Do Me No Harm

by Julie Corbin

  ‘You’ve plenty of time to make up your mind.’

  ‘I know what I don’t want to be.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a doctor or a nurse or anything in a hospital.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’ I pass Lauren her pile of clothes. ‘Hospital work is rewarding but it takes its toll physically and emotionally.’

  ‘Is it okay if Amber comes to spend the night on Saturday?’

  ‘Just Amber or the whole posse?’

  ‘Just Amber.’ She balances the clothes on her outstretched hand. ‘We have things to talk about.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ She affects innocence.

  ‘Lauren, you know what happens when you girls start pairing off. Invariably, it ends up with someone feeling left out.’

  ‘We’ll be good!’

  She runs off up the stairs and I follow her to the bottom and call up, ‘I didn’t say yes!’

  On the way back into the kitchen, I notice Robbie hanging about in the living-room doorway staring at the wall. ‘You okay, love?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m wondering what might happen next.’ He turns his face to mine. All at once he looks a young seventeen. Gone is the bravado and the so-what attitude and in its place is a nervousness that I’ve never seen before. ‘I really don’t know what I did to deserve this.’

  ‘Sweetheart.’ I give him a hug and he holds on to me, dropping his face into my neck. ‘I’m absolutely sure this has nothing to do with anything you’ve ever done or said and I’m also sure it’s just a matter of time before the police work it all out.’

  He pulls away from me and balances on the back of the sofa. ‘What’s DI O’Reilly saying these days?’

  ‘Forensics are working on the fingerprints they took from the house. We have to go to the station tomorrow so that they can take our prints.’

  ‘So basically they have nothing?’

  ‘Well . . . DI O’Reilly’s pursuing a lead but it’s too early to say anything more definite.’

  Robbie launches himself over the back of the sofa and arrives within hand’s reach of the remote control. ‘I hope they find out who did it soon. I don’t want anything else to happen.’

  I go to comfort him some more but change my mind, knowing that my words will sound empty: reassuring maybe, but lacking in actual fact. And I’m determined to stave off addressing my own thoughts until I’ve heard from O’Reilly. When it’s time to turn in, and he still hasn’t rung, I can only surmise that questioning Emily is taking longer than he thought. I climb into bed and switch off my bedside light, lying with wide-open eyes focused upwards. The gap in the curtains allows a sliver of streetlight to stretch across the ceiling, illuminating a narrow pathway, a gymnast’s beam, darkness waiting either side to swallow up anyone who falls off.

  Another day dawns, and the good weather has given in to the bad. The pavements are running with water and wet umbrellas clutter up the practice foyer. O’Reilly calls me ten minutes before I usher through my first patient and I answer at once, clutching my mobile to my ear. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Well, you were right about Emily Jones being Kirsty Stewart. She didn’t even try to deny it. She told me she’s calling herself Emily Jones now because her middle name is Emily and she’s never liked the name Kirsty and because she feels very attached to her foster parents whose surname is Jones. Apparently, she has an application under way to change her name by deed poll.’

  ‘And did she admit to any crimes against my family?’

  ‘No. She seemed genuinely shocked when I suggested as much.’

  ‘Seemed?’

  ‘I wasn’t entirely convinced by her. She comes across as a smart girl, and bearing in mind the sort of school she goes to, I couldn’t help but wonder whether she was using some of her acting skills on me. One minute composed and cooperative, the next horrified and then weepy.’

  ‘Did you mention her mother’s death?’

  ‘No. I simply asked her whether she had any reason to hold a grudge against you. She looked surprised and said she didn’t.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible that she doesn’t know the exact details of her mother’s death. What happened wasn’t common knowledge, although one of the nurses or doctors on duty that day could have told Trevor, her dad.’

  ‘What was he told?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I expect they told him something along the lines of his wife reacting badly to one of the drugs. I was fully prepared to resign as a doctor and to tell Trevor the truth about what had happened, but I was persuaded out of one and deceived out of the other.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘My boss said my resignation would serve no purpose and, although I made an attempt to speak to Trevor Stewart, unbeknownst to me at the time, Phil prevented it.’

