by Jan McDonald
He put his hands on her shoulders, careful not to hold her too tightly. “Listen to me, dammit. I want you to see Lane because I think I know what’s wrong with you and, if I’m right, she’s the one who can help you through this.”
She looked shocked. “What do you think is wrong with me? What?” she demanded.
Beckett closed his eyes; he’d lost sight of his professionalism, bungled it because of his intense feelings. Her spiralling anxiety was totally his fault and he was losing control of the situation. He took a deep breath.
“I’m not certain.” He hesitated. “But I may have seen something similar before. And then it was Lane that helped.”
“Am I going to die? What do you think it is? Beckett?”
“No. You aren’t going to die. I can’t say any more until you’ve seen Lane. Let’s get you fixed up to see her.”
He was falling for her and he knew it, andhe’d crossed the line now so he may as well say it.
“I can’t be your therapist feeling the way I do. I’m falling for you Kat and that’s why I have to pass you on to Lane. You can’t stay as my patient. It would be unethical of me and unfair to you.”
He sighed. This wasn’t the way he’d planned on telling her. I’ve blown it. Just look at her, she can’t handle this. Idiot.
“Beckett, I …”
He placed his finger on her lips. “Don’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t expect you to feel the same, I know how much you’re hurting and I just want you to know that you aren’t going to do this alone. I promise I’ll see you through this. But you have to see that I can’t think clearly around you, and you deserve much more. Lane is the best. Hey, she’s even better than me.”
It was as though she hadn’t heard him as she leaned forward and picked up the discarded newspaper. “I always knew he’d do well. Anything else wasn’t an option with him.”
“Kat, listen to me. You have to let him go. It’s over. It’s been over for eighteen years. Let it go before it eats you away.”
“Graduated top of his year, youngest consultant to be appointed at the University Hospital, his own private clinic where he does research into AIDS as well as his hospital work.” She paused. “… I don’t love him, if that’s what you think. I thought I did a million years ago but he never loved me. I wouldn’t have given up my baby if there had been a chance; I’d have hung on somehow, hoping that one day … but I did what I thought was best for my son. I listened to everyone else instead of my heart. I should have told Greg; he had a right to know. He never married you know. Oh … I don’t know what’s wrong with me, it’s an obsession; a sore place I have to pick at.”
Beckett didn’t comment on the fact that he thought a girl dropping out of medical school because she was pregnant and ill would stab the conscience of any guy that had been her lover for most of that summer. Greg had to have wondered if the child was his, and the fact he never even enquired about Kat spoke volumes. Dr Greg Randall was an asshole.
“Will you see Lane?” he persisted.
“Yes.” The sadness in the amethyst eyes hit him hard. You failed me, they said. Even you won’t stay the distance. Even you, Beckett.
“Today?” he ventured.
She sighed. “Why not? If I’m going to be sectioned it might as well be today. Thanks for coming to my rescue, I’ll be OK now. Look it’s getting light. I need to bathe and change before clinic. If anyone comes, that is.”
She managed a half smile and reached for the glass of brandy but the smile quickly changed to a look of revulsion and she let the glass fall to the floor, her hand flying to cover her mouth as she was seeing not brandy, but blood.
CHAPTER TWO
Beckett dialled Lane’s Dearing’s private number from memory. She answered straight away and he smiled at the sound of her smoky voice.
“Hi, it’s Beckett. How’re you doing?”
“That would be the Beckett that bailed on me half way through a high profile charity gala, would it? Or maybe it’s the Beckett who keeps promising me dinner then cancelling at the last minute? Oh I know! It’s the Beckett that doesn’t call for over six months then out of the blue …”
“Cheap shot, but deadly accurate. I’m mortally wounded. How are you, Legs?” he asked, calling her by his affectionate name for her.
“Barely coping without you. You?”
“So, so. Listen, I need your help.”
“Of course you do, why else would you call me? I gave up on dinner long ago. What’s up, Handsome?”
