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Authors: Clare Curzon

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BOOK: The Glass Wall
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The first phone call next morning came at 10.15. Emily was lightly sleeping again after being washed, fed and monitored. Alyson had prepared ahead her purees for the day's meals, all blended to a regrettable sludge of varying brownish greys or foggy yellow, although nourishing and as palatable as possible. She slid their tray into the fridge and lifted the kitchen phone.
A woman's voice replied when she gave the number. ‘I have Mr Timothy Fitt for you. One moment, please.'
There was a pause with a metallic
clank
and paper rustling while Alyson pictured the solicitor, small, fussy, myopic, his hands forever in nervous movement, searching, patting, sorting. She'd always thought of his name as a contraction of Fidget.
‘A-a-ah.' A long-drawn sigh. ‘Miss – er, Orme.'
‘Mr Fitt.'
‘Yes. Well, how are you, m'dear? And Miss Withers, of course.'
What could she say? – both fine?
‘There is no noticeable change in Emily's condition, Mr Fitt. She's reasonably comfortable, given the circumstances.'
‘No deterioration, then?'
Did he sound disappointed? She observed he didn't pursue further inquiries about her own health.
‘Emily? No. In fact at times she seems briefly aware of her surroundings. If the family requires a full report I am sure Dr Stanford will be pleased to furnish one in writing.'
‘No! No, no, no.' An initial squeak, descending an octave
diminuendo.
‘Oh no, not at all. I am sure your opinion will suffice without validation.'
Validation?
Lawspeak, she supposed. Even in the negative it sounded slighting. She let a short silence build without demanding. Is that all?
‘Yes. Quite,' the solicitor bleated. ‘Well it was pleasant to speak with you again, Miss – er, er …'
‘Orme,' she told him, and spelled it out.
‘Exactly. Goodbye.'
‘And perhaps “thank you”,' she murmured for him as he cut
the call. It was uncharitable to despise him for the way he let others use him, but she had a nurse's acquired distaste for families who contacted patients through a third or fourth party, and the feeling leaked back on to him.
The phone rang the instant she replaced the receiver. ‘Guess what!' invited Gina, trainee receptionist in A&E.
‘No idea, Gina. Visit from a Royal?'
‘Next best. Mega-scandal! New case for you in ITU. No less than Keith Stanford's wife Audrey. Seems she OD'ed on something heavy, probably diamorphine. The good doctor brought her in overnight and now he's gone off with the police.'
‘Gina, discretion! I hope you can't be overheard.' The rebuke was instinctive even while her flesh rippled with sudden chill. She heard again Keith's voice; the words, ‘She's scared …some aspects she hasn't fully confronted yet.'
Even as he'd confided that, his wife could have been facing up to the truth, trying to deal with her ghosts alone, and failing. But where had she obtained the drug? She wasn't allowed to administer it herself. Surely Keith hadn't been so careless as to leave the morphine where she could find it. And just when had she taken it? During the night, or so early that when he arrived home it was almost too late to reverse it?
He had sat on here, talking companionably, even relaxing a little, while just a few miles away Audrey could have been taking her own life. Had his returning so late made a near-fatal difference? Had she expected him to find her earlier? And was it a true wish to die or a further means of moral blackmail?
But Gina was a great scandalmonger and more often than not got her facts wrong. She would not have been given access to case notes and merely assumed the OD from Mrs Stanford's appearance when brought in. Despite the clerical trainee's guesswork, Audrey might be in coma, as a further stage of her illness. However it was, Keith must be facing the horror of suddenly losing her.
Alyson stared round the kitchen and it seemed to have changed in some indefinable way, tilted to a different perspective. Replacing the handset, she put her free hand against the wall to
steady herself.
What was the next thing she'd intended doing? Run the vacuum cleaner round the apartment. It seemed not to matter now. She walked past where she had left the machine in the hall, and continued on to her observation point. Outside, it was snowing again. Large, lazy flakes like white feathers were already settling over the earlier fall.
She was due to take over in ITU at one-thirty. Three hours to fill and she'd meant to clean the apartment before Sheena arrived; but, even as she reminded herself, she seated herself close to the window and gazed down on the diminished world outside. She saw the ghost of a dark figure cross the road, step on to the further pavement, turn, look back and raise a hand in salute. Strangely, it had the fearful impact of finality.
She forced herself to leave the compulsive screen and robotically set about tidying the rooms. Sheena arrived in a flouncy mood, perhaps fantasizing as one of her pop-scene celebrities. Alyson had neither time nor inclination to humour her. There were no fresh instructions to issue.
On the way to work she picked up a plastic box of salad and some slices of smoked salmon, but still she was there ten minutes early. ‘You've heard, then?' Bernice guessed as she entered.
‘Gina rang me. How's our new patient?'
‘Barely with us, but if you want to go straight through you could try talking to her. See if you get a reaction. She's lost a lot of blood.'
‘Blood? What happened then? I heard it was an OD.'
‘That'll be Gina, picking up the arse end of everything. No, Mrs S sat in a warm bath to slit her wrists, then rang round the neighbours for help. Including a senior policeman. Keith was in earlier. He's gone now to make a statement.'
Alyson knew Bernice would have accessed all information available. It was more appalling than she'd been led to believe. She shed her outer clothes, put her purchases in a sterile bag and found a place for it in the ward fridge.
Back in the therapy unit Audrey Stanford, ashen and limp, lay on her back in a bed where old Mr Fennell's had stood last night.
Beside it a blood bag and a saline drip were suspended from an IV stand. In the next cubicle was a young male crack OD who'd also been transferred from A&E overnight. Notes on him probably accounted for Gina's confusion over Audrey's condition.
