by Dawson, H A
At the time, she had wanted to be ill and return to hospital. Then her mother would be by her side once more. It was illogical, yet at the time it seemed that if she had not received a kidney, they would still be together. They had been happy in hospital; they had been a family.
The day Michelle admitted her guilt was the day Brittany’s spirit had crashed. It seemed like only yesterday. Why had Michelle handed herself into the police? Why had she willingly taken the blame? She needed answers and had done for so for years, even if it had meant more suffering.
Brittany fidgeted, urging a persistent ache in the rear of her legs to release, and contemplated her conversation with Luke. From his manner, she knew he believed Michelle was guilty of murder and possibly much more, and even though she hated to admit it, he was probably right. It explained the years of secrecy and her self-induced segregation from family. Nonetheless, it irritated.
After a few moments of negative contemplation, she told herself she had not hired them to pander to her crazy yearning to prove her mothers innocence, but to ascertain the truth. It was the only way she would be able to re-acquire that unfamiliar sense of inner calm, and the only way they could be a family once more.
The door opened and footsteps approached. Erin was panting and sweat poured from her skin; her sodden and skimpy top clung to her body and her hair was damp.
‘It’s beautiful out there,’ she said. ‘I wish I could have gone further.’
‘I don’t know where you find the energy.’
‘How did it go with Luke? Has he found anything out?’
‘He thinks the renal department is corrupt.’
‘What?’
‘And he thinks there’s a connection to my mother.’
‘Has he proof?’
‘He said not, but he must have a strong incline.’
Erin wiped her hand across her brow.
‘I wish I hadn’t started this. If Mum was involved she could go back to prison.’
‘So back out.’
‘They’re going to investigate it anyway.’
‘Then you have to hope she’s innocent,’ Erin said, ‘I don’t envy you.’
‘Jason thinks I should go easy on her. He thinks she’s likely to be sorry for all she did.’
‘What does he know?’
‘You’d think he’d be on my side, wouldn’t you?’
Erin’s eyes flitted and her mouth opened and shut. Anxious, she disappeared into the kitchen.
Brittany followed. ‘What is it?’
‘I think I saw her.’
‘She’s still following us . . . the coward.’
‘Not exactly. I saw her heading into a house a couple of streets away.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Newton Road. Number six.’
‘Are you sure it was her?’
‘It was the woman who’s been hanging around.’
Brittany stomped into the living room and stood by the window, her arms folded. Of all the housing estates she could live in, she had to pick this one. What was she trying to prove? Hadn’t she caused enough pain?
‘It might not be her,’ Erin said.
‘Oh, it will be. It’s just the kind of thing she’d do.’
‘Maybe she’s plucking up the courage to speak to you.’
‘Unlikely.’
‘I don’t understand. If you’re this angry, why are you trying to uncover her motives?’
Good question. Why was she?
‘I think you should go talk to her,’ Erin said.
‘What?’
‘At least warn her you’ve hired someone. If she is guilty of something it may force her to come clean.’
‘I . . . I don’t know if I could.’
‘It’s your call.’
Erin headed for a shower, leaving Brittany to mull over her thoughts. Perhaps it was the right thing to do, and it would alleviate some of her guilt. On the other hand, it would not be easy to admit that in her haste she had quite possibly made everything a whole lot worse.
Chapter 2
The prison building was a large rectangular brick structure with towers at either side of the impressive arched entrance. The windows were small, set high off the ground, and painted white. It was an intimidating place, and Brittany’s nerves danced.
She glanced at her watch: forty-five minutes to go. She headed along the road, passing shops, estate agents, and offices with crumbling mortar, peeling paint, and fading signs. Upon the floor were cigarette ends, sweet wrappers, a trail of chips and take-away wrappers, and huddled in the doorway was a vagrant. She wasn’t going to look, but as she walked by, he asked her for some money. He was unshaven with straggly unkempt hair, and wore shapeless trousers and a tattered jumper. She reached into her purse and flung him a few coins.
‘Thanks missy,’ he said.
At the next junction was a café. Like the other buildings it looked as though it had seen better days and was a little grimy, and for a second, as she glanced through the windows, she hesitated. It was better than loitering in the streets.
Inside, an elderly man was reading a newspaper and a young woman was chatting to a small boy. She stepped to the counter, purchased a tea, and sat at a table away from the other customers.
Her legs ached, her feet were sore, and she was breathless. She eased free her feet, placing them upon the top of her leather shoes, and steadied her breathing. Since the onset of her fatigue a few days previous, her condition had neither worsened nor improved, and she continued to reiterate to herself she had a minor infection. She had to believe, had to give herself reason to stay positive during the long wait for the blood test results.
The results were imminent. She glanced at her phone, confirming she had not missed any calls, and rested her arms onto the table. It would be okay, she told herself, and if the news she hoped for didn’t transpire, at least she would have her mother for support.
