Disturbing Ground (3 page)

Megan merely smiled. It was no use him fishing around for medical detail. By the laws of confidentiality she could not divulge even what had been the commonest of knowledge. That Bianca Rhys had been a paranoid schizophrenic. In layman’s parlance,
nutty
as
a
fruit
cake.

Alun tried again. “Got a daughter, hasn’t she?”

“That’s right. Carole Symmonds.”

“Then I’d better send someone up there right away” He looked troubled. “One of the WPCs. I wouldn’t want her to find out about this …” His head jerked back towards the sodden heap of clothing.
Strange
how
we
can
acknowledge
the
clothes
containing
a
dead
person
easier
than
the
corpse
itself.
“… through one of these people.” He scanned the ring of people constantly shifting around the pool. Thinning now.

The crowd was, at last, begining to disperse.
Short
work
to
travel
up
to
the
head
of
the
valley
to
Carole
Symmond’s
door.

“I’d better get back.” Her feet turned towards the red brick health centre. “There’s nothing more I can do here. Shall I get you a blanket to cover her?”

Alun nodded. “Thanks.”

He stared down at his shoes. “You knew her well?”

Everyone
knew
her
well.
Everyone
in
this
claustrophobic
vil
lage
that
masqueraded
as
a
town.

“She was a patient of mine.”

It was pointless to obey the Medical Defence Union’s directive for confidentiality. She and her two partners were the only GP group serving the valley. Bianca had to be one of their patients.

It was too obvious a fact to be a secret.

“Can you think of a reason why she might have …?”

Knowing Alun’s missing words were, “committed suicide” or more likely “topped herself”, Megan shrugged. Who knew what motives these people could dredge from
their aberrant minds to justify a mortal dive into a filthy pond. It could be anything. An escape from an alien invasion; a search for the lost city of Atlantis; swimming with brilliantly coloured fish; hiding from a tiger; a conviction they could dive without oxygen; a lack of recognition that ponds were not paths; a desire to escape the ever-bidding voices of schizophrenia. The list was infinite.

“I can’t say,” she said simply. “I’m sorry, Alun. I can’t. You might try speaking to Doctor Wainwright, the consultant psychiatrist. She was a patient of his.”
And
even
dis
closing
that
titbit
had
crossed
the
hidden
line
of
secrecy.

“Was she due some … medication?”

The
straight
answer
was
no.
Megan
had
given
her
her
monthly
injection
only
three
days
ago,
Friday.
Bianca’s
mental
state
should
have
been
stabilised
temporarily.
“I’d have to look at my records,” she said, adding regretfully, “you know we can’t divulge.”

Alun put a hand on her shoulder then. “But she’s dead now, Megan. There isn’t any point in keeping secrets about her. It’ll all have to come out at the inquest.”

“Even dead she has her rights. As do her family,” she said uncomfortably. “I can’t simply give you all her medical …”

His hand was on her arm again. “I know that, Meggie. Sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”

She smiled at his use of her pet name again. He always had been swift to apologise when he believed himself in the wrong. But if he was convinced he was right it was a different story. Not the penitent. Something else. Some steeliness that she had witnessed on more than one occasion. “It’s OK.”

“And the coroner will probably want you to …”

“Give a statement? Attend the inquest? It’s OK, Alun,” she said again. “I do understand.”

Afterwards she felt she should have done more than simply lend a blanket. But it was all she could do - at that time. Lend a blanket, return to her morning surgery. And to her irritation, as she crossed the road Gwendoline Owen detached herself from the crowd and followed her back into the health centre. “I realised our consultation wasn’t quite finished, Doctor,” she said, “but I didn’t mind waiting.” Her bright eyes glistened with curiosity. “I wonder what happened. What do you think, Doctor?”

“I can’t say.” Megan knew she sounded excessively brisk. She gave her patient a brief smile. “Look, Mrs Owen. I’m sure you can appreciate. Time’s short. I’m very behind in my work. I have to get out on my visits. Why don’t you make another appointment.”

It
was
deferring
the
problem.
But
for
today
she
had
had
enough.

“That’s all right by me,” Gwen Owen said, obviously piqued. “But I still don’t know what to do. Do I take the tablets for the pain and suffer with my stomach? Or do I …?”

Suddenly Megan felt depressed at the self centred attitude of the chronically sick. “I’ll change your prescription for the pain killers.”

Megan had two partners. And when she arrived for evening surgery on that balmy evening they were both standing in the reception area, talking. Not hard to guess what about.

At
least
it
wasn’t
about
her
this
time.

Phil Walsh spoke first. “Trouble this morning?”

“Bianca. They found her drowned in the Slaggy Pool.”

“Nasty.” He put a friendly hand on her shoulder. “But it’s funny how many of these elderly schizos come to a sudden and violent end. I was reading an article the other day about it. Apparently they fall victim to assaults, accidents. Prevalence much much higher than the general public. Still upsetting for you though.”

“Yes.”

