The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  “Very pretty isn’t it, like you,” an elderly Chinese lady came out of the shop. Sophie had to concentrate to understand her thick accent. Sophie blushed at the compliment even if it was just to charm her into buying something. The lady’s eyes disappeared when she smiled and her cheeks were round, causing her wrinkles to deepen. A long braid of white hair hung down her back and she was hunched over in the shoulders.

  “Yes it’s very pretty,” Sophie said, agreeing.

  “It will look nice on you, with your daark hair and daark eyes,” she spoke slowly finding the English words.

  “I don’t think so,” she said and walked away, leaving the little woman frowning at her back.

  She was hoping he would come here tonight. His dossier said that he frequented the restaurants in Chinatown; fortunate for her he had an urge for Asian food. This was her first night of stalking him. Sometimes it took several times to find the opportunity but she was lucky. She stood outside the restaurant waiting for him to come out, it could be minutes it could be an hour.

  Boisterous laughing from inside diverted her attention. Standing in the doorway she watched a family talking and laughing. Three generations enjoying each other’s company with children running around playing and giggling. Each one reached into various dishes with their chopsticks, sharing food and memories.

  Sophie allowed herself the luxury of being jealous of their family ties. Hers were broken and the best thing that could have happened to her but lingering animosity and bad blood loomed just beneath the surface. Only very early memories of her mother before her stepfather came into the picture were the only times she remembered seeing her mother happy. Normality and familial love were missing from her life once she married Sophie’s stepfather but she was alive and away from them now and that was as good as it got.

  She stood shaking, the January night had penetrated her coat and gloves. A middle aged woman in the group of loved ones was waving Sophie in, smiling and welcoming, others joined in. Sophie smiled and raised her hand hesitantly to wave back to them when a young man brushed past her and was instantly embraced by the group. Obviously he had been away for a while. They hugged him, excited to see him, a student from the look of him, backpack slung over one shoulder. Indeed, the greeting not for her. She laughed at her own silliness.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him meander out carrying a bag of takeaway under his arm and his briefcase in the opposite hand. It was easier when there was something in their hands, she found that when people carried things in their hands it made it easier to aim and he had forgotten his gloves, even better. People didn’t swing their arms when they were carrying something important or precious, be it a briefcase or dinner. He paused looking up the street and she confirmed his identity for sure.

  She followed him towards Gerrard Place and rounded the corner, only a few steps behind him. Quickly and quietly she closed the gap between them. Taking a glance around to see if anyone else lingered on the street, she hated to do it when there wasn’t a crowd, it was easier to hide in numbers but at least it was dark and cold and she really wanted to get this over with. It had been too long now that she had put it off due to winter’s frigid temperatures.

  She reached into her pocket and slipped the cover off the needle with her thumb. Watching his hand, she fell in step with the rhythm of the back and forth motion with each step he took, mimicking him. Holding the needle out she crouched, aimed and jabbed, he cried out and grabbed his hand, dropping the food and briefcase. Sophie quickly jumped into a doorway.

  Normally she would have walked away, far away from her victim, blending into a crowd but she dared not move yet. Heart racing, she tried to think of a million lies if she was discovered. Breathing in and out slowly trying to steady her nerves, she heard him mumble and groan. His footsteps echoed, walking away, occasionally stumbling and then righting himself until his footsteps faded completely. Waiting, she saw other people walk past on the opposite side of the street, their lack of reaction proved it was clear.

  Cautiously, she peaked around the corner just far enough to see the only evidence of him left on the street was his dinner, sitting in the white bag, stained from spillage abandoned on the sidewalk, getting cold. Relaxing, she picked up the bag and doubled back towards Chinatown bypassing all the shops, restaurants, and people and turned onto the darker Warder Street.

  The smell of the food caused her stomach to growl, clutching it to her chest, the heat from it warming her skin. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate, was it this morning or this afternoon?

