Disturbing Ground (12 page)

“We’re still trying to find witnesses,” Alun said, “but we don’t feel there’s any question of foul play.”

“And no suicide note was found?”

“No, sir.”

Again Alun gave Megan the briefest of glances. And so the coroner made his statement - that there was no evidence to indicate that Bianca Rhys had intended to take her own life but it seemed she had fallen unintentionally into Llancloudy Pool.

Death
by
misadventure.

He was accepting Jones-Watson’s version of events.

In fact all professional people, Alun, the coroner, the police surgeon, the pathologist - as well as the family and friends accepted the verdict without a hint of misgiving.

So why couldn’t she?

Megan stood up with everyone else and filed out slowly.

She had expected to feel reassured after the coroner’s court. But she didn’t. Instead she felt troubled - as though something was wrong. It felt as though everyone had glossed over Bianca’s death, without taking the trouble to explore the alternatives. What about the head injury? She couldn’t see how anyone could hit the back of their head either against the side of the pool or on the bottom. Or exactly when she had tumbled - unseen by anyone. Neither had they addressed the puzzle of where Bianca had been from Saturday morning to Monday morning - invisible to everyone in Llancloudy. Nobody had asked the simplest of questions. Was there trace evidence on the stones at the side of the shallow pool? Had anyone even bothered to look? How had she walked up there without anyone seeing her when it was a distance of a little over a mile?

The silent explanation to every unasked question was the same. Bianca was irrational therefore her movements would not be explained rationally. And no one bothered to ask.

In a sudden fit of frustration, Megan caught up with Alun outside the courtroom, tugging his arm.

“And are you happy with that?” she demanded.

Again he looked angry. “Of course I’m happy, Megan.” He glanced around to see who was watching or listening. Carole Symmonds was, her eyes brightly inquisitive.

Alun shook his arm free. “As happy as I can be after an accident.”

“Misadventure,” she corrected.

He interpreted her sarcasm correctly. “That’s right, Megan. Misadventure. That’s what the coroner said. That’s the official verdict. Now just drop it, will you. Don’t go looking for toads under stones.”

“Because they might be there?”

“They’re not, Meggie. They’re not.”

They stood for a while, staring at each other. Megan turned away first. She was reading coldness and rejection in his face. They were expressions she had never read before and they both shocked and hurt her. He might like her. Love her - a little. Lust after her. But behind all that something deep within him was beginning to dislike her too.

She mumbled something and crossed the car park to where Carole Symmonds was shaking the Coroner’s hand. Megan waited until he had walked on and then asked Carole the same question.

“Are you happy with the verdict?”

“Very happy,” Carole said. “I feel much happier - more settled about Mam’s death now. I can picture what happened. And the coroner’s told me quite certainly that she didn’t suffer. It was instant. She never really knew what happened to her.”

And
neither
will
we.

“Knowing Mam didn’t suffer makes it easier for me, doctor.” Carole was smiling in the direction of the coroner’s dark green Audi indicating to turn right out of the car park. “You really feel you can trust him.”

Megan unlocked her car with a feeling of exasperation which was tinged with isolation. She was the only one to voice any misgivings.

She drove straight home without speaking to anyone else.

No
one
wanted
trouble.

Bianca had been interred. The verdict had been passed. She wasn’t quite happy with the verdict but what was she going to do about it?

And so Megan did nothing. Life moved on. She took up the invitation to dinner with Phil and Angharad, she copied one of the TV chef’s dinner parties and had a riotous weekend in Torquay with a couple of med. school friends who were kind enough not to mention Guido’s name for the entire weekend.

She even spent an evening at Cardiff’s new Festival Hall listening to a concert of Harp & Mozart. And the man who had invited her was what her mother laughingly called, “a bit of a charmer”. So life was good. Too good to ruminate over the tragic death of a sad, mad woman.

She even visited Triagwn once a week, as was contracted but she was not asked to see Geraint Smithson.

And then, on the first day of November - a Friday - Megan found a note in her pigeonhole asking her to ring Arwel.

He picked up on the first ring and as usual his voice was abrupt and peremptory.

