The Secret Anatomy of Candles

by Quentin Smith

  “Two days before she died, guv.”

  FORTY THREE

  Dr Majid Eldabe’s secretary was plump and middle aged. Her knitted mauve dress moulded into the grooves and crevices that formed around her midriff as she sat down in front of his desk. Eldabe was reading and she waited patiently, holding a sheet of A4 paper in her hand, glancing down occasionally at it and pressing her lips together to smooth the freshly applied dark plum lipstick.

  “Yes, Mrs Caruthers?” he said, in a deep and strongly Arabic inflection, without looking up.

  Eldabe was in his late fifties, with greying temples and eyebrows, a deep walnut complexion and aristocratic brown eyes.

  Mrs Caruthers cleared her throat, perhaps from the overpowering scent of musk that emanated from him, and lifted the sheet of paper, hesitating as her eyes flicked between it and Eldabe’s face which was still very much focused on the papers he was reading. He was aware of her dilemma but failed to look up, merely raising the fingers of his right hand that had been busily twirling his pencil thin moustache.

  “What is it?”

  She cleared her throat again.

  “A private investigator has been calling.”

  Eldabe licked a finger to turn a page, then used that finger to twirl his moustache as he continued to read.

  “And?”

  “He was asking about a patient you saw recently.”

  “Well, it is none of his business. Tell him that.” Eldabe said dismissively and turned another page on his desk.

  “I did, Dr Eldabe, several times, but he keeps calling. He says this patient committed suicide two days after seeing you.”

  Eldabe’s eyebrows lifted slightly and his eyes appeared to lose their point of focus.

  “Who does he work for?”

  Mrs Caruthers fumbled with the sheet of paper and squinted at it.

  “He works for the patient’s husband, who is a compensation lawyer.”

  Eldabe turned suddenly and fixed his deep, brown eyes on his secretary.

  “Is that what they want?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He said the husband is trying to understand why his wife committed suicide.”

  Eldabe returned to his reading, appearing to have dismissed the importance of the issue.

  “My consultations with patients are a confidential matter all the same. He is not entitled to know anything.”

  She stood up to leave, perhaps accustomed to his mannerisms and knowing when a conversation was over.

  “He did say that if we couldn’t co-operate he thought the husband would make an appointment to see you himself,” Mrs Caruthers said hesitantly.

  Eldabe shrugged his narrow shoulders beneath an immaculately tailored platinum silk suit.

  “Let him, I cannot tell him anything either.”

  She began to open the door quietly to exit.

  “Mrs Caruthers?” he said, looking up.

  “Yes?”

  “What is the name of the patient they are interested in?”

  She looked down at the sheet of paper she held.

  “Jennifer Candle.”

  He nodded silently and pursed his lips, twirling his moustache as he pondered, hoping to recall the patient and trying to decide on a course of action.

  “Bring me her file, please.”

  FORTY FOUR

  Jasper concentrated on the little white ball, willing and hoping that his arms would not jerk the club awkwardly as the moment of impact approached. He swung the club slowly above his shoulders, trying to focus his every fibre on just that one small, white spot. Then the club began its forward acceleration, smoothly, controlled, until suddenly the muscles of his left shoulder contorted. The shaft of the club sliced across the ball sending it skidding unsuccessfully across the manicured lawn at a discomfiting angle.

  “Bad luck, old boy,” Merrill Bradshaw said jovially.

  “Brad Pitt!” Jasper cursed under his breath.

  Merrill was wearing black and white checked plus fours, long black socks and shiny white golf shoes, all topped with a bright orange golf shirt. But for the noble belly, his appearance was reminiscent of Payne Stewart’s extrovert style of dress.

  “Try keeping your left arm straight during follow through, like this.”

  Merrill addressed his ball and executed a short and stiff swing which, despite its awkwardness, connected more effectively with the little ball and propelled it into the air surprisingly well.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Merrill,” Jasper said as he placed another ball on the driving mat.

