by Julie Corbin
A bell has sounded again and this time the girls are heading towards the dining room for tea. I stay still in my seat, far enough away from them not to be drawing attention to myself. I make out Arielle and Becca towards the back of the queue and Portia at the front. I can’t see any sign of Tess and wonder whether she’s still off school. It’s clear from her visit to me in the surgery, and from what O’Reilly said about talking to her, that she’s been badly affected by how much she knows. Or doesn’t know. Because it’s possible that, apart from seeing Kirsty/Emily in the pub that night, she has nothing to do with this. Yes, she lied about where she went to school, but perhaps that was because she was embarrassed and wanted to feel as if she had more of a reason to ask about Robbie.
The bigger problem is Emily. Emily joined the hockey club back in September and has been coming to my house since then. She tends to hang out with the boys but has also always been great with Lauren. They’ve been out walking Benson together and once she took Lauren to the cinema. I have never had any reason to suspect she’s anyone other than who she says she is. But the photograph in the yearbook was most definitely her. So what’s going on?
The staff nurse in the Royal Edinburgh said that Kirsty had been fostered – could her foster parents be called Jones? Or was she trying a different name for size? From what Arielle and Becca have just told me, names are important and there’s much discussion about finding the one that best suits your needs as an actress and gives a favourable impression of you. Except that Emily Jones doesn’t exactly fit that bill. It’s a generic-sounding name with nothing special or interesting about it.
My mobile is in its holder next to the dashboard and I notice I have four missed calls from O’Reilly. I feel a swell of something like hope. He’s the real policeman here. I’d be relieved to discover that I’m suffering from a bad case of paranoia. I want to find out who hurt Robbie and came into our house and I’m going about it like an amateur detective. Since Phil left me, I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time watching late-night TV: CSI and the like, programmes where detectives follow obscure clues that lead them to uncover mysteries that stretch credulity. And here I am doing the same.
I take a breath to steady my nerves. This is me, Olivia Somers. I’m an ordinary doctor living a nothing-much-ever-happens life.
Except that in a short space of time, several uncommon events have occurred: the award, the attack on Robbie and the paint on the wall.
‘Enough already!’ I say out loud. I need to call O’Reilly back, check that Robbie and Lauren are where they should be and get to the centre. No more playing amateur detective.
Before making the calls, I start the car and drive out of the school grounds and into a natural stopping place just shy of the motorway. I’ve programmed O’Reilly’s mobile number into my phone and call him at once, mentally crossing my fingers that the missed calls herald good news.
‘Any news?’ I say, as soon as he answers.
‘No,’ he says. ‘Forensic results are still coming through but we haven’t been able to eliminate the family’s fingerprints because you didn’t turn up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Fingerprinting. You were supposed to be coming with Lauren and Robbie after school.’
‘I was?’ I have no recollection of discussing this with him. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a really busy day. I haven’t had time to think about it.’
‘I called the surgery to see whether you were there and I was put through to a Dr Bedford.’
My heart drops. Adrian Bedford is the doctor I asked to cover the antenatal clinic for me. I told him I needed to go and see the police about Robbie’s drink spiking and about the break-in.
‘He seemed to think you’d left work early to come to see me.’
‘Yes.’
‘Frankly, I was worried when you didn’t answer your mobile.’
‘It’s been on silent.’
‘Is that wise under the circumstances?’
‘I don’t suppose so. No. I’m sorry.’ I scrabble around in my brain for an excuse that trumps everything else that’s going on. But why make excuses? I need to be upfront with him, see what he makes of the facts. Yes, it means dredging up my past, but I can’t go it alone with this. If Kirsty/Emily is a threat to my family, then I need to take steps to ensure she doesn’t get near them again. And if she isn’t a threat, then I can drop this once and for all. ‘I had another appointment and I didn’t want to mention it at work. I came out to Sanderson Academy, where Tess goes to school, and found out that another girl who goes to school here is . . .’ I wince. ‘Well . . . back when I was a junior doctor, I accidentally hastened someone’s death. Her name was Sandy Stewart. She was pregnant and she had a brain tumour and I began to think that perhaps her death had something to do with what was going on, like you said about it maybe being an ex-patient of Phil’s and—’
‘Have you made a connection?’
‘Yes . . . maybe . . . I think so.’
‘What exactly?’
‘One of Robbie’s friends from the hockey club, the girl who resuscitated him, also goes to school here.’
‘Emily Jones?’
‘That’s right. But the thing is, she’s known here as Kirsty Stewart, the daughter of the woman whose death I caused.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I saw a photograph of her.’
‘They don’t just look similar?’
‘No. It’s definitely her.’
‘Okay. I’ll find out her address and bring her in for questioning this evening. See what she has to say for herself.’
‘Do you have to? I mean . . .’ I think about Emily – I like her and I know her and if she really is Sandy’s daughter then perhaps I owe her the opportunity to speak to me first. ‘Would you mind if I spoke to her first?’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because it feels personal. Her mother was lovely and I was the last person she spoke to. If Emily/Kirsty is doing this because of me then—’
‘Dr Somers.’ He gives a weary sigh. ‘If this girl almost killed your son and caused damage inside your home, then she needs to be stopped before she does anything else.’
