He mopped my face with a tissue. It was getting to be a habit. “You’re still suffering from shock,” he said. “So far you’ve scornfully refused any psychiatric input. Perhaps you should rethink that. Counselling isn’t feeble – it’s potentially restorative. I assume that’s what you want – to be restored. Isn’t it? That’s what we all want for you.”
“Maybe one day. Not now,” I said fiercely. “I’ll just talk to you.” My eyes flew open. “That’s if you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind,” he said, “but I’m a plastic surgeon, not a counsellor. I can listen to you as a friend, that’s all.”
“Perfect.” I closed my eyes again, feeling suddenly exhausted.
“Do you want to tell me about these dreams of yours?”
“Boringly predictable, I’m sure. Even for an amateur shrink like you.”
“Try me.”
“No, they’re mostly about my dad. Of no interest to anyone except me.”
“All right, Rachel. You look as if you need to get some sleep. I’ll come by again tomorrow and check on your face. And maybe we could have a chat about your dad. Sounds like he could be at the bottom of your problems.”
“I don’t have any problems,” I said sleepily. “Apart from murderous maniacs with birthmarks.” And my dad did nothing wrong, apart from die too soon.
On Saturday morning Josie arrived, brisk and bustling. She eyed me with professional scrutiny. “I have to say,” she announced, “you don’t look that good, Rachel. Are you eating?”
“I have to be fed,” I said. Even to my own ears I sounded peevish. “Obviously, since I can’t use my hands. The nurses make sure I take in some form of nutritious slop. They don’t want me to starve on their watch. But I am not keen.”
“You have to eat to build up your strength. You are too pale.”
I glowered at her. If my black looks were designed to frighten her away, they were not working. “You may have noticed,” I said with elaborate sarcasm, “that when it comes to digestion, what goes in must also come out. I am not in any hurry to be wheeled to the bathroom and attended to like an infant.”
She sighed loudly and shook her head. “Well, I don’t see any way round that, I’m afraid. I just popped by to let you know your orthoses will be ready some time next week. Unfortunately for you there’s a long Bank Holiday coming up – with the extra day on Tuesday.”
“Oh, is there?” I said vaguely.
“It’s the Queen’s Jubilee,” Josie said, her eyes wide at my ignorance.
“So it is.”
“Anyway, once we’ve got you used to them you’ll be able to do a bit more for yourself.”
“Thank you,” I said grudgingly.
I was left alone with my thoughts, and they were hard to bear, because they were impossible to ignore. Where was Rob? I tried not to feel hurt, but apart from the flowers I’d had no word from him.
After lunch I must have dozed, because I was awoken by a tap on the door. The little dark-haired nurse called Stella put her head round. “Visitor for you, Rachel. Are you decent?”
“Very funny,” I said sleepily. “As if there’s any chance I might be dancing round the room naked. Yes, send him in.”
But it wasn’t Rob that came cautiously into the room. At first I didn’t recognize him: the last time I’d seen him he’d been in priestly garb – cassock, surplice, and something round his neck that I didn’t know the term for. Now he wore a crumpled and dusty blue suit over a black clerical shirt complete with dog collar. He paused in the doorway, a tall, stooped figure leaning on a stick.
“Oh!”
“May I come in?” he said.
“Father Vincent, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you.” I didn’t try to mask my surprise. He said nothing. “Well, since you’re here, pull up a chair.” I heard the sound of my own voice – hard, mutinous, as if I were a sulky child again.
He lumbered across the room, picked up the chair that had been left by the window, and pulled it closer to my bedside. He lowered himself into it with a grimace of pain. “Of course you’re surprised,” he said, “and I have no expectation of welcome. But I come as a messenger.”
“From her?”
“From Eve, yes. She begged me to come.”
“Why? What can she possibly have to say to me that I would want to hear? According to the policeman who interviewed me, she didn’t actually plan to murder me – just damage me. As you can see, she has succeeded in that.” I could feel my fury rise, threatening to choke my voice.
