False Hope Read online

  ‘Trust that what?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t trust that the girls will be safe with him when I’m not there.’

  Alarm bells didn’t so much begin ringing as tolling in my head. ‘Trust him how?’ I asked. ‘You mean you think he might hurt them?’

  Again, her chin jutted. And though the message I was getting from her was increasingly becoming mixed, I felt her instinctive loyalty to him tugging at her, like a dog on a leash. ‘No. I mean, no, not intentionally, obviously. But—’

  I could tell she was agonising over her words. How to express what it was she seemed determined she must voice.

  And voice to me? She stared up at me, her eyes shining with as yet unshed tears. ‘Jessica, has he been violent? Towards you? Towards your daughters?’

  She looked astonished now. ‘No, no, no! You’ve got it all wrong. No! Trust me, the only person Aidan’s intent on hurting is himself. That’s what I’m saying. It’s like he wants to destroy himself. How can I leave the girls with him?’

  ‘He’s suicidal? Getting drunk? Taking drugs?’

  She nodded miserably. ‘A couple of nights ago, I came home to find him spark out, completely gone, with a cigarette in his hand still. Burnt right down to the stub. All the ash in one unbroken line on the arm of the sofa. How out of it must he have been that he hadn’t even noticed? He could have burned the whole house down, and he hadn’t even noticed. I’d ask Norma to have them but it’s such a hike, and—’

  ‘Oh. I thought she lived fairly close to you.’

  She shook her head. ‘She moved to a bungalow up towards Patcham a couple of years back. Anyway, I won’t.’ Her voice was firm now. ‘It’s not fair on them. Since all this, she’s just so . . . so . . .’ She stopped and exhaled heavily. ‘I just wish I knew what to do!’

  There was so much more I’d have liked to ask her. Particularly about Norma. But I asked none of it. Something told me I shouldn’t press her.

  ‘Listen,’ I said instead, ‘if you think your children are at risk, then you must—’

  ‘Leave him. I know, I know. I’ve been agonising about it for months. It’s just such a massive step to take . . . specially if I’m going to move back up to Hull. And it’s not like I don’t love him. I just can’t . . .’ Her features contorted in pain, and she scoured the back of her hand across her eyes as if exasperated with herself. I had the feeling she’d already cried a lot of tears. ‘I’ve got a friend in Hove who said we can move into her spare bedroom temporarily, but it’s such an imposition, and she really doesn’t have the room . . . and, God, I just . . . I mean, what’s going to happen then?’

  ‘Long term? Well, there are options. There are refuges you can go to, and—’

  ‘No, I mean to Aidan! I mean, I hope if I do leave him he’ll come to his senses, realise he can’t go on like this – that he needs to sort himself out. But will he? Will he really? It might make everything even worse, mightn’t it? And I don’t think I can bear to have that on my conscience. He’s just so all over the place, so scared. So vulnerable.’

  ‘As are you,’ I pointed out firmly. ‘As are your children. Look, I’m sorry, but I really do have to be somewhere now. But I strongly urge you to try and get some help for him, perhaps some counselling. Get in touch with your GP. Get a home visit organised. If he’s in that desperate a state, I’m sure they’d fast-track him. And most of all, make sure you and your children are safe.’

  I stood up as I was speaking, and she seemed to take the cue. Blowing her nose, wiping her eyes again, taking a sip of the tepid water.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have come and offloaded on you the way I have. And I’ll do that. Just – sorry – please – you won’t take this any further, will you?’

  ‘No. Obviously, no. I just want it to end now, and—’

  ‘It has ended,’ she said. ‘I absolutely promise. I just—’ Her chin began wobbling again and I felt a sudden rush of sympathy. I slipped my bag from my shoulder and rummaged in it for a pen. Then, having torn the corner off an old receipt, wrote my mobile number down for her.

  ‘Here,’ I said, pushing the piece of paper across the desk at her. ‘If you need details of a local refuge, get in touch with me, okay?’

  ‘I will,’ she said, stuffing it into a pocket as she followed me over to the consulting-room door. ‘And thank you. I mean that.’

  I opened the door. ‘Did you tell Aidan you were coming to see me?’