  In stark and distinctive contrast, Jasper was wearing his work clothes, pin stripe charcoal trousers, billowing white shirt tamed by peacock-blue braces and black brogues.

  Stretching to the left and right of them in a gentle semi-circle were dozens of small cubicles occupied by an energetic mosaic of aspiring golfers, all practising their addictive hobby.

  “Glad you could join me at the club. You should come over more often.”

  Merrill swung again and thumped the ball impatiently into the abyss beyond the semi-circle. In the distance, visible above the thinning golden foliage, was the outline of Brancepeth Castle’s sandstone battlements.

  Jasper leaned on his club, reticent to make another attempt at hitting the evasive little ball given his additional impediment of unpredictable muscular spasms.

  “I wanted to discuss the Ollie Kowalski case with you,” Jasper said.

  “Shoot old boy.”

  Merrill paused momentarily as he lined up his club and ball.

  “Was this the one involving the boy who contracted measles from someone at school – allegedly?”

  Jasper nodded.

  “You told me that I should consider carefully the reasons why the parents did not have their child vaccinated.”

  “I did,” Merrill said nodding, before swinging successfully once again. “Mens rea is a powerful argument in any reasonable legal defence, as you well know.”

  Jasper licked his lips excitedly and shifted weight from one leg to another as he sensed the spasms invading his thigh.

  “In 1998 some research was published suggesting a link between MMR and autism. It became a public media storm when the newspapers went into a fit and spasm over it.”

  “Claiming what?”

  “That MMR vaccination caused autism in children.”

  Merrill lifted his eyes away from the golf ball and looked at Jasper with interest.

  “And does it?”

  “Apparently not,” Jasper said, “but you would certainly think otherwise if you read the newspapers.”

  Merrill shrugged.

  “Good old sensationalist British journalism – headlines to sell papers.”

  “The research was quickly discredited; its author vilified, censured, and struck off the GMC.”

  “… but the damage to public confidence in MMR was already done.” Merrill finished, resting his elbow on the top of his golf club in contemplation.

  Jasper addressed the ball before him, grinding his teeth with determination to control the trembling and twitching in his arms. He swung as a spasm in his thigh twisted his posture monstrously, and the club missed the ball completely.

  “Bad luck, old boy. It’ll come,” Merrill said with a chuckle.

  Jasper wished for his rotund friend to mishit the ball, even only once, to boost his flagging spirits.

  “How many parents have taken similar actions in shunning the MMR for fear of autism?” Merrill asked.

  Jasper leaned his weight on to his club and raised his eyebrows.

  “Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Merrill drew breath through clenched teeth.

  “Many casualties?”

  “Lots of them, plus a few deaths. Ollie Kowalski was by no means the only one.”

  Merrill leant on his golf club with crossed forearms, a posture that pushed his globular belly closer to the Astroturf driving mat. He looked into Jasper
’s face with his head inclined slightly to one side.

  “What is your argument in this case, counsel?”

  Jasper took a deep breath and squared up to Merrill as spasms racked his left arm and shoulder.

  “Gross negligence,” Jasper said as his left eye twitched violently, “a failure to conform to accepted vaccination policy, a failure to heed medical and DoH advice thereby posing an imminent danger to other members of society.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “There can be little doubt that Ollie Kowalski contracted measles solely because Seamus Mallory was not vaccinated and consequently brought measles into the school.”

  Merrill nodded slowly, swaying back and forth, using the golf club as a fulcrum as he pondered Jasper’s statement.

  “If I were your opposing counsel, my defence would be,” he paused, “that the medically uninformed and emotively vulnerable in society would likely be influenced by the media storm, brainwashed, if you like, into a genuine fear for the safety of their children. Their state of mind might be such that they denied their children the MMR with the very best of intentions for their personal safety.”

  “But they were so terribly wrong.”