“I know; I see what she has done,” Father Vincent said. “I am appalled – anyone would be. But the fact is, so is she. Now she sees the result of her actions, and she’s absolutely horrified.”
“Oh, really?” I grated. “How does that help me?” I lifted my pink-splinted hands a few inches off the sheet, wincing. “See these? I might never work again. How does that help anybody?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t, I know. But she asked me to come, and so I have, even though it’s a long way and these days I don’t travel well. She knows it’s totally inadequate, but she wants you to know she is sorry.”
“Ha! Sorry? She’s sorry? What about the weeks of planning, the stalking, that must have gone into this? Not to mention the things she did, or got someone to do, before I left Porton! The blood, the pig’s heart, the graffiti on my door? And she’s sorry?”
“Please, Ms Keyte, I beg you; hear me out. As I said, I’ve come a long way. She said she lost her reason when she lost Craig. She saw you as a callous murdering monster that failed to care for her son. Of course everyone knows that’s crazy. You did your best, I have no doubt of that. She said she seemed to be in another universe, where you had to be hurt – you had to share her pain. But then as soon as she saw your blood it was as if she suddenly woke up and saw the reality of what she’d done.” I said nothing. “You know she’s been referred for psychiatric tests?” I nodded. “Now she seems absolutely normal. Just as she always was, except that she is anguished, racked with guilt. When I went to see her, she said, ‘I want to be found fit to plead. I should be punished. I should go to prison. It’s what I deserve.’ She is in another hell, Ms Keyte – one of her own making.”
“Do you expect me to feel sorry for her?”
He sighed. “I expect nothing at all. I came only to deliver her message – of sorrow and contrition. I know her, Ms Keyte. I believe she is honest in this. I don’t suppose you are interested in my opinion. But if you could, one day, forgive her, it would be better for you as well.”
“Oh, please!” I said. “Spare me the saintly truisms. She’s ruined my life and hers. Why should I care?” He did not answer, simply sat with head bowed. “I guess you’re going to tell me she had a deprived childhood, or something. Or could it be that horrible birthmark that’s messed up her life?”
He spoke quietly. “I don’t think there was much wrong with her childhood, as you suggest. But yes, in many ways her life has been hard, and the birthmark hasn’t helped. But all that is beside the point. For months she thought of you as a kind of demon. Now she knows how wrong, how mad, she has been, and she doesn’t want you to think of her in that way, even after what she has done.” He struggled to his feet. “I won’t bother you any more, Ms Keyte. I understand your anger and bitterness, of course I do. But please, think. If you let it, it will burn you up. That, more than anything, will be what ruins your life, even if your wounds heal – as I truly hope they will.” He inclined his head. “I’ll go now. We’re praying for you at St Joseph’s, as well as for her. Goodbye, Ms Keyte.”
My thoughts were in disarray, and I had no time to process them. Father Vincent had been gone no more than ten minutes when with the merest of knocks my door flew open. Fleetingly I registered the hum of voices from the main ward where visiting was still going on, and then at last Rob came flying across the room and flung himself into the chair that Father Vincent had vacated. He was all motion and colour, and I felt a wave of sheer
joy, as if he had brought the sun with him.
He looked at me aghast, his mouth agape. “Oh, Rachel, darling! What has that madwoman done to you? You poor thing!” Unable to grab onto any part of me that was visible and not likely to hurt, he leaned over and planted a kiss on my forehead, very gently.
“Hello, Rob,” I murmured. “Where have you been?”
“I’m so sorry; I wanted to come sooner, really I did, but it’s been… well, it’s been a difficult week.”
“You’re here now. Thanks for the flowers – they were beautiful, even though I only got to see them for a moment: hospital rules, fear of infection, etcetera.”
“Yes, I think I saw them in a vase on a table in the corridor,” Rob said. “They’re fully out now.” He fell silent, gazing at me with those wide blue eyes, and to my dismay I detected the shine of unshed tears.