“Andy” was her other partner. They called him Andy. Staff and patients alike. Because his real name was unpronounceable to Welsh tongues. So they didn’t even try. And calling him “Andy” seemed to make him one of them. He was a handsome, turbanned Sikh with flashing dark eyes and white teeth. A hardworking partner.

“So. Rhys finally topped herself. Not a surprise.”

“We don’t know she was trying to drown herself. She might have slipped in accidentally.”

“Oh come on, Megan,” Phil Walsh interrupted with a touch of impatience. “She had a self destruct button. She was always slicing through her arms with razor blades. You must have seen the scars.”

“Yes. Couldn’t miss them,” Andy agreed.

Megan picked up her box of notes from the receptionists’
counter. “Self harming was one of things she did, I agree. If she’d accidentally hit an artery and bled to death I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. But this …” She abandoned the sentence.

“She had a great habit of swallowing all her pills at once too,” Andy said. “That’s why the psychiatric nurse went in every day to check her.”

Phil Walsh interrupted. “Did she check her this morning?”

“I doubt it,” Megan said drily. “She’d been in the water for some hours when I saw her.”

Phil persisted. “So why didn’t Pauline Carver report the fact that she was missing?”

“Because as usual Bianca had fallen out with her. Asked her to leave the tablets with a neighbour, Doris Baker, who in turn administered them to Bianca. It made things terribly difficult. But then Bianca was not the easiest of patients.”

“She was such a nutcase,” Andy said, still smiling, “nothing should surprise us about her.”

“Nothing except this,” Megan said slowly. “She was absolutely terrified of water. You know that, Andy, she was your patient before you fell out. She wouldn’t go near any body of water - the river, ponds. Absolutely refused to ever visit the seaside.”

“Sensible woman,” Andy muttered.

“Yes but it wasn’t because of the trippers. It was because she really was frightened,” Megan persisted. “She wouldn’t take a bath. And you would have thought Pauline Carver was trying to murder her one day when she tried to get her under the shower. Bianca ran out of the house screaming she was being drowned, she was. She was absolutely starkers too. And it was in the middle of winter. Freezing night.”

Phil lifted his eyebrows. “Streaking through the streets of Llancloudy?”

All three of them laughed but Megan soon sobered up. “No - really. Keeping her relatively hygenic was very, very difficult. I’m surprised at her going up to the pool - let alone being close enough to slip in.”

And both her partners nodded their agreement.

Phil Walsh wrinkled his nose. “I can remember the smell after a consultation,” he said. “It was so disgusting I had to open the windows and use half a tin of air freshener before I could see another patient.”

“But she
must
have slipped in the pool,” Andy said. “What other explanation could there be?”

“I don’t know.” Megan spoke reluctantly. “Except that she wouldn’t have been able to swim. Not that it’s deep enough anyway. She must have felt herself slip and panicked. Just like a child falling in shallow water. They
could
get out but they don’t.”

She closed her eyes for a second.

“You all right?”

Sirwan was watching her, concern furrowing his forehead. “Yes, yes. I’m fine, Andy.” She tried to laugh it off then realised both were watching her with the same concern. They needed some explanation. “It’s a poem.
The
Bridge
of
Sighs.
By Thomas Hood. It was my grandfather’s favourite. About a woman who drowned herself. Keeps running through my head.” She laughed again. “Doing my head in, as they say.”

Andy gave her one of his warm smiles. “It’s been a shock for you, seeing her dragged from the water, having to identify her. When you knew her so well.”

“I didn’t enjoy it,” she replied stiffly.

Phil Walsh grinned. “You’ve had a tough time recently. Come round for supper one night with me and Angharad.”

Megan flushed. “I’d love to. Thanks.” She and Angharad had been at medical school together - and then survived their house jobs - before twin sons had cut short Angharad’s medical career.

“Good.” He was still watching her carefully. “Got any holiday planned?”

What
was
the
point?
What
was
the
fun
of
going
anywhere
-
alone?
Most
of
her
friends
were
married,
had
husbands
to
holi
day
with.
She
had
only
one
single
friend
-
at
the
moment.
It
was
a
time
of
adjustment,
this
newly
single
status.
Of
course
there
were
always
Singles
Holidays.
She
winced.

“I’ll get away later on in the year. At the moment I’m still sorting out the new place.”

“Ah yes. And how are you settling in?”

“I’m just about getting straight - apart from getting the shower adjusted so it doesn’t either scald me or try and turn me into a human ice block.”

Andy grinned at her. “Had the same problem myself,” he said, “but I do know a good plumber.”

And so the conversation veered away.

It was on the next day that the Coroner’s office contacted her.

“We understand you were attendant on the recovery of the body of Bianca Rhys from Llancloudy Pool on Monday morning?”

“That’s right.”

“And you were also the deceased’s doctor?”

“Yes.”

“The post mortem will be this afternoon. Is there anything you feel the Coroner ought to know about the deceased? Anything relevant?”

“She was a schizophrenic receiving medication.”

“One of the …” She could hear the assistant leafing through documents, “antipsychotics?”

“Yes.”

“Would they have made her drowsy?”