  ‘No. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t—’

  ‘And his mother?’

  She looked shocked at that. ‘Lord, no. I – look, sorry. Thank you so much. You’ve really helped me.’

  And all I could think of as I watched her hurry off down the corridor was her expression when I asked her whether Norma knew she’d come to see me. Lord, no, she’d said. And had frowned as she’d said it. No, she’d winced, actually winced. As if she knew as well as I did that whatever she promised, Norma Kennedy’s hatred of me was a force outside her control.

  Chapter 10

  I drove home that evening with thoughts of Jessica Kennedy and what she’d said to me strobing on and off in my brain like neon signposts. She’d by now texted me (a simple thank you, followed by an x) and I wondered if she’d act on what she’d said. I suspected yes, because, given what she’d told me, it was all so obvious, felt so familiar, the picture she’d painted so clear. She’d married Aidan Kennedy, presumably bewitched by him in the same way Hope had once been, and, one by one, the scales had begun falling from her eyes. Even faster, I imagined, by having put herself in such close proximity to his mother. That he was struggling, and self-medicating with drink and drugs, was no surprise either. However much I wished it otherwise, years of front-line A and E work had chipped away at my relentless optimism about human nature. You saw the very best of people, often, but you also saw the worst, and the histories of so many who regularly haunted the hospital were depressingly similar. And of course he had demons; what he’d done to Hope had been despicable, and he knew it. Though it was no surprise that he’d given his wife a rather different account of the way things had ended.

  But though I knew I could (I had plenty of evidence I could show her), I wasn’t remotely inclined to try and disabuse her of all the fictions he’d told her. I just felt sorry for her, being in the middle of such a traumatic situation, and for her children, who were clearly at risk. For the decision she was struggling with, about throwing in the towel and leaving her substance-abusing husband. And taking the children back up north to her family. Which, as she’d hinted, would almost certainly have massive implications. And not just for him. For Norma as well. Who she was clearly afraid of.

  Déjà vu. I knew all about that, because I’d already been there.

  And I was still afraid of Norma too.

  And with good reason, because on the Tuesday of the following week, she came looking for me. I was on my way to my afternoon clinic when I heard her. First a ‘Hey!’, ringing out from somewhere behind me, punching a hole through the usual waiting-room torpor and causing a dozen or so whispered conversations to come to an abrupt end. The shrill female voice, in this setting, was noteworthy in itself. While people kicking off in outpatients was an occupational hazard, loud disturbances, at least in my personal experience, were more usually instigated by men. And they were usually much more common to late nights in A and E, not routine afternoon outpatient clinics. By definition, the patients had either generally had enough trauma, or were elderly, polite, and largely patient, as well.

  I knew straight away it was Norma. And as I turned around, I saw a small sea of other heads doing likewise, people swivelling in their seats to establish the source of the shout, sensing that a show was about to start. I heard a nervous laugh, the clatter of a crutch hitting the floor, and, as I swept my gaze around, spotted a sprinkling of my own patients, some with their gazes now darting back and forth between us, already coming to realise it was directed at me.

  Which
was not a great look. She shouted ‘Hey!’ again, then, ‘Stop!’ Then, ‘You stop right there this minute, you bitch!’ And then I saw her, pink-cheeked, in a mustard-coloured raincoat, shimmying sideways, making her way along the last of the rows of seats. There was no sign of Aidan, so I presumed she must be here because he was in having a follow-up consultation with Neil Porter. So had she brought him? And did this mean Jessica Kennedy had left him? I had no idea. She might have brought him just because Jessica was working, but my instinct, seeing the fury in her expression, told me yes.

  But what the hell to do? Dive into the nearest consulting room and barricade the door? Run? Both options that felt far more appealing than just standing there waiting for the tornado.

  Nevertheless, because it felt the only thing to do under the circumstances, I walked back past the rows of startled faces towards her, my wodge of patient notes clamped protectively against my chest. At least I might steer her into a triage bay or something. I saw one of the porters moving towards her too, as if anticipating trouble. Saw heads bobbing up from behind the glass at the reception desk.

  I was glad to have the notes to grip, to stop my hands from shaking. ‘Did you want to speak to me?’ I asked her. ‘If so, perhaps it would be better if—’

  A bony be-ringed finger started to jab repeatedly towards my chest.

