The Truth About Celia Frost (3 page)

“But Celia, you must have had a consultant. Who do you see at the hospital?”

“There’s no consultant, there’s no one. We’ve moved around a lot, you see. I think it makes it hard to find a doctor.”

“Well, you
have
got a GP. Your mum has given the school his name, so at least we’ll be able to get information from him.” Dr. Ross inspected Celia’s arm again.
“Luckily the blade hasn’t caused any muscle damage, so I’m just going to give you a tetanus injection and a shot to deaden the area before I put a few stitches in.”

She got on with the procedures quickly and silently, both patient and doctor deep in thought. Once the area was numb, Celia was just aware of a disconcerting tugging at her skin as the needle
threaded in and out.

Dr. Ross finished and snapped off her latex gloves. “If you’ll excuse me, Celia, I’m just going to chase up that information from your GP and, when I get back, I’d like
to take some blood to run a few tests.”

No sooner had Celia heard the doctor’s footsteps fade than the cubicle curtain swished open to reveal a breathless, scrawny figure.

“It’s all right, love, I’m here now,” Janice wheezed, looking so frail that a puff of wind could have blown her over.

Seeing Janice standing there, Celia felt a familiar guilt creep over her. She wondered how much more stress her mother could take. This shabby woman looked older than her thirty-five years. A
face that had once been attractively sculptured had developed a hard gauntness and sickly grey tinge. Years of anxiety and thousands of cigarettes had left deep crow’s feet splaying from her
puffy eyes and fine lines fanning out from her dry lips. As much as she detested the smoking, Celia never felt that she had the right to complain. After all, wasn’t it her fault that this
woman was in such a state? Wouldn’t the responsibility of having a child like her turn any parent into a neurotic chain-smoker? And it wasn’t as if Janice indulged in anything else: she
didn’t drink, she didn’t have a social life, she didn’t even eat well, so Celia reckoned if those addictive cancer-sticks were the only calming pleasure Janice got, then she
deserved them.

Up until now Celia had managed to hide the reality of her school life with Max Jenkins from Janice. But this wasn’t entirely to spare her from more worry. Celia knew how paranoid Janice
was about her safety. The last thing Celia wanted to do was to offer her an excuse to take away what little freedom she had. However, now, as they faced each other in the cubicle, Celia knew that
there was no concealing it any longer.

Janice bent down and cupped Celia’s face between her rough, red hands, kissing her cheeks tenderly. “Oh love! Are you all right? How bad is it, what are they saying?” she
garbled.

“Don’t panic, Mum, everything’s fine. It just needed a few stitches.”

“A few stitches! Oh my poor baby,” Janice whimpered. “And what about the boy who attacked you? How’s he?”

“How’s he?! It’s very charitable of you to inquire,” Celia said sarcastically. “He’s fine, thank you, apart from being a violent headcase. But what about me?
I stood there waiting to bleed to death or something and it didn’t happen. The doctor said everything looks normal. How can that be?”

“You’ve been lucky, that’s all,” Janice said dismissively. “Now where is this doctor?”

“She’s gone to speak to my GP; you never even told me that I had a GP! She’s going to do a blood test, find out what’s going on.”

Janice suddenly looked panic-stricken. “Come on, love, we’re going,” she said hurriedly.

“What do you mean? The doctor hasn’t discharged me yet. We’ve got to wait for her.”

“Look, we haven’t got time. You just told me she said you were fine, so let’s keep that wound covered up and get home. You’ll feel better once you’re out of
here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Celia said defiantly. “If this doctor can tell me more about my disorder then I’m staying to hear it. Maybe I’m cured! Maybe, by
some miracle, my body has sorted itself out.”

Janice’s tone changed to a hushed hiss. “Don’t talk rubbish. You’ll always have it, it will never go. Now get up or I swear I’ll drag you out of here.”

But it was too late. Dr. Ross appeared through the curtain, not quite sure what to make of the scene that greeted her.

