Cry of the Needle

by Radford, Roger

  ‘Ah, Kieran,’ she said, ‘just the man I wanted to see. You said you live in London.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where.’

  ‘Er, Tottenham,’ he lied.

  ‘Oh, good, a north Londoner like myself. I live in Hendon. I wonder whether you can give me a lift home. The person who drove me here has to continue on to a business meeting in Leeds. There are several members who are from London, but they live south of the Thames.’

  Kelly found he couldn’t help staring into her eyes. They were extraordinary blue-green lagoons surrounded by milky skin that was pulled tight over proud cheekbones. For a moment their two sets of orbs were locked together, frozen in time and space. The Irishman, suddenly realising this, coughed self-consciously. He glanced down at the wheelchair.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘it’s one of those that folds up quite small. Anyway, I can walk a good few yards if I have to with the help of this.’

  She smiled and waved a walking stick at him.

  Kelly smiled. ‘I’d be glad to,’ he said genuinely. If truth were known, he was desperate for some feminine company, albeit more in the intellectual than in the physical sense.

  Within fifteen minutes they were heading south on the M1. Rain began to lash down and the metronomic moan of the windscreen wipers seemed to curb any desire they might have had to converse. Kelly wanted to know more about his charismatic passenger, but hesitated to make the first move.

  ‘Do you know how much was spent last year on researching arachnoiditis, Kieran,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘Can’t say that I do,’ he replied, relieved that the silence had been broken.

  ‘Seven thousand pounds.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘We estimate that there are at least two million sufferers in the United States, Britain and Australia. That works out to a third of a penny per victim.’

  ‘The whole thing stinks, Magda,’ said Kelly, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen as the downpour intensified. ‘It’s a gigantic cover-up.’ She was silent for a few seconds, so he began to pluck up the courage to ask her about herself.

  She beat him to it. ‘I have a castle in northern Hungary, you know. The family was forced to flee when the Communists took power. The village has invited us back, but it’s not the same. I couldn’t afford to run it, anyway. Once my parents moved to Linz in Austria, we were virtually barefoot aristocrats.’ She laughed. ‘They used to call me the Barefoot Countess, but that’s another story.’

  Kelly was intrigued. He wanted to know all about her. ‘Please, go on,’ he implored, ‘I’d love to hear your story.’

  ‘I don’t want to bore you, Kieran,’ she said, a sudden shooting pain making her wince. ‘You must have enough to cope with.’

  ‘No, please go on,’ he insisted. ‘Is your family still in Linz?’

  ‘It’s a sad story, I’m afraid,’ she sighed. ‘My parents and younger brother were killed in a car crash seven years ago. I was twenty-two and had just finished university where I got a first in English.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Kelly said. ‘You must have felt terribly alone.’

  ‘Yes, we were a very close family, just like you Irish. My only living relative was my mother’s older sister, an elderly spinster who lived in Chicago. Can you believe it, within two years I was already married.’

  Kelly scratched the back of his head. It was a defensive gesture, as if the thought that she had a husband somehow represented a threat.

  ‘The worst mistake I ever made,’ she said quickly. ‘No, perhaps the second worst. The worst was when I slipped on the ice outside our home and fractured my spine in seven places.’

  Kelly winced and gripped the steering wheel as if his life depended on it. He could not imagine the pain she must have been in.

  ‘Anyway, they had an experimental surgical procedure whereby they injected Chymopapain into my spine. It’s an enzyme from the papaya. It destroys the discs. You know, some idiots are still using this procedure today.’

  ‘Nothing surprises me anymore, Magda.’

  ‘I was in constant pain,’ she went on, ‘but once my plaster corset had been removed after about six months, I was able to function again. That was all my husband cared about, you know. He was a Texan oil executive who was twelve years older than me. Everything was fine as long as his exotic aristocratic wife could play the dutiful hostess to his business acquaintances. Otherwise, it would have to be Aus den Augen, aus dem Sinn. Out of sight, out of mind.’

  Kelly grimaced. The man sounded like a complete shit.

  The Countess found herself staring at her companion’s profile. The slightly hooked nose counterbalanced his other, finer features. He was extraordinarily handsome, exuding the kind of masculine power she so yearned for. Yet she realised this man named Kieran O’Donaghue was spoken for, a husband who obviously cared deeply for his disabled wife. For the past five years Magda had been alone, preferring to shun the possibility of romance in the fear that the world was full of men who, like William J. Buckridge, had desired only a trophy aristocrat. She felt herself blush as Kelly caught her staring at him. ‘Don’t worry, Kieran, it gets worse.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘One year later, I was bending over to remove some muffins from the oven and could not straighten up again. I went to see an orthopaedic surgeon who told me he would perform a spinal fusion by removing a piece of bone from my hip and grafting it onto my spine. He said I should be home within ten days and dancing within a month. My whole being screamed danger, but I chose to listen to my husband who wanted me patched up and ready to entertain again as soon as possible.’

  ‘They gave you a myelogram, right,’ guessed Kelly, eager to use his newfound knowledge.

