Nearly Almost Somebody (44 page)

‘How dare she keep the fucking earrings when she wouldn’t keep me? She wouldn’t tell me who he is. She just kept going on and on about how much she loved me. What a joke? She didn’t love me. If she had, she wouldn’t have starved me for days on end.’ Zoë wiped at her tears, now leaving black streaks down her cheeks. ‘Who’s this man?’

‘Your father. When did you steal the earrings?’

‘The night she died.’

‘Did you kill her?’

‘It wasn’t intentional. I went to get the earrings while she was out at that pagan festival. She came back early, and the opportunity was too good to miss. She tripped over that stupid cat. She would’ve fallen down the stairs without me laying a finger on her, but I couldn’t resist helping out. How are you feeling?’

‘Like my best friend’s poisoned me.’

A little clarity came over Libby, the belladonna cloud clearing, and she studied the girl crouching in front of her. The new Zoë wore black crap around her eyes, Libby’s ACDC t-shirt and favourite purple striped tights. In fact, only the ancient Converse boots were Zoë’s own. ‘You’re in disguise.’

‘Pretty good, hey?’

‘Why’s Ed going to ring the police?’

‘Because I killed his mother.’

Libby tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t work. ‘You murdered Fee?’

‘Well, I say
killed
, more provided the ketamine. No one forced the old bag to take it.’ Zoë shrugged. ‘I only wanted to make sure I could fuck Jonathan in peace. She had a habit of accidentally walking in and watching when she was high. Weirdo.’

‘
You
broke into Patrick’s’ surgery?’

‘It’s funny, but you were practically my accomplice. You taught me about alarm override codes and kept Patrick entertained. Like Maggie, the opportunity was too good to miss.’

Tears streamed down Libby’s face as the belladonna took hold again and the girl with red hair no longer resembled Zoë. Where had Zoë gone? Libby shrank away from the stranger. Why was this girl with red hair and glasses trying to kill her? Zoë. Where was Zoë? No, it was Zoë. She’d dyed her hair. It didn’t look like Zoë. Fighting to stop her mind fragmenting again, Libby pinched the skin on the back of her wrist.

‘I have to go.’ Zoë crouched down, peering into Libby’s eyes. ‘Who’s my father?’

‘Please don’t leave me.’

‘They’ll arrest me. I have to go. Who’s my father?’

‘Seamus Doyle. He’s a poet.’

‘Thank you.’ Zoë took a shaky breath and kissed her cheek. ‘I’ve been abandoned by my birth mother, abandoned by my birth father and my adoptive parents were more than happy to send me off every summer to be tortured by the old witch I now know is my mother. You’re the only person who’s ever been there for me. I’m sorry, but I have to do this. I just need an hour or so to get away. Just a little to knock you out for a while longer.’

Zoë opened a small bottle, sucking up a little liquid with the pipette. Libby squinted, her eyes swimming in and out of focus.
Belladonna
. She tried to scream and fend Zoë off, but found her arms pinned to her sides. No, this wasn’t Zoë. It couldn’t be. Her Zoë would never do this. Libby sobbed as two drops fell onto her lips. The non-Zoë held the glass of water to Libby’s lips, making her sip.

‘I won’t let you die. I’ll ring Patrick in a bit.’

And the red-haired stranger Libby previously knew as her best-friend walked out of the back door, suitcase in hand. Libby closed her eyes, the light hurting them.

Please, Patrick. Don’t let me die.

* * *

‘Why are we doing this?’ Patrick slumped into a chair, grateful for the coffee break.

‘Because it’s a good deed and if you can’t do a good deed at Christmas, when can you?’ Grace handed him a mug of coffee, checking her phone.

‘After Christmas?’ Patrick yawned.

Freebie cat neutering. A genius idea. Well it was in principle, but when he’d agreed to do it, he hadn’t thought Grace meant to do it the day before New Year’s Eve. He was supposed to be on holiday and the whole experience was made ten times worse by his father offering to help.

‘Ohmigod, a message for you. Check it out.’ Grace handed Patrick her phone. ‘It’s from Paolo.’

‘Why does Paolo have your number?’

Grace twittered away about how she gave him her number at the Halloween party, but Patrick struggled to focus on anything but the photo. It showed a painting of Libby, again hugging her knees, but this time she was smiling, her eyes sparkling with blatant happiness. Christ, look at how happy dancing made her. She really did need to be back in London. Groaning, he pressed the phone to his forehead.
London, I need to move to London.
Thoroughly depressed, he tossed the phone back to Grace, but she laughed.

‘You didn’t read the message, did you?’ she asked.

He shook his head.