  Sophie meandered to Charing Cross station bypassing Trafalgar Square to catch the tube for home. It was getting late. She clutched the food wondering if there was anything salvageable of the meal.

  Sophie didn’t see the girl at first; she was hunched below the first set of steps into the station attempting to get some warmth from the inside. A homeless girl in her twenties, dirty and dishevelled stood in front of Sophie with a ripped paper cup. Her nose was running, sniffling and shivering from the cold, her face smudged, and hair matted under a knitted hat. In that girl, Sophie saw herself a few years ago.

  Sophie handed the girl the bag. “Here’s some food.” The girl smiled revealing yellow teeth but did not offer any words of thanks, taking the bag and huddling back in her corner. Sophie could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance before she descended into the station, blocking out the street level noises. The train approached as soon as she did, crowded with people, not like that night, the three of them and only the three of them.

  Abandoning the idea of a hot meal, Sophie went home on the other side of the Thames to Waterloo. She opened a tin of spaghetti rings and ate half of it out of the can, wondering how long it will take for the money to go into her account and maybe splurging on a book or two.

  Chapter 4: Mariella

  “She came from downstairs this morning, Dr. Reece,” Camille said handing Oliver the chart before entering the room. He studied its contents, flipping pages back and forth. Cancer of the liver. Then he saw the name, Mariella Hannigan, who now, was a ward under his care.

  Camille was whispering to him but he didn’t realize she was speaking; rubbing his chin in contemplation while concentrating on what he was reading.

  “Hmm, what did you say?” he asked softly, as not to disturb Mrs Hannigan, flipping the chart closed again.

  “I said, it don’t look good for her,” Camille whispered, her Caribbean accent mingling with the British. “She’s refused treatment or to tell us names of any family or friends to call for her. We haven’t been able to find anyone, no acquaintances; just a neighbour who found her in her flat a few days ago and now we have her but they left no name or number. Rumour has it, the neighbour asked for you by name.”

  “Oh? But no one knew who it was,” his eyebrows rose in curiosity, “Probably just a rumour then. They thought it would be funny downstairs probably.”

  Camille sighed, “I hate it, the ones who are alone in this world,” she said, fidgeting with the cross that hung around her neck.

  Oliver put his arm around her shoulders, “She’s not alone; she’s with us. We can do what we can to make her comfortable,” giving her a little squeeze and letting go. “Let me talk to her, maybe I can get something out of her,” he said smiling and winking at Camille.

  “Good luck, but you might be overestimating the power of your charms,” she smiled brightly at him, “I’ll pray for her, she’s in God’s hands now. Maybe if she had someone with her she could find the will to get better enough to start treatment and hang on a little longer,” with that proclamation, she walked out of the room.

  “It’s not charm, just pretty good powers of persuasion,” he mumbled it more to himself.

  Oliver watched Camille walk out the door, her skin was creamy tan; her curvaceous body evident even under scrubs. He had been attracted to her before but her faith was too strong for affairs and she always brushed off his advances despite that, they shared a passion for
caring for patients and worked well together.

  A moan from the bed made him realize he was still staring out the door; he came back to the present, and went to the bedside. Mariella’s skin was yellowed and eyes sunken in. Only forty eight, years of alcohol and smoking had taken its toll on the insides and the outside as well, her illness only emphasizing it.

  Deep seated wrinkles became more apparent by her gaunt cheeks. She probably had not eaten well maybe months, maybe years. A patient with no friends and no family was rare no matter how sick or down trodden they were. Everyone had someone even if they hovered outside the door unable to come to terms at the state of their loved one.

  Oliver sat in the chair beside her and slid the palm of his hand under hers. Not really holding it but letting it rest lightly there. The polished nails looked out of place on the bony hand, the polish chipped.

  He was lost in thought again, staring at the hand in his, when he looked at her face again; her eyes were wide open. The whites yellowed and blood shot. They had already “dried her out” upstairs before he got her, a recovering alcoholic now, by force.

