A Taste for Malice (24 page)

At breakfast Angela looked up from her notebook. ‘Tell me about Kirsty.’

‘Again?’

Angela just looked at him.

‘What did she say when you answered the phone?’

‘Jim.’ From the way Angela elongated the syllable it showed she was fighting back her frustrations. ‘I wrote in my book …’ She flicked it open and read, ‘…Kirsty called. Coming up next weekend. Jim to call her back. She sounded really friendly.’

She closed the book, pushed it to the side and pulled her coffee mug closer to her as if she wanted to seek comfort from its heat. She mumbled something down on to the table top.

‘Sorry?’ he said.

‘I also wrote here, was she Jim’s friend?’ She tore her gaze from the mug, ‘There’s some memory of her. I can see her face. It’s like a movie camera that’s broken. I see her and you. Then the camera freezes.’

Damn.

‘But that’s good, honey. You’re starting to remember stuff,’ he hid behind his pleasure for her, ‘that’s wonderful.’ He grabbed her hand and rubbed it. ‘We did go over this not long after you got out of hospital. But, you’ve had to deal with so much, no wonder you can’t remember. You’re right in that Kirsty started off as my friend. But then the three of us became good pals after her boyfriend dumped her. And then it was a case of girl power, matching menstrual cycles and all that stuff. Poor me with the testosterone didn’t get a look in.’ He laughed too loudly at his weak joke and mentally scanned the words that had just come out of his mouth. Did they match what he told her the last time they talked about Kirsty?

‘So was she my best friend?’

He nodded.

‘Why has she waited till now to get in touch?’ She sounded hurt, like she was being blown about like a seed in a hurricane, praying that the wind would drop soon and allow her somewhere to land.

‘She’s busy. She’s something in NHS management. She finds it difficult, nigh on impossible to get time off.’

‘Right,’ Angela regained her fascination with her mug, her disappointment palpable. If that was all she could hope for from her best friend, what did it say about her pre-accident? A voice interrupted his thoughts.

‘What do you think of that?’ asked Derek. The two of them were looking at Jim.

‘Eh, sorry …eh’m that sounds good,’ he said and nodded, praying that it was an appropriate answer.

‘Post traumatic amnesia is very common in these situations, in relation to short-term memory. Long-term memory tends to return more quickly. When it does, it helps us enormously. But we still have the challenges with short term stuff, which affects our lives on a day-today basis.’

Nod.

They nodded back. And Jim wondered what was it about health professionals that has us all reverting to children.

‘How are your long term memories coming along, Angela?’

She studied the floor and didn’t answer.

‘Angela?’

She lifted her head up and avoided Jim’s eyes. ‘You know …it’s difficult.’ Her eyes shone with suppressed tears. Something about the delay in her answer set Jim on edge.

Was she lying?

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Derek forced gaiety into his voice. ‘It will find you again.’

As Derek spoke Jim continued to question Angela’s reaction. Why couldn’t she meet his gaze? Was she hiding something from him? Could she remember more than she was letting on? He forced himself to listen to Derek.

‘…way of looking at it is to think of the memory like a filing cabinet. Most people have lots of wee drawers in the short-term section …it’s kinda like a temporary section? Then from there the information gets tipped into the long-term drawer. What can happen in people who suffer head injuries is that they lose access to the short-term drawers …’ He looks at the ceiling again. Jim’s eyes follow Derek’s as if he would find a series of scripts tacked to the white artex. ‘…I might have about thirty or so of these drawers, but you only have the one. So for you …when a new piece of information comes along it forces out the earlier chunk. Then the next piece of information does the same and so on.’

Jim looked at Angela. Her eyes were screwed shut as if forcing this new detail into a fresh new drawer.

‘You must get really tired?’ Derek asked her.

She opened her eyes and nodded. Her eyes then moved back and forwards as if searching internally for what he said just a moment ago about the drawers.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Most patients expend so much energy fighting to remember stuff that they get exceedingly tired.’ His attention turned to Jim. ‘Loved ones need to appreciate how tiring this can all be. I had one patient who described it as being wrapped in a blanket of fatigue. The simplest thing can tire you out, reading a book, a journey to the shop, a room full of strangers. And you have to learn to plan for it. So, if you are going over to your parents’ say for Sunday dinner, make sure that you have time afterwards for Angela to recuperate.’ Another nod. ‘Yes?’

