The Beauty of the End

by Debbie Howells

  “That happens sometimes,” the nurse says. “If we’re following up on the patient experience, that sort of thing.”

  I nod slowly. “Okay. Well, these were handed over before any treatment was carried out—questions about educational background, occupation, income.” Watching her closely.

  She looks puzzled. “But what would that have to do with anything?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought.” My brain is whirring faster.

  “Do you know which hospitals?”

  “St. George’s, in north London. And here. The Princess Royal.”

  “You’re sure?.” Her horrified look reflects the churning feeling in my gut. “And you said this was before any treatment was carried out?”

  I nod. “The only other thing I have is a list of specialists’ names.” Luisa hesitates. “Mr. Farrington . . .” She sounds uncertain. “Is he on your list?”

  I’m frowning. “Why d’you ask? I mean he is, but what about him?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not sure why, exactly, but there’s something about him I don’t trust.” She glances over her shoulder, suddenly anxious. “I shouldn’t have said that—it’s probably nothing. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Of course not.” Hastening to reassure her, curious to know why she’s said this. But there’s something else I have to ask first.

  “One more thing . . . Have you heard of the Fairview Medical Centre? It’s where these questionnaires get sent to.”

  She shakes her head. “I haven’t.” Then she leans forward. “But I have a friend who’s a nurse in neonatal. If you get the names to me, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Our voices have dropped to a whisper as I type Luisa’s mobile number into my phone, hoping my gut is right and I can trust her. Feeling in the silence between us, it’s tangible: Hope.

  39

  With hope comes renewed urgency. As I let myself into the B&B, almost as if she’s been waiting for me, my landlady appears.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Calaway?” Ryder’s visit has made her twitchy.

  “Fine, thank you.” Brushing past her without explanation, I go to my room, lock the door, and text my list of specialists’ names to Luisa.

  I’ve a growing sense that what April has found could be bigger than I’d suspected, but I’m no clearer as to where Norton’s murder fits into all this.

  Then I start to google the parents April met with, some of whom are high profile, their backgrounds available for the world to see. I find work addresses, jobs, for a few of them, even schools; discover a whole new use for social media. The Internet makes what would once have been days of work effortless. Not that I find everyone, but discovering enough that the delicate trace of what I’ve glimpsed so far slowly gains substance.

  But I need to be sure. After snatching up my keys, I’m running back out to my car, a list of addresses in my hand, the darkest of suspicions in my head, and for the next two or three hours, I drive around, checking out each and every one of them. Only when I pull up at the roadside outside the last do I know with certainty I’m on to something.

  Out of the babies who died, with the exception of one who was stillborn, all the families’ addresses are modest, low-value homes, the Magnolia Ways. The virtual presence of these families is nonexistent. I stare at the facts, black and white in front of me, suddenly chilled, because the inference of the reverse is terrifying.

  I’m wondering if April had got this far. Had she discovered that the unnatural selection of the newborns for treatment was based on some form of social hierarchy? If she knew her clients, I’m guessing she at least must have had an idea.

  I need to check out Fairview Medical Centre—if necessary, drive there. Then I glance at my watch, because I still haven’t heard from Luisa. Anxious, too, about April, I turn my car round and drive back to the hospital.

  I go straight to the room April’s been moved to, stand at the window, watch her. As always, there’s a police constable sitting quietly, away from April’s bed. I feel myself lulled into stillness by the mechanical rhythm of her breathing that drifts out through the cracked door. And I don’t know where the suggestion creeps in from, but suddenly I realize that this is no life. To just lie, unable to move, unable to speak. Would she have wanted this?

  I’m sure I know what her answer would be. Then across the room, Luisa comes in, catching my eye as she attends to another patient. When she’s finished, her eyes gesture to me to follow her.

  Out in the corridor, away from everyone, she glances around before she speaks. “I spoke to my friend. I didn’t tell her your name or why you’d asked, just that you were carrying out some research about the distribution of specialists. Who worked where, how many hospitals each of them worked in. Then I asked her if they all worked here. She said they did.”

  She breaks off, momentarily anxious.

  Knowing there’s more, wondering what she’s not telling me, I watch her eyes widen as she looks behind me, but when I turn, there are only footsteps disappearing in the direction of April’s room.

  “It’s him,” she whispers, fear written on her face. “They’re all part of his team.”

  I frown, wondering who she’s talking about. Together we walk back along the corridor and catch the back view of him looking through the window at April. Then as he hears our footsteps, slowly he turns toward us and sees us both watching him.

  Luisa melts away and I’m filled with uneasiness as Will strides toward me.

  “Noah. Good to see you. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  And I realize I have, the ghost of a monster who thinks he can manipulate lives.

  “It’s been quite a day,” I tell him, not yet ready to tell him why. “Maybe you can tell me how it’s looking, really, for April.”

  Needing him to believe, a little longer, that I’m still holding on to the blackened, burned-down stub of my candle for her.

  Even here, in this most fragile part of ICU, it’s there in his eyes—that I amuse him. Like the families of the newborns he makes life and death decisions for, I’m being manipulated, too.