“I asked you, Doctor Banesto, if you would sedate my father to relieve his wanderings and help the staff. They have informed me that you have done no such thing. Now they are finding him so difficult they are threatening to have him transferred to one of the psychiatric establishments.”

“He’s already written up for appropriate medication.”

“Well he needs more.” A pause. “Or something else. Something stronger. He’s causing chaos there.”

He
always
got
under
her
skin.

“I’ll go and see him today,” Megan said sharply. “I’ll use my clinical judgement to decide how best to deal with him.”

Arwel’s answer was a loud snort and Megan put the phone down.

The colours of November appeared dingy and unwashed when compared with August’s bright tints. Megan brushed the surgery blinds apart and looked at today’s ice grey sky. Soon every last vestige of colour would be drained from the valley. Rousseau and Gaugin would be lost; the hues would be that of Gericault, despairing, muted, depressing greys, blacks, charcoal.

She
hated
the
winter.

Maybe she should follow advice and visit the travel agent in Bridgend. She was owed a couple of weeks’ holiday. India, Africa or the Caribbean could always provide heat and colour. A few hours on an aeroplane would soon make her forget a Welsh winter.

As she drove towards Triagwn she dreamed again of Italy as it had looked when Guido had first welcomed her to his restaurant; the faded red terracotta, brilliant scarlet flowers, the scent of herbs growing in pots. And he had looked so different, his shirt super-white against the olive skin, his eyes very very dark and his oiled black hair. No wonder she had tripped and fallen for him.

She smiled.

Normally she would announce her arrival but this was an unofficial visit. She had been summoned by Arwel Smithson to visit his father. She did not want to be escorted round by Sandra, to see everyone who had an ache or a pain and wanted to speak to the doctor. One patient would be enough. She wanted to drive to Bridgend and plan a short escape.

So she parked the car round the back of Triagwn and walked in through the kitchen entrance. No one saw her.
The nurses must be busy elsewhere. And no one knew she was coming except Arwel. The corridor was deserted. At this time of the morning it was in the kitchen that activities were centred. She could hear the clatter of pans and the hum of kitchen gossip, the radio providing old pop tunes to work by. Megan passed straight by and walked upstairs towards room four. She was anxious to find out for herself how much disruption Smithson senior was really causing.

It was obvious before she reached the top of the stairs.

She could hear the old man shouting from the end of the corridor. “Why will no one believe me? I tell you it’s true. It’s
all
true.”

“Oh, shut up.” The voice replying was unrecognisable as the matron’s.

Smithson again, “Look. She told me. Right?”

“No one believes you, Mr Smithson. You’re just makin’ trouble here, upsettin’ people. But then when has that ever bothered you?”

“I don’t care what you think of me. I know there’s people here who must hate me. I understand that. But I’m not confused.”

“You don’t know anything.”

Another different voice. Scornful. Disbelieving. Valerie. “Val” they called her. Valerie Simpson. Second in command to the matron. Megan drew nearer room four and heard Geraint Smithson break down, a note of sheer desperation making his voice gravelly. “I can’t remember the exact year, I tell you. It was a long time ago. I don’t know exactly. I’ve forgotten. The sixties. The seventies. Look it up, I tell you. Look it up. Perhaps you’ll believe me then.”

“We’ll
never
believe you, you - ”

Megan could only guess at what Sandra Penarth had been about to say. She had reached the doorway and the
matron had spotted her straight away. Immediately her face changed. Guilt swiftly replaced by a bold, defensive look. Megan took in the scene in an instant. The two nurses were bent over the old man giving him an injection. Smithson’s eyes were filled with fear. He appealed to Megan. “Doctor Banesto.”

Megan approached Sandra, tried to keep the nurse from reading the shock in her eyes. She had never before witnessed cruelty here at Triagwn. Only kindness, humanity, consideration. Was it all fake? As much a facade as was the stone porch fixed on the front of the house?

“What are you giving him?” she asked.

Sandra Penarth had finished pressing the plunger on the syringe. She withdrew the needle. “Only a sedative, Doctor.”

“But who’s written him up for an injection?”

“Andy said if he became too noisy we could give him the extra Chlorpromazine.”

“By injection?” Megan didn’t intend to make it sound so much like an interrogation.

“Yes. He wouldn’t take his tablets. He spat them out so Andy agreed over the phone that we could give him his Largactil by injection.”

