The Poison Morality

by Stacey Kathleen

  “No, Sophie we should,” he turned and she was already gone, “Sophie! Damn it! Sophie!” He had no choice, he couldn’t linger there, the house was completely engulfed now, he didn’t see what direction she went and she could have gone anywhere so he did the only thing he could do, go back to his flat and wait, sirens in the distance.

  Chapter 38: Oliver Searches for Sophie

  Arriving outside Sophie’s flat completely out of breath, his head pounding; Oliver paused at the door left gaping. Quietly he chastised her in his head for leaving it open as was her habit when she was frazzled but also relieved that she was here. Oliver took the first real breath since she disappeared from the house, he feared for her when she never showed at his flat. The door creaked as he gently pushed it open and called to her but no sounds other than his breathing could be heard. Dread filled his heart, was she gone or worse dead?

  Cautiously, he proceeded in, fearful of what he might find. Emptiness greeted him, not just the emptiness of the flat but she had been there and she was gone, run away. There was a familiarity about this scene, similar to when he had followed her from the gallery but this time she had managed her escape.

  It felt like his heart plummeted to his feet. Why did she leave him? Was it fear of him? Fear of something so bad she thought she could never see him again? Admittedly the appearance of Sydney and all the answers she revealed was somewhat of a shock but Oliver killed for her, the man that, as Sydney put it, broke her apart. Sydney fooled him, seduced him, and brought him so that Sophie could finish him once and for all but it was Oliver who pulled the trigger because of his love for Sophie and this is how she repays him?

  Clothes hangers were strewn about, closet doors wide open, items knocked over, and the bathroom light left on. Quickly he grabbed the key on the table by the door and went to the flat next door, securely locked. All her paintings and drawings were still there. Sighing, he laughed to himself in relief, thinking she will come back for them. It was a naïve thought because this was Sophie. She never felt her talent good enough to hold value to it. She was not as attached to those paintings as he wished she was.

  Locking the door behind him, he dropped the key on the table with a clang; he shuffled back to the bedroom, the weight of his despair made it hard to lift his feet to walk. The bed was cold as he sank down on the side of it the tears welling up in his eyes when he realized she was truly gone. His mind raced, thinking where she could be, mentally retracing steps they had taken together but she ran away from him, those would probably be the last places she would go.

  His elbows on his thighs, he dropped his face in his hands, weeping into them, shoulders shaking from the force of his sobbing. The tears trickled down his cheeks, lingered on his chin and fell away; just like the bitterness he was feeling. Events replayed in his mind; the appearance of Sydney, pulling the trigger and killing Declan for what he had done to Sophie, Sydney, and yes, Mariella, but worst of all Sophie’s disappearance. It was too much, too much to comprehend, too much to feel, too much pain, it was overwhelming. It was a pain he had not felt since his mother passed away albeit by his own hand.

  Weeping was a temporary solace and would not bring her back but the events of the night brought every strong emotion pouring out. He stood staring out the window, wiping his face with his hands. London looked eternal from here. A small city centre but seeming huge when looking for the one person he wanted to find, harder still, who did not want to be found and with the other half of her, Sydney who remained hidden for years and knew how to stay lost even in her own mind.

  One thing was for sure, he knew she wouldn’t leave London alone but what about Sydney? He should be surprised or horrified by the discovery of the other personality but in reality, the missing pieces of Sophie’s life were lived by Sydney and together they were a whole. So much was revealed this night, it boggled the mind and poor Sophie in the middle of all of it, in the heart of the city all alone, leaving him all alone.

  Oliver curled up on the bed, clutching her pillow. The smell of her still lingered on the linens and he breathed deeply, taking her in, breathed deeply until his mind stopped racing, breathed deeply until his body was too weary, breathed deeply until his sobbing subsided and he fell into a fitful sleep. Events repeated themselves in his subconscious, occasionally waking him and immediately he drifted back to sleep.