‘It says, The Fixed Ballerina is on her way back.’

What?
Patrick jumped up, digging his own phone out of his jacket and switching it on. Shit. Ten missed calls from Libby and two from Zoë. He dialled Libby, but it rang out until the answer machine kicked in.

‘When did he send that?’

‘Two and a half hours ago.’

Should he just go to Oxenholme and meet her off the train? She could be already on her way. She could be home. No lights were on.

Where are you, Libs?

Breaking his own rule about keeping phones switched off while they were in surgery, Patrick habitually glanced to his phone, willing it to ring. In the midst of prepping a ginger tom called Lord Marmalade, finally, it did.

‘Zoë, where is she?’

‘I can’t talk, but Libby needs an ambulance. She’s at the cottage.’ Zoë ended the call.

Patrick stared at the phone. What the hell? ‘Grace, I’ll be back in a minute.’

He ran from the surgery, jumping down the steps and sprinting to Libby’s house. He knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer before opening the door.

‘Libs,’ he called, checking the living and dining rooms. ‘Libby?’

He found her in the kitchen, curled up on the wooden floor with Hyssop standing guard over her. Patrick knelt beside her and gently shook her, but her only reaction was to curl up tighter. Behind her closed lids, her eyes flitted around as though she were dreaming.

‘Libby? It’s Patrick. Can you hear me?’

He glanced around, looking for a cause, some explanation. On the worktop sat a bottle of elderflower wine and a letter addressed to Libby. Swearing, he pocketed the letter and scooped Libby up, begging her to hang on, as he ran back to the surgery.

‘Dad, Grace!’ he yelled, ignoring the alarmed expressions on the cat owners’ faces in the waiting room. Gently, he laid her on the empty examination table. ‘Come on, Libs. Wake up.’

His father was the first to arrive. ‘Libby? Patrick... what did you do–’

‘For Christ’s sake, Dad, you’ve fussed over me all fucking day. When did I get chance to do this?’ He paused as Grace came in. ‘Gracey, call an ambulance. I think it’s belladonna poisoning. Get rid of everyone then go to the cottage. There’s a bottle of elderflower wine in the kitchen. Bring it here. You’d better wear gloves.’

Grace stood staring at Libby’s limp body.

‘Now, Grace.’ He picked up his phone again and dialled Zoë. ‘Dad, do something.’

‘I’m not a doctor.’

‘No, you’re a vet, so pretend she’s a cat. Just check her pulse or something.’ The ringing on the phone stopped. ‘Zoë?’

‘Is she okay?’

‘Zoë, what happened?’

‘Is she awake?’

‘No. Is that the bottle of wine with the belladonna in? How much has she had?’

‘About two glasses. One did her no harm in August.’

‘Where are you?’ He stroked Libby’s hair back, but Zoë didn’t answer, a garbled tannoy filled the silence. ‘When did you leave her?’

‘About an hour ago. I thought she’d be awake by now.’ Zoë sobbed. ‘You will look after her, won’t you? And make sure she gets the letter. I have to go, but tell her I love her and I’m sorry. Promise you’ll look after her?’

‘I promise.’

Zoë ended the call and he tossed the phone aside.

‘Libby? It’s Patrick. Can you hear me, Libs?’ He held her hand, stroking her hair, and her fingers closed around his. Her eyes flickered but didn’t open. Gently, he kissed her forehead. ‘Hang in there, princess.’

Grace came back. ‘They’re on the way, but realistically, they’ll be at least fifteen minutes. Did she overdose because of you?’

‘No. I think Zoë poisoned her, but I have no idea why.’ Patrick laced his fingers with Libby’s. ‘Deadly Nightshade. Dad, what do you think?’

‘If she were a horse...’ Malcolm shook his head.

‘She’s not a horse.’ Patrick stared at Libby’s pale, beautiful face. ‘Grace, the Wicca side, what don’t I know?’

‘People use nightshade as a flying potion. It makes you hallucinate. She’ll be tripping her tits off. Maggie taught me to use it medicinally, for headaches and stuff.’ Grace took a deep breath. ‘She did say, if it went wrong and if it was a real emergency that I should give her physostigmine. Slow IV drip. No more than one mil every five minutes. Max two mil.’

Patrick swore. ‘What if it’s too much and kills her?’

‘What if it kills her not to have it?’ Grace asked, chewing her thumbnail.

‘Why?’

‘Last time, she had a small glass of that wine and was lucid and talking after thirty minutes. This is way worse.’ Grace began prepping an IV line. ‘I think she’s had more, a lot more. If we give her the physostigmine, we might stop any long-term damage and buy her some time ’til she gets to casualty and has her stomach pumped.’

