As we left the building I veered away from Malcolm and slipped in between other members of the congregation who were shifting uncertainly about, not knowing what to do or what should happen next. At the foot of the steps a hearse was waiting, and the pall-bearers were closing its rear doors. Inside, the white wood of the coffin seemed to shine in the gloom of the day: threatening black rain-clouds were already massing, cutting out what little light there was.
From the middle of the crowd my eyes sought out Malcolm’s sturdy figure, and I saw him finally, on the other side of the flagged open space in front of the church doors, about twenty feet away. His head was bowed towards Eve, who stood already overshadowed by the tall priest – Father Vincent, presumably. I saw her raise her head, the blood-red birthmark stark against the pallor of her face, and I saw her hands come up like claws, and Malcolm backing away. Then, to my horror, she looked beyond Malcolm, her eyes wildly searching, and she saw me.
Until then there had been little sound – just the swoosh of the passing cars, the whistling of the wind, the muted talk of the mourners. But now there came from her stretched mouth the most horrible scream. Every head jerked up. Suddenly she broke away from Malcom and the priest and ran, her arms extended, towards me. Horrified, I backed away, but there was nowhere to go.
“Murderer! Bloody murderer!” she shrieked. “Butcher!” She slipped a little on the wet stone but regained her balance and hurtled forward until her outstretched hands were within inches of my face. I was unable to move, as if paralysed. People around me suddenly seemed to wake as if from a trance and on either side hands grabbed her. She struggled and writhed like a captive serpent, gasping and wailing. Then Father Vincent came lumbering up, panting, kilting up his cassock with one hand and taking hold of Eve with the other.
“Eve, Eve – no, don’t do this!” he pleaded. “You’re making things worse. Come now, come away; don’t do this to yourself.”
Suddenly she seemed to crumple, and the eldritch wail became heaving sobs, unbearably loud. People around me started to move away, their expressions baffled, horrified, or merely embarrassed, looking at me sideways as they went. Father Vincent put his arms round Eve’s shoulders and turned her away from me. He looked back, over his shoulder, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. “Perhaps it’s best if you leave now.”
I nodded and started down the steps, uncaring if Malcolm was following me. People parted and drew away from me as I made for the street. But Eve Rawlins hadn’t finished with me. As I hesitated at the kerb I heard her shout, “I’ll hound you, butcher! I’ll never let you rest! I’ll make you suffer, as you made me suffer!” Then her voice was suddenly muffled, and the crowd closed in behind me, cutting her off from my sight. There was a surge towards the street, and Malcolm appeared, his normally ruddy face pale with shock.
“Oh, Rachel,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I should never have asked you to come. I truly never thought –”
“Never mind,” I said grimly. “Let’s just get as far away from here as we can.”
There was a village we knew, off the road back to Malcolm’s, with a pub called the Flag and Whistle which had a huge log fire. I parked the car and we went in, saying nothing. Malcolm ordered at the bar and I found two deep armchairs where we sat in silence, staring into the flames.
Eventually Malcolm roused himself, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and picked up his drink from a wobbly little table at his elbow. He took a deep draught. “I can’t believe what we just witnessed,” he said.
I chewed my lip, gathering my whirling thoughts. “In all the time you’ve had dealings with them – Eve and Craig – did you ever suspect she might be mentally ill?”
His head came up. “Is that what you think?” he said sharply.
“It’s an explanation.”
“It explains nothing,” he shot back at me. “I always found Eve to be clear and logical. Yes, fiercely possessive and protective of her child, as any mother might be. But rational.”
I sipped my drink, feeling its warmth and bite as I swallowed. “So, what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m a surgeon, not a psychiatrist. Temporary insanity brought on by shock and grief?”
“So you imagine she’ll recover.”
He frowned. “Don’t you?”
“I have no idea.” I shook my head. “I hope she does come out of it, and soon. The look on her face… I was scared, Malcolm.”
“Of course you were. Have you ever had adverse reactions before?”
“Yes, I think most of us have, haven’t we? Irate or emotional patients and relatives taking out their feelings on us. But nothing like this. You have to admit – she was nothing short of deranged.”