  The streetlight shone in the window indicating it was evening, woke him. Feeling bruised and abandoned, he shuffled to the loo and then grabbed his coat going out again into the city. The busy streets of London: the cars, the buses, people clamouring around in their daily lives were muffled. The colours of the lights of Piccadilly Circus were dulled by his numbness. He threw money to the cabby without waiting for change and went upstairs to his flat, showering and changing and going back out to the hospital. Afterwards, he went out looking for her.

  Day after day, he couldn’t hear the music; he couldn’t taste the food that is, when he could choke anything down. During his time off he spent the days looking for her and the nights waiting at the flat, waiting for the sound of her footsteps. Every time he heard the rattle of the rail, he waited by the door, ready to greet her but it wasn’t her. He daydreamed of her arrival, her smile when she saw him, the feel of her skin, and to hold her again was a yearning. Every time he came back he looked for signs of her presence, each time finding none.

  Over the next few weeks he slowly moved contents of his flat into hers as he needed them spending more and more time there than his own. Having eaten a few bites of take away that might have well been sawdust, cleaned up, and accepting his fatigue, he gave in to it. Hugging her pillow, his scent now replaced hers but he held onto it anyway, pretending it was her. Listing all the places in his mind that he would look helped to him fall easily to sleep.

  Chapter 39: Into the Cold Hard Ground

  Sophie stood under a tree. A gentle breeze blew through the leaves and chirping of spring’s birds gave a pleasant atmosphere to the otherwise dismal scene. Dressed in her typical black, she blended in with the mourners but she wasn’t there for Declan, she was there as the final connection between her past and future was severed, to see Declan go into the cold hard ground.

  The droning of prayers from the preacher’s monotone voice did little to drown out the sobs of, who Sophie assumed, was Declan’s wife. Either she was a very good actress or she really loved him, actually feeling the loss of the man Sophie hated. She would be more curious about it except the teenage girl with the strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes, stood like a stone, rolling her eyes at her mother, was more interesting.

  The occasional glance at her mother showed the girl’s contempt for her and a flash of anger at the coffin and she told her own story but Sophie was the only one in the congregation that understood, a story that Sophie knew. The girl looked up and spotted Sophie; both staring unwaveringly at the other for what seemed several minutes but in actuality was probably only seconds.

  Breathing deeply from the warm breeze that swept across the cemetery, Sophie slid the sunglasses on top of her head and nodded slightly acknowledging the girl but she looked down at her feet, shifting her weight nervously.

  Once the rites were completed and the dirt thrown, Declan’s forgiven soul supposedly rose up to heaven. The crowd dispersed except for the girl, depositing her mother into someone else’s caring arms, and walked straight over to Sophie. Sophie’s first instinct was to walk away but her feet were firmly planted to the ground.

  As she got closer, Sophie saw that she could be no more than fifteen years old but her eyes mirrored the experiences making her seem much older than her teenage years. She had a sharp, narrow nose and freckles dotted her peaches and cream complexion. Extending her hand she introduced herself. “My name is Marjorie but people call me Margie, what’s yours?”

  “Sophie.” One shake of the hand and Sophie dropped it unceremoniously.

  “Did you know Declan,” Margie asked, sliding a finger down the side of her face
, catching the strands of hair that blew across her face and tucking them behind her ear exposing a “love mark”. Sophie’s attention was immediately drawn to it.

  “I did, same way you did I expect,” Sophie said pointing to the girl’s bruise. Margie placed her hand over it. “Was Declan your father or….,” Sophie paused, waiting for Margie to fill in the gap with the correct answer.

  “No,” she exclaimed abruptly, “God no. I hated him,” she said with contempt, folding her arms protectively around her middle. “He was my mother’s husband. Stupid mare, she thought Declan walked on water. She never saw him for the creep he really was.”

  “Did he…,” she paused again, nodding towards the bruise and the girl looked confused and then horrified.

  “Oh that’s disgusting, are you mad,” throwing her arms down to her sides like she was preparing to run. “He did look at me funny a few times, now that I think about it, and he touched my hair a couple of times but this,” she indicated by pulling the locks around her neck to hide it, “was Nigel,” she smiled brightly with a faraway look in her eyes.

