An Empty Death (28 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
Mrs Ingram clung on, making a little yelping noise as the photograph tore and Mr Ingram, balance upset, took an involuntary step back and collided with the table, making the china rattle. ‘I’ve had enough! Do you understand? I’m not having this nonsense a moment longer. If you want a divorce, you can have one. They’re not going to refuse when I tell them what’s been going on. And then,’ he added, with childish malice, ‘you really won’t have a husband. There won’t be any blessed Mr Ingram, and we’ll just see how you like that, won’t we?’
Throughout most of this, Mrs Ingram stared at her husband in goggle-eyed terror, not even attempting to turn her head away as his spittle landed on her cheek, but, at the end, she covered her face in her hands and began a high, keening wail.
‘You cry all you like - I’m sick of it!’
Doris, clutching her wrapped hand to her chest, got to her feet, staring at Jenny with an expression that was as close to screaming as a face could come without sound actually issuing from it. Feeling that she couldn’t bear any of it for another second, Jenny said loudly, over Mrs Ingram’s noisy weeping, ‘Mr Ingram! Eric! Please . . . I’m sure there’s no need for that.’
Mr Ingram rounded on her, his face working. ‘Isn’t there? Isn’t there? What am I supposed to do? Let her carry on with this . . . this ridiculous . . .’ His voice died away and Jenny realised that he was trying not to cry. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his absurd jersey, then stared at the wreckage of the tea table for a moment before seeming to remember that he was a guest in Doris’s home, and saying, in a quieter voice, ‘I’m sorry.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry. I should never have suggested it, but I honestly thought it would work if you reminded her about all the nice things you’d done together, and you showed her the photograph. I can see now that it was a stupid idea.’
Mr Ingram looked round at the wreckage of the tea party with an expression of disgust. ‘It’s not you, it’s her. Take this,’ he thrust two pound notes in Doris’s direction, ‘I’m going back.’
‘To the army?’
‘Yes. I don’t care what happens. It’s pointless. Look at her.’
Jenny looked at Mrs Ingram, who was still seated on the sofa, now rocking back and forth, her hands over her face. ‘She can’t help it, Mr Ingram.’
‘She could if she tried. And there’s nothing I can do.’ He put his hands up in a gesture of defeat, and then, hoisting his kitbag onto his shoulder, left the house, slamming the front door behind him.
Jenny and Doris stared at each other. Mrs Ingram, hearing the door slam, peered cautiously at them through her hands. The torn, crumpled photograph, Jenny saw, was by her feet. ‘Has he gone?’
‘Yes,’ said Doris, heavily. ‘And I don’t think we’ll see him again, either.’
‘Good.’ Spotting the photograph, Mrs Ingram picked it up and sat with it in her hands. Her ‘rigid’ look had returned, and she sat as unpresent as a piece of furniture as the pair of them gathered up the debris and took it through to the kitchen.
‘She’ll stay there for a good half hour now,’ said Doris. ‘Shut off from everything. You know, I’m sure she can control it - it’s just when something’s gone wrong, or she doesn’t like it, then she sort of seizes up.’
‘Well, at least she won’t disturb us,’ said Jenny, fitting pieces of china together. ‘Three cups and two saucers, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll never be able to replace them,’ said Doris, who’d unwrapped the napkin and was running her hand under the tap.
‘I’ll put that serviette in to soak. Is it hurting?’
‘Not much. It was the shock more than anything.’
‘I know. Good job it wasn’t a carving knife.’
Doris, at the sink, twisted round to look at Jenny. ‘You don’t think she would have, you know . . . if it had been? I mean, she didn’t say sorry, did she?’
‘No, but . . .’ Jenny realised she had no idea what to think. Unwilling to examine this uncertainty, and conscious of the spectre of Auntie Ivy, she took the stained napkin into the scullery and busied herself rinsing it and collecting together soap, Reckitt’s blue, and plaster for Doris’s hand. So much for having bright ideas - next time, she’d keep her big mouth shut.
‘You know,’ said Doris about ten minutes later, when they’d washed up the remains of the tea-service and tidied the food away, ‘maybe she ought to, you know, be somewhere.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Jenny, ‘but don’t you remember what Mum said about Auntie Ivy? She said she went right downhill when they put her in the . . . you-know-where. That was when she stopped speaking.’