  ‘Don’t think for a single moment that you are going to get away with this!’ She splayed her fingers with a snap, then, as if trying to dislodge something sticky from her nails. Slapped the index finger of the other hand against each digit in turn. ‘You’ve stolen my grandson. You’ve ruined my son’s life. You’ve chopped off his arm.’ I heard a collective gasp at this. ‘You’ve disfigured him. Half destroyed him. And now you’ve as good as killed him!’

  I registered this with incredulity, as dots of spittle hit my cheek. ‘What?’

  She was jabbing her finger at my chest now, against the notes I still held there, as if to punctuate her accusations. ‘Don’t try to deny it! You Did This! You fecking bitch! Do you want to fetch one of your scalpels and rip my heart out as well?’

  ‘Norma, please . . .’ I started to become aware that a silence had fallen. That we had an audience now, a rapt one, who, with nothing else to do, were enjoying the unexpected diversion of an elderly lady with her knickers in a twist about something, shouting abuse at one of the doctors. Nothing to worry about. Nothing they hadn’t seen on Casualty.

  But they, as much as me, underestimated her.

  Though there was a nurse hurrying towards us, she was still several metres away when Norma, without any indication that she was about to, stopped prodding me and simply launched her whole body at me, clawing at the notes, which went flying as I tried to protect myself, grabbing at my blouse, my neck, my hair, my face.

  I had no idea what to do other than try to contain her, so I attempted to grab her wrists, which felt like bundles of twigs, shifting my weight forward so she couldn’t push me over backwards. But my foot slipped on all the paperwork that had cascaded down around us, and though I felt someone trying to grab me – a security guard, come from nowhere – the momentum was too great and, with Norma pushing against me, I overbalanced backwards. Before I could do anything to stop myself falling, I landed, heavily and painfully, on my hip, and Norma – still clinging on to my blouse with one hand, scratching at my face with the other – tumbled down in a muddle of limbs on top of me.

  She winded me as she landed on me, still flailing, still screaming. I smelled perfume, and hairspray, and gusts of sour breath, the biscuity sweetness of yesterday’s clothes. And a wetness – of tears, snot, or dribble, I couldn’t tell – as she writhed against my chest, screaming, spitting, rasping, raging – like a rabid dog, or a tiger, trying to pinion me beneath her; and just as I managed to get a grip on the sleeve of her raincoat, she grabbed hold of the scrunchie that was holding my hair back, and yanked on it viciously, causing me to howl out in pain. ‘You bitch!’ she screamed. ‘If he dies I will kill you!’

  Then she reared up, pulled her arm back, and punched me in the face.

  I heard a shout then. I couldn’t see anything, because I’d squeezed my eyes shut now, seeing stars, already bracing myself for a second blow. Then another shout: ‘Get her off! For Christ’s sake, get a hold of her!’ And the weight of her, the rancid heat of her, was suddenly no longer there.

  I rolled on to my unhurt side, scrabbled up, and scraped the hair from my eyes, breathing hard, trying not to be sick, trying not to burst into tears. My whole body was now shaking uncontrollably. Someone pulled me to my feet – Siddhant, I realised – he must have run back from where I’d left him, over in X-ray – and as he rootled in a pocket for some tissues (there was blood down my blouse), I saw uniforms. Two police officers, one male, one female, who had Norma clamped now between them; she hung there limply, like a rag doll, like a garment on a washing line. As if her bones had turned to jelly.

  Everyone seemed to start talking at once then. Someone fetch another chair. Can someone please pick up those notes? What just happened? Get a chair. She needs to sit down before she falls down! Mrs Hamilton, are you alright? Well, it was lucky they happened to be in A and E, to be honest. I know. I can’t believe it! Look at her. No, we’ll need to take a statement. Who is she? No, it’s fine, love. I’ll see to it. No, no, it’s fine. Just mind your step there. Mrs Hamilton, are you okay? Shall I get you a glass of water? In the sluice room. Behind the printer. Well, she’s in shock, obviously. Me neither. I have absolutely no idea. Can someone go and grabs some pads, for Mrs Hamilton’s nose, please?