  “Hello, Mrs Hannigan. I’m Dr. Reece but you can call me Oliver, if you wish. Do you know where you are,” he asked leaning over her now using the light to check her pupils and other vitals.

  She tried to sit up but he motioned for her to rest easy with a gentle hand on her shoulder but she did what she wanted anyway, managing to slide up about half way and he lifted her carefully to move the pillows behind her, propping her up.

  “Hospital, still,” she choked out and cleared her throat. “Call me Mary, I hate my bloody first name and my last name is my ex-husband’s.” She allowed him to assist her. “You’re attracted to her, aren’t you?” Nodding towards the door, her hand gripped Oliver’s arm, indicating she wanted him to stop fussing over her. He smiled, she wasn’t done yet.

  “She’s a good person, a good nurse. She will take good care of you as will I,” he moved a wisp of hair away from her eyes.

  “But,” she enquired, Oliver took her meaning.

  “But she’s a devout Catholic,” he busied himself with little things like adjusting the blankets and the corners of the sheet.

  “So, a shag is out of the question,” she didn’t wait for confirmation. “I remember being a devout Catholic, even when I figured out with confession I could get absolution for any misdeed, and I have done many. And then I realized it was a con. You pay in this lifetime for what you’ve done.”

  “You don’t believe in God then?” Oliver sat down again waiting for the opportunity to discuss the matter at hand.

  “Why should I? Unless he’s a right wanker who made my life a ruin, then yes I believe in him. That’s why I took up drinking when the people I loved…poof,” her hand brushed the air, “gone. Thought it would have done me in completely by now, I wasn’t strong enough to kill myself the quick way. I thought I would pass out into a drunken stupor and not have to wake again to my dreary existence any longer.”

  Ignoring her reference to death he said, “Things can be different for you, you’re not done yet if you get some help, you can maintain for a while with a decent quality of life, if you try.”

  Mary scoffed, “You want that more than me,” she confirmed sarcastically. “If I had the strength, I would go home and drink until I couldn’t hold onto a bottle anymore. Why preserve me, for what Doctor Oliver, for what?”

  Oliver poured water from a pitcher beside the bed and tipped it towards her lips, cradling her head. Instead, she took the cup from him and sipped it. She grimaced, “Anything stronger?”

  “I’m afraid those days are over,” he informed her, with a stern tone, “Drink the water, it’s good for you,” he smiled and then frowned in concern. It’s difficult to help someone who doesn’t want it. It’s the most frustrating thing he has to face as a physician.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” Sitting back in the chair he crossed one leg over the other, his fingertips together, elbows rested on the arms of the chair, he looked at her, ready for a heart to heart chat.

  “My liver has given up and so have I but somehow we manage to linger between this existence and the next, hoping for extinction,” she stated bluntly and then sighed, staring out the window at the lights outside. “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she took a gulp of the water and scowled. “Might as well be the end if I don’t get a decent drink, it’s been the only thing sustaining me.”

  “It’s the thing that’s killing you,” Oliver stated flatly.

  “It should have been me that died years ago when……,” defiance was replaced by sadness and she looked at Oliver, embarrassed at the show of emotion. “Do you know what I did when I found out?” She didn’t give Oliver a chance to reply before answering, “Drank a bottle of the most expensive wine I could find. It was the nectar of Dionysus, the God of wine, the life of the grape coursing through my veins.” She started sinking into the pillows, her face twisted in pain. He wasn’t sure if she was finished with her prose but he noticed the contortion on her face.

  “I’ll get you something for the pain,” pressing the button for Camille and sending her to bring him something before Mariella answered. Camille entered and Oliver gave her orders, returning with his request.

  “Some vodka would be nice,” she settled down under the covers as he introduced the medicine into her feed.

  He chuckled, “Nice try. Why have you refused treatment?”

