The Poison Morality (3 page)

After the bells of Big Ben had chimed midnight on the telly and it was officially Christmas day, Oliver sat drinking his cold coffee.  It had been busy but not as busy as he anticipated.  Putting his head down on his forearms folded on the table, his mind drifted, the man laughing at his party and a beautiful woman in a long black dress, like a ghost, quiet, unglamorous, walking through the crowd, disappearing and reappearing.  She glides behind the man and disappears again as he collapses.

The intercom calling his name brought him back to reality and back to work.  Maybe if he went to the underground station in the morning instead of a cab she might be there, maybe he will make it a habit to do that just in case.

After his shift, he returned to the ward where he worked with the critically ill and made rounds before leaving.  Just to check on his patients to see if any of them needed anything.  Not that the doctors on duty were not capable but that he could assist any of them in any way before leaving for the night. 

The halls were filled with whispers of family members visiting for a final Christmas with their loved ones.  Sniffles and tears occasionally were heard along with the subtle tinkle of the ornaments on the Christmas tree at the nurse’s station.  These were the sounds of Christmas to him.  Most would consider it sad but Oliver considered it to be the one place where things happened that really mattered.

Some of his patients were in there for months and either way they chose to go, either by perishing or the door, he felt he had a bond with them.  He yawned in between going from room to room, checking charts and vitals; checking morphine dosages and listening for any cries of family members, careful not to disturb.  All was hushed in comparison to the fast pace of
casualty.

“Vivienne Bane died tonight,” Jacki said in an accusing manner, arms crossed.  She didn’t like Oliver very much, he wasn’t sure why, he didn’t care.  Maybe it wasn’t just him; she had an all-around sour disposition, unlike Berta.  Cosmetics caked on her face and abuse of her skin was evident.  She looked reproachfully at him trying to make out like his absence had something to do with Vivienne’s passing.

Poor Vivienne, she had suffered long enough and he was disheartened he wasn’t there to help her in the end.  He felt slightly bad about that, more than Jacki could make him feel but he couldn’t be all places at all times.  Because he was filling in somewhere else, doing his good deed, letting someone spend time with their family he was unable to be there for Vivienne.  No good deed goes unpunished.

“Were you with her?” he sighed, tired and exasperated by her attitude.

Jacki huffed, “No one was with her, Dr. Reece,” his name hissed between her teeth.  “No one at all.”

Oliver’s eyes were dry and his patience thin with this nurse.  “Why do I feel like you’re accusing me of something,” he probed, pressing the bridge of his nose between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, fighting off the headache and aggravation she was causing him.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” she shrugged.  “She died about an hour ago,” a flash of a grin tilted the corner of her mouth for a second.  “They just took her down to the morgue.”

“You knew I was here, why didn’t you tell me?” 

She didn’t answer but shrugged again, “I’m telling you now.”

“Has anyone informed her family?” he asked, staring back at the empty bed.

“Dr. Leary said he would.”  She walked back into the station and proceeded to shuffle papers.

“But did he?  Because if he didn’t…”

“He said he would” she snapped, “so I’m sure he did.”

Sophie silently walked towards the soft lights of Chinatown, the man, head and shoulders above the hovering groups, in her sights.  The brightness of the window displays hurt her eyes, still adjusting from the darkness of the street before.  He stopped once to watch the blinding flashes of light coming from the firecrackers, left over from the Chinese New Year.  The acrid smell of smoke drifted through the street in a white haze burning her eyes, the occasional gust of wind carrying it off.  He drifted in and out of the smoke making it hard for her to fully identify him before she could make a move, just one look to confirm and then she just needed to be aware of him, and then never look at his face again.

The wind tossed the red lanterns strung above, the sound of their delicate paper making crinkling noises.  Ducks glistened golden skinned in windows under tiny lights, the smell made her stomach growl.

Sophie only had to keep him within her range of vision until opportunity presented itself.  He stepped into a restaurant and she paused looking at the crispy ducks, debating whether she should get one. 

Her dark hair flew across her face.  With a gloved hand she tucked the loose tendril behind her ear.  She dressed in black to blend in with the night and her unglamorous appearance never raised an eyebrow.  Every few minutes she wondered closer to where the man entered the restaurant as to not look like she was loitering.  She smiled and nodded to anyone who greeted her, the air filled with joyful Chinese greetings, happy voices raised, the foreign languages sounded like music to her. 