“Rob, are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“No – yes – something is, and I don’t know how to tell you.” He gulped. “Oh, Rachel! I’m sorry, so sorry; it’s all gone to pieces! All I wanted was you, and I would have gone on asking till you said yes just to shut me up, but now I can’t have you, and it’s such lousy timing, just when you need me, I feel such an utter –”
“Hey, slow down! What are you talking about?” I spoke lightly, but there was something in his manner, something wild and unlike the Rob I knew, that was sending a cold wash down my spine.
He took a deep breath and wiped his face with his palms. “You remember I told you about Sammy – the girl I was with before you came to Brant? She called me, said we needed to talk. Said it was important.” He swallowed and looked away. “Rachel, she’s… Sammy’s pregnant.”
I swore under my breath – I, who rarely swear. My heart seemed to be lurching out of rhythm, though I knew this was hardly likely. “So,” I said coolly, “it’s yours, is it, this child?”
He looked at me then, startled. “Of course! Why would she tell me if it was someone else’s?”
“Because you’re a bit soft?”
“No, no, that’s not right,” Rob said, his voice rising. “Sammy’s not a liar; she’s a good person. It’s definitely mine, and anyway the dates fit. She’s waited this long, wondering what to do, but now she’s fifteen weeks and you can see the bump. Rachel, don’t you see? Whatever my plans were, I can’t just abandon her and the baby. I have to do what’s right. I have to go back to her. You do understand, don’t you? It’s not what I would have chosen, but it’s my responsibility.”
“So what did this Sammy actually want?” I spoke coldly.
“She didn’t want anything. She wasn’t asking for anything from me. She just thought I should know – that I had a right to know.”
I felt a vast weariness descend on me. What could I say? I had turned him down a dozen times, and I had seen it all as play. I sighed deeply. “Of course I understand,” I said dully. “You have to follow your conscience. I’m sure you’ll make a good dad. I wish you well, all three of you.”
He stood up and stared down at me, chewing his lip. “It would almost be better if you screamed at me,” he said softly. “I know I’ve let you down, Rachel, and I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am – for me as well as you.” He tried to smile. “I’ll come back tomorrow, see how you are.”
I lifted my hand from the sheet, winced at the pain, and let it fall. “No, Rob. Please don’t. I’ll be out of here next week, and there’s really no point, is there? Clean break time.”
“Are you sure?” A tear leaked from his eye, and for a moment I did feel pity.
“Yes, it’s better. You haven’t really done anything wrong, if I’m honest. Except be a bit careless.”
He nodded and heaved a sigh. “Yeah. Well, I’m getting my comeuppance.” He gazed at me earnestly. “I hope you get better quickly. I’ll see you around the place.”
“Sure. Good luck, Rob.”
I asked the nurse on the night shift to open the curtains at my window. I couldn’t see out – my bed was the wrong way round – but the light of a moon almost at the full washed into the room, and I could imagine it sailing in a cloudless inky sky, casting its enigmatic borrowed light across the face of the earth. Often, when our father took us camping as children, if the night was fine we would sleep out under such a sky and wake damp with dew. I remembered those nights, and on this night I wished – foolishly, for what use are wishes? – that the intervening years might disappear and take me back to an unchanging past. Until his illness and death I had never dreamed of disaster.
That long night I lay awake, thinking about him, and asking those questions that are both useless and dangerous: What am I for? Who cares? My damaged hands lay on the sheet, throbbing and sore and stiff in their splints, a testimony to my vanished hope. I knew I was being melodramatic, but the circumstances of my life seemed to warrant it. Would I ever be able to operate again? Maybe, but at what level of risk? Would I ever recover that dexterity and confident dash I was known for? Probably not. And without the work to which I had wholeheartedly given myself for almost twenty years, who was I? What could I offer? I had nothing, or so it seemed – no work, no future, a reputation that could not be maintained, ambition that could bear no fruit, no realistic goals to strive for. I had no husband, no lover, no child. I had nothing. I was nobody.
