Soon

by Charlotte Grimshaw

  His consulting rooms. Clarice had an unflattering new haircut, cropped short and dyed. The back of her neck looked sore and chafed. She’d put on even more weight over the summer; loneliness, he thought, nights in front of the TV with the wine and potato chips.

  ‘Nice hairdo.’

  Red crept into her jowly cheeks and she looked so brave and triste he wanted to make some gesture, squeeze her arm, but that would never do, to show he felt sorry for her.

  ‘The Robinson woman called.’ She rolled her eyes. In her role as dragon and gatekeeper she enjoyed dealing with the few patients who were difficult. There was a tone she used with all the patients; it was borderline offensive and often irritated him. Her policy was to treat all as insane until proven rational.

  He’d referred the Robinson woman to a colleague, but she kept coming back, kept calling in tears. She believed that he loved her. Previously she’d believed that a local GP loved her, but he’d emigrated to Australia.

  ‘I saw her walk past the building yesterday. Twice. Slowly.’ Clarice dumped a pile of files on his desk.

  The clinic began. His first patient told him, ‘I had a breast cancer scare.’

  ‘Just a scare?’

  ‘I found one lump, the GP found another. I was terrified. They got me an urgent appointment for a mammogram. You know what I found out? That you really do wring your hands. I had to drive across town to have a scan and I was thinking this is it. Two lumps, I’m going to die. There was this nurse, she goes, “Do you want to read some literature about cancer?” I said, “No I do not, thank you very much.”’

  Simon, continuing his examination, said, ‘OK, give me a cough.’

  ‘So I go in, and the doctor finds eight lumps. Literally. I was having an absolute meltdown. But when they scanned them, they were all cysts.’

  ‘Ah, so no problem. Breathe in.’

  ‘They were fine. The funny thing is, I turned to the nurse, right, and there was something in her face. Disappointment. As if I was a big let-down. After that she was grumpy with me. Isn’t that strange?’

  Simon thought, There are things I could tell you about nurses. The few who liked to menace and bully. One trick was to tell patients they shouldn’t be in pain after an operation, to hint that something must be seriously wrong. You’d come in on your patient in tears because a malevolent nurse had made her beg for pain relief and then said, ‘You shouldn’t be asking for painkillers. You’d better ask your doctor exactly what he’s done.’

  He sent out for a sandwich, ate lunch in his office. Anxiety made him tired. This humidity. After weeks of cloudless blue, the sky had turned woolly grey. Lightning flared occasionally, thunder cracked far away, the clouds swirled and boiled but there was no rain, not yet, only hot mist. How brown the park had got, the grass positively scorched. It must have been a record summer. Was it global warming? The Hallwright government didn’t believe in climate change. They were hoping to boost the economy by mining fossil fuels, by drilling for oil in the Raukumara Basin. Caring about the environment was a luxury; that was what Ed Miles and the Cock said. Cue Ford and his whispered condemnations about short-sighted fools and locusts squandering all the good we have.

  What do you actually care about, Simon?

  Oh, fuck Ford. Fuck him.

  Across the way, in an upstairs window, the two small dogs, side by side, had their identical hairy white faces pressed up against the glass, moving slightly when something caught their eye, two uncanny masks, watching.

  He sat listening to a blonde woman.

  ‘Simon, my allergies also cause me to put on weight. I’m allergic to gluten and dairy, both of which cause me bloating.’

  ‘Ah. Bloating.’

  ‘I’m on the blood-group diet. My naturopath recommended it. She’s an amazing woman. Just amazing. I had no idea there was so much wrong with me until I found her. And I see a homeopath and an osteopath, and I’ve got onto crystal therapy.’

  ‘I see.’ He looked at his notes.

  ‘I take a lot of supplements. I have to, Simon. If I don’t, my immune system crashes. Even though I flush out my system constantly, I have a lot of toxic build-up. You’ve got to flush out the toxins, or it’s just crazy.’

  He said, ‘I’ll have to do a quick examination.’

  She continued, from the bed. ‘My daughter’s a Taurus, so she’s amazingly strong-willed. She’s had a lot of problems. What I found really useful was . . .’