‘Dad?’
Tell me not to. Tell me it’s a stupid idea.

‘We’ll take it slow and steady.’

Shit. Patrick went to get the physostigmine from the drugs locker, praying he wouldn’t have to do this, but when he came back into the room, Grace, the only RVN he knew who could put a cannula in a guinea pig, clearly hadn’t hesitated or buggered up putting one in Libby’s left hand. Fuck, the line and fluids were set up. He couldn’t do this. He pulled a chair up, sitting beside Libby, holding her right hand and stroking her hair.

‘Libby?’ He rested his forehead against hers. ‘You need to wake up, right now. Please, princess. Let me know I don’t need to do this. Libs?’

Nothing. Her fingers no longer reacted to his and her eyes had stopped flickering.

‘Her heart rate’s slowed,’ his dad said, holding Libby’s left wrist. ‘Coma?’

Next stage, death. ‘Libby, come on.’

‘Let me do it,’ Grace said, quietly. ‘You could get struck off.’

‘Or thrown in jail.’ Patrick shook his head. ‘You’re not doing it.’

‘Neither are you.’ Malcolm took the vial. ‘They won’t throw me in jail and I’m already retired.’

‘No, Dad. Please, let me do it.’ Patrick held out his hand. ‘You wanted me to take responsibility, right? Well, she’s my responsibility.’

‘She might be. But my point was that you need to think about the consequences of your actions before you do them. If you do this and she dies... I’ll be damned if I let you live with this on your conscience.’

As his father added the drug to the drip, Patrick held Libby’s hand, praying his Broken Ballerina would wake up.

Stay with me, Libs. Please.

Libby’s eyes began flickering as the first of the blue lights flashed in the Green, but Patrick kept his vigil, holding her hand, smiling a little as her fingers curled around his.

‘Come on, Libs,’ he whispered, kissing her forehead for the hundredth time. ‘Fight through it. The ambulance is here, princess.’

‘Actually, it’s not.’ Grace peered through the window. ‘It’s one of them ER docs on a motorbike. Fingers crossed for a George Clooney lookalike.’

As Grace went out to meet the doctor, Patrick took a deep breath, but didn’t look away from Libby’s face.

‘Dad?’ He cleared his throat. ‘If she... when Libby’s okay, we’re going to go out. Scott’s sorting things out to stop Wray printing any ludicrous stories, but people will talk. I can’t stop that and if it breaks the Rules…’

‘Patrick, now’s not–’

‘I know it might take some time to gain your respect, but if you do sack me, I was thinking, maybe I could buy the practice. I don’t want to set up shop in competition with you, but I’m not giving up everything I have here.’ Patrick dared to face his dad.

Please don’t hate me.

Malcolm rocked on his heels. ‘Obviously, I’d rather there was no scandal, but under the circumstances, if there is...’

‘If there is?’

‘Well, I can’t think of anyone better to take over the practice than you.’ Malcolm nodded, his eyes shining. ‘You’re a hell of a vet, Patrick, but for the last couple of years, you’ve not been quite the man you should be.’

For the first time since Patrick graduated from Vet School, his father hugged him. Just for a few seconds, but it meant the world.

‘I’m sorry for letting you down, dad.’

‘It’s okay. We could tell when you came back from Spain. You’ve changed.’

Their smiles and relief were short-lived as Grace showed the motorcycle doctor in, presenting the situation as she would an animal to Patrick. Patrick closed his eyes, pressing his lips to Libby’s fingers. There were the expected exclamations of shock, horror, disbelief that a vet would assume they could treat a human. Patrick expected nothing less.

‘Duncan, good to see you,’ his father said, standing up and shaking the doctor’s hand.

Doctor McNamara, a friend of his father’s, began his examination of Libby, his equipment saying exactly the same as Patrick’s. Finally, he stood back and sighed. ‘I don’t... You may well have saved her life, but–’

Malcolm shook his head. ‘Let’s worry about Libby for now.’

Libby’s eyes flickered open, her head shaking a little. ‘...the snakes...’

‘Libs? It’s Patrick. I know you’re seeing weird things, but listen to me. Focus on me. I’m here, holding your hand, can you hear me?’

Libby stirred again. ‘...can’t be Zoë... don’t leave me.... where’s Patrick?’

‘I’m here.’

‘... don’t like the snakes...’

‘Libs, they aren’t real. There are no snakes. I promise you.’

‘Who is she?’ Dr McNamara asked.

‘Olivia Wilde. She lives next door,’ Malcolm answered.

‘Her next of kin?’