‘Yes, I understand that.’ I pause, thinking about teenagers and the mess they can get themselves into. I wasn’t a paragon of virtue myself at a similar age, and if I hadn’t been shown kindness and understanding, I would have lost my way completely.
‘I hear a “but” coming along,’ O’Reilly says.
And then I think about Robbie – how I felt at the hospital, knowing he was close to death. And two weeks later, coming back home to find the wall defaced with blood-red paint.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ I say to O’Reilly. ‘No buts. I have to put the children’s safety first. Apparently she lives in a block of flats opposite Tesco Express in Slateford.’
‘I’ll get the exact address from the school.’
‘Thank you. Will you let me know how it goes?’
‘Of course.’
‘Re the fingerprints. The children and I can come along tomorrow.’
‘How about this evening?’
‘Robbie and Lauren are with friends and I’m on my way to the centre. Tuesdays and Thursdays are my volunteer evenings.’
‘Fair enough. So what’s a good time tomorrow?’
‘Can we make it just after six? Is that too late? It’s just that the children go for tea with Phil on Wednesdays.’
‘That’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry for letting you down today. I don’t know how I managed to forget.’
‘Because your mind’s been elsewhere.’ He pauses for a second, a significant second that lets me know he has a question. ‘Was Sandy Stewart’s death what was preoccupying you on the path outside your house on Saturday?’
‘Yes,’ I say reluctantly.
‘You couldn’t have told me then?’
‘I thought it was far-fetched. I really didn’t e
xpect it to be true. And, at that point, I thought the baby had died.’ I shake my head. ‘I was still praying that I was imagining it all.’
‘Well, next time, however far-fetched things might seem, remember it’s always worth sharing information immediately.’
‘Yes. I will. I’m sorry.’ My face is red. I feel as if I’ve been properly told off and when he ends the call I sit for a minute and let my cheeks cool. He’s right, of course, I should have been upfront with him, but this does feel very personal to me and that makes honesty more difficult.
Next I call Lauren’s mobile. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, when I’m at the centre, she goes to Amber’s after school. She tells me they’re both sitting at Amber’s dining table doing their homework. She chats for a while about school and I wait until she’s said all she wants to say before I remind her that I’m coming to collect her later and to make sure she’s packed up and ready to go.
Robbie is with the Campbells and is in Mark’s room watching television. I ask him about his homework and he tells me he doesn’t have any, or at least, ‘not any that’s due in this week’.
‘You could have it ready early. It would give you a chance to read it over and correct any mistakes.’
‘That’s not my style.’
‘More’s the pity,’ I say. Then, as casually as I’m able, I ask, ‘You seeing Emily tonight?’
‘No. I usually only see her at the weekends. Why?’
‘Just wondered.’ I consider telling him where I am and what I’ve just discovered, but decide to leave it until O’Reilly gets back to me. Depending on what he finds out, I’ll sit down with both children and tell them about the Emily/Kirsty connection.
I start the engine and drive back into town, trying to clear my head as I go. There’s no point in fretting – what’s happened has happened and can’t be changed. O’Reilly’s in charge now and all I can do is wait. It helps to imagine what I would say to someone in my position who came to see me in the surgery. I would say something along the lines of: ‘What’s happened is dreadful. You’re bound to feel anxious and you’re bound to want answers. The best way to ensure your children’s safety is to cooperate with the police.’ And then I would finish with, ‘You need to remember to look after yourself, to relax, not to become too anxious.’ I would offer sleeping pills, just for the short term, and I would tell the person to remember that talking is important, to stay in touch with friends and family. Not to bear the burden alone.
I need to take my own advice. I miss talking everything through with Leila. She’s been there for me my whole adult life, longer than Phil even. So what if all those years ago she lied to me? Is it really such a big deal?
With the benefit of forty-eight hours’ cooling-off period, I’m thinking it isn’t that big a deal. I need my best friend back and I, of all people, know how persuasive Phil can be. I’m sure all those years ago she had little option but to go along with him. I’ll have a word with her when I collect Robbie, ask her to promise never to lie to me again and then put it behind us.
I drive down into the cobbled streets of the Grassmarket, squeeze my car through the narrow alleyway and into a parking space behind the building. When I walk through the front door a big cheer goes up. ‘Here she is! Our very own heroine!’ Martin shouts, an electric smile lighting up his face. I’m sure he’s been on a permanent high since Friday evening. ‘Take a look at this.’
He holds up a newspaper in front of me. Lauren, Robbie and I are on the front page of the Edinburgh Courier. It’s the photograph that was taken outside the Assembly Rooms. There we are, dressed in our finery, all three of us smiling and laughing. I remember Robbie and I were enthused by Lauren, who was brimming with excitement because she was having ‘the best night of her life’. I look at my children’s faces and feel a pull of protection that’s as rigid and unbending as galvanised steel. I’ve always known how much I loved them, but since Phil left me, those feelings are now much closer to the surface. While my life might have unravelled over the last year, I want theirs to be rosy and safe, their future stretching out before them like the Irish blessing says: the road rising up to meet them, the wind at their backs, safe in the palm of God’s hand.
