Bright Spark (47 page)

       She’s
too familiar, thought Marjorie. We’re not friends and she’s not my mother or my
superior. I am Mrs Jennings and Anthony should be referred to as Mr Jennings or
my husband.

       “And
you….Jean,” she replied through a smile that almost cracked her lips. The
hospice positively throbbed with kindness and boasted motivated and expert
staff, a quiet and attractive location, new equipment and a vast store of
palliative drugs. It did however lack any way of masking its role as a place of
dying for those whose loved ones could not confront or ease that process at
home; or for those prepared to reject the care offered by their loved ones, to
spend their dwindling days in solitude.

       “Please
do come as often as you need to. We’d all love to see you and it will really
help Anthony.” The woman’s smile sprang from her heart and set her whole face
aglow. She would learn, thought Marjorie, almost choking on her own bitter
taste. She should laugh at herself; or perhaps cry. She could just make out the
echo of the idealistic, open-minded, literate girl she’d once been protesting
at what she’d become.

       She no
longer quite knew what she’d become or how precisely she’d fallen from the edge
of reason. In her twenties and thirties, she’d learned to deal capably with the
drunks, hooligans and perverts who cluttered her A&E department, never
allowing herself to be terrorised, never losing sight of the simple fact that
she could endure and she would always know she’d done more good then harm in
her life. They all became one face, those problem patients, the face of a
sneering, leering bully who spat blood in her face, clutched at her breasts,
threatened her with a hypodermic and demanded, always demanded that she solve
their problems right now. Like all of her colleagues, she rarely reported
anything to the police. These days, she supposed there would be enquiries when
such things happened, with time off and counselling besides.

       She
always bricked up the fear. It seemed not to interfere with home life only
because the smart, new semi-detached had to be a refuge, the keep that
protected those she treasured, its garden gate a drawbridge. She realised now,
too late, that she had let it define her, let her sufferance exceed its bounds
and shape her life. She might have outgrown it or at least outlived it, if only
her life hadn’t followed its arc. Sharon arrived strong and struggling, always
coping and always her successor. Yet Jeremy’s otherness would always test her
love as surely as it justified it, and Tony’s defining illness convinced her
that life had chosen caring and no other purpose for her.

       “I
said, would you care for another cup of tea, Marjorie?” said the plump woman,
giggling indulgently as though she’d had to repeat it. “You look as though you
need it, my love. A nice brew and a sit down, eh?”

       “No,
no thank you.” She should leave, get back to Jeremy before she unravelled completely.
If she did let it all flood out, Tony would know, Tony would worry and suffer,
and that just wouldn’t do at all. “Would you call me a taxi please,
Mrs….erm….Jean? I should collect Jeremy now.”

       “Of
course, Marjorie. I’ll be back in two ticks.”    

       While
she waited, she drew the newspaper cutting from her handbag and examined it
once more. In the journalist’s supposition that the Braxtons had started the
fire at number thirteen, she wanted to see a glimmer of redemption but
couldn’t. Instead, she knew it condemned her to carry another burden; silent
guilt for the murder of a young woman and her children.

       She
had not intended their deaths, but she had presented them with a choice between
accepting death and fleeing their home. She couldn’t have known they’d been
locked in, unable to escape the demon she’d conjured out of a can of lawnmower
petrol and a matchbox. Yet hers was still the hand that lit the flame so she’d
murdered them as surely as if she’d put a gun to their heads.

       They’d
had to go. Dale Murphy brought violence and noise to her hearth, drilling his
music and his rages and his beatings through the thin wall that partitioned his
pile of bricks from hers. He’d smirked and swaggered in silent defiance and
slammed the door in her face whenever she dredged up the courage to complain
about the noise or the cigarette smoke or the barbecue stench that amplified
Tony’s suffering and her own powerlessness to prevent it.

She’d
repeatedly contacted the agencies that the law abiding citizen should have
recourse to, all to no avail. Once or twice, a police car had made a
perfunctory visit, prompting the noise levels to peak for a day or two by way
of reprisal but effecting no other change. Local authority clerks and social
workers had prevaricated at length on the phone and no doubt wrote up her phone
calls in a highly effective manner. She could have moved. Sharon had suggested
all manner of sound and sensible reasons why she should and had even offered to
bankroll her. She had declined; after all, the protector must stand her ground
and be beholden to no-one.

Thus
she’d allowed the Murphys to precipitate a breakdown that she knew would have
come sooner or later; a breakdown without torrential drama, more a loss of
vital inhibition, the dam buckling rather than breaking. Months ticked by,
months in which she’d contrasted her life of duty and loneliness with theirs of
impulsive passion and violence, joy and misery. She knew her horizons had drawn
in close, penning her into this space and time, pressing her fate up against
the Murphys’. Her daily diet of tabloid news perfected her sense of social
grievance against those who lived their lives free of duty or concern for
others or the basic notions of decency that she took for granted – no,
mandatory.

Then
Sharon had recognised Dale Murphy on one of her visits and had retreated into
the kitchen, anxious that he shouldn’t recognise her and associate her with
Marjorie. In conversation, she’d carelessly named the client whose claim she
was pursuing against Murphy. When Marjorie had disingenuously suggested that
the client typified this country’s culture of sponging and suing, Sharon hadn’t been able to resist explaining precisely who her client was and what Murphy
had done to him.

Marjorie
had vaguely remembered news reports about the young arsonist, Firth. A quick
internet search on Tony’s computer confirmed that Firth had been convicted for
setting fire to a residential property only two years previously. Sharon had mentioned that Firth had only recently been released from prison. So, Murphy
had made an enemy of a convicted arsonist who walked the streets of this city,
able to act on his grievances at will.