Every time she came to Chinatown, she couldn’t resist looking at the jade pendant in the shape of a heart engraved in Chinese writing hanging from a gold chain in the curio shop.  It was so beautiful, she coveted its creamy green colour and she always had a fondness for hearts, maybe because hers was cold or even non-existent, but it wasn’t for her, it was too lovely.

“Very pretty isn’t it, like you,” an elderly Chinese lady came out of the shop.  Sophie had to concentrate to understand her thick accent.  Sophie blushed at the compliment even if it was just to charm her into buying something.  The lady’s eyes disappeared when she smiled and her cheeks were round, causing her wrinkles to deepen.  A long braid of white hair hung down her back and she was hunched over in the shoulders.

“Yes it’s very pretty,” Sophie said, agreeing.

“It will look nice on you, with your
daark
hair and
daark
eyes,” she spoke slowly finding the English words.

“I don’t think so,” she said and walked away, leaving the little woman frowning at her back.

She was hoping he would come here tonight.  His dossier said that he frequented the restaurants in Chinatown; fortunate for her he had an urge for Asian food.  This was her first night of stalking him.  Sometimes it took several times to find the opportunity but she was lucky.  She stood outside the restaurant waiting for him to come out, it could be minutes it could be an hour.

Boisterous laughing from inside diverted her attention.  Standing in the doorway she watched a family talking and laughing.  Three generations enjoying each other’s company with children running around playing and giggling.  Each one reached into various dishes with their chopsticks, sharing food and memories.

Sophie allowed herself the luxury of being jealous of their family ties.  Hers were broken and the best thing that could have happened to her but lingering animosity and bad blood loomed just beneath the surface.  Only very early memories of her mother before her stepfather came into the picture were the only times she remembered seeing her mother happy.  Normality and familial love were missing from her life once she married Sophie’s stepfather but she was alive and away from them now and that was as good as it got.

She stood shaking, the January night had penetrated her coat and gloves.  A middle aged woman in the group of loved ones was waving Sophie in, smiling and welcoming, others joined in.  Sophie smiled and raised her hand hesitantly to wave back to them when a young man brushed past her and was instantly embraced by the group.  Obviously he had been away for a while.  They hugged him, excited to see him, a student from the look of him, backpack slung over one shoulder.  Indeed, the greeting not for her.  She laughed at her own silliness.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him meander out carrying a bag of takeaway under his arm and his briefcase in the opposite hand.  It was easier when there was something in their hands, she found that when people carried things in their hands it made it easier to aim and he had forgotten his gloves, even better.  People didn’t swing their arms when they were carrying something important or precious, be it a briefcase or dinner.  He paused looking up the street and she confirmed his identity for sure.

She followed him towards Gerrard Place and rounded the corner, only a few steps behind him.  Quickly and quietly she closed the gap between them.  Taking a glance around to see if anyone else lingered on the street, she hated to do it when there wasn’t a crowd, it was easier to hide in numbers but at least it was dark and cold and she really wanted to get this over with.  It had been too long now that she had put it off due to winter’s frigid temperatures.

She reached into her pocket and slipped the cover off the needle with her thumb.  Watching his hand, she fell in step with the rhythm of the back and forth motion with each step he took, mimicking him.  Holding the needle out she crouched, aimed and jabbed, he cried out and grabbed his hand, dropping the food and briefcase.  Sophie quickly jumped into a doorway.

Normally she would have walked away, far away from her victim, blending into a crowd but she dared not move yet.  Heart racing, she tried to think of a million lies if she was discovered.  Breathing in and out slowly trying to steady her nerves, she heard him mumble and groan.  His footsteps echoed, walking away, occasionally stumbling and then righting himself until his footsteps faded completely.  Waiting, she saw other people walk past on the opposite side of the street, their lack of reaction proved it was clear.

Cautiously, she peaked around the corner just far enough to see the only evidence of him left on the street was his dinner, sitting in the white bag, stained from spillage abandoned on the sidewalk, getting cold.  Relaxing, she picked up the bag and doubled back towards Chinatown bypassing all the shops, restaurants, and people and turned onto the darker Warder Street.

The smell of the food caused her stomach to growl, clutching it to her chest, the heat from it warming her skin.  She couldn’t remember the last time she ate, was it this morning or this afternoon?