  ‘Husbands, eh? Who would have them?’

  I smile, appreciating O’Reilly’s attempt to lighten the mood. ‘So what happens now?’ I say.

  ‘She willingly gave me her fingerprints but, of course, as she’s already spent legitimate time in your house, they won’t be much use to us. We’ll talk to the teachers at Sanderson and we’ll check our databases to see whether her name has cropped up in relation to any other crimes. If it was her, she must have bought the GHB from someone. If we could tie her to the drug, then that would be a start.’

  ‘The girls who showed me round the school said that Kirsty bullied Tess.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll follow that up too. And, in the meantime, you need to be wary of her. You shouldn’t let her in your house and I think you should tell Robbie and Lauren that she’s a genuine suspect.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, baulking at the thought of holding such a conversation with the children. They both really like Emily. How will they feel when they find out she might be the person who spiked Robbie’s drink? And I’ll have to tell them about my link to her past. That won’t be easy either. ‘How sure are you that it’s her?’

  ‘She has motive, access and opportunity. I think it’s very likely that she’s behind it.’

  He reminds me that I’m coming to the station later and I tell him I haven’t forgotten. When he rings off, I go along to Leila’s room, seeking comfort as much as anything else, but her door is locked and I remember that it’s her day off. I’m well acquainted with the other staff in the practice but they’re mostly colleagues rather than friends and it feels wrong to lumber them with my problems. There’s nothing else for it but to distract myself with work and I set about my patient list with a forced jollity. Halfway through the morning, Phil calls me, and this time I pick up because he collects the children from school on Wednesdays.

  ‘Are the children expecting me as usual today?’ he says.

  ‘Yes. And I was wondering whether you’d bring them straight to the police station? We’re having our fingerprints taken. For elimination purposes.’

  ‘No problem. Will O’Reilly be there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. It will give me a chance to find out about the investigation.’

  Or you could just ask me. ‘Are you going to tell the children about your marriage plans?’

  ‘Yes. Erika’s staying at home today. I’m taking them out on my own to tell them.’

  I wonder whether he’s showing consideration for the children or for Erika. Erika probably – the children may react badly and say something rude to her – but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘That’s a good idea. They like being on their own with you. Having your undivided attention.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because they told me. Or at least Lauren did.’

  ‘She hasn’t said anything to me.’

  ‘She’s eleven, Phil. She’s conflicted. She wants her parents to be together but they’re not.’ I pause. ‘As she sees it, her father left the whole family, and she’s afraid of being completely honest with you in case you stop seeing her.’

  He sigh
s. ‘This is why I wanted them both to have counselling.’

  ‘I don’t think either of them need counselling. I just think they need to spend more time with you on their own.’

  ‘Shared custody would make that easier.’

  ‘I don’t think either of the children are ready for that.’

  ‘They’re not ready? Or you’re not ready?’

  ‘I’m not discussing this with you,’ I say, and we end the call with our usual tight goodbyes. I continue working on referral letters and other paperwork until just gone four o’clock when my mobile bleeps with a text message. My heart rate doubles when I see that it’s from Emily:

  It would be really good if we could talk. Will you meet me? Please?

  I stare at the screen for almost a full minute, thinking about whether to text back a reply or simply ignore her. If Emily did spike Robbie’s drink, then I’m not about to listen to excuses and I’m certainly not going to forgive her. It was a spiteful and dangerous act of vengeance and Robbie could have died.

  But what about innocent until proven guilty? Isn’t that a principle I’ve always believed in?

  That’s the reasonable me talking and it’s true that, unlikely as it seems, she might not be involved. She’s been coming to my house for the past nine months and there hasn’t been a hint of anything unpleasant. She’s a good influence on Robbie and she’s always been kind and friendly towards Lauren. She’s a teenage girl who’s had a tough upbringing and I know what that’s like. I’m not saying that I think I can help her, but I don’t want to make things any worse for her and if she wants to talk to me then what harm can it do?

