The
office was deserted by the time Nancy had finished her shift. Her drive home
transported her back to Hampton in Arden train station. Her carriage ride had
been a journey between death and life and Bex didn’t know. Nobody cared. Louisa
only cared about the figures. Sales were down again this month. Nancy shouldn’t
be here. She should be back in the crashed limo at the foot of the bridge in
eternal night. Only, the limo was no longer there.
Nancy
pushed open the front door to find the landline ringing. As Nancy picked up the
phone and a soft Asian voice conveyed the news, the limo continued to cruise
somewhere on the nights side of the lonely train station. Nancy is on autopilot
too, as she recites the script, ending with ‘thank you.’
Nancy
took a lift to the second floor of the George Eliot hospital. Pine disinfectant
tinged the air. Strip-lights buzzed above trolleys, monitors and loitering
staff. The night brought a sullen aspect to Adam Bede ward on the Cheveral
wing. Nancy drifted towards the desk and immediately spotted Sheila Hutchens’
name printed on the whiteboard.
The
nurse at the desk instructed Nancy to take a seat in the waiting room opposite
while she call the consultant. Nancy did so. The grid of plastic chairs
adjoined two wards of beds. A sallow-faced man lounged in pressure tights reading
a newspaper. Opposite, a jowly woman with frizzy hair dozed on high cushions. A
drip had been attached to her wrist.
Painkiller
administered by drip has a safety valve, Nancy recalled, to prevent overdose.
Tampering with the mechanism poses the likely risk of discovery. But
painkillers given by hand can be open to abuse. A young ward nurse wheeled a trolley
to do the meds Temperature, pulse and blood pressure were recorded next. The
Weston Hill Care Centre had a med rota of four hours. Painkillers were kept in
a locked cupboard next to the washroom. Only doctors and qualified nurses were
allowed a key. Some painkillers in tablet form looked quite similar to one
another. Certain brands bore no logo and resembled mint pastels. Patients who
had difficulty swallowing were given a powdered form blended with honey and a
preferred fruit juice to mask the bitterness. Bert liked strawberry. Another
patient, Alice liked orange. Morphine could be added without anyone noticing.
Nancy had tried a few drops of the fruit blend herself and likened the flavor
to fruit concentrate.
The
patients at the Weston Hill Care Centre were quite happy. Everybody loved
Nancy. They kept saying so. Nancy had a pretty face that brightened up the day.
‘Miss
Hutchens?’
Nancy
glanced up to encounter Dr. Kamat’s furrowed expression. A tall doctor in a
white overcoat, Dr. Kamat adopted an informal cant to the head to put her at
ease. He extended his hand and she stood and took his in a light, dry shake.
‘Miss
Hutchens, your mother suffered a blackout due to alcohol overload in her
bloodstream. We suspect concussion may have delayed her regaining
consciousness.’
Nancy’s
face hardened ‘You mean she was pissed.’
Dr.
Kamat retained his soft cadence. ‘She was highly intoxicated, yes. I am not
happy with your mother’s condition. I have recommended a stay in hospital for a
liver scan and possibly a referral to heptology. I fear another drink could
kill her.’
Nancy
kept a resolute stance. ‘Where was she found?’
Dr.
Kamat hesitated. ‘I am told…’ he referred to his clipboard. ‘She was found at
the…the Hatchet Inn toilets in Glebe Hollow.’ Dr. Kamat’s doleful eyes drifted
back to hers. ‘She was lucky she was lying on her front when she vomited.’
Vomited?
A vignette pierced her brain. Her mother’s legs sprawled over the grey
flagstones, the cubicle door laden with cartoon cocks and admissions of sex.
The stench of sick. The clink of glasses somewhere, indifferent chatter. ‘I
should have…’ A spasm cut her words. ‘I should have done something.’
Dr.
Kamat spoke quietly. ‘I am sorry, Miss Hutchens.’