“Is everything all right here, Celia?” she asked, concerned.

Janice backed away from Celia and straightened herself up.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Celia replied, flashing a frustrated look at Janice. “It’s just my mum here; she isn’t too fond of hospitals. They make her
nervous.”

“Oh, so you’re Mrs. Frost.” The doctor smiled, extending her hand.

“No, it’s Miss. I’m Miss Frost.” Janice kept her hands at her side.

“Sorry,” replied the doctor, surprised by the woman’s prickliness. “Well anyway, I’m just relieved that you’re here. As you can see, your daughter is fine,
though understandably shaken after such an incident. Luckily the wound isn’t too deep and the bleeding wasn’t heavy. Which we’re obviously relieved about, but also a bit baffled
by, given the information we have from the school and Celia herself.”

“Well,” said Janice brusquely, “I don’t know what they’ve told you but it’s bound to be a bit muddled. It’s hard to get your facts straight when
you’ve just been attacked by some knife-wielding thug.”

“Absolutely, Miss Frost, and that’s why I am hoping you can clear things up for me. You see, I’ve just got off the phone with the GP you told the school Celia was registered
with, but he has no record of Celia or you.”

“Well,” Janice said, flustered, starting to search her pockets, “it’s probably me getting the name wrong. I’ve a terrible memory for names.”

“Sorry, but you can’t smoke in here,” Dr. Ross said firmly at the sight of the packet of cigarettes emerging from Janice’s pocket.

“Of course...I wasn’t thinking.” Janice ran her nicotine-stained fingers down her jaded face.

“Anyway, while I certainly can’t claim that haemophilia conditions are a speciality of mine,” Dr. Ross went on, “I’ve never read of any case, no matter how severe,
where it couldn’t be managed by injections of the missing clotting factor.”

“Well maybe you need to read more cases then,” Janice snapped back.

“Maybe you’re right,” Dr. Ross responded, undeterred. “But I think that your daughter’s condition needs further investigation.”

“Why? I know all there is to know about it. We’ve coped with it just fine up till now. I don’t want Celia being poked and probed by you lot.”

“We have no intention of doing that,” Dr. Ross said calmly. “But what if there’s a treatment that could change Celia’s life?”

“I’ve been into all that. Her condition isn’t treatable!” Janice’s voice was rising.

“Just let me do a blood test and we could start to get some facts. Wouldn’t that be great? Isn’t that the best thing for Celia?”

Celia jumped up. “Yes, yes,” she pleaded. “Do the blood test, do it right now. I want to know.” She stretched out her uninjured arm towards Dr. Ross, but Janice pulled it
away sharply.

“I absolutely
don’t
give you permission to take blood or anything else from my daughter. I appreciate your concern but there really is nothing for you to be worried about.
We’ve managed for fourteen years without you people interfering and, as you can see, my Celia is fine. So if you’ll excuse us, we have to go.”

Janice took tight hold of Celia’s hand and marched her past the flabbergasted doctor.

The boredom of the patients in the waiting room was momentarily lifted as the gown-clad girl was dragged past them, protesting loudly.

“Mum, let me go! I want that blood test!”

“Shut up, Celia. I know what’s best for you.”

As they stepped out through the sliding doors of the department they were greeted by Mr. Powell, who’d been waiting anxiously.

“Miss Frost,” Mr. Powell began earnestly, “I can’t apologize enough for what’s happened to Celia. We’re all appalled and let me reassure you that the boy in
question is being dealt with by the police and I am recommending his permanent exclusion.”

“We have to go, Mr. Powell,” Janice said without stopping.

“Yes, of course. Have they discharged her? That’s just great. Please, Miss Frost, I’ll phone you, we’ll have a meeting. You need to be reassured that our school is a safe
place for Celia and it would be good to clarify a few things about her medical condition.”

“Celia won’t be back for a while.”