  ‘Yes. They tilted the x-ray table so that the contrast dye could flow to the head. At that point I passed out. They then gave me a triple spinal fusion, and during the operation I apparently died three times. Four months later, I had another myelogram and further surgery. Six months after that, scar tissue was strangulating my spinal cord. In all, I have had eighteen major surgeries on my spine. My husband dumped me like a hot potato, as the Americans say, and left me almost penniless. He transferred to Houston, which is the only state that does not have a maintenance law. I went through thirty-three court hearings, but William and his rich lawyers were too clever for me. Thank goodness we were childless. I would have hated any child to suffer the trauma of a bitter divorce and a disabled mother. The newspapers called me the Barefoot Countess. I couldn’t wear shoes because of the pain in the soles of my feet. It was like walking on broken glass. My back pain was so severe that I would have terrible spasms. You know, I once broke my neck during my sleep.’

  Kelly’s brain pounded in indignation. ‘Please, Magda, I don’t think I can hear any more,’ he stammered.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kieran. I didn’t mean to depress you. It’s so insensitive of me, your poor wife and all. Just tell her she is not alone.’

  During the rest of the journey, Kelly heard a potted history of the von Esterhazys; how she had decided to begin a new life in London three years before and how, despite her continuing pain, she was now more content than she had ever been. He listened with rapt attention as she described how she had found the support group and had been quickly ensconced as its chairperson. It seemed it was useful to have a Countess as spokesperson even if the dynasty was somewhat esoteric, not to say truncated. He believed it unlikely she could bear children, so a line that had stretched back some six hundred years looked like ending with this remarkable woman.

  Thankfully the rain had eased off as Kelly pulled up outside her home, a nondescript three-bedroom bungalow in Hendon. He helped Magda out of the car and tried to assist her towards the front door.

  She shrugged him off gently. ‘Don’t worry, Kieran, I can sometimes manage short distances with my stick.’

  Kelly unloaded the wheelchair while the Countess opened the front door. As he wheeled it towards her, he knew that h
owever much he would like to get to know her further, it would only complicate matters.

  He was used to playing charades, but not with a person as genuine as Magda von Esterhazy.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Kieran?’ she said as they both stood in the hall.

  ‘I’m sorry, Magda,’ he answered reluctantly, ‘I must be getting back to my wife.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said warmly. ‘Thank you so much for the lift.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Yes, my carer should be here shortly. She’s a lovely West Indian girl. I couldn’t manage without her.’ She suddenly began to rummage through her handbag. ‘Ah, here’s one.’ She held out her hand. ‘This is my card. Please feel free to contact me at any time. All of us need to have someone, how can I put it, neutral to whom we can pour out our hearts. Someone who understands exactly what you both are going through.’

  Kelly took her hand gently in his and then stooped to brush it delicately against his lips. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you,’ he said warmly.

  ‘You too,’ she said with feeling. ‘By the way, are you on the Internet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll see that my card also carries my email address. Please let me know how your wife progresses. I have also written on the back the Internet address of a sister support group based in the States. They are always a mine of information on the latest drugs and treatments, etcetera.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll look them up.’ He gave her a short wave. ‘Ciao.’

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Kieran,’ she smiled. ‘May the angels be with you.’ It was her catchphrase. She believed everyone had angels who guided him or her through life.

  ‘I’m sure they will be, Magda,’ he called out as he opened his car door. Angels were certainly with him.

  Angels of death.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dr Martin Townsend felt the familiar pangs just as his last patient left his surgery. He swivelled in his chair to stare balefully at the lights of Harley Street from his fourth floor window at the junction of the bustling Marylebone Road. It was already nine in the evening and the normal phalanx of traffic along the east-west artery had dwindled to a relative trickle. Not that he had far to go. Unlike most of the consultants who plied their skills on probably the most famous street of medical professionals in the world, he lived above the shop. While others might have had a house in the country or a town house not far from their private practice, Townsend had used the money left him by his stockbroker father to buy the top floor for himself.

  ‘I’ll be going home now, Martin,’ a voice called from an adjoining office. It was Margaret Brown, his secretary for the past fifteen years. A plain woman, Mrs Brown knew everything about him. Well, almost everything. She knew he was a workaholic, a lonely middle-aged man who was so dedicated to his profession that any kind of social life was out of the question. However, she had no idea of the secret that was wrecking his life.

  ‘Okay, Margaret,’ he called back, ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday.’ Townsend waited for the click of the front door and then a few seconds more. Only when he heard the lift on its way down to the ground floor did he permit himself to swivel one hundred and eighty degrees and unlock a deep drawer in his desk with a key that he guarded jealously. A full bottle of Chivas Regal stood silently, invitingly, in front of another that was either half-full or half-empty depending on your point of view. It was a ritual within a habit. He would buy a new bottle and drink about half in one go. He would then place it behind the second bottle, the contents of which he would then drain. In this way he figured he would never be in the disastrous position of staring at a drawer containing only empty bottles. Thus the tortured logic he employed to perpetuate his addiction remained unassailable.