“Very possibly.”

“And her condition was well controlled?”

“Reasonably,” Megan answered cautiously.

“You hadn’t been concerned about her mental or physical condition in the last fortnight?”

“Not especially.”

“Well - well see what the post mortem turns up but I would think the pathologist will be quite happy with an open verdict considering her mental state. Balance of mind - and all that.”

“So no open inquest?”

“Should suit the relatives. She’s just got the one daughter. That’s right, isn’t it?”

It crossed her mind then that she should visit Carole Symmonds.

It proved unecessary.

Carole Symmonds barged into her surgery on the following day. She was a hugely overweight woman in her thirties with short, bleached blonde hair which was badly cut and stuck out in all directions. Whoever had cut her mother’s hair had not extended the privilege to the daughter.

Carole plonked herself down in the protesting chair and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I heard you found her, doctor. I just wanted to know.”

Megan
already
knew
what
she
was
going
to
ask.

“Did she suffer?”

It was always easier to lie. Easier on the doctor, easier on the relatives.

But it wasn’t always the truth.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t know,” she said.

“That damned bloody pool.” Carole Symmonds had
found something to vent her anger on. “Ought to be filled in. It’s a bloody miracle some child didn’t fall in. As it was …” The bitterness was making her voice harsh. “I suppose the council won’t act in response to some old nutcase topping herself in it.”

And for the second time in two days Megan found herself taking an opposing stance to the suicide verdict. “We don’t know she intended suicide.”

“No - nobody knows and nobody bloody well cares either. Perhaps it was just an accident. Quite honestly,” Carole gave a harsh laugh. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what my mother was intendin’. Mind you. It’s probable she didn’t know what she was intendin’. Off her bloody rocker she was no matter what tablets and injections you gave her. They never made her sane. Just easier to control.”

Megan felt admonished, nakedly exposed. Bianca’s daughter was right. The medication had not normalised her mother’s mental state but had made her less of a social and medical nuisance. To divert Carole’s focus she inserted a question of her own. “Was she in the habit of frequenting the Slaggy Pool?”

A touch of humour brushed Carole’s lardy face. “At least they’re doin’ Mum the courtesy of callin’ it Llancloudy Pool in the papers. Sounds nicer than that old filthy pond.”

Megan winced as words of the poem flicked again into her mind.

Dreadfully
staring
Thro’
muddy
impurity
…

“No. She never went up there. You know what she was like about water. Well - of all the places she hated Slaggy Pool the most. I think it was the blackness of the water. Hated the place, she did. You know where she liked to hang around, doctor. Outside the Co-op, runnin’ through
the videos in the video shop, beggin’ batter bits from the chippie. I always knew where I could find her - in one of those three places. She never went up to the Rec or the pool. I used to say to her, sometimes - on a nice fine day - Why don’t you go and occupy them seats by the swings and she’d look at me as though I was the crazy one.” She laughed then mopped her eyes, her face twisted with grief that was softened by humour.

“So what do you think took her up there on that day?” Megan paused to think. “That night,” she corrected.

“Well - when are we talkin’ about?”

“I saw her on Friday, in my evening surgery, to give her an injection. I didn’t see her again until …” The next time she had seen her patient, Bianca had been stone cold. More than a few hours dead.

“Doris Baker said she gave her her tablets on Saturday morning. The police came to see me Monday late morning. About eleven. They said they thought she’d been in the water some time. No one seems to have seen her from when she swallowed her tablets on Saturday to when she turned up in the Slaggy Pool drowned on Monday. I asked at the video shop and the chippy and at the Co-op and they all said they didn’t see her all weekend. Mrs Baker said she didn’t see her on Sunday but Esther took the tablets from her and said she’d give them to Mam when she got in. She tried again on Monday and just got hold of Esther again. She was goin’ to ring you Monday after your surgery to say it looked like Mam had gone missin’. Then someone told her it was too late.”

“When did Esther Magellan say she’d last seen your mother?” Esther and Bianca had shared a house.

Carole rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “You know that old fruit cake. She couldn’t remember
when
she’d last seen Mam. And the more we asked her the more hassled
she got so in the end we had to leave her be.” Carole Symmonds stood up. “Look - while I’m here I wonder if you’d give me something to help me sleep. I keep thinking, you see. Goin’ over and over it in my mind. I keep seein’ her fallin’. You know Mam.” Her dark eyes held a terrible hurt. “She must have been terrified. She couldn’t stand water. For the life of me I’ll never know why she went up there. And it must have been in the dark. ‘Cos no one saw her go.” She gave a deep, long, why me, sigh that Megan knew she would never be able to answer satisfactorily. Indeed. Why her? The stigma of having a mother so afflicted, so embarrassing, such a responsibility. Always to worry about her “Mam”. And now. Megan tapped a few keys on the computer and printed out a prescription for sleeping tablets. “Look,” she said awkwardly. “Most of these drugs are habit-forming. Be careful. Just use them to tide you over the first week or two. Treat them with caution, Carole.”

She watched her leave with a feeling of disquieted sadness.