by Dawson, H A
Two children leaned into the desk, just metres away and talked frantically, their high-pitched screechy voices grated and added to the throbbing in Brittany’s head. But rather than returning to the vacated desk to attend to their needs, she silently willed them to be quiet, irritated that they were stopping her from reaching a conclusion to her thoughts. Joyce, her supervisor, appeared from a staff-only section at the rear, gave Brittany a perplexed glance then spoke with the youngsters before guiding them to an aisle in the library. She returned moments later.
‘Are you all right?’ Joyce asked.
Brittany looked up, glassy-eyed.
‘You don’t seem yourself.’
‘I . . . er . . .’ she stood up, ‘. . . sorry.’
‘Take the rest of the day off. I can cope.’
She scurried to the book trolley. ‘No. It’s okay.’
‘You look a bit feverish. Are you coming down with something?’
‘I feel a bit odd.’
‘Then go home. I don’t want you spreading germs.’
‘Are you sure?’
Joyce nodded. ‘You’re no use to me in this state.’
Brittany replaced the book onto the shelf, removed droplets of moisture from her forehead, and gathered her belongings. Within a couple of minutes, she was heading out of the library door and into the refreshing air. Taking a moments respite, she sat on a concrete bench.
She started to shiver, and buttoned her cardigan, trapping the dampness within her body, and fastened her coat. Then, she extracted her phone and dialled Luke’s number.
‘Hello Brittany,’ he said.
‘Luke, have you got anywhere?’
‘I have a lead. I’ll know more later today.’
‘She’s leaving. I don’t know where or when, but it’s imminent.’
‘Michelle?’
‘Yes. Jason told me. Her bags were packed and everything.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No. I’m going there now. She’s not answering her phone. It might be too late. We have to help her.’
‘Did Jason say anything more?’
‘No,’ Brittany said, ‘it must be to do with this investigation. I think she’s afraid. She was involved, and Jason is too. I don’t want him getting into trouble. Can’t you . . .’ her voice trailed. It was ridiculous to expect them to stop now.
‘We knew this was going to be hard.’
‘I know.’ She forced a steady breath. ‘Jason’s paid Dr O’Riordan, and Mum did too, although she wouldn’t come out and say it. Is that why she went to prison?’
‘There could be a connection, although no one was aware of anything illegal going on at the time. Not so far as I know.’
Brittany reached to the end of her ponytail and fiddled with the dry, coarse texture. ‘It’s all a waste of time. I should never have started this.’
‘We are getting somewhere, I promise you. It’ll all become clear very soon. Please be patient.’
‘It might be too late. If she leaves . . .’
‘She’s on parole. It’s unlikely she’ll risk that.’
A young, hefty woman trudged in her general direction with walking sticks. She was going nowhere fast, unlike her mother.
‘But Jason said her bags were packed,’ Brittany said.
‘That doesn’t mean she’s going into hiding. She may have told her parole officer where she was going.’
‘Can you speak to him?’
‘If we need to. I don’t want to stir the waters unnecessarily.’
‘Okay.’
‘What exactly did Jason say?’ Luke asked.
‘Just what I said . . . that her bags were packed.’
‘Then it doesn’t sound like he knows anything for definite.’
Brittany rubbed her finger across her cheek. ‘He wouldn’t have said anything unless he was sure. He’d know how much it’d bother me.’
‘Then talk to him again . . . or her.’
Brittany muffled her reply and ended the call. People scurried by, travelling in all directions. Some were in smart attire and moved with a sense of purpose, and others wandered in an aimless state. She stood up, steadied her wobbly legs, and headed along the road towards the bus station.
Vehicles progressed in slow moving queues, and the stench of car fumes polluted the air, worsening the sense that her skull was shrinking. Keeping her eyes to the path, she avoided the uncomfortable glare of the sun and pondered her conversation with Luke. It was difficult to believe he was any nearer to reaching a conclusion, and had offered her nothing. It was all a futile waste of time.
Strolling into the station, Brittany passed a vagabond slumped on the ground, a newsagent, a café, and a bakery. She was fast losing speed and had to pause for a moment to gather her breath and calm her fuzziness, and mechanically pressed her hand to her aching side. After a short reprieve and urging motivation into her weakening mental state, she continued along a walkway to her stop. There was no one waiting. She dropped onto the plastic seat.
Her pulse slowed and her eyelids closed. She jerked them open, forcing air through her nostrils and mouth, and looked across the road to the approaching buses. The second one, number three hundred and fourteen, was hers. Energy drifted into her in a wave.
After a stop-start journey, she arrived near her home. Brittany wanted only to sleep, and gazed one way then the other as she decided whether to visit her mother or go home. Refusing to be disregarded once again, she headed to Michelle’s house and banged on the door.
There was no answer. She strained her ears to listen for any sounds - music, voices or footsteps - but heard nothing. She peered at the net curtain on the lower floor. There were no lights and no movement, and stepped back and looked to the upper floor. The curtain twitched and there was a moving shadow. Encouraged, she rapped harder on the door.
Still, there was no answer. Infuriated, she craned her neck, training her eyes on the spot where there had been movement. There was absolute stillness and not even a faint hint anyone was present in the house.
