by Helen L Lowe
‘I’m sorry, Charlotte, I don’t think . . .’
‘Shh – not another word - go to sleep.’
He drifted off to sleep with an uneasy mind. When they woke up Charlotte, quite reasonably, would expect him to make love to her but for some reason his usually high sex drive had deserted him. If he turned her down again it would probably be the end of their short relationship; two rejections within twenty-four hours would put a dent in anyone’s confidence. He slept fitfully and dreamt of Pendlebury:
. . . he was sixteen, a junior prefect and a rising rugby star. It was the day of an important match and a youth from the opposing team started pushing him around and calling him queer. Gwyn, a senior prefect on Julian’s team, came to his defence and was sent off for punching the guy and breaking his nose. When the game was over, Julian went into the showers and Gwyn was waiting for him. Gwyn washed him. He lathered the soap and massaged his aching muscles, his scrotum and throbbing penis. They were locked in a passionate kiss when he was aware that someone was giving him a blow job. When he looked down he saw a naked and very young Lizzie . . .
He woke up soaked in sweat. The room was dark and Charlotte was still fast asleep beside him. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his watch. They had been asleep for five hours. A hot shower made him feel better and got rid of the sweat but the images from the dream wouldn’t go away.
He made coffee and sat naked in the armchair watching Charlotte sleep. She lay on her back, an arm resting above her head on the pillow. The sheet had slipped down to below her waist. He could have covered her up, that would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, but he reasoned with himself that he didn’t want to wake her.
The disturbing memories from the dream gradually faded away, so that he couldn’t quite remember who did what and to whom and the naked Charlotte, like a healing angel, did the rest. When he got back into bed he had an erection to be proud off and enough inclination to do it justice.
He turned towards her, picking up the scent of freshly shampooed hair as he gently brushed it away from her face. Even with a black eye she was beautiful but in an unaffected way with pale clear skin, a delicately shaped nose, full cupid-bow lips, a gorgeous body with curves exactly where they should be and perfectly shaped medium-sized breasts. If only she could be this captivating when she was awake. Her habit of saying what she thought, no matter what the consequences were, he thought, unattractive character traits. But in this moment, while she lay before him unaware and blissfully sleeping, she was perfect.
He started kissing her very softly on her forehead, on her closed eyelids and on her neck. He was down to her breasts before she stirred. She gave him a sleepy smile and lifted her arms towards him.
‘Lie still for me,’ he said, as he moved down over her stomach. ‘Did you know you have gorgeous skin?’
She smiled but said nothing.
‘And down here,’ he spread her legs apart and lowered himself down between them. ‘You are absolutely perfect.’
She laughed very softly, a sexy sound that he loved.
‘No, I’m serious,’ he said, tasting her scent and running his tongue around her clitoris. ‘Believe me - I should know - I’m a doctor.’
CHAPTER 8
On Monday morning, Julian managed to get an 8:30 a.m. appointment with a local doctor and waited for fifteen minutes before he was called in. Dr Deacon was a woman.
‘Good morning, Dr Hartmann - what can I do for you?’ She looked stern but attractive, in her early to mid-forties.
‘I need a prescription for my asthma. I’ve just recently had two episodes after years of being clear and my inhaler is way past the expiratory date.’
‘How many years clear?’
‘About nine years but I’m sure it will settle down, I just need a repeat prescription.’
‘Do you know what your triggers are?’
Julian hesitated. He didn’t want to go through all this. ‘I’m allergic to horse hair. My mother owned a stable and when I was four the asthma started. Then when I was at boarding school I used to have panic attacks which always triggered my asthma.’
‘These recent attacks - were you close to horses or distressed at the time?’
Julian hesitated again. ‘Sorry if I appear rude but is all this necessary? I’ve had the condition for years.’
‘But you said yourself that you’ve been clear for years and it’s suddenly started again.’ She took off her glasses and sat back in her chair. ‘I’m not just going to write a prescription on your command. I need to examine you and make my own decision about the best course of treatment. I’m sure if I came to you with the same story you wouldn’t just write a prescription without giving a full consultation.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And I do have other patients to see - so you can either leave or co-operate.’
Julian was speechless. He had never been spoken to like that by another doctor.
‘So I’ll ask the question again - were you close to horses or distressed at the time of your recent attacks?’
He cleared his throat. ‘There were no horses.’
‘And were you distressed?’
‘The first time, I suppose I’d had a shock - an old friend gave me some news - I was upset.’
‘So you had a panic attack after hearing the news?’
‘Yes, I think it must have been.’
‘And that turned into an asthma attack?’
He nodded.
‘And the second time?’
‘I was just walking and without warning I started wheezing and couldn’t breathe.’
‘And were you upset on that occasion?’
Julian tried to think back to yesterday in Kensington Gardens. ‘I was just talking with a girlfriend.’
‘And nothing was said to upset you?’
‘We were discussing something . . .’ he broke off as he remembered Charlotte’s comments on homosexuality. ‘It was unpleasant but not distressingly so.’ He had no intention of discussing that subject with Dr Deacon.