  It might affect the investigation, the reasonable voice reminds me. O’Reilly wasn’t keen on me talking to her before he did but, since then, he’s had her in for questioning and released her without charge. Still, I don’t want to step on his toes, so I give him a call but his mobile goes straight to answering service. I try the station and a female constable tells me he’s in court all afternoon and could she pass on a message?

  ‘No, I’m seeing him later anyway,’ I say.

  I remember what Winston said about trusting my gut feeling and immediately an answer comes back to me – I owe it to Sandy. I was with her when she died and even if I hadn’t precipitated her death, as a mark of respect I should honour her memory by looking out for her child. Not indefinitely, not forever, but now when Emily’s asking to talk, it would be heartless of me to refuse.

  I text back.

  Yes, I’ll meet you.

  She replies immediately.

  Can you come to my flat? Now?

  I’ll be about twenty minutes.

  She texts me the address and I leave the surgery and motor across town to Slateford. It’s raining hard and my wipers move at double-quick time to clear the water off the windscreen. I think of the children sitting in the restaurant with Phil and my mind flits between worrying at their reaction to his news and worrying about the visit I’m about to make. I’m curious about what Emily wants to say, but anxious that I don’t jeopardise the case against her, should there turn out to be one.

  I park in a nearby multistorey and walk along the wet pavement towards Tesco Express. I’m still in my work clothes – a serviceable grey skirt suit, tights and shoes that fall somewhere between fashionable and comfortable. My umbrella keeps water off my top half but within a minute driving rain has soaked my skirt and dirty water from passing cars has splashed up my tights. Summer in Scotland. Everyone keeps their head down and battles on through it.

  The tenement building Emily lives in has one main door as the entryway into eight flats. Four of the flats have names next to the buzzers – none of them Jones or Stewart – and the remaining four are nameless. I should have asked Emily what flat she lives in and I call her phone to ask her. The automated voice tells me that the phone is switched off. Okay. I surmise that the ones without names are most likely to be rented out. The entry-phone system isn’t working and I’m able to push open the door and walk inside. The stair smells damp and mouldy – ‘foosty’, the Scots would say.

  There’s an elderly lady halfway up the first flight of stairs and she calls down to me. ‘Are you lookin’ fer someone, hen?’

  ‘Yes, I am actually.’ I join her on the step. ‘Kirsty Stewart, or perhaps Emily Jones. She’s a young woman, almost eighteen. I expect she’ll be in a shared flat.’

  ‘The two flats at the top have student types living in them,’ she says. Her headscarf has slipped off her head to reveal thinning hair, now damp with rain. ‘They’re a noisy bunch. Doors slamming at all ’oors. Makes me wish I wis deef !’

  I smile and hold out my hand. ‘Let me carry your shopping.’

  ‘Would you, dear?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I lift the bags and follow her at a slow pace to the first floor where she uses three keys to unlock her front door. ‘You never know nowadays,’ she says.

  I leave her inside and climb to the top, choose the first of the two doors and push the bell. I can’t hear any far-off ringing so I guess it must be broken. I try to make a noise with the flap of the letterbox but the sound is ineffectual so I settle for just banging my fist on the door. The man who opens it is naked from the waist up. He body is lean, almost completely hairless and he’s holding a bottle of beer in his right hand. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hi. I’m looking for Kirsty Stewart.’

  ‘You a friend of hers?’

  ‘Not exactly. But she’s expecting me.’

  ‘You better come in then.’ He leaves the door open and walks off, calling over his shoulder, ‘She’s not home but you can wait if you want to.’ His accent is as Irish as mine was when I first moved to Edinburgh and I surmise he must have been brought up close to where I was.