“Has Andy examined him?”

“No - he didn’t
need
to. He listened to what we told him. Not like some.” The two nurses exchanged conspiratorial glances. Megan knew they had been talking about her. Val had her hands on her hips and was staring at her, unblinking. It was a direct challenge. Geraint Smithson gripped her hand. “Please,” he pleaded desperately. “Please. All I ask is that you believe me. Listen. Just listen.”

Megan nodded, not even half understanding what was happening.

Not
yet.

“You see,” Sandra said briskly. “He’s very disturbed. He definitely needs the extra sedation. He’s agitated.”

Smithson’s
eyes
were
begging
her.

“How much are you giving him?”

“Five tablets three times a day.”

“What strength?”

“A hundred milligrams.”

“That’s over the maximum recommended dose. And the injections too?”

“He’s agitated.”

Smithson’s hand shot out to grasp hers. “I just want them to listen. The little girl was going to buy some chips …” He was beginning to sag. His grip was loosening by the second. His eyelids were drooping. His face took on a vacant look.

And knowing she was not doing the right thing but undermined now by both her partner and the nursing staff Megan took the prescription chart from the bottom of the bed and cancelled the injections but to appease the nurses added on yet another oral tranquiliser, Haloperidol, a drug specifically prescribed for the disturbed, elderly, confused patient.

The only adjective out of the trio that she knew described him accurately was elderly. The rest was open to debate.

But the fates have us in their grasp.

It was the following Thursday, November the 7th, Megan’s half day. And once she had waded her way through the morning’s surgery and done a couple of home visits she would be free. She drew the blinds right back and made her decision. She would ring a friend. Even though the weather was blustery, there were hopeful glimpses of cold blue in the sky. It was a bright, energetic sort of a day, ideal for a trip to the coast, a brisk walk along the sands of Porthcawl and a gossip in one of the hotels which served dinner. They would pass Coney Beach, the fairground, closed for the winter. Out of season there would be only the faintest, lingering scent of vinegar and chips and none of the rattling and screaming that made it such a nightmare in the summer.

She always had loved it more out of season when its seediness and flaking paint hinted at some of the fairground parodies of the past: the fat lady, the tooth-pulling man, the strange creature from Africa. The rickety rides also had a charm of their own - the waterchute, the roller coaster and best of all the carousel, its fiery horses awaiting the call to gallop round and round, their names painted along their necks: Valkyrie, Thunderbolt, Battle Scar. It returned her to her childhood and herself clinging on for dear life, Bonnard’s Bareback Rider, risking life and limb as the world spun past her.

As a child Megan had loved the thrill of the fairground at the same time as she had been frightened of its illusions. The Hall of Mirrors, the Cake Walk, Over the Falls. As she drew her surgery blinds together she could almost hear
the faint strains of jingling, compelling music. She unlocked the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet and picked up her handbag, impatient now to be gone. But she made the mistake of glancing across at the Gericault and could have sworn it was not envy that she read in the mad woman’s face but mockery. To be taken in by such cheap illusion. Defiantly she closed the door behind her and wandered into the reception area to find that Andy and Phil had already left the surgery leaving a message that they would manage the two visits without her.

She was free.

And then the door opened.

Catherine Howells, the psychiatric social worker breezed in. “Ructions,” she said, flopping into the nearest chair in the waiting room. “Absolute bloody ructions. They’re moving Esther Magellan into a flat. She can’t stay in the house now she’s on her own. It’s for dual occupancy only and nobody would share with Esther now Bianca’s gone. At least nobody in their right mind.”

“So is Esther objecting to the move?”

“Not to the move as such. She seems to have accepted that. It’s the junk she wants to take with her. Merthyr Crescent is stuffed absolutely full of rubbish. The backroom’s a health hazard. Full of boxes of old newspapers, bottles, washed out food tins, old clothes. You name it, she kept it. And now Esther won’t let us chuck anything away. Keeps saying they were Bianca’s. They were precious and she promised her she would keep it all. I ask you. It wants takin’ down the tip. But I can’t budge ‘er. Stubborn as an old mule she is.”

Megan frowned. “Can’t you move Esther into her new flat and then dump the stuff?”