“I need to refer a patient to you.”
“Out of your depth? Not like you.”
“Not likely, but it is rather urgent. Can you see her today? Her name’s Katerini Pappas.” His tone told its own story.
Lane dropped their customary easy banter, borne of their more than comfortable friendship, as she switched easily into professional colleague mode. “Of course, hold on a tick.”
He heard her flicking through her diary. “How about five o’clock? My last appointment’s at four so I can give her as long as you like. Care to enlighten me?”
“I’d rather you made up your own mind, free and clear of my opinion.”
“I see. Like that is it? Why me?”
“Because you’re the best – and don’t go all coy on me, we both know it. And because I trust you.”
Lane laughed. “What I mean is, why hand her over?” She paused, “Oh, I get it. You’ve got the hots for her, right?”
“God, you can be so basic when you want to be. If you must know I do find her attractive, but she is my client and it has gone no further. And it’s for the best.”
“Best for your career or best for her?”
“Her, of course,” he replied.
“In that case, it would be a pleasure to help. Sure you can’t tell me anything?”
Beckett hesitated; he didn’t want to colour her judgement but he was convinced that his diagnosis was correct and that Lane would see it immediately. He decided to tell her.
“She’s extremely fragile, right on the edge. One push …”
“Oh, that’s a great help. Come on, Handsome. Give me more.”
“Okay. She has a long history, eighteen years of it.”
Lane gave a low whistle. “Miracles take a little longer, honey. And?”
“And she’s anaemic. And she’s plagued by dreams.”
“Dreams?” she queried, though Beckett knew from the edge in her voice that she was already aware of their nature.
“Blood dreams.”
“Oh God.”
“I’m afraid for her, Lane.”
“In that case, so am I. Thanks, Handsome. Do the same for you one day.”
“Lane?”
“Yes?”
“You have to help her.”
“Do my best. Am I to keep you informed? Are we sending ethics right down the tubes?”
“Don’t know, I’ll ask her. Appreciate it. So long, Legs.”
Lane put the telephone down in slow motion, her dark chestnut hair falling from behind her shoulder as her thoughts raced ahead, building a mental picture that she had no desire to look on, but one that was all too familiar. She felt the tell tale crawling in the pit of her stomach that warned of impending trouble, as surely as the seaweed on her secretary’s door told of approaching bad weather.
She reached into the drawer of her mahogany desk for a cigarette, the fragrant French cigarettes that she had smoked, it seemed forever. She lit it thoughtfully, leaned back in her chair and crossed the long elegant legs that had earned her the affectionate name that Beckett had given her. She held her cigarette between the first and middle finger of her right hand and clicked the nails of her thumb and fourth finger together. Becket would recognise the sign. It meant she was deeply worried. And Lane Dearing didn’t worry easily.
*
Kat scanned the mail on her doormat; it was mostly junk or advertising material from herbal suppliers, along with two more cancellation not
es. Great. Well, keep them coming. Soon there would be no appointments to cancel.
A cursory flick through her diary showed just two entries: Mrs Davies who would just want a repeat prescription of her nerve tonic, and Mr Khan with his multitude of non-existent aches and pains. He would have a cup of herbal tea with her, take home a bottle of placebo ‘medicine’ that was little more than herbal tonic, then telephone her the following day to say he felt so much better, that she was truly a miracle worker, and next time she really must charge him something. She smiled; she liked Mr Khan who came to her simply because he was lonely. She wondered where he would go when her doors were closed for the last time.
The morning followed its expected course, broken only by the telephone call from Beckett saying that Lane was expecting her at five, and did she want him to go with her?
No, she didn’t.
He seemed disappointed and she could imagine the frown lines deepening on his attractive, if care-worn, face. He asked if Lane could keep him informed of her progress and she readily agreed.
Did she mind if he called her from time to time, just to see how she was?
No, that would be fine.