“Hm.”
A large woman in a blue apron appeared. “Your meals are on the table in the alcove,” she said with a beaming smile. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Thank you,” Malcom said. “Give me a hand-up, Rachel, can you? It’s tricky getting out of this squashy chair with only one functioning arm.”
We followed the heady aromas of soup and warm bread to our table and were soon chewing and swallowing. I’d been feeling cold, despite the fire – cold and threadbare and vulnerable, but the effect of hot food was heartening. I finished my drink and wiped my mouth with the paper napkin.
“Malcolm, if you call this thing a ‘temporary insanity’… well, how temporary? Is she going to come after me? Some kind of bloody vendetta?”
Malcolm’s eyebrows rose. “I hardly think so.” He thought. “Perhaps I need to speak to Father Vincent. Obviously she needs some kind of psychological help – if she’ll accept it.”
“Meanwhile, where does that leave me?”
He leaned forward, pushing his empty plate aside. “Look, Rachel. You have to leave it behind. Behave as if nothing has happened. Otherwise you’ll go off your head as well. You did nothing wrong – you tried to save the lad’s life, and it didn’t work out. If we let every patient’s death floor us we’d be no use to the surviving ones.”
“I know that,” I said impatiently. “I’m sorry Craig died, of course. But I did my best, and my best is pretty good. I don’t blame myself any more than I blame you, or Father Vincent, or the Man in the Moon. My conscience, such as it is, is clear. It’s not Craig I’m worried about; it’s his crazy mother.”
***
I was busy, and time flew by. I had clinics and ward rounds and surgery, as well as reading and writing and teaching to do. Little by little the terror of Eve Rawlins flying at me like some clawed harpy faded into an uneasy background. Several days after the funeral Malcom rang me at home. “I spoke to Father Vincent,” he said. “He’s working on persuading Eve Rawlins to accept some kind of counselling. She hasn’t agreed yet, but he thinks she seems calmer. Try to put it behind you, Rachel.”
I went over to Beth and Jimmy’s for dinner one Sunday evening. Jimmy excused himself after doing the washing up. “Got this tricky section to write up,” he said. “You girls can do without me.” He kissed the top of Beth’s head and disappeared from the room, gathering up a pile of books as he went.
Beth and I sat opposite one another in her comfortably disordered lounge, mugs of coffee in our hands. Beth had commandeered the sofa, and half-lay with her legs tucked up beneath her, one hand unconsciously stroking her swollen belly.
“You’re very quiet, Rach,” she said. “Are you worried about something?”
I sighed. “Actually, I’m trying to put an incident out of my mind, because worrying won’t solve anything. But I’ll tell you, if you like.” I recounted the saga of Malcolm’s accident, Craig’s operation, his sudden death, and the events at his funeral. I tried to describe Eve Rawlins fairly, but she still came out of it like a creature from hell.
Beth’s eyes were round with horror. “Good grief, Rachel! That’s horrific! How can you concentrate on work?”
I shrugged. “Because I have to. Otherwis
e nobody on my list would get their operations done. Someone else might die unnecessarily. People would be in pain. I have to work.”
“Well, I get that…” Beth said. She grinned suddenly. “Surgeons have a reputation for being cool and focused to the point of inhuman, don’t they? It’s a caricature, but maybe not so far off the mark. You never cease to surprise me, Rachel.”
“In a good way, I hope,” I said.
“Maybe not always.” She burst out laughing, and I laughed too.
The next day was Monday, not a day I normally operate. It proved fruitful, though, as I spent part of it with students. I always felt energized being around those in whom I detected – or thought I did – that same obsessive hunger to shine that I’d had at that age – and hoped I still had, in some measure.