‘I know you’re in there!’ Brittany yelled.
Silence.
She banged on the door and imagined her mother crouched to the floor, peering through a gap beneath the curtain, and shook her head in dismay. Why was she even bothering?
Deciding her attempts were pointless, Brittany headed away. Her heart was heavy, the rejection burning.
Brittany opened her eyes and gazed at the clock. A couple of hours had past and despite her swirling insides, which seemed to be perpetual, she felt as though she had received a new surge of energy. In addition, the thumping had been eliminated from her skull, her back and legs were aching far less, and eyes were not so sensitive to light. She raised herself upright, waited for a dizzy spell to fade, and headed to the bathroom.
Having passed a limited amount of urine, she washed her hands and splashed her face, and moved into the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since the morning, and even then, it was only a small piece of dry toast. Nonetheless, her appetite had not grown, and she opened the fridge door, searching for enticement. Michelle’s voice screeched into her mind. ‘You’ll get sicker if you starve yourself to death,’ she had said. ‘But I will be sick if I eat,’ the little girl had replied.
It had been true then, and it was true now. She thrust shut the door and flattened her palm onto her stomach. Michelle had often bullied her into doing something she hadn’t wanted to do, and although she said she had known what was best, she hadn’t. She had often been forced into eating morsels of moist food, which slid nauseously down her gullet, like worms, or else she made her eat something dry, and that had had the opposite effect and blocked her passages, sticking to her sides in huge clumps.
At least by fighting her condition alone she remained in control and did not have to blank out the nagging voices that added to her stress. But that aside, there were few other benefits, and she flopped onto the chair by the kitchen table and imagined what it would be like fo
r someone to present her with a drink in bed. Or perhaps they would bring her a magazine or a book or just be a cheerful companion. Just for once, it would be wonderful listening to the comforting voice of a well-wisher.
Swept along by a need to end her loneliness, Brittany grabbed her bag and coat and vacated the flat. This time she would not be so easily discarded; this time she would force the truth to be spoken.
There was only one person who could offer Brittany any clues regarding her mother’s departure, and that was Jason. Excited by the prospect of their meeting and by the discovery, she vacated the bus and strolled through the hospital grounds, passing low-growing flowers in bloom, a visual spectacle, bordering the concrete path. Stepping slowly to aid stability, and sucking her tongue to reduce nausea, she focused her eyes on the nearest edge. It was familiar routine, an automatic response to her condition, and she paid it little attention. Instead, she dreamed of Jason and the affection he displayed for his son, and she relived their passionate kiss.
However, as she neared the entrance, her high expectations were replaced with memories of Jason’s tear-stricken face and glistening eyes, and a gut-wrenching fear penetrated her gut. Bar the one text, she had not heard from him for days and feared Ethan’s condition had deteriorated to a point of no return. Determined to remain strong, and clutching at hope, she told herself that positive news was as equally likely as negative, and that Ethan may have received the transplant the required. But when she questioned why she hadn’t been informed, her fears once again avalanched.
Michelle had disappeared from Brittany’s life at the time of her transplant. Could Jason be doing the same? Something disastrous may have happened, something that may have forced him into hiding. Clenching her hands, Brittany’s guilt deepened. She should have spoken to him after she discovered the payment, and warned him of the trouble ahead, but instead she had chosen to keep her distance. At the time, she had reasoned she was giving him space to be with his son; now, she wondered if her decision would have been considered heartless and unsupportive. In the very least, her excuse seemed feeble.
Michelle had not acted in the same manner. After her discovery, she had met with Jason, and more than likely, they shared secrets and dilemmas. Not only that, during their conversation her mother had said that Ethan would not die; she had been adamant. Michelle knew something, and may have even encouraged the payment in the first place. Brittany’s gut twisted.
Clouded by a sense of betrayal, she hesitated at the double doors. Ever since she had discovered they had been seeing each other, she felt uncomfortable. It was wrong that they were in contact and it was difficult to believe that she had not entered into the conversation. Jason may have said he felt uncomfortable talking about her, but he had never said he had refused to say anything.
Puffing out, she perched on a bench and wiped her hand across a sticky brow. He should be sharing his most private thoughts with her. They were a team, and in the very least good friends. Alerted to the screeching sound of brakes, she glanced at a bus and wondered if she should return home.
Her legs refused to move. She needed to see Jason and find out more about her mother’s departure, and she needed to check in on Ethan. This was no time for petty jealousy. If she couldn’t put it aside, she would have no one. She wasn’t a child any more, and she shouldn’t act like one. Jason could be a friend to whomever he wished and she had to trust. Like it or not, Jason and Michelle had something in common; both had a child with end-stage kidney failure. Their connection was understandable.
Brittany stood up and headed through the hospital doors, and strolled alongside other visitors, patients and staff, and progressed to the renal department. Pausing regularly to catch her breath, she arrived in the corridor, nodded her greeting to Nurse Roberts, and sauntered to Ethan’s ward.
Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. Ethan was not there, and another child occupied his bed.
