The Liverpool Trilogy (41 page)

‘You can. Take good care of Trish if she still wants you. By the way, you look miles better. I know you can beat the booze, Alan. With Trish behind you, anything’s possible. That is one strong little woman. Depend on her.’ She handed him a card. ‘Phone me if you need to – either of you.’

Outside, David leaned casually against the car. ‘You’re quite a sensitive little flower underneath, aren’t you?’

It had been a crazy day thus far, with no time for reflection. But she stood for a moment and felt a moment of pure fear invade her heart. Life was so fragile. If anything happened to him, she would know what he had gone through after the loss of Anne. ‘I love you, little David Vincent, and I couldn’t possibly live without you. Liverpool tonight, I think. Our work is not yet done.’

‘To the bat poles,’ he suggested. ‘We have a city to save.’

In the car, Lucy used her phone. ‘Glenys? What are you up to?’

‘Erm . . . yes, Mr Charnock. I have your file on my desk.’

‘Is he married?’

‘No.’

‘You can’t talk, can you?’

‘No, Mr Charnock.’

‘Is he handsome?’

‘No.’

‘But you like him, and you’ve always liked him.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Bye.’

‘What was all that about?’ David asked.

‘No idea. She thought I was Mr Charnock.’

David decided not to bother asking who Mr Charnock was. He slowed down near the gate and waved at Glenys. She was in the company of a medium-sized man in a grey suit.

Lucy wound down her window. ‘See you, Glen. Bring Mr Simmons to supper soon. Or Mr Charnock . . .’

David drove on. Lucy was up to something. She was usually up to something these days, because she’d been up to nothing for so long. Her next something went under the name of Lexi, and it was going to be quite an eventful evening if said Lexi put in an appearance. The boot of this car was crammed with stuff that would make the evening a very happening time. ‘Where shall we live?’ he asked.

‘Your house and mine. Mine when you’re in Liverpool, yours when you’re in Lancashire. You need me to look after you, and I need you because you can reach high shelves.’

‘And your bed-and-breakfasters?’

‘Carol. She can’t wait to get away from Dee’s kids and Our Beryl. By all accounts, Our Beryl is the devil on wheels. She has the whole of Bootle organized. Everything is in her charge, and she runs the area from her gilded chariot. MS. Like Moira.’

David thought Carol was quite terrifying, though he kept that to himself, because Carol was much loved by Louisa.

‘You’re smiling,’ she said.

‘I’m happy.’

‘Are you, indeed?’

‘Yes indeed. I am indeed.’

‘Oh, right. Don’t worry, I’ll soon put a stop to that.’

David laughed. She would never change. She must never change.

Moira had her husband back. At last, he had told her everything, and she had forgiven him. She was anxious, though. What if the creature burnt down their house? Apart from that piece of disquiet, she was happier than she had been in months. The shaking was minimal and, apart from permanent face pain, she was relatively symptom-free.

They had lit a little gel fire in the wooden house’s living room fireplace. ‘I can smell autumn,’ Moira said. ‘Damp, earthy and a bit sharp. Did you look round Tallows? Isn’t that one fabulous house?’

‘Yes. Where did it get its name?’

She told him about the original owner of the house on Chandler’s Lane. ‘Before paraffin wax and so forth, candles were often made from tallow – animal fat. He bought the whole area – the lane remains unadopted to this day. And a chandler was a candlemaker, so there you have it. But Lucy’s forebears took the house on about a hundred or so years ago, and now Lucy and David are going to use it for his patients.’ She looked round the room. ‘I’ve fallen in love with Lucy’s shed.’

‘It’s cute,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

As he set the kettle to boil, he took in the cosiness of the place and decided that it was like being a child again in a playhouse with his friends. But now he was with just one, and she was the best friend he’d ever known. He found some biscuits and carried the tray through to the living room. She was exactly where he had left her, but she wasn’t . . . she wasn’t right.

Tray, mugs and contents hit the floor, bouncing, crashing and spilling all over the place. She wasn’t breathing. He picked up the phone and dialled 999 with the instrument on speaker, barking out orders and address, making damned sure they knew he was a doctor.

