime when he had sorted out ward rounds and outpatients. He knew it was a crime when he picked up the two women, since they had between them enough packages and parcels to justify the hire of a removal van. ‘Anything left in there?’ he asked, pointing to the enormous shopping centre. ‘Because if there is, you may as well go back and pick it up, get the full set.’
Lucy awarded him a withering glance. ‘The trouble with men,’ she said, ‘is that they have no concept of the joy that comes with shopping. Take a man into a department store, and he shrivels and starts sulking and looking at price tags. No imagination.’ She handed him a small paper bag. ‘That’s for you. Don’t say we don’t care about you.’
‘Thanks. I think.’ It was a navy-blue tie with matching socks. The problem lay in the picture of Bart Simpson lowering his shorts to display a bare backside. Bart was on the tie just once, but was repeated many times on the socks.
Lizzie completed the set when she handed him the underpants. ‘Children like these things,’ she told him. ‘They won’t see the underpants, but you’ll know they’re there.’
They were right, of course. About the tie and the socks, anyway. He worked with sick kids, and all children loved cartoons.
‘They had the Tellytubbies, but I thought Bart’s bare bum was the clear winner,’ Lucy said. ‘Madam here bought four pairs of jeans, and they all look the same to me. She says jeans freaks will know what’s what. Four pairs of shoes as well, David. Anyone would think my daughter had more than her fair share of feet. She’s an octopus.’ She wished her daughter would stop looking at her watch. It was eleven-thirty, and Alan would be in theatre.
A glance passed between Lucy and David. ‘Do you know how to get to Heaton Park from here?’ he asked. ‘Or am I going to need satnav?’
‘Satnav,’ Lizzie replied. ‘I’ve never gone to the park from Trafford before.’
When the shopping had been squashed into the boot, two spent-out women and one exhausted doctor climbed into the Audi. David had not been in close company with women for a very long time. They had busy minds and hurrying bodies. They were always up to something and, in spite of tiredness, he was enjoying himself. But the problem remained. Lizzie’s dad was probably on bypass and, at any moment now, a team would be concentrating on his repaired heart and trying to shock it back to life.
The drive round the edge of the city was quiet. When asked how she was feeling, Liz answered in broad Lancashire dialect, so she was clearly busy getting inside her part. They left her alone with her demons, yet they knew she was glad to have their company.
After snacks in a small café , they repaired to Heaton Park and abandoned Lizzie to the make-up department, which was a large tent behind the arena in which the play would take place. Now it was Lucy’s turn to start checking her watch. ‘Stop it,’ David told her several times. ‘We can’t phone until Lizzie gets here, anyway.’
She arrived at ten minutes to one. Lucy’s gasp was audible. ‘Where’s my daughter?’ she cried. ‘What have you done with her, and who the heck are you?’
Lizzie shook her head, then lifted her face to the heavens. ‘I think I look great. Just pray the skirt doesn’t ride up, because I’m wearing a thong.’
David hid a smile. She looked every inch the tart, make-up thick and colourful, hair backcombed and piled all over her head with little wisps escaping here and there. ‘You look great,’ he said. ‘Here.’ He handed her his phone. ‘I’ve programmed in the Easterly Grange number – have this call on the National Health, because God knows you’ll get very little else.’
‘I’m scared, David.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’
She nodded. ‘My hands are shaking. You get the hospital, I’ll do the talking.’
But before David got through, Lizzie’s own phone rang. For a moment, she didn’t know what to do, but she decided to get rid of the caller first. ‘Hello? Sorry, I have to go and— Oh, it’s you.’ She paused. ‘Yes? And you’re pleased with him? How did you get my— Oh, I see. I don’t know how to thank you. But … well … thank you so much.’ She closed the phone.
‘Well?’ Lucy took a step towards her daughter.
‘Mr Evans-Jones found my number on Dad’s phone. He knew I was worried, so he wanted to put me out of my misery. Dad’s doing well. They have to keep an eye on him, but they’re pleased. Only close family allowed for the next few days, but he survived it, Mums.’
‘Good, I’m so glad, love.’ And Lucy was glad. He hadn’t been much of a husb
and, but this girl wanted her daddy to live, and he would live. He had to live. ‘Go and do your bit, Lizzie. I bet you’ll be wonderful – can’t wait to see you in action.’ She looked again at the clothes. ‘Mind, the sort of action you’re ready for shouldn’t really have an audience.’