In truth, Kat was deeply disturbed at Beckett passing her on to someone else; she’d have to go through it all again, relive the sordid details of it all, relive the pain, the sickness, everything. She couldn’t bring herself to consider his reasons. Not while she was like this. Damn you, Beckett.
She slammed the diary shut.
Well, this would be the last time she put herself through it. If this Dr Dearing couldn’t help her, then she may as well . . . what? Be dead? It was a reasonable assumption given her rapidly deteriorating condition. There would be no one to miss her except maybe Beckett, and he’d get over it. So, Lane Dearing, give it your best shot.
Her anxiety levels spiked as the time came closer for her to see Lane and, by the time she left the cottage, she was surfing high on surging waves of panic, caught between the urge to run far away and allowing the tide to take her wherever.
At the bottom of the mountain she stopped at the junction, swallowed hard and pressed her dry lips together, then before she could change her mind, she turned right and headed for Lane’s consulting room in Abergavenny.
Inside her room Lane looked at her wristwatch. Almost five o’clock. She opened the door to the outer office.
“Lucy, I’ve fitted in a new patient. You can go early. I’ll lock up.”
Her secretary narrowed her heavily black eye-linered eyes. “I haven’t prepared any files for you, Doctor.”
Lane laughed. “Now I know I’m in trouble. You only call me ‘Doctor’ when I’ve done something you disapprove of. I know, I know, I’m sorry. I should have let the appointment come through you. Trust me on this one?”
Lucy persisted, “I’ve been worried about you, Lane. Your aura is all fuzzy. I looked at your cards last night, and they weren’t at all reassuring.”
Lane rolled her eyes and sighed. “Lucy, I wish you’d quit messing with tarot cards and looking at my goddamn aura. We really need to talk about your obsession with all this stuff. Really, I’ll be fine, so go home and have a nice evening with that man of yours. Don’t lock the door on your way out.”
“But, it’s what I saw, a stranger coming and …”
“And that’s all I want to hear about cards and auras tonight thanks, Lucy. I’ll see you in the morning.” She smiled and nodded towards the door.
In the ten years that Lucy had worked for Lane, their relationship had evolved from employer and employee to an easy friendship that existed solely at work and neither of their lives outside impinged on the other. Lane was careful never to upset that arrangement. Lucy had also learned when not ask questions about after hours appointments, the files for which would always be locked in Lane’s private drawer. She nodded back at Lane in a gesture of understanding.
Lane cared about Lucy and indulged her eccentricities – her love of crystals and her tarot cards, her gypsy skirts and conspiracy theories – and, she regularly rebuked Beckett when he referred to her as ‘Loopy Lucy’ but she was in no mood for gypsy warnings and omens as she contemplated the enormity of what Kat was probably about to face.
“Good night, then.” Lucy hesitated at the door. “Be careful, Lane.”
Lane had already disappeared into her room.
As she opened the outer door, Lucy walked straight into Kat who was standing motionless in the hallway. She smiled encouragingly.
“Hi,” she said, “You must be the five o’clock. Go on in, Dr Dearing is expecting you.”
Kat stepped inside and the door closed behind her.
The door to the inner office stood ajar and she could see a warm light from the lamp on the mahogany desk straight ahead. Panic rose in her like a hot tide. At this time of year the daylight would be fading soon. Soon it would be dark and she dreaded the night. Why had she agreed to this? This was her last chance and she knew it. It was fight or flight time.
Before it could be flight, she heard movement in the consulting room and, steeling herself, she tapped on the door. “Hello?”
The door was pulled open from the inside and Kat faced a strikingly beautiful woman whose smile made her feel better even before she spoke. Lane was dressed in an elegant dark suit, the tight-fitting skirt, fashionably above her knee, and the curtain of silky hair, emphasised her natural beauty. Lane held out a hand and locked her tranquil gaze into Kat’s frightened eyes.
“Hello, you must be Katerini. I’m Dr Dearing or Lane, if you’d prefer.”