  Sophie smiled back at her, relieved that Oliver was the reason Margie would be spared Declan’s advances or possibly worse and the ignorance of a mother, well probably not the ignorant mother. They both turned when Margie’s mother let out another wail and Margie responded with an exasperated sigh and shook her head. “I just can’t fake the tears, you know what I mean?”

  Sophie did know what she meant but thoughts of Oliver diverted her attention and remembering the rush of tears she wept on his shoulder.

  “Is Nigel your boyfriend?” Sophie looked around for a bench suddenly not feeling well and sat down, Margie following her.

  “Yes, he is so sweet and thoughtful, the complete opposite of Declan. How did you know him?”

  “He was my stepdad many years ago. I ran away because of him… and my mother.” Sophie looked past the girl to the mother, a crumpled heap in the arms of another man. She had someone to pick up the pieces, much like Oliver.

  “Margie,” her mother called for her in the distance.

  “I have to go help my mum,” Margie jumped up off the bench but paused, “Does that make us some kind of step sisters?”

  “Maybe,” Sophie couldn’t help but smile, opening her purse, she wrote her number on the back of receipt she didn’t recognize and handed it to Margie. “I hope everything is better for you now that he’s gone,” Sophie mumbled under her breath.

  “Whatcha mean,” Margie looked confused and there was a lack of comprehension on her part and Sophie was glad of it.

  “Nothing, I don’t mean a thing. It was a pleasure meeting you, Margie. Do what you like with my number,” Sophie started to stand but felt a little dizzy so she remained where she was.

  “And you,” Margie jogged up the hill yelling to her mother. Sophie watched her walk away, full of hope, full of love already and she envied her.

  Margie’s happiness was justification enough for Declan’s death. Oliver was the one who killed Declan, Margie’s and Sophie’s happiness was Oliver’s doing and she wanted to run to him, to tell him what happened today but she couldn’t. The thought of his rejection made her queasy again, she disappeared before he had the chance.

  Oliver, she missed him so much that there was physical pain in her body. She felt exhausted all of a sudden. Once Margie was over the hill, Sophie went back to the car and told the driver to take her home.

  She had abandoned her flat and her paintings that, at the time, seemed like just a hobby but once she left them, she missed them too. Home was now a nicer flat in Lisson Grove, nearer her favourite park but without Oliver it didn’t seem as nice as the one she left.

  Chapter 40: Jacki’s Accusation and Sydney’s Revelation

  After weeks or more, he wasn’t sure, of fruitless searching he meandered towards the hospital noticing the commotion outside where a great crowd was gathering. Several police cars were there. There was yelling and struggling. He didn’t care to know what it was about, he pushed through the crowd and the police stopped him, he had to show his badge to get through and then he heard the voice, “It was him! Not me, it was him! He does it all the time, I tell you!”

  The perpetual pressure in his head of late, turned into a throbbing when he heard Jacki shouting. He turned; she was nodding towards him, unable to point him out because of the cuffs. She was fighting for her freedom in vain. Oliver just stared at her, the wrinkle between his eyes deepened and his brows drew together. They didn’t seem to give any regard to her accusations or indeed who she was accusing.

  Camille, hustled to him, pulling him by the arm hurriedly and he allowed her to drag him beyond the crowd of nurses and doctors to the lift. Not saying a word until the doors closed and she pressed the button for the third floor. She was agitated, nervous, mumbling half prayers, and crossing herself.

  “What,” he started to ask but she motioned her finger side to side at him, shaking her head no so he closed his mouth.

  When the lift doors opened, it was quite normal compared to the commotion downstairs. Camille led him to Mariella’s room where it was obvious that she was dead. He had never done it. He asked her, and she refused to give him an affirmative and no matter how many times he put the needle in her feed tube, he could not push the plunger.

  It was more than her lack of consent that made him hesitant but after what she did to Sophie, he wanted her to linger, miserable, in pain. And now that he knew the whole truth, he felt better about that decision.