‘You have a busy waiting room this evening,’ Martin tells me. ‘But I’m guessing some of them will be here just to let your fame rub off on them.’
‘I think most of our clients have other things on their mind, Martin,’ I say, wishing this whole mini-celebrity business would just come to an end.
‘Oh you!’ He waves me away. ‘Ever modest.’
I walk along the corridor towards my consulting room, taking a quick sideways glance into the waiting area. He’s right – it’s packed. I have a concentrated two hours of work ahead of me. My Tuesday evening drop-in clinic attracts addicts with a post-weekend determination to give up on drugs and live a cleaner life. We operate a programme of help and support to wean them off their habit and see them into employment and adequate housing. It’s a long road and we don’t make it with everyone, but we do have our share of successes. Winston is one of them. He’s our caretaker, and in exchange for accepting a minimum wage, he gets to live in a room at the rear of the building. He’s a man who’s found his niche in life and I’m extremely fond of him.
‘Your room’s all ready for you, Dr Somers.’ He takes my jacket from me and hangs it on a peg at the door. Unlike my surgery up town, this room is sparsely furnished. There’s an examination couch, a desk, a couple of chairs and a pin board with leaflets shouting out safe sex and optimum health messages. Everything medical is kept in one lockable filing cabinet but none of it is worth stealing. No drugs, needles, syringes or money are kept on the premises to keep ourselves as low a break-in risk as possible. There’s a mug of coffee on the desk and a sandwich next to it. ‘I expect you missed your tea again,’ Winston says.
I smile. ‘You know me too well.’
‘I’ll give you five minutes then send the first one through. That okay with you?’
I give him a thumbs-up, my mouth now full of sandwich, and he goes off into the corridor to keep an eye out for trouble. He has more wisdom in his pinkie finger than the rest of us have in our whole skeleton, and I’ve never seen an occasion where he couldn’t talk an angry or frustrated client out of a fight and into a chair.
The evening passes quickly. It’s a regular mix of the hopeful and the damned and I know that an important part of my job is to show the ‘damned’ that their trajectory can change – not overnight; but it can be diverted, piece by piece, towards a more hopeful future.
At the end of the clinic, Martin is on the phone and, without stopping talking, waves me towards him and points to a figure he’s written on his notepad – £20,000.
‘Fantastic!’ I mouth at him, glad that, combined with the money we raised on Friday night, the centre’s overheads and development plans are secure for the next couple of years. Winston sees me out to my car and, as I’m climbing in, our eyes catch.
‘You okay, Dr Somers?’
I’m about to give an automatic upbeat reply when I stop. As a doctor, I feel as if I’ve seen it all: all the misery that fate or poor decisions can inflict on us and all the sordid detritus that human beings throw each other’s way. And for the most part, I’ve managed to steer a personal path around it. But since Robbie’s drink was spiked, I’ve felt as if I was being dragged into a more dangerous world where I have little control over the outcome.
‘We might be close to finding out who spiked Robbie’s drink,’ I tell him, and then find myself adding, ‘I think I might know who did it but I’m not sure how much is real and how much I’m imagining.’ I lean my chin on the top of the open car door. ‘I’m afraid that I’m right because it will mean I’m partly responsible. But I’m also afraid that I’m wrong because I desperately want it to stop.’
Winston nods as if this makes perfect sense to him. His hands are in the pockets of his baggy trousers and he’s swaying backwards and forwards, but he never t
akes his eyes off mine. ‘You feel like you’re being pulled in two directions?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I was you, Dr Somers, I would listen to my gut.’ His tone is soft but his words kick like hot chilli. ‘I’ve watched you with people. You have good instincts.’ He brings a hand up and presses his fist to his middle. ‘Trust.’
‘Thank you, Winston.’ I don’t smile – I’m feeling too serious for that – but I show my appreciation for his advice by reaching across and touching his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’
As I drive off to collect the children, I keep my thoughts and feelings at bay by playing some loud music. I collect Robbie first, hoping to speak to Leila, but she’s out at her fitness class. Lauren is standing at Amber’s window and comes running out as soon as she sees the car pull up. She has the Edinburgh Courier photo in her hand and is waving it around excitedly. ‘Amber’s mum gave it to me for my scrapbook,’ Lauren says.
‘What scrapbook?’ Robbie asks her.
‘The one I’m starting. You never know, we could be in the paper again. Mum could get more awards.’
We arrive home to an excited Benson, the bare living-room wall a reminder – as if I needed one – that O’Reilly is questioning Emily. I go straight to the kitchen and empty the dishwasher and then the tumble drier, folding the clothes into neat ‘people’ piles on the worktop.
‘What’s this for, Mum?’ Lauren is rummaging in my handbag and has found the brochure for Sanderson.
‘I picked it up for one of my patients,’ I say, without hesitation, my rediscovered propensity for lying no longer surprising me.
‘She wants to be an actress?’
‘Her daughter does.’
‘I don’t like acting at all.’ She puts the brochure back into my bag. ‘I don’t know what I want to be.’