I felt myself slipping and sliding down something like a mineshaft – the walls of which were glassy-smooth, without handhold or traction – towards a depth that was dark, fathomless, warm, comfortable, a cosy form of death; and I offered no resistance. Coolly I thought of the opportunities for self-destruction available to someone with medical training and plenty of leisure, and this thought kept me going. It bore at least some resemblance to control.
Towards morning I must have slept, because I remembered a dream of drowning. I had been bound hand and foot and thrown – who by, I had no idea – into a swimming pool, and the only time I could breathe was when, briefly, I bobbed to the surface, and in that all-too-short moment before sinking again I had to choose whether to breathe or to scream. I woke abruptly to a thin early light and a cool wind ruffling my curtains, and to the sound of a rattling trolley in the corridor. I was sweating and sick with dread.
A smiling black face appeared round my door. “You ready for a cuppa, my love?” she whispered. “It’s a bit early, but I thought you might be awake.”
“Thanks,” I croaked. “Black coffee, please.” As she turned back to her trolley, I smiled to myself, a hollow, bleak little smile. In the midst of tragedy there’s often farce, as now – my suicidal thoughts interrupted by a bustling tea-maker; and I recognized my dream for what it was, a loud-hail from a more robust part of myself, a part that would never have countenanced drowning in self-pity.
Nevertheless, I needed to think: what could the future hold for me? Even if I worked relentlessly at my exercises, even if my scars faded and my hands could be used, what then? My life, without the work I loved, was purposeless and empty; I had allowed it to become so and I had no means of knowing if I’d get it back.
That Sunday morning had its high points. A nurse took me to the bathroom, and with my arms wrapped up in plastic to the elbows I stood under water that many would have found too hot, and wallowed till my skin turned pink. Then I allowed my hair to be washed. Normally a shower is just something you do every day for the sake of basic hygiene, but this, after days in bed, was a slice of heaven, even if I got back into bed exhausted.
The same nurse brushed my hair into a semblance of order. “Does that feel better?” she said kindly.
“Infinitely,” I replied. “I feel like a regular member of society, not something rescued from the jungle after forty years.”
“You’re funny,” the nurse said as she stood up, pulling my hairs from the brush. “Not too long now till lunch time.” She gave a wry grin. “Something else to look forward to.”
“Now who’s funny?” I said.
I wasn’t at all interested in lunch, or any oth
er meal, but at least it broke up the day, and I was beginning, reluctantly, to get used to someone spooning food into my mouth. Sunday lunch might once have conjured up visions of roasted meat and crisp potatoes, but not here, not now. Maybe one day. However that Sunday lunchtime dished up a surprise.
I heard the trolley, and voices, back and forth, and I frowned: one of the voices was familiar and didn’t belong to any of my known nurses. I heard a burst of laughter, and the door opened a crack.
“Hey, Rachel. Can I come in?”
“Jasper! Of course, yes. I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I’m almost not.” He came in carefully, and I saw he was carrying a tray. “But I asked if I could be your slave – do you mind?”
“What – you’re going to feed me?”
“I won’t if you hate the idea.”
“I hate the idea of being fed, but you can do it if you like.” I couldn’t be bothered to argue, and I knew he was trying to be kind. “How did you persuade the powers-that-be?”
He sat in the chair by my bedside. “That’s not difficult. Relatives help with meals all the time. And the nurses know me, because of Dad.” He lifted the lid from my plate. “Hm, this looks… interesting. You ready?”
“I suppose. But why are you still here?”
He loaded the spoon and put it into my open mouth. “How’s that?”
“Oh, absolutely first class,” I said sarcastically. “Go on, tell me all your latest.”
“We’re on our way back to London,” Jasper said, loading and reloading the spoon and feeding me with surprising delicacy and skill. “Half term is over, and I have to say it wasn’t much fun – more or less all revision. We only went swimming once, and Dad even took Dulcie out so I could work. I guess I have to, though.” He sighed and wiped gravy off my chin. “I’m even going to have to work on a Bank Holiday when the entire nation is off work and having fun.”
“When’s your first exam?”
“Thursday. History.”
The Healing Knife Page 12