‘They’re in Australia,’ Patrick replied.

‘But she must have someone here.’ Duncan McNamara placed an avuncular hand on Libby’s head.

‘She has me,’ Patrick said, his voice sounding more authoritative than it ever had. ‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’

Libby babbled a little more, none of it making any sense, but all of it more animated than earlier. Finally, she turned her head, her eyes opening.

‘Patrick?’

‘I’m here.’ He couldn’t stop a smile. Okay, she wasn’t out of the woods, but the drugs were working. Thank you, Grace.

‘Is it really you?’ She turned her head, lifting a hand to his face. ‘Not Jack?’

‘It’s really me.’

‘Are you castrating cows today, or can we catch up on the last sixth months?’

He almost laughed. ‘I think you’re still hallucinating, princess.’

‘We could fuck in–’

‘Shush.’ He held a finger over her lips. ‘Room full of people.’

‘Belladonna can induce quite… provocative delusions,’ Dr McNamara explained. ‘Libby, can you hear me?’

She nodded, but cowered into Patrick. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re okay, Libs.’ Patrick held her close. ‘This is Doctor McNamara.’

‘Please don’t leave me,’ she whispered, her eyes widening. ‘No cold Patrick. I don’t like the snakes.’

‘There are no snakes and I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Zoë’s been taken over by the snakes.’ Libby started scratching her arm, shaking her head. ‘Big red snakes. They’ve eaten Zoë. The snakes have eaten Zoë. It’s not Zoë any more. She’s changed. It’s not her–’

‘Libby?’ Patrick stopped her hands. ‘You’re safe, with me. Zoë’s not here. Just me. Patrick.’

She relaxed again.

‘Keep her talking,’ Dr McNamara instructed. ‘Grace, can you get her some water, please?’

Patrick leant on the table, holding Libby’s hand, stroking her hair. ‘Remember the night we had dinner?’

She nodded.

‘I had a great time and when you’re feeling better, I want to do it again.’

She smiled.

For ten minutes, while Dr McNamara monitored her, Patrick kept her awake, calm and semi-lucid with tales of the last few months. They relived the steak and dauphinoise night, the bike ride and the night they made cheese on toast. Finally, he got it. She wasn’t a nearly, or an almost, she was a sledgehammer.

And he loved her.

* * *

Libby’s throat hurt, her head throbbed and even the dim winter light pained her eyes, but she lifted her head, trying to make sense of her surroundings – antiseptic, beeping machines, a woman in a blue uniform opening the blinds... She was in hospital?

‘Sorry to wake you, but it’s seven o’clock,’ said the nurse, her plump face breaking into a comforting smile as she offered Libby a glass of water. ‘They said you’d be thirsty. I’m Katy. Do you know where you are?’

‘Hospital?’ Libby croaked, in between mouthfuls of blissfully icy water.

Katy nodded. ‘There’s not much waking him, is there? How are you feeling?’

‘Confused.’ Him? Libby glanced down. The mop of black curls resting on the bed shocked her more than waking up in the hospital. ‘Has he been here long?’

‘Long?’ Katy laughed. ‘He hasn’t left your side since they brought you in. It’s no wonder the poor lamb’s still dead to the world. I reckon he’s been up most of the night. If you came round, he’d be there, talking you down from the ceiling.’

‘Really?’

Katy smiled at him. ‘He’s had a few pulses racing, I can tell you. Mine included. Do you remember what happened, love?’

Libby shook her head, sipping more of the water, but fuzzy memories were coming back, the ones of red snakes not fuzzy enough.

Zoë.

Zoë had red hair.

‘They said someone gave you deadly nightshade. You’re lucky to be alive, love.’

Zoë.

Zoë had poisoned her. Zoë had given Fee the ketamine. Zoë had pushed Maggie down the stairs.

Not Zoë. It couldn’t have been Zoë.

‘It was in the elderflower wine.’

‘Intentionally?’ Katy’s eyes sparkled, even if she sounded blasé.

Libby looked at the nurse for a second, then shook her head. ‘A mistake. She’s my best friend.’ Why was she defending Zoë?

Katy smiled at Patrick. ‘They said she rang him and he gave you the antidote, probably saved your life, but the official line is the motorbike doc administered it. A and E pumped your stomach, then they gave you a sedative and brought you up here. If you need anything, just press your red button. Breakfast will be here in thirty minutes.’