‘Right, I think that’s enough for today.’ He rubbed his shaven head vigorously with the palm of his right hand and stood up. ‘Let me walk you guys to your car.’

The car was parked down the side of the building and the three of them walked in silence. Jim opened the car door for Angela and moved round to the driver’s side. Derek walked with him.

‘You looking after yourself, Jim?’ he asked.

‘As best I can.’ He made a face in a
you know how it is
kind of way.

‘Take time out for yourself, Jim. Angela needs you, I know, but she also needs you to be effective. And you won’t be if you are stressed and knackered all the time.’

Jim looked at him; mouth open and worthless, because what he wanted to say was ‘go and bugger yourself, baldy’ — but the manners his mother had taught him cut off the link from his brain to his mouth.

‘I know, I know,’ Derek said. ‘That might have sounded callous. I’m not saying that you are somehow lacking, I just know from watching others how difficult this all can be and if the carer doesn’t care for themselves everyone suffers. Half an hour at the gym, an hour down the pub with your mates, and you’ll feel better.’

At work, after he dropped Angela home, Jim viewed the morning’s mail with something well short of enthusiasm and stared out of the window at some newly planted trees. He exhaled long and hard and tried not to feel sorry for himself. This was all getting too much for him. He didn’t have two women and a child in his home, he had two kids and a stranger. It seemed more and more that Angela had regressed to some childlike state. She was completely docile, unsure of what she should do or say. He was at a loss as to how he should deal with her. The fact that Moira was about was a blessing.

A doctor had warned about the personality changes that head injuries could cause. Some people exhibit their fear and uncertainty in some inappropriate ways, they become wild and rambling and even violent at times. Others withdraw, become passive, wanting their carer to do everything for them.

An image of Angela sitting on the edge of the chair in the office that morning thrust itself into Jim’s mind. She kept rubbing her fingers along the back of her hand as if trying to remove a layer of skin. Her uncertainty was large in her expression and when she wasn’t busy with her notebook, her arms were tight around her as if terrified that her guts would spill out on to the floor at her feet.

What was he doing? How could he feel sorry for himself when she was in this state? Jim still had access to a world of trees blowing in the breeze and ranks of books on a shelf. All she had was acres of empty space in her mind that she feared she would never be able to fill.

Isn’t the act of waking a curious thing? One second you are oblivious to your surroundings. Then awareness thrusts itself upon you with the suddenness of a heartbeat. You’re in bed. You enjoy the warmth of the quilt. Or maybe a foot has got loose and is the one spot of chill in your body.

Which of the senses fire up first? Touch or hearing? Or are the senses always there, suspended, waiting for the first loud bang, or the kiss of a lover to stir you into sentience?

I get out of bed and make for the toilet.

Bladder empty, I make for the kitchen and the kettle. A coffee in my hand I move into the living room and put on the morning news. I almost feel absurd being naked and watching the TV. While I was a boy in the convent, nudity was on a par with theft. If any of the girls were to see a penis then their next step would surely take them to the fires of hell. You can take the boy out of the Catholic orphanage …you know the rest.

As the news presenters chat to each other my mind drifts. I’ll go and visit Mrs Hogg today and work at getting more information from her. There’s something she’s not telling me. She holds the key to us finding Hepburn, I’m sure of it. I just need to find the right words to get her to open up. The last time we spoke I made sure I mentioned the kids that have been hurt. I might as well have been talking about the dangers of drinking diet drinks for all the interest she showed. She’d never had children and perhaps she didn’t care for them.

She adopted causes, is what Patricia Conroy said. I need to find her a cause.

Mrs Violet Hogg opens the door to me and directs me into her lounge.

‘On your own today,’ she asks as we sit down facing each other. ‘No nice young police woman to keep you company?’ Her features are composed into a smile, her eyes almost serene.

‘I’m really sorry to trouble you again, Mrs Hogg. I just thought we could go through some more details concerning Ms Hepburn?’

‘I’ll obviously help in any way I can, DI McBain.’ She crosses her legs. At this point on my first visit she would have been on her way to the kitchen to make me a cup of tea. Now, she rests her elbows on the arms of her seat and steeples her fingers.