  ‘Breathe in,’ he said.

  ‘St John’s wort, charcoal patches, a list of homeopathic remedies and a strict diet. Dukan. But she relies on the crystals. If she’s separated from the crystals it’s just crazy.’

  ‘And breathe out.’

  ‘Simon, I’ve realised that the thing about maintaining my immune system is . . .’

  He dipped his head and thought, Her body is a temple. Yeah, a beautiful temple, festooned with tributes to the Great Wedgie.

  Smiling, he said, ‘You can get up now.’

  She came around the curtain, pulling her bright blonde hair back into a ponytail. He said, ‘I’m going to recommend some minor surgery,’ and then sat there, gently nodding and smiling and repeating himself while she sternly put him through his paces, making sure he was as well qualified as the witch doctors and quacks and bullshit artists who presided over her everyday care.

  Two elderly patients followed, one sternly pragmatic, the next hor­rified by his intimate questions: a small, vulnerable woman, squeezing her hands drily together.

  Running late now, he ushered in the next woman, apologising for the wait. They knew each other: over the years he’d delivered her twins and another child. She sat down and said flatly, ‘You’ll see I got the GP to do all those tests for STDs.’

  He sifted through them.

  ‘I found out that my husband was having an affair. I was worried I might have caught something. It’s not because I was, you know, going round town catching things.’

  He said, polite, ‘The tests are all negative.’

  ‘Yes. I just had to explain.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She smiled and looked away. ‘The bastard.’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no. Sorry to hear that.’

  A bit later he said, ‘Just describe exactly where the pain is?’

  ‘He had an affair at work. I was furious with the woman. I wanted to hunt her down and kill her. But then I was lonely and hurt and stuck with three kids and no husband and what did I do? I fell in love with a married man. And when I thought about how that would hurt his wife, I didn’t care.’

  Simon knew what Ford would say to that: We’re all animals.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you. Well, I had to explain the STD tests.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Now when you say you’ve had this pain . . .’

  ‘I suppose you hear some weird things in here.’

  ‘Sometimes.’ He paused. She was looking upset. He touched her arm very lightly. ‘Not weird. Everyone’s pretty much the same, really. Everyone wants the same things.’

  She looked at him intently.

  ‘The pain?’ she said. ‘The pain is everywhere.’

  Afternoon, all patients dispatched, he was turning his mind to the drive back to Rotokauri. Just a few more days of the holiday left.

  The phone shrilled. Clarice said, ‘Someone to see you.’

  He was clearing his desk, gathering up his gear, keen to get off, beat the traffic on the bridge. ‘Not the Robinson woman?’

  ‘A detective.’

  He sat, winded, the silence a fraction too long. ‘A what?’

  ‘Detective.’

  He said hectically, ‘The Robinson woman’s killed someone.’

  Clarice let out a dry little chuckle. She’d be enjoying making the guy wait.

  ‘OK. Coming,’ he sa
id.

  It wasn’t a man.

  She said, ‘Hi Dr Lampton, or should that be Mister, since you’re a surgeon? My name’s Detective Marie Da Silva.’ She offered her hand, he shook.

  ‘And this is my colleague, Detective Philip O’Kelly. Show your ID, Philip.’

  O’Kelly was a young man with a long face and keen eyes. He produced his ID and the woman said, ‘Can we go in your office?’

  He ushered them in, shut the door, pointed to the chair, sat down behind his desk. The man sat down. The woman went to the window and looked out at the park, not obedient like a patient; patients did what you told them; you pointed to a chair, they sat. She was slim, dressed in a short jacket and trousers with a hint of combat about them, as if they’d have tools jinking from them, probably did: handcuffs, pepper spray, telescoped baton.

  Holding a big black notebook under one arm, she turned to face him. She had a sharp, pale face, slightly pointy teeth, freckles on the bridge of her nose and thick wiry hair so blonde it was almost white, the hair falling thickly to her shoulders but standing up on her crown in unruly gold-white strands that caught the light, a real mane, and there was something leonine, or at least feline, about the sloping contours of her cheeks and the strong, straight nose. Those wiry strands of hair standing up on her head made him think of a cloud of bright insects around her, a nimbus.

