The Poison Morality (36 page)

After weeks or more, he wasn’t sure, of fruitless searching he meandered towards the hospital noticing the commotion outside where a great crowd was gathering.  Several police cars were there.  There was yelling and struggling.  He didn’t care to know what it was about, he pushed through the crowd and the police stopped him, he had to show his badge to get through and then he heard the voice, “It was him!  Not me, it was him!  He does it all the time, I tell you!”

The perpetual pressure in his head of late, turned into a throbbing when he heard Jacki shouting.  He turned; she was nodding towards him, unable to point him out because of the cuffs.  She was fighting for her freedom in vain.  Oliver just stared at her, the wrinkle between his eyes deepened and his brows drew together.  They didn’t seem to give any regard to her accusations or indeed who she was accusing.

Camille, hustled to him, pulling him by the arm hurriedly and he allowed her to drag him beyond the crowd of nurses and doctors to the lift.  Not saying a word until the doors closed and she pressed the button for the third floor.  She was agitated, nervous, mumbling half prayers, and crossing herself.

“What,” he started to ask but she motioned her finger side to side at him, shaking her head no so he closed his mouth.

When the lift doors opened, it was quite normal compared to the commotion downstairs.  Camille led him to Mariella’s room where it was obvious that she was dead.  He had never done it.  He asked her, and she refused to give him an affirmative and no matter how many times he put the needle in her feed tube, he could not push the plunger. 

It was more than her lack of consent that made him hesitant but after what she did to Sophie, he wanted her to linger, miserable, in pain.  And now that he knew the whole truth, he felt better about that decision.

Camille closed the door.  “Oh, Doctor,” she was fretting, unable to speak.

“It’s alright Camille,” he put an arm around her, having never seen Camille truly shaken.  Camille, like him, saw death all the time, why would she be so upset about Mariella of all people, “in your own time,” he encouraged but the truth was he just didn’t care or curious enough to know what bothered her so but she deserved a better friend.  He didn’t think he could take another hysterical woman in his life right now, especially Camille who was an oak, strong and true.

He stared a long time at Mariella’s pasty skin, the protruding bones, sunken eyes while Camille closed her eyes, breathing steadily in through her nose and out through her mouth to calm down.  After she composed herself she looked up at him, taking his hands in hers, squeezing them.

“It was Jacki, she was caught,” she tried to whisper but the agitation and unrest made her voice high pitched and her homeland accent thicker than ever, “she was caught giving Mrs Hannigan, oh Lord,” she was shaking.

“Jacki was caught doing what, Camille,” he said gripping her arms gently, her moving around making him skittish.

“She injected her with a large dose of something, but it’s unknown what yet until the tox screen comes back,” she said, ringing her hands.  “The new nurse, the girl, um…Marcie, saw her and alerted the doctor on duty.  She said you do it all the time; that a lot of your patients die because you give them fatal injections.”

Oliver looked over at Mariella.  So, Jacki did know about his secret.  Dirty little secret, she called it but he believed in what he said, it wasn’t dirty.  She wanted to do the same thing, her motivation not at all like his.  That was her problem.  She wanted to do it, to be like him, to have power over him so she could use it against him or was that her idea of setting him up?  But unlike Oliver, she was caught and the way she treated him in front of the staff, she could say what she liked about him and no one would believe her.  Besides he used Morphine, a drug they were already on and he was not the one trapped by her or anyone else.

“Are you upset Camille because you think I am or because you think there’s some validation to Jacki’s accusations?”

“Of course, I don’t,” she was hurt and offended. “It’s just, upsetting to find out someone would do such a thing, that’s all.  I know you were fond of her,” she said.

His head jerked to face Camille, incredulously and he stood up straight, “What, Jacki?”

“No, Mrs Hannigan,” she said looking at the bed, “I know you were fond of her,” she repeated, her hands cupped his elbows, letting him know that he could release her now. 

