The Secret Anatomy of Candles

by Quentin Smith

  But it was already too late.

  SIX

  Jasper hurried towards Elvet Bridge, pausing briefly as he felt his iPhone vibrate, to admire the majesty of Durham Cathedral’s eleventh century Norman architecture, just visible above the tall beech trees on the river banks. Basking in the setting sun, the sandstone crenellations on the cathedral bell tower glowed against a pastel blue sky beside Durham Castle, home to his former student college.

  He squinted at the iPhone. It was a message from Stacey.

  Where are you, Mr C? Mrs K waiting. No calls yet from Mrs C.

  Where on earth was Jennifer? Jasper thought to himself, once again reminded that he had not yet managed to contact his wife. It was as though she had fallen off the edge of the world. He dialled Jennifer’s number and was directed to voicemail.

  “The Candles are out. Please leave a message after the beep.”

  He sighed with a frown etched on his face, examined his wristwatch and walked briskly into The Swan and Three Cygnets, where he was instantly enveloped by the jovial early evening atmosphere of people chatting, laughing and drinking beer. In the background The Beatles sang ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ and underfoot he crunched potato crisps that had escaped beery mouths.

  Staring intently around the room, Jasper’s eyes quickly found their prey. He snaked his way through groups of youthful revellers, most of whom were wearing clothing adorned with ‘Boat Club’, ‘Regatta’ and related insignia indicating that the local student rowers were out in force.

  Sitting in an alcove that overlooked the river and the ducks swimming about on its calm surface was a very large man in a well-worn brown leather jacket. He was lifting a pint glass of Black Sheep ale to his face with stubby fingers that were strangled by heavy pewter rings.

  “Guv’nor,” The man acknowledged, as Jasper sat down opposite him on an upholstered stool. “Here for a few short ones?”

  “I have an appointment, this will have to be quick,” Jasper replied curtly.

  The fat man nodded and the smile that creased his bristly pear shaped face lifted his pierced earlobes.

  “Aren’t you going to have a… ”

  “What have you got on the surgeon, Lazlo?” Jasper interrupted irritably, leaning forward into Lazlo’s beery personal space.

  Lazlo put down his glass and made a horizontal sideways sweeping motion with both arms.

  “Nothing. Mr Daniel Keys is clean.”

  “Cobblers, Lazlo. Nobody is that clean. Edward Burns is dead and this fellow operated on him just ten days earlier. There’s got to be something on him,” Jasper protested.

  “He’s clean, I’m telling you. No priors, no mistresses, no pendings,” Lazlo shrugged almost apologetically and lifted his Black Sheep.

  “Look Lazlo, I use you because you’re supposed to be good, and I don’t pay you what I do to tell me this Brad Pitt.”

  Lazlo was not shaken by this outburst and held Jasper’s fiery gaze with steady, measured eyes.

  “I’m not good, guv, I’m the best.”

  Jasper’s gaze faltered and suddenly he looked desperate.

  “God, I really need a gay and frisky right now, fancy another pint?” Jasper asked, as he fumbled in his trouser pocket for change.

  “Never say no, guv,” Lazlo replied.

  Returning with two drinks, Jasper sat down and gulped a large mouthful of Chivas Regal. He savoured the warmth on his tongue and tilted the heavy tumbler this way and that, as he studied the swirling amber liquid caressing a trio of ice cubes. Almost instantly he felt the oppressive fog that surrounded him lift on welcome malted wings.

  “I do, however, have something very interesting about the circumstances surrounding Mr Edward Burns’ death.” Lazlo’s pierced earlobes bounced on his ample cheeks as he spoke.

  “Nothing to do with the surgeon?” Jasper asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Lazlo shook his huge head slowly and paused, savouring the moment and a mouthful of beer.

  “What if I was to suggest that Edward Burns’ death had nothing to do with his surgery, or his medical care, or his nursing care?”

  Lazlo watched as his words settled on Jasper.

  “Are you absolutely mad? Have you gone Bohemian, or something?” Jasper ridiculed with a twisted face.

  “What if I was to suggest that Edward Burns may have been the unfortunate victim of a member of the general public?”