  Slow motion, more silent questions fill my head, only they’re about the moral substance of the man who can do this. About others Will might be manipulating.

  “Ryder’s been on my back,” I add. “The man has it all wrong.”

  Will’s look is cold. “As you said to me, the truth will come out.”

  It’s a double bluff, a standoff. A shiver runs down my spine as, unflinching, I stand my ground.

  “I’ve no doubt whatsoever it will.”

  I turn and walk away, leaving him standing there. My unease growing with every step, because I know him well enough. If Will thinks that I know too much, that I’m a threat, then I’m not safe.

  * * *

  As I make my way back to my B&B, I’m recounting all the times I’ve seen Will in April’s room, considering a new, hideous possibility. If April was on to Will, he won’t want her to recover. Far easier for him if she were to die. No one will query the renowned surgeon. Once in her room, he could do anything.

  Back inside, the door locked behind me, I call Bea, but she doesn’t answer. It’s the worst possible time for her not to be there. Feeling time slipping away from me, I leave a message.

  Bea? Listen. I was right. April had found something. I need to talk to you urgently. Please call me back as soon as you can.

  Then I can do no more, just wait.

  Ella

  Who’s the person who loves you unconditionally, would do absolutely anything for you, whom you should always be able to rely on?

  Your mother, right?

  “I don’t feel well,” I tell my mother. “My head really hurts.”

  “Really, honey? Take some ibuprofen and have a lie down.” Barely looking up from typing on her phone. “I have to get ready to go out but I’ll pop in and see you before I go.”

  My mother’s minutes are variable, can be an eye blink or long,
drawn-out hours. Today it’s the latter, or maybe she forgets. I think I sleep, while clouds cover the sun and the air grows heavy, so that when I awake, I can’t breathe. Then I see the moths.

  They’re there, everywhere, on the walls, the ceiling, my bed. So beautiful . . . A huge pale cream moth finds my hand, flexing soft wings, then launches into the air and I remember.

  I climb out of bed, but when I stumble, it’s not my mother who comes.

  “Ella? Are you all right, little one?” Gabriela bursts through the door, her face anxious as she strokes my forehead, then helps me onto my bed. Dimly I register I got it wrong. My parents don’t employ her as our housekeeper; she’s paid to love me. “Por dios! What is this?”

  Waving her arms, she disturbs the moths, so that the air is full of them.

  “Don’t hurt them,” I cry. “You mustn’t. Leave them. Please . . .”

  It’s the panic in my voice. Makes her forget the moths, turn to me.

  “I’m hurting,” I tell her, drawing up my knees, pushing my face into my pillow. “It really hurts, Gabriela.”

  “Hush,” she soothes. Takes one of my hands, holds it gently, strokes it. The first drops of rain when I crave a deluge, but no less welcome, as wild, selfish, hateful words erupt from deep inside and won’t stop

  “Why is she like that?” I cry. “Why isn’t she here? Doesn’t she care?”

  Not waiting for her to answer.

  “Why does she lie, Gabriela? Why does everybody lie?!” I’m sobbing louder now, but I can’t help it. “Where’s my mother?”

  “She had to go out, little one. She has a meeting to go to. In London—remember? But it’s okay, you’ll be okay.... I’m here. . . .”

  “But it’s not okay—nothing is. . . .”

  My raw, agonizing cry, an animal sound of fear and loss and hurt and betrayal, as I try to stand, because I have to get away from here, only the room is spinning and my legs won’t work.

  “Help . . .” I’m pleading with Gabriela. “Please, help me. . . .”

  But she’s frightened, her eyes full of uncertainty. Has no idea what to do.

  Then I remember. And with the memory comes strength. Enough for my legs to make it across the room, while the moths find the open window. And I find my phone.

  40

  Suddenly I’m caught in a race. Between Will going to Ryder, as I know he will, with a fabricated story containing enough half-truths to satisfy them both and implicate me; and Bea, wherever she is, picking up her messages and calling me. A race against time itself.

  But with a flash of insight, I know Ryder won’t call me; instead he’ll come here, flaunting his status in front of the same people who watched me openly defy him, because he gets a buzz out of it. Quickly I gather up the files and notes, slip them into a bag, grab my wallet and keys, then, as an afterthought, a hoody.

  On impulse, I glance out the window just as his car pulls up. Panic surges through me; then I slip out, quietly closing the door. Halfway down the stairs, I freeze in someone else’s doorway, out of sight, as my landlady shows him up two floors to my room. Two floors that I’ve cursed traipsing up and down, but am now so grateful for, as seeing my chance and hurrying down the rest of the stairs, I slip out.

  Here, again, I’m grateful. For the anonymity that the bustle of people offers, that in seconds I’m lost among the throng of rush hour. I picture Ryder in my room, furious, searching through my possessions, carelessly, angrily discarding them, as I walk, realizing that all along I was right. At the heart of all of this is Will.

  I find a nondescript café by the station, where I wait, increasingly tense, for Bea to call. Another hour passes. It’s after seven when, at last, the screen of my phone lights up.

  “I got your message,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I’ve only just got out of work.”