Oliver looked at Mariella, dropping his hands and standing upright again, “Yes, I was fond of her at one time.  She gave me some good advice.  Turns out, she never used it.”

“Are you alright Doctor, can I get you anything,” she noticed his saddened bearing of late, his un-kept state, and his usual pleasant countenance was overshadowed by whatever was going on with him.  She suspected a broken heart but she wouldn’t ask, believing that Mariella’s death at the hands of Jacki was just another blow to him. 

He didn’t answer.  Because what he wanted to say was no, I’m not alright and yes, bring Sophie back to me but it was pointless to say no and prompt more questions that don’t have answers or lie and say yes.

Camille, watched his reaction, he was already so doleful that his expression didn’t change much, she said, “I just can’t believe she would do that.  She wasn’t pleasant but I can’t imagine she could do it.”

“I just can’t believe she was so daft. She knew better,” his voice became harsh.  Camille was slightly surprised, she had never heard him use that tone.  “Did she say why she did it?”  Oliver shook his head in disbelief curious to know how much of her motive had to do with him.

“They haven’t questioned her yet.”

“If you hear anything else, will you let me know?  Keep me in the loop?”

“Absolutely doctor.  Are you sure you’re alright?”  He sighed; he didn’t even try to hide the wretched misery he felt, trying to smile but could not.  Camille could be his confidant, his
counsellor, maybe even help him sort out his feelings but he knew she would just give him some kind of religious jargon and he didn’t want to hear it.

Instead of ignoring her a second time, he answered, “No, I lost someone dear to me,” he looked down into her dark eyes filled with concern for him, “and it wasn’t Mariella.”  He kissed her forehead, thankful that someone here looked out for his well-being and walked past her out the door. 

At least Jacki out of the hospital was a silver lining.  She wouldn’t be bothering him anymore at least other than the denial and innocence he would have to portray when the authorities will inevitably question him about her accusation.  He felt sorry for her, going to prison, but he couldn’t help her stupidity.

All night, he heard the whispers, Jacki’s name and his name, the speculation.  No one else felt sorry for her either and she probably treated him the worst.  He had been approached by the female staff mostly because he no longer smiled, no longer laughed with them and now with what happened with Jacki, they were speculating about the change in his demeanour also, believing in their own assumptions after a while.

There was no joy in what he did any longer, his empathy put on hold, when he felt love had abandoned him.  In between helping his patients, he stared out towards the direction of the alley, yearning for the day he took her home, stitched her up, fed her, introduced her to music, wine, and theatre.  Missing her was like a black hole that sucked everything into a void with no feeling. 

There was no asking anyone if they were ready to go, even though some of his patients were, he just gave them enough medicine to ease the pain.  He didn’t care, he didn’t care about anything but finding Sophie and he had been all the places he could think of to try to find her, including the alley.  Even asking the people there if they saw here, once finding Owen but he said he had seen neither sister for weeks.

When he was home, he wanted to look at her paintings, feel them, trace the brush strokes with his fingertips or flip through her sketch books but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, picking it up and sliding his fingers across the cover but not opening it. 

The telly was on in the background but he didn’t hear it until there was an announcement about a strange fire that killed Declan Hannigan under suspicious circumstances.  Apparently, upon his death it had been revealed that he had been doing lots of underhanded dealings with the wrong people.  It was all the better for the truth, Oliver thought.

It was raining, on his way home.  He saw Adam and Mona in the window of the pub.  They were laughing and sitting close.  The way she had sat next to Oliver.  He went in, soaking, not caring if he left watermarks on the floor.  They looked up at him; he just stood dripping beside the table.

“Hello Oliver, are you alright,” Mona asked.  Why did everyone ask him that when it was obvious he wasn’t and didn’t want to talk about it?  She had never seen him not clean shaven except for a little stubble at the end of the day but he obviously had not shaved in a couple of days and he had not been eating properly.