Sophie meandered to Charing Cross station bypassing Trafalgar Square to catch the tube for home.  It was getting late.  She clutched the food wondering if there was anything salvageable of the meal.

Sophie didn’t see the girl at first; she was hunched below the first set of steps into the station attempting to get some warmth from the inside.  A homeless girl in her twenties, dirty and dishevelled stood in front of Sophie with a ripped paper cup.  Her nose was running, sniffling and shivering from the cold, her face smudged, and hair matted under a knitted hat.  In that girl, Sophie saw herself a few years ago. 

Sophie handed the girl the bag.  “Here’s some food.”  The girl smiled revealing yellow teeth but did not offer any words of thanks, taking the bag and huddling back in her corner.  Sophie could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance before she descended into the station, blocking out the street level noises.  The train approached as soon as she did, crowded with people, not like
that
night, the three of them and only the three of them.

Abandoning the idea of a hot meal, Sophie went home on the other side of the Thames to Waterloo.  She opened a tin of spaghetti rings and ate half of it out of the can, wondering how long it will take for the money to go into her account and maybe splurging on a book or two.

“She came from downstairs this morning, Dr. Reece,” Camille said handing Oliver the chart before entering the room.  He studied its contents, flipping pages back and forth.  Cancer of the liver.  Then he saw the name, Mariella
Hannigan, who now, was a ward under his care.

Camille was whispering to him but he didn’t realize she was speaking; rubbing his chin in contemplation while concentrating on what he was reading. 

“Hmm, what did you say?” he asked softly, as not to disturb Mrs Hannigan, flipping the chart closed again.

“I said, it don’t look good for her,” Camille whispered, her Caribbean accent mingling with the British.  “She’s refused treatment or to tell us names of any family or friends to call for her.  We haven’t been able to find anyone, no acquaintances; just a
neighbour who found her in her flat a few days ago and now we have her but they left no name or number.  Rumour has it, the neighbour asked for you by name.”

“Oh?  But no one knew who it was,” his eyebrows rose in curiosity, “Probably
just
a rumour then.  They thought it would be funny downstairs probably.”

Camille sighed, “I hate it, the ones who are alone in this world,” she said, fidgeting with the cross that hung around her neck.

Oliver put his arm around her shoulders, “She’s not alone; she’s with us.  We can do what we can to make her comfortable,” giving her a little squeeze and letting go. “Let me talk to her, maybe I can get something out of her,” he said smiling and winking at Camille.

“Good luck, but you might be overestimating the power of your charms,” she smiled brightly at him, “I’ll pray for her, she’s in God’s hands now.  Maybe if she had someone with her she could find the will to get better enough to start treatment and hang on a little longer,” with that proclamation, she walked out of the room.

“It’s not charm, just pretty good powers of persuasion,” he mumbled it more to himself.

Oliver watched Camille walk out the door, her skin was creamy tan; her curvaceous body evident even under scrubs.  He had been attracted to her before but her faith was too strong for affairs and she always brushed off his advances despite that, they shared a passion for caring for patients and worked well together. 

A moan from the bed made him realize he was still staring out the door; he came back to the present, and went to the bedside.  Mariella’s skin was yellowed and eyes sunken in.  Only forty eight, years of alcohol and smoking had taken its toll on the insides and the outside as well, her illness only emphasizing it. 

Deep seated wrinkles became more apparent by her gaunt cheeks.  She probably had not eaten well maybe months, maybe years.  A patient with no friends and no family was rare no matter how sick or down trodden they were.  Everyone had someone even if they hovered outside the door unable to come to terms at the state of their loved one.

Oliver sat in the chair beside her and slid the palm of his hand under hers.  Not really holding it but letting it rest lightly there.  The polished nails looked out of place on the bony hand, the polish chipped. 

He was lost in thought again, staring at the hand in his, when he looked at her face again; her eyes were wide open.  The whites yellowed and blood shot.  They had already “dried her out” upstairs before he got her, a recovering alcoholic now, by force.

“Hello, Mrs Hannigan.  I’m Dr. Reece but you can call me Oliver, if you wish.  Do you know where you are,” he asked leaning over her now using the light to check her pupils and other vitals.

She tried to sit up but he motioned for her to rest easy with a gentle hand on her shoulder but she did what she wanted anyway, managing to slide up about half way and he lifted her carefully to move the pillows behind her, propping her up.