‘Ok, I’ll examine you and we’ll go from there. Undress down to your underpants and lie on the couch, please.’ She drew a curtain around the couch and directed him inside.
He cursed under his breath. All she needed to do was write a prescription, he didn’t need an examination. He was on the couch when she came back and he tried to be patient while she did a thorough physical examination. His blood pressure was high.
‘What is it normally?’
‘Around 110/70.’
‘Your pulse is 105. Is this examination upsetting you?’
He had to clench his jaw to prevent himself from telling her exactly what he thought of her manner towards another doctor.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”.’ She held a stethoscope to his chest. ‘Breathe deeply - and again - once more.’ She moved around to his back and repeated the instructions until she had completed the examination. ‘You can lie back now. I can hear a wheeze on inhale and exhale - have you noticed it yourself?’
‘No - only when I was having the attacks.’
She went over to a cupboard and took out a peak flow metre. ‘I’m sure you know how to use this.’
He took a deep breath before breathing into the mouthpiece. It read 300. He was shocked.
‘And again, best of three.’
The second time it was just over 350 and the third was the same.
‘Are you surprised at those readings?’
‘Yes, very - I used to be up in the six hundreds.’
‘I’m going to take some blood today just to check everything else is ok, and I’ll give you some new medication.’ She drew off enough blood for three vials. ‘You can get dressed now.’
She was looking at a pharmacy book and glanced up as he sat down again. ‘I’m going to start you on a corticosteroid, Betamethasone two puffs twice daily, morning and night - and you’ll need a bronchodilator. I’m putting you on a new medication, an inhaler which you can use when you have an attack or when
you feel breathless. Salbutamol has just come onto the British market but it has been used in America with good results for several years.’ She passed the peak-flow metre back to him. ‘Keep this and check your readings twice each day, morning and evening before you use the inhaler, keep a written record and bring it with you for your next appointment.’
‘I’m surprised that these attacks came back like this,’ Julian said. ‘It was out of the blue.’
‘Well, it may not have been that sudden. You were probably not aware that your breathing was deteriorating - and there may be a new trigger for your asthma. It could have been coming on for months. I think being a doctor sometimes doesn’t help - we know too much and it’s not always a good thing. Some of us diagnose ourselves with every ailment under the sun while others think themselves superhuman and immune to illness. I think you’re guilty of the latter.’
She handed him a form for the X-ray department at St Mary’s with the times for walk-in patients, and a prescription for the inhalers. ‘I’d like you to go for a chest X-ray and come back for a check-up in a week’s time. I’ll have the results back by then. It may be worth you having some treatment for the panic attacks if they continue - I know an excellent psychologist based at St Mary’s who may be able to help you.’
He stood up to leave and she walked with him to the door. They shook hands. ‘It was nice meeting you, Dr Hartmann.’
‘I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier - I guess I’m feeling a bit . . .’
‘Stressed?’ She smiled for the first time. ‘Well, try to avoid stressful situations and don’t forget to make an appointment for next week before you leave.’
* * *
The Daily Mirror
9:15 a.m. Monday 20 March
Charlotte managed to scrape the Editor’s car when she squeezed into a space that wasn’t really a space at all. She was late for work again, the second time this month. Dick Parker, the Editor, had scheduled a meeting in his office for the four reporters working on the Thames Butcher murders. The Daily Mirror had been the first paper to use that name and it had stuck, even the newsreaders on TV were using it. She crept in at the back and was hoping no-one noticed but Parker looked directly at her and shook his head. They were ten minutes into the meeting.
‘Now, I don’t want to lose the momentum on this story,’ Parker said. Behind him on the wall there was a board covered with photographs, names, and detailed maps of central London. There was also a map of the Thames with crosses where the body parts had been washed up. ‘Since the phone call . . .’ he stopped abruptly and looked over at Charlotte. ‘We had a phone call this morning from an informer - he said there were facts that hadn’t been released to the press. They’ve got the body parts of five victims so far but only three of the torsos - that we knew - but what we didn’t know is that there have been no heads recovered and the hands have had the fingertips burnt with acid. This, they think, is to prevent identification. They also think that the killer lives close to the Thames and has some medical knowledge or knowledge of anatomy.’ He paused and looked at the team. ‘There’s something else we didn’t know - and it’s an incredible scoop for us – it’s probably the main reason why they think it’s a ‘gay hate’ crime – sorry, there’s no nice way to say this - on the three torsos recovered the genitalia had been sliced off and the penises were inserted into the rectums.’
There was a good five second silence in the room and Charlotte saw the three male reporters physically cringe and cross their legs.
She was the first to speak. ‘Are we going to print that?’
‘I wouldn’t have agreed to the six figure payment if I wasn’t going to print it. There’s something else – a barman who works at The Coleherne, David Woods, has just been reported missing - we won’t be printing that yet because the informer said only the lead detectives on the case know about Woods, and printing it now would expose him.’
‘Is the informer reliable?’ Charlotte asked.