  Jasper guffawed, but could not disguise his curiosity. He stared at Lazlo, weighing up this new development in his mind.

  “Do you have a reliable source for this… extraordinary suggestion?”

  “I had to get a matron very drunk.”

  “Put it on your expenses,” Jasper said, trying to appear nonchalant, before relenting. “Well come on, out with it.”

  Lazlo made placatory gestures with his hands and sat forward, suddenly unable to contain his excitement as he prepared to deliver his grand opus.

  “A few days before he died, on a Saturday night, the hospital was full and a new patient admitted from a care home with pneumonia was housed on Edward Burns’ surgical ward.”

  Jasper was perched on the edge of his stool, leaning forward and listening intently to Lazlo speak.

  “This new patient had gastroenteritis, you know, the squirts… ”

  “Yeah yeah, tommy guns, I get it,” Jasper said irritably.

  “Exactly, guv, diarrhoea. Anyway, this spread around the ward like a bad rumour and poor old Edward Burns got it. He began spewing his guts out into a bowl, and hey presto, his surgical wound broke down, then it got infected, and… ”

  “As a result of that he’s brown bread.” Jasper finished.

  “Now he’s brown bread, guv’nor,” Lazlo repeated, leaning back and tucking into his Black Sheep.

  The two men sat in silence for a moment enjoying their drinks.

  “I need a lot more information on this other patient and I need to know who is responsible for admitting patients to the ward, who makes these decisions, et cetera.”

  “Of course, guv,” Lazlo nodded.

  Another pause as both men considered this unexpected development.

  Jasper rubbed his chin and watched through the window as the ducks took evasive action from a doubles canoe on the river.

  “I wonder if it’s possible to hold a fellow hospital patient responsible?” Jasper thought aloud.

  “If not the patient, then perhaps the person who decided to admit that patient to the ward?” Lazlo suggested.

  Jasper snapped his fingers and pointed them at Lazlo.

  “That is a very good line of thought. Pursue that, don’t pull any punches. Get your matron drunk again if you have to.”

  Lazlo nodded.

  “Do you still think we should go to this AA meeting tomorrow night?” Jasper said eventually, studying the melting ice cubes in his Chivas.

  “Absolutely,” Lazlo said, pointedly arranging his beer glass on the small table beside four empty glasses and gesturing towards them. “We agreed, and let me ask you guv, is that a single scotch?”

  Jasper hesitated, looking at his glass.

  “I would Arthur Scargill with a single. This is a triple, Lazlo, and I take your point.”

  “Tomorrow night it is then,” Lazlo said.

  Jasper suddenly felt the spasms returning to his face, pulling, twisting, teasing, testing his patience. He didn’t want Lazlo to see him like this so he moved a hand up to rub his face discreetly, realising too late that it was also twitching. There was only one thing to do. Jasper downed the rest of his whisky and stood up to leave.

  “Did you win in court today?” Lazlo said.

  “What do you think?”

  “You always do, guv.”

  “I have to go, a new client awaits,” Jasper said, clutching his twitching arm to hide the involuntary spasms.

  Lazlo raised his glass in salute and rubbed his hands together.

  “Excellent. More work for me then, I hope.”

&nb
sp; “Tomorrow night I want to know everything about that patient with the tommy guns,” Jasper said as he turned to leave.

  SEVEN

  Dr Potter slowly pulled back the lime green T-shirt emblazoned with a smiling Tyrannosaurus to reveal the pale, spotty skin of Ollie’s abdomen. The muscles driving Ollie’s laboured breathing contracted rhythmically and fast.

  Debra watched closely as the doctor’s gentle fingers exposed more of Ollie’s skin to reveal further fine, red spots. They were everywhere on his hot little body. She held her clenched left hand to her mouth and chewed on the knuckle of the index finger, afraid to breathe.

  “You’re such a good boy, Ollie. Tell me if I tickle the dinosaur,” Dr Potter said in a soft and mellifluous tone, as he began to auscultate Ollie’s chest with his stethoscope.