  The good doctor always delighted in opening a new bottle. The tactile swivel of the top, the pent-up aroma of the nectar as it burst forth from captivity, the heady delight of expectation about to be fulfilled. Mentally, Martin George Townsend was shot to pieces and he knew it. He was one of the fifty-eight per cent of men who regretted entering medicine. He had done it for his father, learning at a tender age to be an obsessive, compulsive over-achiever who readily accepted that ignorance and expressions of emotion were signs of weakness. He had quickly developed a misplaced, arrogant certainty about medicine, unrealistic expectations of his future and tunnel vision towards an impossible goal. He had developed a carapace of relaxed brilliance to help him appear competent when he knew that he really did not have a clue. He was now combining private practice with stints at St. Thomas’ Hospital and, on alternate Mondays and Fridays, Whipps Cross in east London. Thus he assuaged his guilt about doing a job he loathed by working even harder, encouraged by the fact that workaholism was seen by his peers as an attribute rather than an illness. He had lost the capacity to think, reflect, feel and articulate with any depth. Like most addicted doctors, he hid behind his status to conceal his habit. He knew that his colleagues, even if they suspected a problem, often did not raise the alarm. No one liked a whistle-blower. Action might only be taken if a clinical disaster happened, or if he was caught driving while under the influence.

  Townsend lifted the neck of the bottle to his lips and proceeded to take large gulps of the golden fire. Tomorrow was Saturday and he was off duty. Nevertheless, he would never drink more than a bottle of whisky in any one day. This gave him the feeling that he was in control of his problem rather than the other way round. Soon he would lapse into melancholy, the usual precursor to oblivion. He was haunted by images of colleagues and students alike whispering to each other about him in the corridors. His career had seen a catalogue of errors, although one in particular haunted him. He knew he was responsible for the death of Teresa Kelly. She may have taken her own life, but he was the catalyst. He had found out about her demise only because one of the nurses at Whipps Cross was an acquaintance of hers. He had expressed his sorrow, but no more, for the medical profession and the whole NHS system colluded in concealing errors in order to protect staff. See no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil, as a colleague had once told him.

  The doctor took a few swigs until the bottle was about half-empty. He then placed it back into the drawer and withdrew the second bottle.

  Rising unsteadily, he clasped the Chivas to his chest and made towards the stairs that led to his three-room apartment. A half-bottle later and he would be comatose, yet safe in the knowledge that a new day would find him a different man, for he had learned the trick of appearing sober even with a distillery coursing through his veins.

  Thus did Martin George Townsend, although a fool to himself, continue to fool others. All, that is, except one man. And that man had tracked the good doctor for the past week, logging and photographing his every move. He, too, was a professional, albeit in taking lives rather than saving them. But then it could be argued that an incompetent doctor was more dangerous to society than a killer who murdered only those within his circle of violence.

  It was the heavy hand of loneliness that weighed upon the Irishman as he sat in the lounge of his home, a home that had once throbbed to the happy shenanigans of his children. Facing the cold and impersonal screen of his computer, he would search for solace by surfing the net. All life was to be found there, but in reality it was as inanimate as granite. He desperately missed the human touch of his family, but realised that his longing must be subsumed by a strategy for revenge, the tactics of which he had already put in motion. He reckoned it would take about six months of careful planning before everything would be in place. Research and logistics had always given him infinitely more pleasure than execution. Hits were clinical anti-climaxes that gave him no satisfaction. But this time it was different. It was personal. Really personal.

  Kelly stared at the card in his hand. Countess Magda von Esterhazy was truly as exotic as her name. Try as he might, he could not blot out the vision of this beautiful yet horribly maimed woman. It frightened him that her visage had replaced that of Teresa. So
soon. Too soon. The two women were so disparate physically: Teresa, red-haired and freckled, a typical Irish colleen, and Magda, a blonde of almost brittle elegance. Perhaps it was the fact that the two women had shared the same illness that created the empathy within him. But he knew it was more than that. Only now, in the confines of his own home, could he really admit to himself that she had caused a stirring deep within him. The feelings scared him, and he was a man not easily frightened. He knew he must suppress them, for the fewer complications over the next half-year, the better. The Irishman sighed the deep sigh of a man faced with forbidden fruit. He flicked her card over and read the newsgroup address she had written. The handwriting was neat and sculptured. Within a few seconds, he was receiving emails from the group, which appeared to be based in America. He clicked on the first. It was from a kid somewhere in the States. Kelly switched on his printer and ran off copies of each email he opened. Soon he had a selection that he felt served his purpose.

  My name is Andre and I am twelve years old. I was diagnosed with a tethered spine at eight. I had two spinal surgeries and ended up with arachnoiditis.

  As soon as I wake up I have to use a catheter, as my bladder doesn’t function. I take sixteen pills a day. If it’s a good day, I can usually have a friend over for an hour. I like to build Lego models. I used to draw a lot but have trouble with tremors now, so I only do it on good days.

  I just want people to understand me...that I’m just a kid who has really bad pain. I may act like I feel okay, and look okay, but I’m not okay. You need x-ray vision to see what is really going on inside of me. I deal with all my pain by thinking of my body as a video game, and the hero of the game is getting the stuffing kicked out of him. I have been told that I am a gifted child, but what good is being clever when you are in constant pain?