Chapter 28
Brittany blinked, hoping her eyes were deceiving her, and stared at the boy in the bed at the far end. He was older than Ethan, possibly nine or ten years old, and with black hair and bushy eyebrows, and he looked to be of foreign origin. Then she glanced across the other side. Maybe she had missed Ethan, or maybe, for whatever reason he had moved beds. But he wasn’t in the ward and a heavy feeling landed in her stomach. She clutched her handbag, pressing it to her middle. Jason had said Ethan would not survive long without a kidney; he had warned her. Why had she not taken him seriously? She wasn’t much of a friend.
He always seemed so capable and never acted as though he needed her support. He hadn’t whined about his situation, he hadn’t asked her to visit daily, and he hadn’t needed her to listen so he could talk through his situation. In fact, he had said very little and most of the time indicated he could cope. It wasn’t her fault. More than likely, he had other friends for support, or even family. There was no reason she should feel guilty.
She slumped onto a waiting room chair and tried to digest the notion that Ethan had died. The poor boy. Never again, would she experience his toothy grin or cheeky comments; never again, would he chatter about his football cards or piano lessons. And he was so young, still a baby. It was a cruel reality. Some children died and some lived, and it put her situation into perspective. At least she had had twelve years of quality of life and possibly had more to come. Ethan had had nothing.
Her chest tightened and she sank deeper into the chair. She had believed the payment to Dr O’Riordan was a guarantee for his life, especially after hearing her mother’s reassurance, and could not believe something could have gone wrong. But it was also possible that the transplant failed, either on the operating table or during the critical hours afterwards.
Or maybe Luke Adams had intervened at the wrong time.
She reached in her bag and fumbled for her phone. Her hands were quivering, and tissues, medications, antiseptic wipes, and her wallet, obstructing.
‘Have you come to see Ethan?’ A voice sounded.
Brittany spun around. It was Nurse Roberts. ‘Yes.’
‘He’s been moved. Just around the corner, third door on the right.’
‘I thought he’d . . .’
‘He’s still with us, bless him. It’s just quieter around there . . . a smaller room.’
Tears dampened her eyes. She leapt to her feet and had to wait for a momentary dizzy spell to pass.
‘A minister is with them at the moment,’ Nurse Roberts continued, ‘they shouldn’t be long.’
She skipped along the corridor and hesitated by the doorway. Jason was at one side of the bed and the minister was at the other, and both looked calm. Ethan, who was focusing on a spot on the bottom on the bed, was awake but bleary-eyed. Deciding not to interrupt, she sat on a hard-backed chair a few metres from the door, waiting.
Ethan was in the best possible place, recognised for its quality of service, and whilst he was alive, there was still hope. She strained her ears, and smiled as the sweet sounds of his voice lightened the air. Then, after a few minutes, the minister appeared in the doorway followed by Jason. Jason caught her eye, passed her an appreciative smile, and said goodbye to the minister.
‘How is he?’ Brittany asked.
‘Hanging in there.’
‘Sorry I haven’t been to see him. I thought you might want time alone.’
Jason nodded. ‘He’s stable and that’s good.’
Although the words were positive, there was little conviction in his tone, and whilst he continued to offer her meagre snippets of information regarding Ethan’s condition, he was distracted and kept gazing at the door.
‘You should go back in.’
Jason’s arms folded and he peered through the open door. ‘He’s gone to sleep. Best thing for him.’
‘It probably is. I slept a lot too. I think it’s the body’s way of fighting.’
‘Sorry he’s not awake. Seeing you might have perked him up.’
She wiped beads of perspiration from h
er brow. ‘I just wanted to check you were both okay.’
Jason nodded and sat on the chair opposite. He looked haggard and his skin tone was grey and uneven. He also seemed thinner than previous and she wondered how long it had been since he had eaten a healthy meal.
Her mother had not been so anxious, not that she recalled, and had always seemed chirpy and full of vigour, yet she too had spent most of her hours by her bedside.
‘I’m sorry to bring it up now . . . but about that text message you sent. When’s my mum leaving?’
‘What?’
‘Michelle. When’s she’s leaving?’
He shrugged. Why haven’t you spoken to her?’
‘I tried, but she won’t answer her phone . . . or the door. I think she might have already gone.’
He clasped his hands.
‘Did she tell you where she was going . . . or when?’
‘No. I saw her suitcase, that’s all.’
‘So she might not have been going anywhere at all?’
A low-level cry emanated from the room. Jason jumped to his feet and disappeared inside, only to return seconds later. ‘It was George, the other boy.’
Jason’s gaze flitted between Ethan and two nurses chatting further along the corridor. He looked helpless; everything was out of his hands. ‘What were you saying?’
Brittany hesitated. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Nothing could be done to ease Jason’s anxieties, and she felt his torment hang in the air. The insignificance of her own worries caused her to lower her head in shame; she should not be pestering him about her mother’s departure when his son’s life could be nearing its end.
‘Did you know Michelle has been attacked?’ he asked.
Brittany gawped. ‘No.’
‘She didn’t want to worry you.’
‘What happened?’
Jason sat down and slipped his hands under his thighs. ‘A knife. I don’t know any more.’