She had not been down for three minutes – he hadn’t left the room for long, and Lucy’s kettle was rapid-boil. Three minutes. A brain that lacked oxygen for any longer was damaged. He found a thready pulse, made sure her mouth was clear, and decided that the Heimlich move was no use, since she had choked on absolutely nothing. He ran back to the kitchen, found a knife and a ballpoint pen, and returned to his wife. After lifting her from the chair and placing her on the floor, he took the pen apart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered before drawing the knife across her throat. He parted skin and subcutaneous tissue, punctured the cricothyroid membrane, and inserted the outer layer of the pen into her airway.

‘I’ve done a primitive tracheotomy,’ he told the man on the phone. ‘Now, send that bloody ambulance, or I’ll have all your jobs!’

‘On its way, sir.’

Her chest was moving slightly. She hadn’t been eating – this was one of those occasions on which even her own saliva became a threat. The heart was making some effort, and air was going in via the tube, because he could hear it rattling slightly. What now? He was a bloody doctor, and he didn’t know what to do next.

They came eventually. Paramedics worked until she was stable enough to be carried on a stretcher. By the time they were in the ambulance, Richard felt near to collapse. Then he heard them. She’d had an infarction. ‘What?’ he cried. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her heart. Her BP’s fine, and her cholesterol’s a damned sight lower than mine.’

‘Stress and pain,’ said one of the medics. ‘Is it MS?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you did your best. Let’s get her to A and E as quickly as we can.’

The siren wailed. Richard picked up the pen casing with which he had saved his wife’s life. She now had a proper tracheotomy and equipment that announced her status second by second. A heart attack? That wasn’t supposed to happen. Didn’t she suffer enough with the rat-faced, sly, evil-minded disease named multiple sclerosis?

In his mind’s eye, he saw her struggling to walk through the hallway at home, went with her through doors behind which sat occupational therapists, speech therapists, experts in swallowing, people who knew sod all about double incontinence and the dignity it stole from the sufferer. He saw her in Sainsbury’s, a can of low-salt, low-sugar baked beans in a hand, witnessed the involuntary jerk of the limb that sent the same tin flying through the air into the next aisle. He saw her weeping with the pain, watched while she dashed away tears and painted on a smile for him. Just for him. For her husband.

Moira showed no sign of regaining consciousness. They fought long and hard in the hospital, and Richard never left her side. But, after the second heart attack occurred, he pulled himself together. Staff were preparing to shock her yet again, and Richard held up his hand. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s had a happy week and a day that was almost pain-free. I don’t want her to die, but that’s selfish. There are times when she can’t swallow, can’t talk, can’t walk, can scarcely breathe. Tonight, she gave me a history lesson about the house where we were staying. She was as bright as a button today. Let her rest.’

A long pause followed. ‘Are you sure, Dr Turner?’ the main man asked.

‘Am I hell as like! But I’m certain of one important thing. She’ll have no more suffering if you just leave her alone.’

The consultant crossed the room and placed a hand on Richard’s shoulder. ‘Her heart is badly damaged. You’re right. With this trouble on top of MS, she’d be very ill. Even if we did manage to get her back . . . Shall I call it?’

‘Yes.’

The man removed half-moon spectacles and dragged the back of a hand cross his damp forehead. ‘Time of death, eleven thirty-five p.m. Thank you, team.’

One by one, they left the room until only Richard and the consultant remained. Both exhausted, they sank into chairs and stared at each other. ‘GP?’ the specialist asked.

Richard nodded. ‘Yes.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘She was with me all the way through my student days. When we married, she was the most beautiful woman you could wish to see. Her hair was so long she could almost sit on it. I used to brush it for her. She loved that, said it was nearly as good as sex. Remarkable skin, huge eyes, and a waist so small – she looked breakable. I watched her eroding. I saw her becoming truly breakable. And broken.’

The medic reached out a hand. ‘I’m Guy, by the way. Guy Morris.’

‘Richard.’ They shook hands. ‘Why have they been bombing Iraq when the money could be used to cure stuff?’ Richard asked.

‘Because they
can
bomb Iraq.’

‘And they can’t cure MS?’

The man raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘God knows what they might manage if they concentrated. Day centres for the disabled are being closed or charging huge rates. That keeps the people in wheelchairs tucked away out of sight in their own homes. Their allowances have been slashed mercilessly – who knows how many are dying due to lack of attention and help? As for the diseases, I’ve no idea what’s being done. There’s a lot of begging via TV advertisements, so that says a lot. Charities are all we have left.’