Kat took the hand, it was warm and somehow comforting; a capable hand, a hand you could trust. “Yes, um, I came in as someone else left, your secretary I think, she let me in. I’m Katerini Pappas.”
Lane smiled at her. “Come on in and sit down.” She indicated a large comfortable-looking armchair and Lane sank gracefully into its twin, crossing her elegant legs.
“Katerini Pappas. That’s an interesting name. Greek?”
“My father was Greek. My name’s Katerini, named after the small village where I was born, but I’m mostly called Kat.”
“Kat it is then.” Lane picked up a silver box from the coffee table between them. “Smoke?”
“No. Thanks.”
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks; nothing – really.”
“Okay then, let’s get started. I don’t have any of your history, but Beckett has told me that your problems are long standing. Take your time and tell me.”
Kat began slowly. “It began when I was young; I was treated for haemolytic anaemia as a child, regular blood transfusions, liver biopsies, the works. Apparently it’s something that’s prevalent among Mediterranean people and with my Greek heritage, it was the diagnosis at the time. It went on for years then the doctors decided that, in fact, I had pernicious anaemia, although they never did really confirm it. I still get anaemic from time to time. I know my blood count is in my boots right now but it’ll work out; I manage it myself.”
She saw Lane’s questioning glance and ignored it.
“When was the last relapse?” Lane continued.
“About six months ago.”
“I understand you don’t sleep well, that you’re troubled by bad dreams. Can you tell me about them?”
“No,” she said, too quickly. “No. not yet. I’m sorry… do you think I could have that cigarette now, please?”
Lane passed the silver box to her and slipped a slim, gold lighter out of her jacket pocket, flicked it into life and waited as Kat inhaled and choked on it, betraying her non-smoker status, her anxiety level orbiting in outer space.
“Do you work, Kat?”
“I’m a herbalist. I have … had … a practice.”
“Married?”
“No, nor likely to be.”
Lane didn’t take her up on the remark, apparently choosing to ignore it. Kat had no doubt that she’d mentally filed it for later.
“Do you have any children?”
she continued.
Kat stiffened visibly. “Beckett didn’t tell you? No, why would he?”
“Tell me what?”
“That I have a son somewhere. I got pregnant while I was in medical school – another student – he’s . . . well, he doesn’t matter. Anyway, I thought I was in love with him but he sure as hell wasn’t in love with me. So what was I to do? I don’t agree with abortion so I decided on adoption. It was all nice and neat, and clinical and discreet, with no time to form any kind of bond with the child. My son would have what I couldn’t give him as a penniless student, and I could carry on with my medical career and at least not lose everything. Well, that’s what I thought anyway.”
“What happened?”
“The anaemia flared right up during my pregnancy and after my baby was born it got out of control, I got really sick. I lost too much time and couldn’t make it up, so I quit. End of story. End of career.”
“Not quite,” Lane said quietly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Not quite the end of your career. You said you were a herbalist. That must have taken a great deal of study and effort.”
Kat smiled and visibly relaxed, on safe ground discussing anything but the reason she was there. “The exams were a bitch. It felt like medical school all over again – and in a way, I had to prove myself more, not everyone understands that a herbalist isn’t a quack and it took a few years to build up the practice.”
“Well then, we’d better get you well again so that you can keep that practice of yours. What about your social life? Relationships?”
“If you’re asking if there’s a man in my life, then the answer is no. I … there hasn’t been anyone for several years now.”
Lane appeared to let it go. “Can we talk about the dreams now?” she ventured.
Kat remained silent. The only sound in the room was the quiet ticking of the beautifully ornate grandfather clock in the corner, and her sigh as she exhaled the unfamiliar blue smoke that was ripping into her throat. Only she saw the instant replay of the worst of the dreams, the one where she tore the flesh from the throat of a lover with her teeth; where she ripped and cut into his flesh in search of the crimson elixir, relishing the warmth and taste of the blood, drinking and sucking, becoming more and more sexually charged as she drank.