I notice a book by her elbow. It is covered in red leather and has a cross on the front. It’s too slim to be a Bible. A hymn book, perhaps?

‘You do a lot of good work, Mrs Hogg.’ As I say this I think of people like Liz Browning who might benefit from her fundraising. By doing so I aim for authenticity in my voice. All part of the buttering up process.

‘Why, thank you, DI McBain,’ she replies. Her tone is heartfelt with a touch of surprise and a little quizzical. She didn’t expect this from me and she wonders where I am going with it. ‘I do what I can.’

‘Our community would be lost without people like you doing their bit.’ I smile. ‘We all owe you a huge debt of gratitude.’

‘Again. Thank you.’ Her eyes are filled with a strange light. Like she expects canonisation any minute.

‘I assume you are religious?’ I ask.

She nods.

‘Church of Scotland?’

Another nod. ‘My local church kept me going when my husband died. Don’t know what I would have done without the good people there.’ She allows her hands to fall on to her lap. ‘Forgive me for asking, but I can’t imagine you’re here simply to thank me for doing my duty? And I’ve told you everything I know about Audrey.’

I look out of the window to my right, then down to the hands on my lap, and lastly move my eyes back to her face. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Her eyes bore into me as if she is trying to read my soul.

‘We often double back over old ground, Mrs Hogg.’ I cross my legs and hold my hands in my lap as she has done. In posture we are the mirror image of each other. As I speak next I decide to slow the delivery of my speech to match hers. ‘To be honest with you, Mrs Hogg, I’m struggling with this one.’ Perhaps a little display of vulnerability might help. I rub my eyes and aim for a weary expression. ‘With the best will in the world we often forget small details. I thought another wee chat might reveal …’ I allow my voice to tail off.

‘Are you feeling alright, DI McBain. Would you like a drink of water?’

Make her work for it.

‘Thank you for the offer, Mrs Hogg. Very kind. But I’m okay.’ I shake my head slowly and smile. I allow my eyes to drift off to the floor at my side.

‘When Ms Hepburn stayed with you did you guys spend much time together?’

‘Oh, dear no. She was a young, busy woman with two jobs. Mostly she used the house like a bed and breakfast.’

‘Doesn’t seem much of a reward for your kindness.’

‘Being in the position to help was reward enough.’

‘Few of us have the capacity to act in such a selfless manner, Mrs Hogg.’

She sat up straight. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?’

‘Actually, now that you mention it, a cup of tea would go down a treat.’

She beams at me and stands up. ‘Give me a moment.’

When she is out of the room I take a moment to congratulate myself. There is little that is selfless about this woman. Yes, she does good things and yes, a lot of people benefit from them. But she takes a good deal of personal validation from them. I would bet that the bulk of her self-worth is bound up in the recognition she receives from others in the face of her charity. The pay off for her is not an easier path to salvation, but the appreciation of her peers. In and of itself I guess this is not a bad thing. The net effect is the same, people get help. However, it does give me a window into her soul and from there I might be able to win her over to my side.

Her loyalty to Hepburn thus far, I find a little perplexing. What kind of hold does that young woman have over her? And how can I break down that resolve? At least now she is more receptive to me, I think, as I watch her place a tray on the coffee table between us.

She sips at her tea as if she were in the Queen’s drawing room. ‘Forgive me if I am being a little too nosey, DI McBain,’ her face creases with concern. ‘But you don’t seem yourself today. Not quite as brash.’

I make an expression of surprise, one that also says that I am comfortable with her honesty.

‘Sometimes we get so focussed on a case that we forget the people who are offering their help. I’m sure you’ll have experienced something similar,’ I say. She raises her eyebrows in a you-don’t-know-the-half-of-it motion.

‘Apologies about the brash comment. I forget myself sometimes. But you do strike me as a little pre-occupied today.’

‘You’ll know scripture, Mrs Hogg.’ I take a gamble. She won’t expect a man like me just to blurt out what’s on his mind. I’ll go for an oblique approach. ‘When I was a boy I went to mass every day. You know how it can be to a child. Pretty boring. I used to imagine I had some toys with me. Anyway one day the priest said something that grabbed my attention. Matthew verse something or other, he reports Jesus as saying “Suffer little children” — I can’t remember the rest. But those words used to rattle in my brain as I tried to sleep. Used to think that it was …I dunno …a command?’