“We could but I think she’d create. A couple of the boxes
she’s huggin’ to her like it was worth something. And it’s all junk. The flat’s been newly decorated and I’m not having her messin’ up the new place with rubbish. Some of the stuff goes back years. The food tins are vintage, mouldy, the bottles are ancient and some of the newspapers are thirty years old. I found one boxful going back to 1971.”

Maybe
it
was
the
mention
of
years
gone
by
that
awoke
Megan’s
interest.
Or
simply
the
detritus
of
Bianca’
s
life
in
the
form
of
valueless
old
junk.
Perhaps
Megan
sensed
that
the
rea
son
the
social
worker
had
arrived
at
the
surgery
was
that
she
had
hoped
Megan
would
offer
to
help.
Or
maybe
there
was
no
reason
that
made
Megan
offer
to
act
as
mediator.
It
simply
happened
like
that.

“I wonder,” she said slowly, “if she’d let me dispose of some of the junk?”

Catherine looked relieved. “We-e-ll - she does trust you. That’s for sure.” She sat up straight as though Megan had already provided a solution to her problems. “It’d be worth a try. For sure
we’re
getting nowhere fast. Would you?” She was already on her feet.

So Megan followed her colleague’s bright blue VW Golf to the Llangeinor Road, winding through the estate of council houses before turning left into a crescent with a patch of sodden, muddied grass in its centre. She pulled up behind Catherine’s car outside the small, council bungalow which had until recently housed the two women. It was easy to locate the source of the social worker’s concern. Esther was standing in the middle of the front path, struggling with a man in a beige overall who was attempting to lift the armchair of a three piece suite into the back of the three ton lorry. “Don’t you dare,” Esther was screaming at him, tugging his arms. “These are
my
things. You
can’t
take them away.”

The removal man was patient. “I’m not trying to take
them away, Miss Magellan. We’re movin’ them. Like I told you. They are going to your new place.”

Esther took a step back, hands on wide hips. “How do I know?” she demanded. “You might be stealin’ them. And me just lettin’ you.”

The man gave a deep sigh. Catherine was already beside her, her arm around Esther’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Esther. They’re taking all your furniture to that lovely new flat I showed you last week. Remember? The one with the yellow door. And I said that all the garden belonged to the flats and you could walk through them. Remember?”

Esther’s face looked confused for no more than a moment. Then it cleared and she beamed. “The house with the yellow door,” she repeated.

“Flat,” corrected Catherine. “Up the stairs. Remember?”

“I remember the garden,” Esther said, smiling. “There was a tree in it. A tree.” She registered Megan’s arrival. “Doctor?” she said uncertainly.

“I’ve hear you’ve been a bit troubled by some stuff you promised to look after for Bianca.”

Esther nodded vigorously “Bianca’s,” she said. “I promised. She didn’t want it thrown away.”

“But she doesn’t need it now, does she?”

“I
said
I would keep it for her.” Catherine was right. There was an air of donkey stubborness about her.

“But you won’t have enough room in the flat.”

“N-o-o.”

“There aren’t many cupboards, Esther,” Catherine put in helpfully. “You won’t have anywhere to put all that junk.”

Esther looked troubled. “But I promised,” she repeated.

Megan touched her arm. “What about if I look after some of the things for Bianca?”

Esther looked confused. “Which things?”

“Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Esther put her finger on her chin, the age old gesture of a child - puzzling. Then she beamed again. “All right, doctor,” she said. “That’ll be all right. Bianca always trusted
you.”
Behind her patient, Catherine’s eyebrows lifted but she said nothing.

Megan’s heart sank when she opened the door to what must once have been a dining room, a room which she had never visited when both the inahitants of 42, Merthyr Crescent had been alive. Searching her subconscious she could now recall the sound of an interior door being pulled shut when she had knocked at the front door. As though a room inside the bungalow had held a secret. She scanned the contents and knew now. No secret. Only an imagined one. Behind the door had been a roomful of rubbish. Boxes were piled up in the corner, some of them collapsing under their own weight. One or two bore stains as though liquid had seeped out and soaked the cardboard. The air was sour and stale. There was a faint smell of cat pee. Megan swallowed. The room smelt like a rubbish tip. She would
have
to dump it all.