“Quite right! She should take a few days off to recover. I’ll see you soon, Celia,” he called after them as Janice ordered Celia into the nearest taxi.

On reaching their house, Janice immediately marched to her bedroom and pulled out an array of holdall bags from under the bed.

“What are you doing?” Celia asked in alarm.

“I’m packing up.”

“Packing up what?”

“As much as we can carry. We can’t stay around here.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not moving! Not again. Please, Mum, not again!” Celia begged.

“You’ll do as you’re told, young lady! This place isn’t safe for you. No way can we stay here with violent thugs attacking you at school.”

“But it was a one-off. It’s not like it’ll happen again,” Celia protested.

“You don’t know that! That boy might come after you. We can’t afford to take any chances.”

Tears of resignation welled up in Celia’s eyes as she headed for the door. “I’m going to say goodbye to Mary then.”

“Mary? The old woman across the road?” Janice said, puzzled.

“Yeah. She’s always been really nice to me. I can’t just go without telling her.”

“You’ll have to. We haven’t got time for goodbyes. Now, get your stuff!”

Being a policeman had not worked out for Frankie. He had soon discovered that he and the criminals often shared the same set of morals. His habit of supplementing his income
with bribes from suspects had led to him resigning from the force before he was investigated.

Anyway, he never felt bad about his sideline. He did his job, he helped put his fair share of people behind bars – regardless of whether they were guilty or not – and he was always
useful to have in the interview room. Sometimes all it took was one look at PC Byrne to loosen a suspect’s tongue; sometimes it required a more “hands on” approach. In his prime,
Frankie had the build of a heavyweight boxer – his big bullet head and stubby neck sat atop shoulders so broad they looked like a stretch of motorway. His tree-trunk legs and bulging arms
made the seams of his uniform strain, and his meat-cleaver hands could be very persuasive, especially when clenched in a fist.

Frankie remained philosophical about the way his career had turned out. If he hadn’t been made to resign from the force he would never have thought of becoming a private investigator, and
therefore would never have found his niche.

Over the last ten years, Frankie Byrne Investigations, with its eye-catching acronym, had built up a reputation for taking on cases that other, more reputable, private investigators
wouldn’t dream of touching. Word spread amongst his target clientele that he wasn’t one to ask too many awkward questions and was prepared to do whatever it took to get results,
regardless of its legality.

Of course, Frankie knew that the more “unorthodox” the case, the more generous the clients were willing to be. So he made a good living tracking down bad debtors to feed to loan
sharks and rooting out squealers who should have known better than to inform on the kind of client that Frankie attracted. Occasionally, during dry patches, he’d dabble in “exposing
cheating partners”. While these infidelity cases dented his faith in romance, they didn’t stop him from lamenting the fact that he hadn’t found himself a wife – someone to
share his life with, someone who could sort out his paperwork, and who would keep their mouth shut about his irregular working practices.

His office was a room above a bakery, a location which he blamed for his ever-expanding waistline. Every day the delicious smell of baking pastries rose up through the floorboards, and every
morning he couldn’t resist popping downstairs to get a supply of artery-clogging delights. However, on this particular morning Frankie decided to open his mail first, as a fat brown envelope
bearing a London postmark had caught his eye.
This could be it
, he thought, with a frisson of excitement that the prospect of money always induced in him.

A week earlier he’d received a short, unsigned, typed letter inquiring whether he would be willing to take on a case which involved locating two people. It emphasized that the case
required absolute confidentiality and discretion, and that his reputation had brought him to the client’s attention. The letter promised that, should he take on the work and be successful, he
would be paid very generously indeed.

Frankie knew that any client coming to him because of his reputation wasn’t going to be some little old lady looking for her cat. He didn’t even have to think twice about it.
He’d written back immediately to the PO Box number provided, informing the correspondent that he was willing and able to take on the case but would appreciate an advance as a sign of
goodwill.