On the whiteboard young Dr McLean's cabalistic signs recorded his monitoring of the young man's body fluids. Since he wasn't padding about between the five occupied beds she assumed he was in the broom-cupboard space of the designated restroom, sleeping off the rigours of the night. He'd have set his alarm in time for the next readings. Nobody could fault his devotion to duty. He was a puppy of the faithful-hound type, all bounding clumsiness and unbounded adoration for herself.
Alyson bent over the woman's bed. ‘Audrey, it's Alyson Orme. You're with us in ITU and doing really well. Keep at it. We're all with you.'
There was no reaction. Alyson straightened and turned away. They needed Keith here. If he brought in his wife's favourite CDs they could play music quietly for her comfort, with the headset on her pillow. She wasn't strictly an emergency any more, but keeping her in ITU ensured a certain degree of privacy when all private rooms were in use elsewhere. And here the consultant from Psychiatry could observe her discreetly.
Where was Keith now? She imagined he'd gone home after seeing the police and would snatch a few hours of rest. Better not risk a phone call waking him. He would certainly come when he was ready, or ring in for a progress report.
 
Sheena Judd was feeling distinctly elated. Having left home straight after an early lunch with the declared intention of walking to work, she had instead taken a bus from the stop beyond her usual one (which could be overlooked from home) and got off at The Crown. It was the quiet before their midday rush and Ramón was polishing glasses. There was no sign of Roseanne.
‘Hi,' she said, as if to an old friend.
The man's face stayed unmoving. ‘Vodka Martini, yes?'
‘Actually I fancy something different this time.' (Never let them think you're predictable, the style magazine had advised: to be unpredictable is to be feminine.) ‘So what do you recommend?'
‘Uh' That had foxed him: so, good!
‘You try something I invent, perhaps?'
‘I'll trust you, many wouldn't.' Being provocative for a change.
It came the colour of Mum's cough mixture. Not too far off the same taste too. Or what she imagined the taste would be, going by the smell. ‘Great,' she lied. ‘I could get hooked on this.'
It had the desired effect. Perhaps flattered, he left the polishing and rested his elbows on the bar counter opposite her. ‘Roseanne not in?' she asked him.
‘She come in at three. Relief me, yes?'
‘Relieves,' she corrected him. ‘I go on duty at one. When you come off, why not drop in and have a coffee on the house?' She beamed expansively. ‘Actually dropping
up
's more like it. It's the penthouse over the car showrooms. Hit the lift button for the seventh floor. Come up and admire the view. We're on top of the world there.'
He was looking inscrutable and that irritated her, counting on some reciprocal matiness. But behind the impassive, square features he must have been considering the invitation. ‘Perhaps I find time after I finish.'
‘Great. There's an entry-phone at the outer door. Just ring and whisper “Ramón” into it and I'll release the door lock.'
‘I know how these things work.' Did the stupid woman think he had never been anywhere? She should have seen Hong Kong with its real towers. This female lump and her petty seventh floor!
Feeling she'd scored, Sheena drank up and pushed her glass back for a refill. Ramón glanced past her to two men in overalls who'd just come in, moved along the bar and served them. He didn't seem in a hurry to come back. Sheena raised her glass above her head and called, ‘Pour it again, Sam.'
Of course he'd never heard of
Casablanca.
Instead she got more of the blank-eyed look as he repeated the drink. She glanced at her watch, frowned and downed the brown stuff in one. It seemed even stronger. She felt it hit, warm inside, and hiccuped. ‘The mixture as before,' she excused herself jokily.
He nodded, again at sea with the quotation.
‘Like it says on medicine bottles,' it was necessary to explain.
‘Yes,' woodenly.
Not the sort for repartee, but perhaps that made him a man of action. ‘Well, must be off.' She reached the door, turned, waved her brown wool gloves at him saucily. ‘Be seeing you.'
‘Indeed.'
She'd made it; won the promise of some diversion to get her through the boring hours of waiting on a near-corpse. Who could tell what impression the luxury apartment would have on Ramón? The style was a bit bare for her taste, but you couldn't escape the whiff of big money that came off it.
For once Sheena arrived with some enthusiasm for her stint of duty at Emily's penthouse, impatient for Alyson to be gone. The moment she heard the lift go down Sheena let herself into the nurse's bathroom and sniffed at the bottles. There was a new moisturising bath crème with a fresh floral scent. Running the mixer tap for water, she poured in enough to give a rich foam. (If Alyson noticed the lower level in the bottle she'd explain she needed a bath after cleaning up the old crone.)
Cosy afterwards in a new fluffy bath towel, she nudged with a toe her pile of cast-off clothes. In Alyson's bedroom she helped herself to a silky kimono and posed in it before the full-length mirrors of the wall-length wardrobe. She wished she'd let her hair grow, but it was more bother that way. She ran oiled hands through it now to make it stand up spiky, giving more height.
Still an hour and twenty minutes before she could hope to hear Ramón buzz from downstairs. The drinks he'd mixed for her were making her thirsty. Should she make herself coffee now or wait until he was there? At least get a tray ready; fill the kettle, find some biscuits or cake. Only, of course, Alyson didn't do sweet things. There were crackers to go with cheese, but they looked like something you'd buy for a dog.
With old Emily asleep and snoring on her back, she could safely go for a spot of shut-eye herself. She checked that her makeup had survived the bath – no call to wash above the neckline – and spread herself over the freshly made bed. The goose-down
duvet smelled delicately of floral laundry freshener. She snuggled her nose in it, decided she might lose heat exposed outside, and eased herself under. She closed her eyes on the memory of Ramón's face, like polished cherry wood, smiling. Only he didn't smile, did he? Maybe, though, she'd find a way to get him going.
BOOK: The Glass Wall
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