Mentally she cancelled the trip to Porthcawl and felt a hollow sadness as the tinkling fairground music slowed and faded to nothing. There was a lot of junk. The boxes would need two trips. Her Calibra was hardly a load carrier. The tip was a few miles away and she would need a bath after touching this stuff. She picked up another waft of strong, animal scent. The car would probably need cleaning too. She must be mad. Public Health would have shifted it. It was hardly one of
her
duties. But Esther touched her arm timidly, gazed at her with trusting eyes. It was a more eloquent plea than any words that existed in the English dictionary.

“Esther,” she said, trying to stifle her disgust as she lifted the top of the first box and pulled out a rinsed-out baked beans tin. “Some of this must be thrown away.”

Esther moved nearer. “Not the papers,” she hissed. “I promised Bianca I’d
never
throw those papers away. She wanted me to keep them. They’re important.
Very
important.”

“All right, all right.” Megan knew she had to agree to this. Policed by a protesting Esther she spent the next hour loading up boxes of junk into the back of her car. She had been right. There was too much for one trip. And it was going to take up the entire afternoon. The dump was only four miles away but the journey took double time due to a set of roadworks blocked by irate drivers who passed through on red only to be forced to lock bumper to bumper to assert their rights on green. Megan sat and fumed as the lights flicked through their sequence, unwillingly inhaling the stale smell of the car full of litter even though she’d opened both windows. She was tempted to put her hand on her horn simply to blast out her own frustration. But she would soon be recognised as the doctor. And it didn’t do to express anger. What made it worse was that above her the clouds had rolled away to reveal a Wedgwood blue sky. She checked her watch and cursed November. It might be just two o’clock but only a couple more precious hours remained of daylight. On top of that her car now stank like the municipal tip. Feeling angry with herself for having got involved, she finally reached the recycling centre, pulled up in front of a huge skip and unloaded the carload of boxes, slamming the doors shut before heading back to Esther’s house.

Esther had vanished, presumably with Catherine to take up residence in her new home, but the van was still outside,
the men almost ready to roll the doors down on the shabby contents. Megan went straight back into the dining room and loaded up the last of the boxes, four of them filled to the brim with old newspapers. She hardly glanced at them but placed them side by side on the back seat which she had protected with a green waterproof sheet usually used for picnics. And now she had a dilemma. She had promised Esther she would not throw the papers away. Hands still on the steering wheel, she turned around.

They were just boxes of old newspapers. Nothing more. She began heading towards the tip. But the traffic was building up, the roads now clogged with cars full of schoolchildren. Megan sat impatiently in her car, fingers drumming the steering wheel, a Britney Spears tape blasting out to distract her. A swift glance at her car clock told her her journey would be fruitless anyway. It was three o’ clock and the tip closed at three thirty.

Besides, her conscience still nagged her.
“You
promised
Esther
you
would
not
throw
these
newspapers
away.
”

She did a five point turn in the road provoking an angry blast of car horns before reluctantly heading for home, reasoning that in a month or two Esther would have forgotten their existence. She could dispose of them then.

For now she could put them in her garden shed. There was plenty of room there.

And
so
through
a
simple
set
of
events,
by
a
thread
as
fine
as
the
blink
from
a
set
of
traffic
lights,
lives
are
changed.
Maybe
all
is
coincidence.
There
is
no
divine
plan
except
one
-
the
law
of
entropy,
of
chance,
of
chaos.

So she headed home, parked her car outside and carried the boxes into her hall one by one. One of the penalties of
living in a mid terraced house was that access to her garden shed was through the house. She was ready for a drink so she stacked the boxes near the back door and opened the fridge, reaching in to the far corner of the bottom shelf for a can of Red Stripe.

The flap of the box had dropped and the top newspaper almost slithered out. So it was that she read part of a sentence.

“…going
to
buy
chips…”

She had heard that particular phrase recently.

Smithson had used it.

“I
just
want
them
to
listen.
”

“Listen
to
what?”

“The
little
girl
was
going
to
buy
some
chips.
”

Megan was intrigued. If Smithson
had
been referring to this case - why? What had been of such significance that he had struggled to bring it to their attention?