“Have you seen Sophie,” he coughed, clearing his throat.  Mona knew the hurt he was feeling, he had done it to her, broken her heart which explained his un-kept state.  But a broken hearted man was much more pitiful than a broken hearted woman.

“No we haven’t?  Did she leave you,” she hid a smile, feeling empathy for his pain but she liked being right.

“Yes, but not as you predicted,” he replied, noticing her smile, and then walking back out into the rain. 

Trudging back to Sophie’s flat, head bowed, he preferred to walk the distance across Westminster Bridge, the rain the only thing he could feel which was better than the void.  If he thought it would do any good, he would have ripped the crucifix off Camille’s neck and said a prayer of his own but in truth, he fell asleep every night begging the universe or God or whoever or whatever was listening to bring her back to him and tonight was no different when he fell asleep, cold and wet on top of the duvet, clutching her pillow.

***

Only the blocking of the light woke him.  Half asleep and half awake, his eyes could barely stay open for a few seconds at a time.  He could only make out a figure in front of the window, the light behind shadowing.  He was sure he must be dreaming his eyes drifting closed again until...

“Hello, Ollie.”  It was Sophie’s voice here in the flesh; she was hovering over him, not in his mind but in the room and his eyes flew open, his heart pounding in excitement pumping him back to life. But there was something off his drowsy mind couldn’t comprehend.

“Sophie?” he muttered.

“Not really,” her voice flat and without emotion.

His reaction was instant and he was on the edge of the bed pulling her to him, arms around her waist, and his cheek on her stomach.  The lack of affection and the ‘not really’ answer went around and around in his head as something not ‘right’ but he wasn’t sure why.  She was here; she came back but quite different. 

Not resisting but not embracing him either, he started to question her indifference but was distracted by her stomach that was now sticking out a bit further than usual obviously hardened by the baby inside.  He snapped backwards, staring at it, and then he slid his fingers down her belly in awe.

He was so pleasantly surprised, his excitement multiplied so far outside himself that it seemed to fill the whole room, like Sophie’s description of her pain and her happiness.  Jumping to his feet, “Sophie, where…” he said reaching to caress her face but she stepped back.

The corners of his mouth turned down when he looked into the face of the woman he loved but the conscience of someone he did not particularly like.  He noticed the dress, with its short sleeves and Sydney’s favourite colour of crimson, which did not hide the fact that she had a baby swell. She stood there motionless with a dispassionate look.

He gasped, the hope and joy flew out of him, “Oh no,” he sighed, running his fingers through his hair, frustrated, “Sydney, why are you here,” the reality of who was standing in front of him was disappointing but he was still relieved to see that she was well, not just well but pregnant. 

“I’m here because Sophie misses you, and she’s anxious about this,” she said nodding down at her protrusion.  His attention diverted to her stomach, both hands roaming over her slightly swollen belly, he smiled despite the situation, regardless whether it was Sophie or Sydney, the body held his child.

“It’s mine,” he stated without question.

“So sure are you, because Sophie’s not.”  He didn’t answer still enthralled by the idea of being a father and then the realization that Sophie might not let him.  “Have you ever noticed how people, even complete strangers feel the need to touch a pregnant woman’s stomach?  It’s,” she grabbed both of his wrists in a tight grip, gritting her teeth, raising an eyebrow, “quite annoying,” she let go of him. 

“Why doesn’t she come to me?  After all we’ve been through together, why can’t she come to me,” Oliver considered the absurdity of looking at Sophie and talking about her like she wasn’t there, here she was and yet not.  He didn’t have to keep reminding himself, this was Sydney.  It was an extraordinary thing that he could be so in love with Sophie and so irritated with Sydney.

“Aside from the fact Sophie is afraid you can’t handle that she’s,” she paused, tapping her lips and looking at the ceiling searching for the right word, “mental
and
she believes the baby isn’t yours
and
how could you love a mad woman and a baby that’s not yours,” she fingered the torn curtain passively.