  Merrill gripped his club in both gloved hands once more and aimed it at the little white ball.

  “That they were, but mens rea is established and provides a reasonable defence.”

  Jasper felt his frustration mounting. He tried to address the ball and expunge some of his irritation by sending it flying into the early autumn evening sky, but the worsening tremor in his hands and the rolling contortions of his shoulder made him realise that he would achieve only greater humiliation by further attempts at punishing the ball.

  “The courts will over rule the decisions of parents who unreasonably deny their children medical treatment, like blood transfusions. Surely denying them the MMR is no different? In addition to which the endangerment posed by this act extends beyond the immediate legal jurisdiction of their children and threatens the wider public, does it not?”

  Merrill nodded slowly as he processed this.

  “Compelling argument, Jasper, I’ll give you that. But entirely without precedent; don’t forget that parents are free in the eyes of the law to make reasonable decisions relating to the welfare of their children.”

  “Denying Seamus Mallory the MMR resulted in the death of Ollie Kowalski. That is hardly reasonable.”

  “But their state of mind in reaching that decision could be argued as being reasonable, could it not? They were, along with thousands, influenced by the reporting in the media. Mens rea, Jasper, mens rea.”

  Merrill could sound so sanctimonious at times, Jasper thought as he glared at him. Merrill looked down at the golf ball and swung again, sending it flying once more with monotonous predictability.

  “You could say the authors of that flawed research have blood on their hands,” Merrill said.

  “Not to mention the newspapers,” Jasper added.

  “Well you can’t very well file a class action against the entire newspaper establishment, old boy, as lucrative as that may sound,” Merrill mused with a throaty chuckle. “Candle versus Fleet Street.” He painted a slogan in the air with the sweep of his hand.

  Jasper did not miss the intentional jibe and replaced the golf club into its bag.

  “You all right, old boy, you haven’t hit many balls today?” Merrill said.

  Jasper turned away to rub his deforming face and pouting lips.

  “I’m absolutely bloody Rolls Royce, thank you for asking.”

  Jasper’s voice reverberated thickly in his ears, as though it was not his own. He walked away somewhat unsteadily, watched by a curious and mystified Merrill Bradshaw who shook his head briefly before punishing another ball.

  FORTY FIVE

  The carriage doors closed with a muted hydraulic sigh and in an instant the interminable drone of station noise almost vanished, but for the footsteps of disembarking passengers leaving the platform. Jasper leaned against a pillar, his hands pushed deep into the warm pockets of his black cashmere coat.

  “Jasper!” said a familiar voice.

  Jasper turned and found himself staring into the broadly grinning face of Magnus Burns. He was wearing a camel greatcoat with a long, burgundy woollen scarf tied ostentatiously around his neck and held in one hand a dark brown violin case with a big red ‘fragile’ sticker on it.

  “Magnus, what a surprise,” Jasper said.

  They shook hands energetically as soft puffs of vapour formed in front of their faces in the cold air. Magnus smelled of expensive eau de homme.

  “In town for a concert?” Jasper said.

  Magnus shook his head.

  “Just passing through, on my way to a concert in Edinburgh tonight. How are things with the case?”

  Jasper returned his trembling hands to the obscurity of his coat pockets.

  “Going well, Magnus. We’re in discussion with the trust solicitors about our intentions.”

  Magnus looked pleased.

  “Does this mean court soon? Have you found a guilty party?”

  “I am still hopeful that the trust will offer a settlement because there are so many individuals in the frame for culpability.”

  “Settlement?” Magnus frowned deeply as his shoulders dropped slightly.

  “That’s often the outcome of a negligence suit.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you not finding anybody responsible for my father’s death?”

  Jasper shifted weight as his thigh muscles began to ripple beneath the charcoal pinstripe trousers, managing to time the move such that he disguised a spasmodic roll of his left shoulder.

  “Do you know how many people work on a hospital ward?”