‘Did she? I don’t remember Mum ever talking about it.’
‘It was only the once. She said they felt bad about signing the papers, that she and Dad should have taken her in and looked after her.’
‘They couldn’t, Jen. I am worried, though - what if Mrs Ingram attacks someone else? Madeleine, or—’
‘She won’t! Why would she do that?’
‘She thinks we’re all on his side, doesn’t she?’
‘Well, if he doesn’t come back - and if he’s going to hand himself in and get locked up for being a deserter, I don’t see how he can - it won’t be a problem.’
‘It will if she thinks we’re planning,’ Doris dropped her voice to a whisper, ‘to lock her up in the you-know-where.’
‘Can’t we leave it for a more few days?’ pleaded Jenny. ‘Please? I really can’t bear the thought of having her locked away.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Doris. ‘All right, then. But only a few days, mind. And, in that case,’ she added, grimly, ‘we’d better keep mum about what happened this afternoon.’
Thirty-One
I
t was such a shock that, for a second, Dacre stopped breathing. The air pressure seemed to change around him, and feeling so dizzy that he thought he should faint at any minute, he forced himself to meet Byrne’s eyes and return his nod of acknowledgement before bending his head once more and continuing to wash his hands. Just behave normally, he told himself. He’s a doctor, you’re a doctor - what could be more normal? For God’s sake, don’t panic. Heart thumping, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Byrne was still standing there, and waited for him to turn away to dry his hands, but he didn’t move. The silence was broken only by the gurgle of the water as it ran over his own hands and down the drain, and the clink of the stem of his stethoscope against the porcelain edge of the basin as he bent over it. The tiled walls around them seemed to heighten these sounds, so that they roared in his ears and reverberated in his head. Why wasn’t Byrne moving? Go away, he willed the pathologist. Just dry your hands and go away.
t was such a shock that, for a second, Dacre stopped breathing. The air pressure seemed to change around him, and feeling so dizzy that he thought he should faint at any minute, he forced himself to meet Byrne’s eyes and return his nod of acknowledgement before bending his head once more and continuing to wash his hands. Just behave normally, he told himself. He’s a doctor, you’re a doctor - what could be more normal? For God’s sake, don’t panic. Heart thumping, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Byrne was still standing there, and waited for him to turn away to dry his hands, but he didn’t move. The silence was broken only by the gurgle of the water as it ran over his own hands and down the drain, and the clink of the stem of his stethoscope against the porcelain edge of the basin as he bent over it. The tiled walls around them seemed to heighten these sounds, so that they roared in his ears and reverberated in his head. Why wasn’t Byrne moving? Go away, he willed the pathologist. Just dry your hands and go away.
Byrne did not move. Dacre forced himself to turn his head and saw that he was staring, fixedly, at the scar on his - Dacre’s - thumb. Oh, Christ, thought Dacre. This can’t be happening. He carried on rubbing his hands violently with the soap, making sure his thumb was hidden from view. It’s all right, he told himself. Byrne doesn’t know you. He’s just taking his time, that’s all. But why didn’t the man dry his hands, or say something?
Still Byrne remained beside him. Dacre, scrubbing away, started seeing fuzzy grey spots dancing on the porcelain before him. For God’s sake, he told himself, keep calm. Feeling as if his head might explode, Dacre gave his hands a final rinse, walked the few steps necessary to dry them on the towel, aware all the time of the silent, watchful presence a couple of feet away, and left the Gents’. This he did at a normal speed, holding his breath and readying himself for the accusation. Byrne, however, neither moved towards him nor called out, and Dacre’s last view of him before the door swung shut behind him showed that he was still standing by the row of basins, a frown crenellating his forehead.
Once in the corridor, Dacre walked as briskly as he could without actually running in the direction of the stairs, then felt an uprush of puke from his stomach that made him clap his hand to his mouth and head in the direction of the nearest door, which proved to be - thank God - the ward maids’ cupboard where he’d hidden before. Bending over what he hoped was a pail, he vomited violently. He couldn’t see, in the near dark, if he’d been right, but judging by the sound as the puke hit the bottom of the receptacle, most of it had gone in there and not over his shoes.
‘Christ,’ he muttered, leaning shakily against a stack of boxes. ‘Jesus.’ He was quivering all over, with barely the strength to pull his handkerchief and wipe his mouth.