It was an especially foul day, wet and windy, and I’d taken the car to work. Usually I’d walk or run; it set me up for the day. But I didn’t want to arrive drenched and have to waste time changing my clothes. I left the hospital about six o’clock, and looked forward to a quiet evening in my warm (if rather bare) flat, with the chance to catch up on some paperwork. My car was parked against the wall of the Oncology Department, sheltered from the worst of the weather. As I approached, fishing my key out of my pocket, I frowned: something looked different, odd. There was something on the windscreen and over the bonnet, and the wing mirrors – something dark and clinging. I reached out and touched it. My hand came away sticky. Tentatively I sniffed it, and instantly recoiled. Blood. It took a second or two to process this, but when my brain caught up a wave of horror rippled through me, engulfing my body. I felt my face flush and my stomach sicken.
For a moment I stood there, swaying a little. I fought down the nausea and endured the hot sweat, and bit by bit I came back to myself. I let myself into the car and found a cloth in the glove compartment. I soaked it in a puddle and cleaned enough off to be able to see. Only then did it occur to me to look round the car park; but it was deserted, especially in this dark corner. I drove home, trying not to think, trying not to imagine a furtive figure with what? – a bowl of blood? a bag? – trying to persuade myself that it was some medical-student prank, knowing it was not. I parked outside my flat and let myself in, ran a washing-up bowl full of hot soapy water and scrubbed the sticky mess off my car. I was breathless when I’d finished, but although the car was clean I felt tainted, as if the blood was still clinging to my hands. Of course, I was used to blood: bright and fresh, gushing or oozing. But not like this – not used as a weapon.
Once the initial shock had passed a thought occurred to me: should I involve the police? But what are they going to say or do? I dismissed it, and a grim resolve that I would not be cowed rose up in me. I hadn’t come so far in my career to be derailed by a vengeful maniac. Even so I found my every sense, that long evening, to be on high alert. Every sound had me sitting upright, listening. I wondered if I would sleep. Eventually I did; and nothing happened.
Nothing, that is, until about a week later, when that sense of alertness had dulled, when all my focus was back on my work. I’d just finished in the theatre for the day; in the morning I’d done an operation which should have been routine but which had developed complications, demanding fast thinking and a certain creativity on my part, and making it a much longer job. Eventually I sent the patient off to ICU in good shape, anticipating a full recovery. I was tired, feeling the day’s efforts in the muscles of my shoulders and back, eager to get home and stand under a hot shower.
As I came down to the ground floor I was about to leave the building when a nurse at the desk called me over. “Ms Keyte! Someone left this for you.” She indicated a square brown-paper-wrapped parcel. It was labelled simply “Ms R. Keyte” in black felt-tip and felt heavy when I picked it up. This was unusual, and I frowned. Then, as I started to wonder, a shudder ran through me. Surely not again…?
“Who delivered this?” I asked the nurse. “Did you see? Was it a woman? When was it?”
“About half an hour ago, I guess,” she said, looking uncomfortable. “No, not a woman. It was a young lad, quite tall, wearing a grey jacket with a hood. Is something wrong?”
“No, no, it’s OK.” I forced myself to smile. “Thank you. Goodnight.”
I drove home with the package on the passenger seat beside me. Once indoors I opened it, using a pair of sharp scissors to cut away the paper wrapping. As soon as I uncovered the white cardboard box inside I caught the smell – the unmistakable smell of rot and dead flesh. A tell-tale dark ooze was leaking from one corner of the box. Gingerly, trying not to gag, I cut away the lid. Inside, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, was a heart, sitting in a puddle of congealed blood, and it stank.
Of course I’d seen hearts before – hundreds of them. But it was not the heart, or the blood, or even the foul smell, that sent me flying to the bathroom to puke. It was the hate that came with it.
Later, when I had calmed down and poured myself a stiff reviving drink, I identified the offending thing as a pig’s heart, easily sourced from any butcher in town. She – who else could it have been? – had left it to turn and rot before sending it to me. But there was no way I could trace it back to her. My enemy may have been crazy, but she was no fool.
I pondered what to do. I had to tell someone – this was unendurable. I rang Malcolm. I told him about the blood on my car, and now this repulsive parcel.
“It has to be her,” I said. “No one else that I know hates me this much. I can’t prove anything, of course. But what should I do?”