  Silence.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘You’re looking at my eyes.’

  ‘No. Well, since you mention it. One blue and one brown. That’s rare.’

  ‘So I’m told. Frequently. And yes, before you ask, they’re real.’

  ‘Heterochromia iridum.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got in the habit of mentioning it first. What happens is, people look at my eyes, and don’t actually look at me. They get distracted.’

  ‘Well. What can I do for you?’

  She had very small hands. He imagined twining his fingers in that bright hair. If he came near, she would probably punch his lights out.

  Cops. Could they tell what you were thinking?

  A pause. She had a little frown mark between her pale eyebrows. How old was she — say, twenty-eight? The same age Mereana was when she . . .

  ‘We’re investigating the death of Arthur Weeks.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Arthur Weeks. Do you know him? He’s fallen, he’s also possibly been hit by something, maybe a car.’

  ‘Hit and run?’

  ‘We’re not calling it that yet.’

  What else would you call it?

  She smiled, ‘We like to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Always good to have one of those.’ Oh, shut up, fool.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve noticed he’s called your cell phone a couple of times. We’re just wondering why he’d call an obstetrician and gynaecologist.’

  She laughed and he joined in. How funny, a man calling him, the women’s doctor. Yes, it was inexplicable, wasn’t it.

  Silence. Why had he not prepared for this?

  ‘He called your cell phone,’ she repeated.

  ‘My cell phone. Did he? I’ve just had to get a new phone actually. I jumped in the pool with the old one.’

  The little frown deepened. She leaned forward, her tone sharp. ‘You’ve just got a new phone.’

  He suddenly realised: they had the record from Weeks’s phone. There’d been no point getting rid of his. It just drew attention, made him look guilty. Destroying evidence.

  ‘I’ve upgraded to this new thing. An iPhone. The latest model apparently.’ He pushed it across the desk. His tongue had stopped working properly.

  ‘Why did Arthur Weeks call you?’

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t . . . Who is this Weeks?’

  ‘He’s a sort of journalist, film, arts person. Done a bit of work for TV, comedy shows. Young man, aged in his twenties, found dead outside his flat.’

  Simon paused, pretended to think. No, don’t scratch your head, ham actor. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He rang you.’

  ‘Maybe . . . I had a caller not long ago, probably a journalist, I can’t remember his name. He said he wanted to ask some questions, but the questions turned out to be about my family so I cut him off.’

  ‘Your family.’

  ‘I have an association with the Prime Minister. My adopted daughter . . .’

  ‘Yes. I know about that. OK, so assuming that was Weeks, he wanted to know what?’

  ‘I can’t remember. The caller asked me about being on holiday at the Hallwrights’ summer place and I realised he was just prying and I said, “Can’t help you, sorry”, and hung up. My wife and I do get questioned; we’ve learned to be a bit careful. There’s interest in our lives, in our younger daughter, because of the Hallwrights. She, our girl Elke, is Roza Hallwright’s . . .’

  ‘Weeks rang you twice.’

  He looked at the fine gold strands of hair at her temples. She shuffled pages in her big black book, checking something. Those eyes. One in a million, genetically. What had she said, that people looked at her eyes instead of looking at her. What did she mean? Surely she was her eyes. She must mean they looked without seeing beyond the colour, to what lay behind the blue and the brown.

  From the window across the car park the two white dogs were watching. Motionless white dogfaces. The male detective was content to sit in silence; he looked almost sleepy, watching from under half-closed lids.

  ‘Dr Lampton?’

  ‘Sorry. Twice? I can’t remember, but I would have done the same, cut him off. Journalists are a hazard, a minor one. When my wife goes out with Roza Hallwright they’re followed and photographed sometimes. Every now and then someone rings the house.’

  His confidence rose. It sounded convincing, and it was true after all. She’d stopped frowning.

  ‘Weeks wasn’t that kind of journalist.’

  ‘What was he then?’

  ‘He had a mix of interests. He did have a preoccupation with politicians.’