  Camille closed the door. “Oh, Doctor,” she was fretting, unable to speak.

  “It’s alright Camille,” he put an arm around her, having never seen Camille truly shaken. Camille, like him, saw death all the time, why would she be so upset about Mariella of all people, “in your own time,” he encouraged but the truth was he just didn’t care or curious enough to know what bothered her so but she deserved a better friend. He didn’t think he could take another hysterical woman in his life right now, especially Camille who was an oak, strong and true.

  He stared a long time at Mariella’s pasty skin, the protruding bones, sunken eyes while Camille closed her eyes, breathing steadily in through her nose and out through her mouth to calm down. After she composed herself she looked up at him, taking his hands in hers, squeezing them.

  “It was Jacki, she was caught,” she tried to whisper but the agitation and unrest made her voice high pitched and her homeland accent thicker than ever, “she was caught giving Mrs Hannigan, oh Lord,” she was shaking.

  “Jacki was caught doing what, Camille,” he said gripping her arms gently, her moving around making him skittish.

  “She injected her with a large dose of something, but it’s unknown what yet until the tox screen comes back,” she said, ringing her hands. “The new nurse, the girl, um…Marcie, saw her and alerted the doctor on duty. She said you do it all the time; that a lot of your patients die because you give them fatal injections.”

  Oliver looked over at Mariella. So, Jacki did know about his secret. Dirty little secret, she called it but he believed in what he said, it wasn’t dirty. She wanted to do the same thing, her motivation not at all like his. That was her problem. She wanted to do it, to be like him, to have power over him so she could use it against him or was that her idea of setting him up? But unlike Oliver, she was caught and the way she treated him in front of the staff, she could say what she liked about him and no one would believe her. Besides he used Morphine, a drug they were already on and he was not the one trapped by her or anyone else.

  “Are you upset Camille because you think I am or because you think there’s some validation to Jacki’s accusations?”

  “Of course, I don’t,” she was hurt and offended. “It’s just, upsetting to find out someone would do such a thing, that’s all. I know you were fond of her,” she said.

  His head jerked to face Camille, incredulously and he stood up straight, “What, Jacki?”

  “No, Mrs Hannigan,
” she said looking at the bed, “I know you were fond of her,” she repeated, her hands cupped his elbows, letting him know that he could release her now.

  Oliver looked at Mariella, dropping his hands and standing upright again, “Yes, I was fond of her at one time. She gave me some good advice. Turns out, she never used it.”

  “Are you alright Doctor, can I get you anything,” she noticed his saddened bearing of late, his un-kept state, and his usual pleasant countenance was overshadowed by whatever was going on with him. She suspected a broken heart but she wouldn’t ask, believing that Mariella’s death at the hands of Jacki was just another blow to him.

  He didn’t answer. Because what he wanted to say was no, I’m not alright and yes, bring Sophie back to me but it was pointless to say no and prompt more questions that don’t have answers or lie and say yes.

  Camille, watched his reaction, he was already so doleful that his expression didn’t change much, she said, “I just can’t believe she would do that. She wasn’t pleasant but I can’t imagine she could do it.”

  “I just can’t believe she was so daft. She knew better,” his voice became harsh. Camille was slightly surprised, she had never heard him use that tone. “Did she say why she did it?” Oliver shook his head in disbelief curious to know how much of her motive had to do with him.

  “They haven’t questioned her yet.”

  “If you hear anything else, will you let me know? Keep me in the loop?”

  “Absolutely doctor. Are you sure you’re alright?” He sighed; he didn’t even try to hide the wretched misery he felt, trying to smile but could not. Camille could be his confidant, his counsellor, maybe even help him sort out his feelings but he knew she would just give him some kind of religious jargon and he didn’t want to hear it.

  Instead of ignoring her a second time, he answered, “No, I lost someone dear to me,” he looked down into her dark eyes filled with concern for him, “and it wasn’t Mariella.” He kissed her forehead, thankful that someone here looked out for his well-being and walked past her out the door.