  And while my ears struggled to make sense of all the jabbering, my eyes met Norma’s. Her face was mascara-streaked, lipstick-smeared and blurry, its vertical contours like tributaries flowing down to an estuary. Her hair was a crow’s nest of coal-coloured tufts, and her raincoat hung open, her body beneath it a skinny, trembling mess. The low growl from her throat made the wattle on her neck shiver.

  Her eyes, though. They stared out at me, exactly like Aidan’s. As pale and cold and treacherous as Arctic meltwater.

  ‘How’s it doing?’

  ‘I think it’s stopped. I need to go. My patients . . .’

  Half an hour had passed. The police had gone, taking Norma Kennedy with them. Arrest made. Show over. And Neil Porter had returned, proffering a mug.

  He shook his head. ‘No, you’ll stay right where you are until the bleeding has stopped, and then you’re going to drink this cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m fine. I don’t need one.’

  ‘Overruled. You’re going to sit here and drink a cup of tea and that’s the end of it.’

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a nosebleed. Had forgotten just how long it could take to make one stop. I gently lessened the pressure I’d been maintaining on either side of my septum, but as soon as I removed my fingers I could feel a fresh bubble of blood forming, and, when I swallowed, the coppery metallic tang of it as it slid down my throat. I also had a dull, steady ache pulsating in my cheek. My hip hurt. I pinched my fingers on either side of my nose again. At least I had finally stopped shaking.

  ‘Overdose,’ Neil said, as he sat back down across the desk from me. We were in the same consulting room I’d spoken to Jessica Kennedy in a few days previously. Only this time it was me on the patient side of the desk. Fitting. I tested the flow again, gingerly. ‘As far as I’ve been able to find out, he was brought into hospital first thing this morning, after his mother found him unresponsive at his home. I don’t know what he took, but he’s not in any danger. He’s only staying in because of the query hairline ankle fracture he sustained when he fell. Drink your tea. You’ll be in shock. And you probably need a biscuit. I’ll see if we can find you one.’

  ‘But then I’ll be late getting away, and I can’t be late getting away today. The boys have a session at the climbing centre booked, and I’m supposed to be meeting my childminder there. So—’

  ‘No, you won’t. I’ll mop
up for you.’ He sprang up, went to the open door. ‘Mo! Mo, you out there? Any chance of finding a biscuit to go with that tea? So, anyway,’ he said as he returned to his seat. ‘What was it you said to me about him? Ah, yes. I remember. “Not likely to be problematic.” Hmm. Discuss.’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I told him.

  ‘I should say so. And I already know. It was me who reviewed your op notes, remember? When it came to illegal substance abuse, he really did taste the rainbow.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course you did. Sorry.’ I took a sip of the tea, holding the tissue up a little so I could get the mug to my mouth. It was too hot to drink, and my lip was swollen too. I put it down again. ‘I think his wife must have left him. I imagine that’s what prompted it. And this.’ I put the mug down and gestured with my free hand to my nose. ‘She came to see me last week, to apologise for the complaint they made against me.’

  ‘Don’t you mean she made against you?’

  ‘She was coerced.’

  He nodded towards the open door. ‘By that woman? The man’s mother? I couldn’t believe what I was seeing for a moment there – she looked completely deranged.’

  ‘You’ve not met her yet?’

  ‘No, his wife brought him in for his first follow-up. But why attack you? What’s any of that got to do with you?’

  ‘She thinks I put her up to it, clearly.’

  ‘Did you?’

  I shook my head. Told Neil the gist of my conversation with Jessica Kennedy. ‘Though of course Norma would think I had something to do with it. She thinks I’m the devil incarnate.’ And, I realised, might have found out that Jessica had been to see me.

  ‘Why?’ Neil asked. ‘Isn’t her son the one who’s the black sheep in this equation?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s complicated, at least where Aidan’s mother is concerned. She lost her elder son when he was still very young. Aidan’s half-brother, that is, from her first marriage. I never met him. He died in an accident when he was home on leave from the army. So with Aidan losing his arm too – well, I’m sure you can imagine how that must have affected her. And if his wife’s left him now, and taken his children too, well, what with already losing Dillon—’