“Rachel, this is unbelievable,” Malcolm said. “What did you say that time? Something about a ‘bloody vendetta’? I brushed it off, didn’t I? Dear heaven. Let me think.” He was silent for a moment. “Look, the only thing I can think of at the moment is to contact Father Vincent. I know of no one else who can speak sense to Eve. I’ll phone him, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have anything to report.” He paused. “What about getting the police involved?”
“And say what? It’s too flimsy. No, I don’t want to go that route. Not till I absolutely have to.”
He sighed. “It’s your call.”
As it happened it was a few days before Malcolm phoned me. In the interim I’d tried my best to carry on as if nothing was amiss, but it was far from easy. That smell seemed forever lodged in my nostrils, and there were times when, uncharacteristically, I lost my focus. One or two of my more perceptive colleagues may have noticed, but fortunately no patient suffered from my moments of inattention.
Eventually Malcolm phoned. “I spoke to Father Vincent. He was appalled, of course, but also cautious. Wanted to defend Eve, I suppose. Though how he could be in doubt I don’t know, not after that display at the funeral. Anyway, he promised to speak to her. He’s just got back to me, and even he is rattled. Apparently he went round to her house and she refused to let him in – unheard-of, according to him. She kept the door on the chain and only spoke to him through the opening. He couldn’t see much, but he said the house was in darkness, and smelled airless and stale. Again, unheard-of – Eve Rawlins has always, to my knowledge, been very meticulous about hygiene, certainly while Craig was alive. They were both always spotlessly clean, if a little shabby. Anyway, she wouldn’t open the door. She was reluctant even to speak to him. When he told her why he’d come, she became hostile. Said she’d been unwell, hadn’t been out of the house since the funeral. He begged her to let him in, to let him help her. She said, ‘No one can help me. Just go away and don’t come back.’ And she shut the door in his face.”
I let my breath out. “What about those two friends of hers, the women who were with her at the funeral?”
“Ah, yes, I was coming to that. Father Vincent was at a loss, as you can imagine, and very worried. He went round to one of these ladies, and she said neither she nor her friend had seen Eve since the funeral. They’d tried to phone, but she’d never answered, and when one of them went to her house it seemed like there was no one in. They were on t
he point of contacting Father Vincent when he called.”
“Is there anything we can do, then?”
“I don’t know, Rachel. What if she’s telling the truth? Is there anyone else you can think of that might have it in for you?”
“No,” I said flatly. “It’s her, Malcolm. It has to be.”
I heard him sigh. “Let me think.” After a moment he said, “Look, my plaster comes off in a day or two. I won’t be able to be back at work just yet, but if I work hard at the physio it can’t be too long, and Sefton’s back now that his eyes are clear. Why don’t you take a break, go on holiday, visit friends? We can cover your list.”
I felt my old obstinacy rise then, and I was glad of it. Through the years of graft and struggle that tough core had served me well. “Not a chance,” I growled. “Thanks for the thought, but some old harpy with a grudge and a sense of the dramatic isn’t going to scare me away from my work with a repertoire of grisly parlour tricks. I’m staying.”
I’d bought my flat about a year ago; I thought it was time I stopped renting, and it looked like I’d be staying at Porton West hospital for the time being. The flat was nothing special, just a springboard to jump off from: one bedroom, a sitting room, bathroom, and kitchen on the ground floor of a low-rise building with easy parking. It was convenient and warm, but I had no sentimental attachment to it: it was just a place to store my books and lay my head and a step on the property ladder. Even so, when I came home one evening and saw what had been done to it, I was sickened. And frightened, and horrified, and finally incensed. My front door had been white, the bricks beside it a sort of honey colour. No longer. Across the door and the wall had been sprayed, in huge red letters, “MURDERER!”
Swallowing down nausea, I let myself in. I packed a bag and left it in the hall for a moment. Then I crossed the patch of grass to the flat next door and rang the bell. I didn’t really know my neighbours, but I knew a quiet, respectable elderly couple lived here. A small white-haired lady opened the door, still on a chain, and peered out cautiously.
The Healing Knife Page 4