  “How is the treatment any better than drinking? It’s all poison isn’t it? At least the alcohol tastes better.”

  “Good question and maybe I’ll have an answer for you later but for now just rest.” Oliver put a hand on her shoulder and patted it. Her eyes were slowly opening and closing, fighting to stay awake.

  He started to walk away when she held his hand in place with hers and turned her head towards him. “My daughter won’t want to see me, I think, but Marcus,” before letting go she asked, “Have you ever done something so terrible that you’re convinced you’re in hell while you’re alive therefore, it can’t exist after you die and heaven won’t let you in?” she said, then mumbling, “Life is the limbo, heaven unreachable, from here or there, I have walked the fine line between,” and fell asleep.

  So it was guilt that weighed heavy on her, something that she thought was so terrible it led her to drink away memories of damaged relationships and now she had no one unless maybe he could find out about this daughter or Marcus.

  Chapter 5: Alley of Confrontation and Revelation

  “Any change,” a gruff voice brought her back to the present and Sophie found herself down the dim lit alley she had called home for a while. The cold life after the darkness of her mother’s house, full of people shivering against the walls, huddled around a barrel fire for warmth, covered in their tarps and cardboard, their breath poured thick from their mouths.

  One minute she was walking towards the station and somehow drifted here. She was used to it by now. This was the way it was, absent mindedly drifting through life. Once she was headed to the library, on the train towards Euston station to return some books and landed in a pub eating chips in Kensington. It was the benefit, she supposed, of having no schedule and doing what she wanted, when she wanted.

  Perhaps seeing the girl she had given the dead man’s dinner to had triggered something in her, reminding her of the life or lack of it she had living rough before the day her first envelope appeared, changing her life. Or sometimes she came on the days that guilt started to creep in or the memories of her home life dominated her thoughts and she needed to forget again.

  The familiar smell of filth and damp filled her nostrils. “Sure.” Thankful this wasn’t the life she had any longer, she reached into her pocket and pulled out all the change she had and put it into his palm covered in a ratty glove with the fingers cut off revealing dirty nails. It was hard to see his face but what she could make out in the shadow and the smudges was a man not much older than she was, lips chappe
d, covered in a few days of stubble, and his nose hooked and extremely bent to one side broken at least once. He trembled from the cold or an addiction or both.

  “How about that coat, too,” a heavy smell of sweat wafted from him when he stepped closer to her. It was the first time she had felt her safety threatened standing in the middle of this alley. Either end seemed so far away.

  He was too close to her now, advancing on her, invading her personal space. She stepped back into a wall. Lightly she replied, “You can’t have my coat but here,” she slid the scarf off of her neck and handed it to him. He snatched it from her hands and sniffed it deeply instead of putting it on, more interested in the scent than the warmth it would provide. While he held it up to his face, she took the opportunity to get away.

  Sliding sideways against the wall, her eyes were fixed on him until she was free to run for it. Dropping the scarf, he followed her. For every step she took, he advanced quickly on her, his strides longer.

  There was nothing to be said, nothing to do but try to get away. Sophie analysed the distance to the street, confident that she could make it and once in the street she would be safe. Sirens sounded very close, they passed by making his words hard for her to hear but she understood, the shine of a blade came into view when she glanced back to see how close he was. He grabbed her arm. She broke away, sprinting. The adrenaline pushing her faster than she knew she could go.

  The sound of their running footsteps echoed. His hand tugged her coat at the nape of her neck, nearly pulling Sophie off her feet. The tug pulled her hair with the coat, she winced. Shifting her shoulders, the coat slipped off of them easily. She had no choice but to let the coat go to escape. Once her left arm was clear, he pulled straight back on the coat, causing her to be jerked backwards and she felt the piercing pain in her side and cried out. The warm blood quickly cooled as it trickled out. The thought of blood made her feel sick above and beyond the pain but she had to get away. No one offered help, only turning away or watching.