‘He’s involved in the investigation, so I believe him.’
Charlotte went back to her desk after the meeting. She glanced at a list of locations that the homeless used in central London. Five of them were thought to be the ones most frequented by drunks and junkies and Charlotte had been hoping she would get a chance to visit them. She was told it wasn’t safe to go on her own but at the same time her request for a camera crew was turned down. She just didn’t command the same respect as the other reporters. Whether this was due to her age or her sex she didn’t know but the Thames Butcher murders were her first chance at a really good story and Parker was just waiting for her to fail. She was determined to prove him wrong. The list was the one she mentioned to Julian to help in his search for Sam and now she was thinking that the story of a father searching for his son, who may be a victim of the Thames Butcher, could be just what she needed.
* * *
Charlotte had arranged to meet Julian in the Queens Head in Notting Hill Gate that evening. It was a quaint old pub which was popular with the locals and tonight was the weekly quiz night. Charlotte was sitting in a booth near the back of the pub with a large glass of red wine when she saw Julian arrive. He ordered himself a drink at the bar and walked over to her.
‘Question three: where and what year was the Titanic launched?’ The quiz master’s voice crackled on the mic system.
‘Northern Ireland - 1911,’ Julian said, as he sat down.
‘I thought it was Southampton?’
‘No - that was the maiden voyage.’
‘Was it?’ she said. ‘Well, I was never very good at history.’
‘It was my best subject.’
‘Perhaps you should have been a historian,’ she said, give him a sexy smile. ‘My best subject was biology.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, glancing down at her cleavage. ‘By the way, I need to give you my new address – I’m moving in tomorrow.’ He took a paper serviette out of a container on their table and wrote down his new address and phone number.’
She read the address. ‘Sussex Gardens - very posh. So, did you go to a doctor about your asthma?’
He nodded. ‘She was pretty scary - certainly put me in my place but she knew her stuff.’
‘You probably need someone to boss you around. I bet you hate going to other doctors when you’re ill.’
‘Why would I hate going to doctors?’
‘Because you like to be in control.’
‘Do I?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘How can you doubt it?’ She took a sheet of paper from her bag. ‘This is the list I promised you.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘But I’m not happy about you going to these places on your own.’
‘I’ll be fine - I can look after myself.’
‘I’m sure you can in most situations but I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you - I’ll come with you.’
‘No - bad idea.’
‘If you don’t agree you’re not getting the list.’
‘If you come, I’ll end up worrying about you - believe me - I can take care of myself.’
‘How - are you a Kung-Fu Master?’
‘No - I’m a black belt in Jujitsu and I used to box at university - still do, to keep my hand in.’
‘Ju-what - what the hell is that?’
‘It’s a method of close combat - a Japanese martial art.’
‘And is a black belt good?’
‘Yes, it’s the top rank.’
‘It’s an odd hobby for a doctor, isn’t it? I thought you were supposed to be kind and caring.’
‘I am, mainly, until someone attacks me. Self-defence is a life skill.’
‘When was the last time you were attacked?’ She couldn’t hide the sarcasm in her voice.
‘Not for a while but it happened a lot when I was young and had no means of defending myself.’
She saw the same look in his eyes that she had seen when they were walking in Kensington Gardens the other day, just
before he had his asthma attack.
’If I hang around long enough is there a chance that you’ll open up to me?’
‘Open up? I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘Yes, you do – you know exactly what I mean.’
He gave a little shrug and finished his drink. There was an awkward silence.
‘So, can I have the list – please?’
‘Not unless I come with you.’
‘How much help d’you think you’d be - unless of course you are a Kung-Fu master?’
‘Alright - you’ve got a point. But I’ll have my press ID badge and that sometimes defuses dodgy situations.’
‘Or ignites them.’
She frowned. ‘I know where all the police boxes are and while you’re throwing people around I can run off to call for back-up.’ She gave him a look that would have melted ice. ‘I can run really fast.’
‘Ok, you win.’
‘Good.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll get the next round.’
They left the pub just before nine and Julian followed Charlotte back to her place, his Austin Mini following her E-Type Jag, so that she could change out of her mini skirt and high-heeled boots. There had been some discussion that they should go in her car as she knew where they were going but they decided that a mini would be less conspicuous.
He turned down the offer to wait in the house and she wasn’t sure if that was because the thought of her undressing upstairs might be too hard to resist or because he was still feeling uncomfortable with her direct question in the pub. She came back to the car wearing jeans, a brown leather jacket and flat-heeled boots. The latter, she explained, was so she could run faster if his martial art skills failed.
They went to the Victoria Embankment first, on the shore just under Waterloo Bridge, where a dozen or so people stood around a fire. They were cautious of Charlotte and Julian but they listened and looked at Sam’s photograph. There was no-one who remembered seeing him. Charlotte asked them how they felt about the Thames murders and she produced a small cassette to record their answers. It certainly had the effect of ruffling a few feathers, and she could see Julian didn’t approve but he didn’t say anything to her at the time and waited until they were out of earshot.