  “Yes, but somebody must have been responsible. What about the patient who brought the gastroenteritis on to the ward in the first place?” Magnus said, slightly sharply.

  Jasper frowned.

  “She died.”

  Magnus hesitated and looked around before returning his gaze to Jasper’s face.

  “But how did the infection get from her to my father?”

  Jasper nodded animatedly.

  “That’s what we’re focusing on. That and why the patient with tommy guns was admitted to your father’s ward in the first instance.”

  “Tommy guns?”

  “Sorry, gastroenteritis.”

  Magnus nodded thoughtfully, changing the violin case from one hand to another.

  “So you may never be able to blame anyone for my father’s death?”

  “That depends on how much they contest our allegations. It’s quite a complicated case, Magnus, with so many people potentially culpable along the way. We feel negligence is evident, but finding a specific person to blame may… well… be difficult.”

  Magnus appeared deflated and moved to sit down on a nearby open bench.

  “I never thought that all I would get from this was money. I wanted justice, I wanted…”

  “An eye for an eye?” Jasper offered, taking the seat beside him and rubbing away several violent pouts that corrupted his lip and cheek muscles with the flat of his hand.

  Magnus did not notice as he stared emptily at the platform.

  “I don’t really know.”

  “I can offer you closure, Magnus. Whatever form the outcome of legal proceedings assumes, what it will hopefully bring to you is closure of a painful chapter in your life.”

  Magnus looked up at Jasper with big, imploring eyes.

  “And what about the guilt, Jasper, is it not the act of someone saying ‘sorry’ that helps me to overcome my guilt?”

  Jasper remained silent as his mind turned to his own turmoil, his own gnawing guilt. Who could he hope to get an apology from for Jennifer’s death? How would he achieve a sense of closure in his own grievous personal loss?

  “I can’t fix everything, Magnus, but I am doing my best to ensure that they do not get away without some apportionment of blame, so t
hat your father did not die unnecessarily and without any restitution.”

  Magnus placed the violin case squarely across his lap and rested his arms on top of it. His left leg bounced rhythmically and he began to tap his fingers on the case as he stared over the rail tracks.

  “Tonight I’m playing Mendelsohn’s violin concerto. I think I am in the right frame of mind to perform it well.”

  “How so?” Jasper said

  “It is filled with reflective melancholy.”

  The two men sat in silence for a moment, deep in thought. Between them they possessed enough regret and misery to fill the entire Usher Hall in Edinburgh without playing a single note of Mendelsohn.

  “The next train to arrive at platform two is the 13.20 to Edinburgh calling at Newcastle, Berwick upon Tweed, and Edinburgh Waverley,” the muffled tannoy speakers blurted.

  Magnus stood up and brushed his coat.

  “That’s my train.”

  Jasper stood and extended his right hand.

  “Good luck.”

  Magnus gripped Jasper’s hand and looked straight into his eyes.

  “No, good luck to you. I’m counting on you, Jasper.”

  Magnus boarded the train and Jasper sat down with a thump and a sigh. His shoulder rolled, his neck twisted to the left and his thigh rippled. What next, he wondered, staring at the trembling hands in his lap? He felt a vibration from within his coat and pulled out the iPhone.

  “This is a redirected call from… 0-1-9-1-3-8-7-6-5-3-2.”

  Jasper had had all incoming calls to his home redirected to his mobile number.

  “Jasper, yes?”

  “This is Framwellgate Dry Cleaners calling. Jennifer Candle brought in a red coat for dry cleaning and has still not collected it. It’s been here over three weeks now. Could you please ask her to call for it.”

  Jasper felt his heart sink as he was reminded again that not everyone in the world knew of his loss, that not everyone shared his grief. Two days earlier he had taken a call from Jennifer’s dentist, protesting at the fact that she had missed her appointment without the common courtesy of cancelling it. Jasper tightened his lips as he was again reminded that the world continued to revolve and function as normal for everyone else around him.