‘Mums, you are so … old-fashioned.’ The young hooker walked away, hips swaying in an exaggerated fashion. David offered his arm. ‘Shall we?’
Like a pair stealing a day off work, they wandered round one of the biggest parks in Europe, buying ice creams and cups of tea, watching children running about, waiting for the summons to attend Lizzie’s play. They were easy in each other’s company, and might have been mistaken by onlookers for a married couple because they looked so right together.
The awaited summons arrived, a great bell booming across the grass. They had reserved seats in the front row, which placed them almost on top of the action, though there was none for at least ten minutes, as audience members were still arriving. All they could see was a row of four vertical boards, like plain flats on the stage of a theatre. Yet there was electricity in the air, as there always is before a performance. David whispered to his companion. ‘She’ll get through it, Lucy. There’s a lot of you in her. I dare say she’ll always finish what she starts.’
There were no curtains; there was no stage. Six men in overalls walked on with lamp posts and billboards advertising foodstuffs and designer gear. They stood and clicked their fingers in rhythms that became quite intricate and skilful. Through a sound system arrived Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’, a piece from the sixties that was reputedly almost impossible to conduct, since it had an unusual number of beats to the bar. The clicking kept several tempos, all of them perfect, all in keeping with the complicated music. Brubeck faded, and the clickers left.
They were replaced by beat-boxers, five lads whose mouths were the only instruments required to produce amazing sounds. One started a stopwatch, and the graffiti artists entered. They sprayed the flats, producing pictures that made the word STREETS across the boards. All round the lettering, pictures appeared as if by magic, so quick were the movements of these gifted craftsmen. When the stopwatch marked the end of the time allotted, the painters disappeared, and the applause was tumultuous.
A wooden floor was carried on to the stage by all the players, Lizzie included. As she was required to bend, lift and shift, Lucy’s daughter had exchanged the brief skirt for jogging bottoms, which was just as well. Once placed and judged steady, the large board was used by four black street-dancers whose abilities defied description. ‘Now, that’s testosterone,’ David whispered to Lucy.
‘Beautiful,’ she answered.
The scene was set. Drug-dealers, pimps and prostitutes arrived. A fight broke out because a dealer was on someone else’s patch. The language was plain, direct and peppered with swear words. Lucy watched while her daughter was beaten up by her pimp before walking to join other girls by the side of a park pathway that was clearly a road. Real cars kerb-crawled and occupants took their pick of the girls. Lizzie was the first to be driven away in a newish Mercedes.
A wonderful rivalry between remaining girls led to more fights involving pimps and their human property. Dancing resumed. Large packages of white powder were taken into a corner, then smaller wraps were brought out. When Lizzie returned, her reward was contained in a hypodermic. She ‘died’ about eight feet away from her real life mother.
It was back to the clicking. ‘Pure, pure, too pure,’ was the chant. ‘Dead, dead, too dead.’ A siren sounded, and the cast disappeared, leaving just one deceased child prostitute centre-stage. The ambulance, complete with sound and blue light, had been made from an old Bedford van. Lizzie was placed on a stretcher, a red blanket covering her completely. She was pushed into the vehicle, then the driver and paramedics stopped for a smoke. The girl was dead, so there was no hurry. Someone scratched a record through the speakers, and the two smokers delivered what Lucy recognized as rap. The speeches contained statistics relating to runaways, drug deaths and child prostitution. It was all rather grim.
When whistles sounded, cigarettes were ground underfoot, and the ambulance pulled away. Four policemen clog-danced on the wooden floor, each man leaving after his cut of the profits had been handed over by members of the cast, who came on singly, furtively and in motorbike helmets employed to make them anonymous.
Act one was over. ‘She made a lovely corpse,’ David said beneath applause.
‘It’s a bit gross, though.’ Lucy clapped and stared ahead. ‘Is that really life as some child sees it?’ The writer was an eighteen-year-old from Wythenshawe. He was also one of the graffiti artists. ‘Is it like that?’
‘For some, yes. Are we staying for the rest? I’d like to see it, but I’d bet a pound to a penny that Lizzie wants to get to Easterly Grange. She did well. And she has guts. Wonderful girl.’
‘Her language was … interesting.’