If
somebody tried to set fire to the Murphys’ home, and did it the way the
anarchist websites recommended by spraying petrol all over the door, through
the letterbox, along the carpet and up the stairs, then substantial damaged
would be caused and fear would be instilled. They would be chastened, they
would experience a fraction of the retribution they deserved and most
importantly they would leave, perhaps permanently. The police would have an
obvious suspect and, if Sharon’s griping could be believed, the evidence would
be made to fit. Even if this stranger, Firth, were convicted, he’d probably
done something to deserve it for which he’d yet to pay the price so that
needn’t trouble her conscience.

“Your
taxi will be here in a few minutes, Marjorie.” The maddening woman had
returned, all bosomy and beaming. “You alright, my love? You’ve gone all pale
and clammy.”

“I’m
fine, Jean. Thank you for your concern.” If only she could see into my mind,
she thought, and know what I’d done and what I’m capable of; that would wipe
the smile off her silly, fat face. If we truly knew each other’s minds, there
could be no small-talk, no friendly banter, no love or romance. “It’s just been
a long day. I’ll be glad of a rest.”

“Shall
I tell Anthony you’ll pop in later?”

“Yes,
I promise I’ll return. Very soon. I may not be alone though; you know how it
is.”

That
woman is amazing, thought Jean as Marjorie stepped into the waiting taxi; a
veritable, real-life saint. 

Slowey
parked the battered Focus outside Jeremy’s drop-in centre. Released from his
rocking and grimacing bondage in the back-seat, Jeremy scurried back into the
familiar safety of the building. Seeing him greeted by a staff-member, Sharon turned back to regard Harkness who stepped out of the passenger seat while Slowey
kept the engine running.

“I
don’t think we’ve got a choice,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “We’ll be
civilised about it, but we’ve got to take her in.”

“No,
Rob. You don’t have a choice. You’ve played it beautifully.”

Slowey
blipped the throttle then immediately looked sheepish about it, holding up his
hands in apology.

“I
haven’t played you, Sharon, I genuinely did….”

“Just
shut up,” she said, placing her hand firmly on his chest and using it to
punctuate her words. “Just stop, Rob. I don’t know what to think. How can I? I
want to cry. I want to puke. I want to punch your smug head in. You’re right,
of course. You actually are just doing your job. But did it really have to be
you and did it really have to be now? No, don’t answer. Just go.”

“We’ll
speak again, soon.”

“I
thought you might break my heart, but I didn’t know you’d make such a thorough
job of it. No, wait!”

“What
is it?”

“You
told me something once. About your childhood. Well, remember who you are and
what you did when you speak to her. Think about it. Please.”

Harkness
swallowed his words and sank back into the passenger seat.

“Bloody
hell, that was cryptic,” said Slowey, engaging first. “What an interesting life
you lead.”

“Just
drive. Don’t talk for a minute.”

The
drop-in centre receded into the past, keeping whatever future Harkness might
have found with Sharon. An explosive impulse flared and he punched the
dashboard hard, shattering an air vent and finding the blood and pain he
deserved.

“Easy,
easy!” shouted Slowey. “I’ve signed for this bugger, an’ all.”

Harkness’s
mobile blared and he flipped it open blindly, his eyes still unfocussed by
rage.

“Speak!”
he barked, then listened intently, frown tightening one notch after another.
Then he found a mellower tone. “Right. Thanks. That’s brave of you.”

“You
got your radio?” Harkness asked, slamming the phone shut.

“Always.
Why?”

“A
complication has arisen. That was Sharon. The care staff are perplexed.
Marjorie turned up half an hour ago, knew nothing about Jeremy’s trip out with
his sister and left looking unwell and refusing to speak to anyone.”

“Balls.”

“Sharon couldn’t get a reply from Marjorie’s home phone.”

“Doesn’t
mean she’s not there,” said Slowey, slipping in the earpiece linked to the
radio clipped to his belt. “What about the hospice?”

“It’s
our best bet. I’ll call it in. Uniform might get there before us.”

“No
need,” said Slowey, grinding into a higher gear and clasping a hand to his
earpiece. “Someone’s just been dispatched there. Some sort of disturbance.”

 “That
was quick,” said the young, uniformed cop as Harkness approached the hospice’s
foyer, the stench of burning brake-pads still in his nostrils. “I’ve just this
second shouted up for the duty DS.”

“We
aim to please,” said Harkness, dangling his warrant card for inspection. “Tell
comms I’m here, would you? No need to turn this into a circus.”

“Will
do. Want an update?”

Harkness
surveyed the scene with foreboding. The recently built hospice, a sprawling
single-story structure in red-brick with a tall roof, shady eaves and solar
panels, occupied the south bank of the Witham. Despite the day’s warmth, the
river funnelled a stiff easterly breeze their way, an intimation of autumn. Two
police vehicles and an ambulance sat double-parked on one side of the compact
car park. On the other side, the hospice’s residents had been gathered together
in the open air by their anxious carers. Most occupied wheelchairs while some
lay on trolley-beds. Some had intravenous drips or oxygen masks or both. All
bore the pallor of living death. They resembled the pension-day queue for the
ferry-boat across the Styx.

“Can
you see Tony or Marjorie there?” he asked Slowey.

“You
won’t do,” said the young cop. “They’re the only ones still inside.”

“Go
on.”

“Well,
my mate’s in there now. As far as I can make out, this elderly, confused woman,
Marjorie something or other, has locked herself in with her husband,
disconnected an oxygen cylinder and is threatening to light a match.”

“Any
demands?” asked Slowey hopefully, keen to negotiate and finally impose order on
this debacle.

“Well,
no. That’s the odd thing. Just wants to be left alone.”

“Come
on,” said Harkness, striding across the foyer.

“Room
twenty-one,” shouted the young cop. “Don’t mention it.”