Libby rolled over as Katy left, but Patrick was still fast asleep. Wanting to go back to sleep herself, Libby closed her eyes for a moment, but the snakes leapt into her face. Gingerly, she touched Patrick’s arm. He didn’t wake. He had to be exhausted if he’d been up all night. She really shouldn’t wake him. Then again, she didn’t want to have nightmares about snakes. A little less gingerly, she shook his shoulder. Finally, he looked up, his eyes softening, crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

‘You okay?’ he asked, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

Libby nodded. ‘The nurse has been filling me in on what happened.’

‘Katy?’ he asked through a yawn. ‘She has the hots for me.’

‘I gathered.’ Libby smiled, watching as he helped himself to her water, loving it when he stretched and treated her to a snippet of bare abdomen between his jeans and jumper. ‘She also said you saved my life.’

‘You know me, can’t stop looking out for you.’ He leant on the bed again, his chin resting on his folded arms. ‘Technically, my dad gave you the drugs, but since you didn’t die, I don’t mind taking the credit.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do you remember much?’

‘Too much.’

Patrick nibbled his thumbnail. ‘Libs, you said some pretty crazy things last night.’

Her cheeks flushed, vaguely aware she may have suggested a little hallway action. ‘I was hallucinating.’

‘You were, but…’ He took a deep breath. ‘Did Zoë steal my ketamine? Did she give it to Fee?’

‘Has anyone claimed she did?’

‘Yes. You did, last night.’

‘Just me?’
Not the police?

‘Just you. What’s going on?’

Ed hadn’t told anyone.

‘Libs?’

She pushed a curl off his face. God, it was good to see him again. At times, back in London, she felt she never would, but he looked so tired. Stubble darkened his chin and shadows blackened his eyes. ‘You should go home. Get some rest.’

He shook his head. ‘Not happening. Besides, Grace’ll only make me castrate the cats I didn’t get done yesterday.’

With a weary hand, Libby beckoned him closer and when his face hovered beside hers, she kissed him, her lips gently pressing against his. Just for a moment, he kissed her back.

‘You scared me.’ He smiled, resting his forehead against hers. ‘But you know one perk of this whole drama? The nurses cleaned off the black crap.’

Libby’s cheeks flushed. Surely, she must look worse than she felt after a rough night on a cocktail of drugs and having her stomach pumped.

‘Pretty Libby.’ Patrick stroked her fringe back, kissing her again.

Libby closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of his woody aftershave. Was this Hot Patrick because of the situation, or had something changed?

‘Libby? Oh–’ Katy stood in the doorway, grinning. ‘Put her down, she’s supposed to be resting.’

‘Katy, your timing’s rubbish,’ Patrick said, ‘but I’ll forgive you for a coffee. Libs likes tea.’

Katy pretended to cuff him around the head as she smiled at a giggling Libby.

‘He’s a cheeky one, but I wish all my patients came with their own nurse. Must be nice having a boyfriend like that. I doubt my Dan would sit with me all night.’ She headed for the door, oblivious to the atmosphere she’d created.

Patrick had obediently let go of Libby, but not before she’d caught the fleeting moment of wide-eyed panic flashing in his eyes.
Boyfriend.
He’d freaked at the word. Sighing, Libby sat up, sitting cross-legged. Nothing had changed.

‘Oh, that’s what I came in for,’ Katy said. ‘Police are here, so is your lawyer with some journalist. Who do you want to see first?’

‘The police?’ Libby’s eyes widened, staring at Patrick. ‘What should I–’

‘You want the lawyer. It’ll be Scott.’

Libby nodded to Katy. ‘Send him in.’

Patrick was right; Scott came in, suited and booted.

‘It’s New Year’s Eve. Don’t you ever take a day off?’ Patrick asked, back-slapping his friend.

‘This is for your sake.’ Scott faux-punched him. ‘I want Wray to know we mean business.’

‘Is he buying it?’ Patrick said.

‘What are you two talking about?’ Libby asked.

‘Sorry, Libby.’ Scott came over, perching on her bed. ‘Clara’s coming to see you later. How are you feeling?’

‘Like my best friend poisoned me.’ She managed a smile. ‘Pretty okay, considering. What’s going on with Michael Wray? Why’s he here?’

Scott opened his briefcase and took out a document. ‘Are you fully in charge of your senses again?’

Libby nodded.

‘We’ve a proposal for you,’ Scott said. ‘Bored housewives around the country are dying to hear about the Broken Ballerina and Michael Wray is prepared to barter for the exclusive.’

Libby shook her head. ‘There’s no way I’d–’

‘It’s leverage. You give Wray the Broken Ballerina story and he promises not to publish a single word about you or Patrick for the next six months, including what’s happened over the last month. If he does, the
Gazette
has to pay fifty grand to Haverton Animal Rescue. The last part was Patrick’s idea. He thought you’d approve. What do you think?’