  I try to sound jovial. “Working you hard, aren’t they? Where’s your job?”

  “I’m a receptionist—thanks to April really. It was she who suggested I apply. And it’s fine, there’s just a lot I need to learn at this stage.” Her tone changes. “Your call, earlier on, Noah. It sounded serious. What is it?”

  “April was definitely on to something. Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you meet me?”

  There’s a pause. “In Tonbridge?”

  “Would you?”

  She pauses again.

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “Okay. Yes. I’ll be there. Where?”

  “If you park in the station car park, I’ll wait for you.”

  “This sounds very secretive. . . .” There’s curiosity in her voice.

  “It isn’t meant to be. How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “About an hour.”

  * * *

  After fifty minutes have passed, I get up and go outside, watching for the familiar shape of her Golf to swing into the car park, hang back in the shadows as I hear a distant siren.

  She pulls in, five minutes late, bright, apologetic. “Sorry I’m late. The traffic was terrible. . . .” She kisses me on the cheek.

  “Thanks for coming, Bea. Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  We sit at a table in the corner.

  “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” Bea looks worried.

  I sigh. “I’ll try. Most of April’s clients were pregnant, only their babies were sick. Most had a type of heart defect, which these days should have been curable. Anyway, she started recording mortality rates. Over time, I think she started to question why around here, specifically at the Princess Royal, so many babies were dying.”

  Bea looks shocked. “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  I nod. “All the babies were under the same team of specialists.” I pause. “It was Will’s team, Bea. And I’ve got so far with this, but I’m missing something. Something that links this to Norton. I’ve no idea what.”

  Bea shakes her head, struggling to take everything in. “You’re wrong, Noah. You have to be.”

  “I’m not,” I tell her. “Here’s the thing. Will’s team was selecting the babies they treated.”

  “They would, though, wouldn’t they? I mean, if it was hopeless.. . .” I can see where she’s going with this, but her voice trails off.

  “They weren’t using medical criteria to select them,” I tell her. “I’ll tell you what they were using. Parents’ jobs and incomes. The families from the poshest backgrounds. Social class, Bea. Will’s no better than Hitler.”

  Her face is ashen. “Oh my God . . .”

  In her drawn-out silence, the stricken look in her eyes, I feel time running out, as I see that Will’s got to her, too. It was in her throwaway comment about being late, her Judas kiss, her conviction I’m wrong.

  “When’s he coming?” My voice rises. I reach across the table, grab her arms. “Bea . . . How could you do this?”

  “He told me that you killed Norton.” Her voice is tiny and very afraid. “That you’d never got over losing April. Never got over what Norton did to her. That all the time, for as long we’ve known you, you’ve lied about everything.” Then her voice steadies and she looks at me, deadly serious. “Think about it, Noah. Like that day you ran into her in London. You were still a student. You must have known April was pregnant. It was obvious. And you pretended you didn’t. She couldn’t believe it.”

  But I’ve no idea what she’s talking about. “Bea, you’re wrong. We were going to be married. If something like that had happened, she would have told me . . .” I break off, frowning at her.

  “God, Noah . . . Even you couldn’t have been that naïve. Think back. You were in London. You’d come up from university for the weekend, to go to some law lectures somewhere.... You must have known.”

  The light dawns in her eyes. “Or were you drinking? Even then? When you were a student?”

  “I didn’t . . . I don’t drink, Bea. Not in that way.”

  But Bea shakes her head, sorrowful. Then I’m staring at her
, a sickening feeling in my stomach as a fleeting memory comes to me. I’d been in London and as chance would have it I had, as Bea put it, run into April. At the time, I’d registered nothing, but on a subconscious level, had I known?

  “Bea . . .” I pause, trying to do the math in my head. “Oh God, Bea . . .”

  Our eyes meet, mine in horror, hers in disbelief, as behind her I see the unmistakable figure of Ryder enter the café.

  “Bea, I swear I didn’t know. You have to believe me. . . .” Imploring her, because she’s all I have.

  Leaning toward her, I lower my voice. “Will’s a monster, Bea. He manipulates people. He’s manipulating all of this.”

  I watch disbelief give way to uncertainty.

  “Bea, you have to listen. Fairview Medical Centre,” I tell her urgently. “It’s all here. If you have any doubts about Will, check it out.”

  “My bag,” I mutter as Ryder draws closer. “Please. Take it. Read what’s in it—if not for me, for April. If you still don’t believe me, you can give it to Ryder.”

  I stand up, watching her eyes darting, untrusting, uncertain as Ryder looms behind her. His look is pure malevolence. As he starts talking, I know that this time he has something on me.

  “Noah Calaway, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Bryan Norton. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  I shoot Bea a last glance of desperation, as he escorts me out.

  * * *

  Ryder drives in cold, superior silence. At the police station, after the usual formalities, the custody sergeant shows me into a small room, filled with the stale air of cigarette smoke and unheard truths, as all the reasons I fell out of love with the criminal justice system come flooding back. How the small man in the street lacks a voice. That you are guilty, until somehow proven innocent.

  I’m expecting to be left alone because there is a system; know it’s only a matter of time before Ryder’s back.