Richard looked at his wife. She wasn’t twitching, wasn’t gasping for breath or talking rubbish. No longer would she need those painkillers that gave her chronic constipation; no longer would he slip her a Valium 5 to calm the shakes while worrying about the same drug further impeding her breathing. ‘She can’t choke now.’

‘No, Richard, but you might. Get counselling. I’m serious – this is a big thing, a monumental happening. It’s my opinion that she would have been dead within weeks, but we’ll never know.’

‘And I must live with never knowing. Yet we do know, Guy. We know her life, however brief, however long, would have been unbearable.’

‘Absolutely.’

Richard stood up. He had to go. Simon, Stephanie and Alice needed to be told that they were motherless. But first, he had to go back to Lucy’s little park home and clean up that last cup of tea that had not been enjoyed by him and Moira.

‘I’m done here, so I’ll drive you,’ Guy offered.

‘I’ll get a taxi.’

‘No, you won’t. Trust me, I’m a doctor.’

Richard smiled grimly. ‘I want her back in Crosby as soon as possible. This is foreign soil for us.’ He kissed the cooling forehead of the woman who had supported him through thick and thin, then followed Guy out of the hospital. He was alone deep inside. There was a hole in the region of his stomach, and it would never be filled. Thirty years of their life together was being wheeled down to the morgue to be placed in a fridge. She didn’t mind the cold. Heat had troubled her, especially since the MS had entered the secondary progressive stage. ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage without her. She might have been a cripple, but she was an amazing one. Very funny, almost mischievous. And all she ever worried about was me. She’d done such a good job on the kids that they turned out great, very focused and positive. Our son married recently, and he’ll be shadowing someone like you, but at Guy’s. With your name, you should be working there.’

The driver said nothing. He knew Richard needed to talk, to vent some of his misery as soon as possible.

‘My girls are at medical school in Edinburgh, one in her first year, the other in her second. Yes, Moira was a brilliant mother.’

At last, Guy Morris spoke. ‘When you wake tomorrow, for the first few seconds, everything will be OK. Then it will crash in on you, so don’t be alone. Things change after the funeral. They don’t heal, they just shift.’

Richard turned to look at the driver. ‘You’ve been through this?’

‘Yes. I lost my wife last year. It’s a long, long process, but life goes on, as they say. I live alone, though one of my wife’s friends does my cooking and housework. She’s a nice woman. I’m working my way up to asking her out for dinner.’

‘And you’re still in counselling?’

‘Yes, but on the other side of it. Now, I listen to people who’ve had a loss. Not easy with my hours, but I always phone them back as soon as possible. It’s a bit like Alcoholics Anonymous – give and take.’

They pulled into the driveway at the west side of Tallows. The back garden was illuminated by lights that came on at dusk and turned off at dawn, and they walked all the way down to the park home. Inside the little wooden house, Richard stood and looked at the mess. Guy picked up the knife and looked at the floor. It had been a clean job, because there was very little blood. He shifted everything while Richard sat and stared at a dead fireplace. The gel pots lasted just a couple of hours, so they had burnt out ages ago. ‘I can’t stay here,’ he said.

‘I have some pills,’ Guy told him. ‘You will take some and sleep. No way are you driving tonight. I shall stay with you and, in the morning, you will not leave here until I’ve filled you up with caffeine.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go and make a sandwich – I just did a twelve-hour stretch. Phone your children while I’m gone.’

Richard stared at his phone. At this moment, his kids were happy. Simon, in Lucy’s house with his new bride, was ecstatic about life, about Lizzie, about London. Steph and Alice were up in Edinburgh, possibly drunk, probably hanging round with other students, laughing, joking, singing terrible songs. They were young and carefree, and he was about to put a stop to their joie de vivre. But it had to be done.

He would tell Simon first, as he was the oldest. It had to be done, and he mustn’t cry. They had just one parent now, and he must not let them down.

*

Lexi made her way through the darkening streets. She had learned her lesson – flat shoes, dark clothes, don’t talk to anyone, walk at a steady pace. Why was she doing this? Life was looking up, she’d been out for a drink with Tom Rice, and she knew the job was hers. But Richard Turner had got to her. He had pretended to love her before throwing everything in her face. She was common. She was unsuitable. She was on the warpath.