  I leave my wet umbrella outside the front door and follow him into the living room where a vacant-eyed girl is lounging half on and half off the sofa. The air is pungent with the smell of a recently smoked joint, mingling with body odour and old food smells. There are dirty mugs, take-out containers with congealed food stuck in the bottom and a pizza box lying open on the floor, only a crust remaining on the greasy cardboard. Two flies have settled on the crust and several more hover just above it. Another man, his dreadlocks tied back with coloured string, is sitting on a beanbag in the corner, idly strumming a guitar, his fingers lingering on the strings, and while the sound is melodic, the whole place reeks of inertia. I want to throw open the window and take deep, cleansing breaths.

  Instead, I stand next to the sofa, but the girl doesn’t take the hint and make space for me to sit down. The man who opened the door has taken the only other seat, an armchair with burst springs and no cushion, so that he’s practically at ground level, his legs stretching out before him almost flat to the carpet.

  ‘You watch this?’ he asks me, referring to the game show that’s on TV.

  ‘Not normally.’

  ‘It’s crap. But addictive crap if you know what I mean.’

  I shiver from the water cooling on my body but more so from nerves. Emily, or Kirsty, I’m no longer sure what name I should call her, knows I’m coming, so why isn’t she here? ‘Is it okay if I look in her room?’ I say. ‘In case she came home without you realising?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. ‘It’s the one with the sunflower on the door.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I walk along the hallway, a gulp in my throat. The thin carpet, cheap to begin with, is stained beyond repair. My shoes leave wet footprints and I glance back at them before stopping in front of the sunflower and knocking quietly on the door. No answer so I turn the handle and push. It opens smoothly and her room is revealed in a slow sweep. Lace curtains hang at the window, a patchwork bedspread covers the bed, and scarves – a riot of colour: orange, petrol blue and a vivid pea green – decorate the wall above the bed. And if all this homemaking wasn’t enough of a contrast to the rest of the flat, every surface and every piece of material is spotlessly clea
n.

  I leave my shoes in the hallway and walk into her room, closing the door behind me. There are two leather Victorian tub chairs, in good condition, in front of the window. In between them is a table with an embroidered mat on it. A small glass vase with three pale pink roses is placed on the mat and beside that is a framed photo of her parents. I bend down to bring my eyes closer and the gulp in my throat doubles in size. Sandy and Trevor look exactly as I remember them. The years have not dimmed my recollection of a smiling couple, their bodies close, their eyes alight with happiness.

  Shit.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed, keeping my feet away from the sheepskin rug that’s fluffed up and perfectly positioned beside it. Once more I’m face to face with my incompetence, an incompetence so great that it led to the early death of this beautiful, happy woman. Sitting here, with the photo in front of me, the notion that the drink spiking and the message on the wall is Kirsty’s attempt at payback no longer feels far-fetched. If she is aware of the details of her mother’s death, then I’m not surprised she sought me out.

  Still, when I look around me at the bedroom, it doesn’t strike me as the room of someone who’s vengeful. In the tradition of CSI, such a criminal mind would surely be signposted. As part of her obsession, she’d have a wall dedicated to me. She’d have pinned up photographs of me crossing the street or eating in a restaurant; she’d have copies of the recent newspaper clippings and she’d have written down other details about my life.

  Wouldn’t she?

  I remember the room I had as a teenager. When my three brothers were at home, they shared a bedroom at the front of the house and I had a tiny bedroom of my own at the back. It faced the North Atlantic and was often freezing cold. Wind blew in through the narrow gaps around the window frames and, during winter months, the moisture on the insides of the windows turned to ice. But it was mine, and although I had far fewer possessions than Kirsty, it wasn’t dissimilar to this. Just like her, I had a dressing table with collections of lipstick and pots of eye shadow, hairbrushes and jewellery. I had schoolbooks in a pile in the corner, as she does, and posters of my favourite music artists on the wall – Kirsty has the side wall dedicated to a band that Robbie also listens to. This room is tidier than most teenage girls’ rooms but – apart from the tub chairs and the table in between – it is a teenager’s room.