  Dr Potter was middle aged, bald on top but fringed with a finger of black hair above each ear and small, round, gold rimmed spectacles that made him resemble a chemistry professor. The brightly coloured bowtie might have completed the picture were it not for the Disney characters that exposed him as the practice children’s doctor.

  But Ollie wasn’t interested in Dr Potter’s friendly banter or Pinocchio chasing Pocahontas on his bowtie that day. His listless brown eyes just stared straight up at the ceiling, as though deeply distracted by more important matters.

  Debra’s petrified eyes studied Dr Potter’s every reaction, preying on every miniscule and subconscious response.

  “What is it, doctor?” she suddenly said, rejecting the raw knuckle from her mouth.

  Dr Potter took a deep breath and removed the stethoscope from his ears. He didn’t meet Debra’s concerned stare, trying instead to elicit a smile or a response from Ollie’s flushed little face. He failed; Ollie just panted and stared. He didn’t even object, only moaning slightly when Dr Potter inserted an aural thermometer into Ollie’s ears to measure his temperature.

  “He’s very hot, Mrs Kowalski, 39.8 degrees Celsius. We must try and cool him slightly first.”

  “What do you mean, first?” Debra asked anxiously, her voice rising as her throat began to close in, making her feel breathless. Already her chest felt like it had a ton of lead pressing on it.

  Dr Potter turned now to meet her eyes, but Debra looked away towards Ollie as he lay without protestation on the examination couch beneath his lime green dinosaur T-shirt.

  “Can I?” she asked, motioning towards him.

  “Yes, yes of course.”

  Debra picked up Ollie and held his hot little body tightly in her arms. His head flopped limply on to her shoulder as he moaned and cried slightly.

  “Is it measles?” Debra asked.

  Dr Potter nodded and drew breath to speak.

  “How can it be measles, he had the MMR two years ago?” Debra continued.

  “I do think he has measles,” Dr Potter said slowly, measuring his words carefully. “What concerns me though is that he might be developing complications.”

  “Oh God, no, no!” Debra wailed weakly, shaking her head violently in disbelief. “This is not supposed to happen… ”

  The room began to spin around her and spots began to infiltrate her field of vision. Debra was acutely aware of the sweaty limp bundle she cradled in her arms, but beyond that everything was blurring and merging into a spinning, chaotic nightmare. She felt the warmth draining from her face at the sudden fear that her fragile world was crumbling beneath her feet.

  “I want to bring Ollie’s temperature down while we wait for an ambulance to take him to hospital. I think it’s best if we admit him to the children’s ward right away for tests.” Dr Potter continued.

  But Debra was silent, no crying, no hysterical tears, no sobbing as her lily white body crumpled on failing legs. Dr Potter managed to rescue Ollie from her spent embrace as she folded untidily upon herself on the blue, carpeted floor.

  EIGHT

  Thirty years previously

  Jasper slouched on the sofa with muddy legs outstretched, his eyes flicking between his socked feet and his father’s hairy face. Jasper had left his football boots at the door of their semi-detached house, but hadn’t had the energy to remove his soiled school socks.

  “What’s for dinner, Mum?” Jasper yelled in the direction of the kitchen. It sounded and smelled like she was crisping bacon, but whenever he was hungry all home cooking smelled like bacon to Jasper.

  “So, you didn’t make the team?” Jasper’s father blurted out in a strong Cockney accent, a scowl carved into his face.

  “No, Dad.”

  “You disappointed?” his father asked, raising his tangled, hairy eyebrows.

  “Of course I am. I’ve been training for weeks.”

  “Did you train Marquis de Sade?”

  “Of course I trained hard, Dad. I wanted to be in the team, didn’t I?”

  Jasper was familiar with this routine from his father and felt his irritation rising.

  “Obviously you didn’t try Marquis de Sade enough, son. If you really wanted it you would have put in more effort.”

  “I tried, Dad.”

  “No son, you didn’t try hard enough. I’ve told you before that success only comes to those who really work at it. Nothing for nothing in this old world.”

  Jasper’s gaze was now fixed on his mud stained socks. He knew by now when to submit.

  “It’s just like when you missed out on being a prefect, you were gutted. But as I told you, if you had wanted it enough and worked hard enough at getting it, you would today be a prefect in your school.”