Over the last few days, she had drifted into a sleep each time she rested, but today she was far too hyperactive and it made a pleasant change, something to be cherished. She sipped her tea, enjoying the warm sensation passing through to her stomach, and pondered her meeting.
There was much to tell and little time, and her priorities were muddled. Not only did she want to know how her mother was coping, but she also wanted to share every aspect of the last twelve years with her. Then there was the kidney transplant issue. Michelle would want the details, but that could wait. First, she intended to rebuild their relationship.
Brittany’s pulse was racing and her temperature rose. She wiped droplets from her brow and eased her arms from her jacket, and welcomed a rush of cooler air to her skin. She glanced around. No one else seemed to be warm and everyone else either wore thick clothes or multiple layers. She concluded it was nerves.
She glanced at her watch, sipped tea, and watched the minutes tick by. Would she recognise her mother? Would she still have the same blonde hair and red-rimmed glasses? Would she still be dumpy?
Impatient, she swallowed the remains of the tea, even though it was a tad hot, and then made another painful visit to the bathroom. Afterwards, she headed back along the road, and just as she arrived at the prison entrance, her telephone rang. She jolted, fumbled in her bag, and leaned against the wall. It was regarding her blood test results.
It was ringing, persistent and grating. Too anxious to speak, she pressed the decline button.
Brittany’s heart was hammering and her once sweaty body had become chilled. She was shaking, could not stop her quivers, and huddled with her arms closer to her body as she waited for her visiting order and passport to be verified. Once complete, she was guided to a waiting area and told to put all of her possessions into a locker. Reluctantly, she retrieved her telephone from her pocket and placed it into her bag, and then, aware of the intimidating stare of the security guard at her rear, she shut the locker door and sat on a nearby chair. After a short wait, and along with an assortment of people, from a smart young
man to a scruffy shifty-looking woman with a couldn’t-care-less attitude, they were instructed to follow the security guard to another room. Once inside, the searches began. It was a daunting experience, causing Brittany’s anxieties to rise. Standing rock-steady, she waited for the stern-looking female officer to complete her task, and then followed the line into the room where the inmates were waiting.
That first sighting was astounding. Brittany could barely walk, such were her quivers, and her tears welled. Michelle had aged considerably, she was thinner, her skin tone was coarser, and her hair had a darker tone, but she still displayed the same warmth and compassion in her eyes.
For a few moments, neither spoke, neither able. They gripped hands and tears flowed, and the intervening time evaporated. It seemed like only yesterday when they had played a computer game together, or watched a television programme, or clung to each other when her illness overwhelmed. It seemed like only yesterday when Michelle had vowed to always be by her side, through the good times and bad. It seemed like only yesterday when they were torn apart by one callous act.
Brittany wiped her face with the back of her hand. ‘Why did you do it?’
Michelle lowered her head.
‘I needed you. We were going to have a good time . . . go places. Didn’t you ever think of me?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘So why?’
Silence.
‘I’ve spent the last twelve years wondering who Scott Cole was. It . . . it ruined my life.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Mum . . . please tell me. Were you involved with him?’
‘Do we have to do this now?’
‘I need to know.’
Michelle reached for her hand. The skin was coarse and her fingernails uneven. ‘You are so grown up . . . so pretty. I can hardly believe it’s you.’
Brittany’s chest heaved. She wanted to scream and shout, let her know what she had done was wrong. She wanted answers, an apology.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ Michelle continued, her tone soft. ‘What do you do? Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘I work in a library, the children’s department. The people are friendly and the kids are great.’
‘Are you still living with your dad?’
‘No, he works in Saudi on an oilrig.’
‘Are you okay for money? I have savings.’
‘I don’t need handouts.’
Michelle squeezed her hand and gazed adoringly. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Not far from Dad’s old place . . . Taunton Street. I live with a friend in her flat, Erin.’
‘What’s she like?’
Brittany gave her a swift précis, and then added a bit more detail about her own education and the intervening years. As Michelle listened, she held a wry smile. She seemed proud.
They could have had this connection years ago. The thought rattled. She tried to keep it under control and appreciate the moment, but the more she tried to push it aside, the more it retaliated. She was never going to reach seventy years of age, so each day was precious, a bonus. The best years may even be behind her.
‘Why didn’t you want me?’ Brittany blurted.
‘That’s not how it was.’
‘But you cut me off! I needed you, Mum.’ A tear slipped down her cheek. ‘Why did you have to kill him?’
‘I love you. That’s all that matters now.’
‘No it’s not. Not to me. You might have had time to come to terms with what you did, but I haven’t. I’ve never understood, not then, not now. I need an explanation. I can’t go on like this.’
Michelle puffed out. ‘You have to let this go. Move on . . . get on with your life.’
‘I will if you just tell me about Scott.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Was he threatening you?’
‘Drop it . . . please Brittany.’
Her shoulders tensed and her hands closed into fists. Out of her eye corner, she could see a security guard. He was keeping a close eye on them, ready to pounce if their argument evolved.