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘He rang you twice, and then you rang him.’

  ‘I rang him? That’s not possible.’

  ‘You did.’

  His stomach let out an embarrassing, audible groan. ‘I suppose he left a message, or I saw I’d missed a call. I have to be available for emergencies. I would have assumed it was a patient trying to get hold of me.’

  She made a note, left-handed, her wrist awkwardly bent. She would have backwards-slanting handwriting.

  ‘You say you jumped in a pool with your phone?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. It’s the kind of thing I do all the time. Just ask my secretary.’

  He laughed; she laughed along then her smile dropped and her lip curled. He was taken aback, almost hurt. She didn’t believe him. Or were police trained to unnerve you like that, to lull you then suddenly show their teeth?

  Clarice might have seen Weeks standing on the road outside the office. There might be CCTV in the surrounding streets. How thorough was the feline Ms Da Silva?

  ‘When did you jump in the pool with the phone?’ She had her notebook open, pen poised. She clicked and clicked impatiently. Her biro was much chewed at the end. Claire. She glared, not unlike his elder daughter: aggressive, impatient.

  ‘I don’t know. A few days ago. I can’t remember.’

  She was staring at his eyes now.

  He pushed his chair back. ‘I was contacted by a journalist. I cut him off. It happens every now and then. I go through cell phones like there’s no tomorrow. Are we finished? Because I’m about to drive back to Rotokauri, and I want to beat the traffic.’

  There was a slight shift in atmosphere. She hesitated. Yes, it was worth a try. Think of Claire; it’s possible to put her off with a show of male anger. Be authoritative. Mention Rotokauri, the Prime Minister’s summer residence. S
he’s all very diverting with her golden mane and her rare eyes, but you’re a busy man. Things to do. The PM’s waiting. Why, in an hour, in fact, I’ll be having drinks with Mr Ed Miles, the Minister of Police. Your boss, Detective Da Silva.

  She said, ‘Do you know a Mereana Kostas?’

  He went hot then cold. He felt his smile, the reptilian rictus. His voice, when he got it working, was faintly scandalised, as though she’d made some truly obscene crack. He could feel the male detective watching him. His stillness and silence were unnerving.

  ‘Kostas. Is that another journalist?’

  She was deadpan, no light in her eyes, delicate hands flat on the notebook. She had uneven, bitten fingernails. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Silence.

  He said, ‘So . . . ?’

  She chewed the nail of her index finger and appeared to consider. ‘Well, Weeks had a list in his flat. Like a to-do list, the kind of thing you stick on the fridge. Reminders. At the end it says, ‘Simon Lampton-forward-slash-Mereana Kostas.’

  ‘Forward-slash.’

  ‘A forward-slash suggests a link, don’t you think?’

  He blinked. ‘I guess two people he intended to ring. Or whatever.’

  ‘You don’t know that name?’

  ‘No.’ He added, ‘Do you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Maybe. Had they found Mereana?

  He said, ‘Why don’t you ask this person, Costas did you call him?’ (Actually, no. Don’t find Mereana, don’t look for her, don’t talk to her.)

  No answer. The man coughed and brushed something off his trouser leg. She slapped her hands on her knees and stood up and again Simon heard, or imagined, the jink of concealed weaponry as she rose. Her smile was sardonic. The fine golden hair: it was an eighties’ hairstyle, short on top, long at the sides, think Rod Stewart, think Aslan . . . yes, he really was losing his mind, interrogated by a detective and all he could do was silently prattle. Aslan, indeed.

  They left, he shut the door. He had a vague sense there’d been something positive in the end of the conversation. Was it . . . yes, it could be that she’d told him about the list with his and Mereana’s names on it. Wouldn’t she have withheld that detail if she thought he was significant? She’s used to dealing with criminals; it wouldn’t occur to her that a respectable doctor could be involved in a suspicious death. Weeks was interested in the Hallwrights, which perfectly explained the two short calls. She hadn’t mentioned anyone seeing him at Weeks’s. If someone had seen him there they’d have dragged him off to the police station for a full interrogation. It was a routine inquiry, he’d never hear from her or her colleague again.