‘She didn’t write it, Louisa. She’s an actor – she does as she’s told. When a kid wants someone to move out of the way, there’s no excuse me – it’s eff off all the way.’
Lucy grinned. ‘She did make a lovely corpse. She seemed not to breathe. It was quite terrifying to see my daughter dead. Ah, here she comes.’
The corpse walked. ‘I’ll just change and get the slap off my face,’ she said. ‘Then will you take me to the hospital, please?’
‘Of course we will,’ Lucy replied.
David just smiled. No one had asked him, and he was the driver. And he was pleased about that, because it seemed to give him a position in the household, one that might even be taken for granted. He was in loco parentis. Just on the male side, of course.
It had turned out nice again. George Formby used to say that, didn’t he? Alan was in a small ward, and he had a nurse all to himself. She wasn’t great to look at, but he wasn’t going to complain, because he was alive and almost pain-free. They had some brilliant drugs in this place. A heart operation? Give him a couple of days, and he’d be fit to go six rounds with Mike Tyson.
She was talking to him. ‘You’re supposed to be family only, but I imagine she’s a bit like family, you being next to her husband all these weeks.’
What the hell was she on about?
‘Mrs Styles,’ she said. ‘Husband cries a lot, brain tumour, poor soul.’
Trish. She was talking about Trish. ‘Wheel her in,’ he ordered.
Now, this was his kind of woman. Thin as a reed, smartly dressed, quiet, knew her place. She wouldn’t be buggering off with all her family’s assets, wouldn’t leave her dying husband to the tender mercies of some BUPA hospital in the middle of nowhere. He greeted her carefully. ‘How is he?’
‘That’s a nice thing to do, Alan. Asking about my husband, I mean. You’re only just out of surgery yourself, and you’re thinking about somebody else’s problems – and he kept you awake for nights on end, bless you both.’
Even now, with the remnants of anaesthetics in his blood, Alan Henshaw knew what he was doing. Butter them up was his second commandment. Avoid big boobs was the first. Women who travelled through life behind a pair of large secondary sexual characteristics had some kind of power. Neat little women seemed grateful, could never do enough for a man. Lucy had seemed docile, but he had caught occasional glimpses of something in her face, an emotion that was possibly on kissing terms with contempt. He should have known, should have put the money back a bit at a time, could have been cleverer when it came to using her signature. Scheming bloody cow she had been—
‘Alan?’
‘Sorry, love. I keep drifting.’
She sat down. ‘You thought you were dying, didn’t you?’
‘I did.’
‘So will she give you your money back?’
He thought about this for a few seconds. ‘We parted on bad terms, Trish. There’ll be a divorce, and I’ll be on my uppers. To be honest with you, I’m homeless. My daughter tells me the house is going to a charity for the rest o
f Lucy’s life.’
‘Can she do that?’
He swallowed. ‘I’ve nothing against charity myself, Trish. And there’s no fight left in me. All I want is an easy life, a bit of a roof over my head and something to keep me interested.’
‘Right.’
He closed his eyes. The seed was planted. Styles in room eight was on his way out with a brain tumour, poor sod. The biggest disappointment in Trish’s life had been her inability to have children. There was no son sitting in the wings, no daughter with a husband ready and willing to take over. Trish would be lonely. Trish would need someone to oversee the business. By pretending to be asleep, he needed to answer no questions. He’d laid the foundations; she should be left to think about things for a while. When the end came, when her husband died, she might just turn to Alan.
The next patient came in and sat down.
Richard, busy writing notes relating to someone who needed blood tests, did not look up immediately. ‘I’ll be with you in a second,’ he said.
‘Hello.’
A chill ran the full length of his body, right from the top of his head all the way into his toes. It couldn’t be. It was. ‘Lexi? What the hell are you doing here? Are you ill?’
She crossed her legs, the upper one swinging in clear demonstration of anger and impatience. ‘Miss Phillips to you, Dr Turner. This job of yours – a bit of this and a bit of that – have I been your bit of the other? Like this, that and the other? Entrepreneur, my backside. You’re just a dirty old man with a crippled wife, aren’t you?’
‘But … what are you doing here?’ he asked again.
She smiled. ‘Been on your books for over a month, babe. There was a queue, but I’m a patient patient, and I live right on the edge of your catchment area. The nurse done my blood pressure and all that when you were out on your rounds. I hung about outside till you went.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 15