She eased back into the chair. ‘Are you sorry you did it?’
Michelle did not reply.
‘Why won’t you tell me anything?’
‘Because I want to move on . . . make a fresh start.’ Michelle looked away, gazing at the floor. ‘And because I can’t.’
Brittany edged forward, urging, waiting.
‘It could put you in danger,’ she whispered.
‘Danger?’
‘You must forget it. I mean it Brittany. There are some bad sorts out there.’
‘You were set up!’
Michelle leaned forward. ‘No,’ she hissed, ‘and I don’t want to hear any more about it. I will never tell you what you don’t need to know.’
Brittany stretched her fingers, maintaining a steely glare. ‘You’re being selfish. Can’t you think about me for once?’
‘I am thinking about you. It’s all I’ve ever done.’
‘You expect me to believe that. You’ve not even asked me about my health.’
There was a petrified look in Michelle’s eyes. It was a moment to relish, proof she cared even just a little.
‘My kidney is failing.’
Michelle gawked, wide-eyed.
‘Yes, that’s right, and I need you now more than ever. I’m not asking a lot. I just want to talk to you occasionally. Why is that so hard?’
‘You’re better off without me.’
‘Isn’t that my choice?’
Michelle’s lips tightened and frown lines emerged. She pressed are arms across her middle and swayed, every so slightly, back and forth, back and forth.
‘Mum?’
‘What?’
‘Why can’t you at least say you’re sorry?’
‘I am sorry.’
But not sorry enough, Brittany thought, averting her gaze and hiding the tears. Her efforts were wasted; she should never have come. Was that what Michelle had been hoping for? Was she letting her visit, once just, to prove it was a bad decision?
‘You have to forget me, and get on with your life,’ Michelle said.
‘Is that why you let me come?’
Silence.
‘But I need you. My kidney-’
‘I don’t want to hear it. I’ve let you down enough already.’ She held a chilling and harsh stare. ‘Forget me and don’t come back.’
‘I . . . I can’t. I need someone to help me through.’
‘No! I can’t do that.’
‘But-.’
Michelle stood up.
Panicking Brittany and grabbed her arm. ‘Why did you do it?’
Michelle nodded at the security guard and was led away.
‘Was it stress?’
Michelle did not answer, but a sense of absolute sorrow and desperation passed between them.
Michelle returned to her wing, passing along cold harsh corridors, and to the safety and comfort of her small cell. She sprawled onto her bed, face down, and let the tears flow. After a short while, her nose was swollen, her throat was dry, and her pillow sodden. She cleaned herself with a tissue and stared at the ceiling.
Brittany carried herself in a manner she could only dream of. She seemed confident and self-assured, had beautiful lush brown hair, so like her father, and had an air of refinement. She had done well. Not everything had been wasted.
She turned her head and gazed at the photograph of her young daughter, set in a small frame across the room. It had been taken on one of her good days, between dialysis treatments, and she looked a picture of health. They had been playing Swingball in the garden, and whilst Brittany had been very competent, hitting each ball centrally on the bat, she had been utterly useless. Her daughter had howled with laughter, her eyes had glistened as tears streaked her face, and her mouth had widened with joy. When Michelle had started to improve, she feigned helplessness. It had been a small price to pay.
She would have done anything for her daughter
back then. Well almost anything. Her abdomen tightened and the pain gripped as her one massive weakness haunted. Memories crashed into her, and the consequences - the tragedy and the devastation - remained in her wake. And it still wasn’t over; she still hadn’t paid her dues.
Inside her head, she screamed, willing it to be over, willing for the all-consuming guilt to subside. She sought courage, yearning for the ability to right her wrongs, and she prayed for Brittany’s health. Maybe there had been a mistake regarding her kidney; maybe she was just a little under the weather.
Michelle curled into a ball, held her taut fist to her jaw, and wondered if Brittany had taken heed of her words. They were better off apart, living separate lives; they could never have an open and honest relationship. Their meeting had been a mistake.
The realisation was crushing.
Succumbing to the stress, and with tears streaking her face and obscuring her vision, Brittany dragged her weakened body out of the prison buildings and slumped onto a short brick wall. Her back and legs were burning with pain, she felt dizzy and sick, and her heart was hammering. She feared it was hypertension.
Before the transplant and the proceeding illness, she had never suffered from high blood pressure, but since then she had had the occasional problem. She had been told it was a side effect of her anti-rejection medication, but it could also be a sign that her kidney was not working so well. It was something to avoid, something she had been warned was necessary to control. High blood pressure damaged the kidneys; it was a definite no-no.
Across the street was a litterbin. In an attempt to trigger calmness, Brittany focused on the image of a person throwing paper into a mesh bin, but her vision was blurry and the outline faded in and out of view. Still fighting, she looked to steady her breathing, trying to inhale and exhale to the count of five, but as she reached the number two, the pressure in her lungs forced her to gasp and her face contorted.