“Hospital, still,” she choked out and cleared her throat.  “Call me Mary, I hate my bloody first name and my last name is my ex-husband’s.”  She allowed him to assist her.  “You’re attracted to her, aren’t you?”  Nodding towards the door, her hand gripped Oliver’s arm, indicating she wanted him to stop fussing over her.  He smiled, she wasn’t done yet. 

“She’s a good person, a good nurse.  She will take good care of you as will I,” he moved a wisp of hair away from her eyes.

“But,” she enquired, Oliver took her meaning.

“But she’s a devout Catholic,” he busied himself with little things like adjusting the blankets and the corners of the sheet.

“So, a shag is out of the question,” she didn’t wait for confirmation.  “I remember being a devout Catholic, even when I figured out with confession I could get absolution for any misdeed, and I have done many.  And then I realized it was a con.  You pay in
this
lifetime for what you’ve done.”

“You don’t believe in God then?”  Oliver sat down again waiting for the opportunity to discuss the matter at hand.

“Why should I?  Unless he’s a right wanker who made my life a ruin, then yes I believe in him.  That’s why I took up drinking when the people I loved…poof,” her hand brushed the air, “gone.  Thought it would have done me in completely by now, I wasn’t strong enough to kill myself the quick way.  I thought I would pass out into a drunken stupor and not have to wake again to my dreary existence any longer.”

Ignoring her reference to death he said, “Things can be different for you, you’re not done yet if you get some help, you can maintain for a while with a decent quality of life, if you try.”

Mary scoffed, “You want that more than me,” she confirmed sarcastically.  “If I had the strength, I would go home and drink until I couldn’t hold onto a bottle anymore.  Why preserve me, for what Doctor Oliver, for what?”

Oliver poured water from a pitcher beside the bed and tipped it towards her lips, cradling her head.  Instead, she took the cup from him and sipped it.  She grimaced, “Anything stronger?”

“I’m afraid those days are over,” he informed her, with a stern tone, “Drink the water, it’s good for you,” he smiled and then frowned in concern.  It’s difficult to help someone who doesn’t want it.  It’s the most frustrating thing he has to face as a physician.

“Do you know why you’re here?”  Sitting back in the chair he crossed one leg over the other, his fingertips together, elbows rested on the arms of the chair, he looked at her, ready for a heart to heart chat.

“My liver has given up and so have I but somehow we manage to linger between this existence and the next, hoping for extinction,” she stated bluntly and then sighed, staring out the window at the lights outside.  “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” she took a gulp of the water and scowled.  “Might as well be the end if I don’t get a decent drink, it’s been the only thing sustaining me.”

“It’s the thing that’s killing you,” Oliver stated flatly.

“It should have been me that died years ago when……,” defiance was replaced by sadness and she looked at Oliver, embarrassed at the show of emotion.  “Do you know what I did when I found out?”  She didn’t give Oliver a chance to reply before answering, “Drank a bottle of the most expensive wine I could find.  It was the nectar of Dionysus, the God of wine, the life of the grape coursing through my veins.”  She started sinking into the pillows, her face twisted in pain.  He wasn’t sure if she was finished with her prose but he noticed the contortion on her face.

“I’ll get you something for the pain,” pressing the button for Camille and sending her to bring him something before Mariella answered.   Camille entered and Oliver gave her orders, returning with his request.

“Some vodka would be nice,” she settled down under the covers as he introduced the medicine into her feed.

He chuckled, “Nice try.  Why have you refused treatment?”

“How is the treatment any better than drinking?  It’s all poison isn’t it?  At least the alcohol tastes better.”

“Good question and maybe I’ll have an answer for you later but for now just rest.”  Oliver put a hand on her shoulder and patted it.  Her eyes were slowly opening and closing, fighting to stay awake.

He started to walk away when she held his hand in place with hers and turned her head towards him.  “My daughter won’t want to see me, I think, but Marcus,” before letting go she asked, “Have you ever done something so terrible that you’re convinced you’re in hell while you’re alive therefore, it can’t exist after you die and heaven won’t let you in?” she said, then mumbling, “Life is the limbo, heaven unreachable, from here or there, I have walked the fine line between,” and fell asleep.

So it was guilt that weighed heavy on her, something that she thought was so terrible it led her to drink away memories of damaged relationships and now she had no one unless maybe he could find out about this daughter or Marcus.