  Jasper’s father played with and stroked the black beard under his chin as he spoke, his eyes never leaving Jasper’s face. Just then his father’s forehead began to twitch and pull up his great hairy eyebrows. His mouth pulsed into a twisted pout several times, somewhat like a sea anemone closing in on its prey. Self consciously his hand shot up to rub his face from side to side.

  “It’s all about what’s in here, Jasper,” his father said leaning forward, patting first his head and then his chest as he spoke. “If it’s strong enough in your crust of bread, and in your jam tart, if you want it bad enough and work hard enough, you’ll make it happen. It’s only ever about effort.”

  Jasper nodded passively.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  This seemed to be the wrong thing to say to his father.

  “It’s not about agreeing with me, son, it’s about getting off your bottle and glass and putting some effort into things. There’s no such thing as bad luck, or good luck in life. Only how much you want something and how far you’re prepared to go to make it yours. So far I have only ever seen you come up short.”

  Though his legs ached from running all afternoon at the team trials, Jasper did not feel that he deserved to have a tired body any more. He no longer felt worthy of being exhausted.

  “If you know what’s good for you, son, you’ll take my advice and put some real effort into life in the future, or you’ll always be a loser.”

  “Dinner’s ready, boys. Egg, bacon, and chips!” said Jasper’s mother, as she emerged from the kitchen carrying three plates.

  “Tent pegs and Jagger’s lips, my favourite, Evie,” said his father, slapping his meaty thighs before standing up and walking unsteadily towards the table.

  “I want to study to be a lawyer,” Jasper suddenly blurted, surprised by his unprompted outburst.

  His father turned casually and fixed Jasper with a mocking stare as his head twisted demonically to one side a few times. Then he chuckled in a lightly amused way.

  “You, a Tom Sawyer? For someone who couldn’t even make prefect, or the school football team, you should be more realistic, son.”

  Jasper could no longer enjoy eggs, bacon and chips after leaving home. The heady aromas were too powerful to shut out and the memories they inevitably conjured up simply too unpleasant.

  By the time Jasper received notification just six months later that he had been accepted to read law at the prestigious University Colleg
e of Durham University, his father had already died. It was rather sudden and unexpected, but even so Jasper had found it difficult to mourn. He was filled with regret, however, regret that his father had not lived long enough to see him achieve his ambition. It was as though he did not want to see Jasper succeed, selfishly leaving this world just weeks before Jasper’s acceptance at university to pursue his dream. Far more than sadness, Jasper felt the overwhelming need to prove his worth as he boarded the northbound east coast train at Kings Cross Station, bidding an impatient farewell to his tearful mother. On the train he binned the egg and bacon sandwich she had made for him.

  NINE

  The woman waiting in Jasper’s office made an immediate impression on him. Wearing beige slacks and a loose fitting white blouse finished with a simple lace trim around the neck, her tall, slender frame matched Jasper’s in height, but smelled of rose petals.

  “Please, call me Jasper. I am sorry to keep you waiting,” Jasper said, extending his hand.

  “Debra Kowalski,” she said, holding his hand softly.

  Beneath a low fringe of blonde hair a pair of large, grey-blue eyes swam between teary lids, blotching carefully applied eye make-up. Jasper found himself staring at her, touched by her engaging fusion of beauty and sadness. He felt her warm hand slip out of his.

  “Coffee, tea?”

  “No thank you,” she said.

  Jasper ushered her into his office before returning to the reception where Stacey, standing behind an expansive chrome and glass desk, was carefully pulling a black coat over her black buttoned blouse.

  “How’d it go today, Mr C?” Stacey asked, pursing her lips to smooth the black lipstick she had just applied.

  “Good. Majority decision in our favour, just awaiting the damages now.”

  Stacey was in her late twenties, of a pale, creamy complexion, with emerald green eyes under pencil thin black eyebrows and long straight jet black hair. She claimed to be a Goth, but had agreed to tone down her dress sense whilst at work. Jasper said that at work she should look like a conservative Goth, then wondered if he meant a liberal Goth.