He attempted to run the moments back in his mind as if they were pieces of film. Byrne had been there, all right - he definitely hadn’t imagined that. And it certainly felt as if the man had been staring at his hands for a long time, but perhaps that was just his impression . . . shock and fear could distort one’s impressions. Maybe it hadn’t been for more than a few seconds.
Dacre held up his hand in front of him. His eyes now adjusted to the gloom, he saw that the scar on his thumb and the skin surrounding was reddened, irritated by being rubbed so hard with soap. It was, he supposed, the sort of thing that Byrne would remember, and he must have seen it enough times in the last six months when, as Todd, he’d passed over specimen bottles and test tubes and so forth . . . Byrne always wore rubber gloves to perform his post-mortems, but the shortage meant that there were not enough of them to supply anyone else.
Byrne had certainly been frowning when Dacre had left the Gents’. Was that because he was trying to remember where he’d seen the scar, or one like it? That was fine, provided that he did not remember who’d had the scar, or, if he did, simply dismissed it as a coincidence. After all Byrne, like Higgs, wasn’t expecting to see him still here, and certainly not wearing a white coat and with a stethoscope round his neck. Of course, his appearance would probably have reminded Byrne of his former assistant, Sam Todd, but the different hair colour and the lack of moustache had probably thrown him off . . .
What if Byrne challenged him? Could he pretend that he hadn’t been called up after all, but had taken a menial job in another part of the hospital? No. That would be far too easy to check, and how to explain the stethoscope? ‘Fuck!’ Dacre punched the side of the stack of boxes hard, wincing as their unyielding contents sent shock waves through his knuckles.
Perhaps he should just make a run for it now, before Byrne blew the whistle. If he was going to blow the whistle, that is . . . But he could leave the hospital, collect his few possessions from his digs, stuff them into his trunk and get on a train . . . Go somewhere else and make a new start. But that meant leaving half of his precious ‘Dacre’ documents in the hands of Professor Haycraft’s secretary. Not to mention leaving Fay - and he was buggered if he was going to relinquish the perfect girl, now that he’d found her.
The thought of this, and of all the work he’d put in, made him genuinely furious. Why the hell should he flee with his tail between his legs? If Byrne challenged him, he’d bloody well go in with both guns blazing. In fact, Dacre thought, that on its own might generate enough doubt in Byrne’s mind for him to back off . . . After all, the burden of proof was on Byrne, not him. And if Byrne was wavering, then he’d have the moral advantage. All he’d have to do was press it home.
Besides, it might never happen. Feeling a great deal calmer, and with a sense of resolve, Dacre left the cupboard and returned to Casualty.
The rest of the morning went smoothly, from a medical point of view, at least. Just as well, because Dacre was on tenterhooks and barely able to concentrate. Every time he stepped out from behind a screen, he expected to find Byrne waiting for him, vengeful and accusing, but as the hours passed and he did not appear Dacre began, very slowly, to relax.
At lunchtime he went to his bolt hole for a quiet smoke. There was no question of eating - his stomach was still churning too much to accept any food. Sitting on the dusty floorboards, cigarette in hand, he tried to convince himself that Byrne hadn’t recognised him and that he was suffering from a paranoid delusion. He’d been reading about such states in An Introduction to Psychological Medicine. Of course, a general belief that one was being persecuted was not the same thing as he was experiencing, because his fears had a well-founded basis . . .
He needed to hold his nerve, and, if necessary, to make quite sure that there was no chance of Byrne putting a spanner in the works. To this end, he decided, it would be a good idea to have something up his sleeve, just in case. Remembering Fay’s morphine, he took the two small phials, now carefully wrapped in cotton wool, from the inside pocket of his jacket, and weighed them in his hand. After all, forewarned was forearmed . . .
As the day wore on, Dacre began to feel more secure. His last patient was a fifteen-year-old girl with stomach pains, who’d been brought in by her mother. The girl, moon-faced and vacant, was obviously an imbecile. What was equally obvious, even to Dacre, was that she was heavily pregnant and experiencing the first stages of labour. When the mother, who seemed only fractionally more intelligent than her daughter, finally got the message, she punched him in the face. The blow was as forceful as it was unexpected. Dacre staggered backwards, clutching his cheek, and crashed into Sister Radford who, bristling with outrage, had rushed to intervene.
‘Mrs Parker! That’s quite enough!’
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