Cath Staincliffe - Desperate Measures

‘Have you had any suicidal thoughts in the past twenty-four hours?’ the woman said.

Too harsh, that word, it made Norma recoil. All she wanted to do was sleep, sleep and not wake. Already her skin was itchy and her stomach cramping. She felt wild and anxious. One of the nurses said she’d be able to have some medication for the symptoms only after she’d been evaluated. Without Don, without the medicine, what was there to live for?

‘Sometimes,’ Norma said.

The social worker made a tick on the form. ‘Have you made any attempt to act on these thoughts?’

‘My husband has just died,’ Norma said, suddenly sick of it all, cross with the way they were treating her.

‘I know. I am sorry,’ the social worker said, ‘this must be very, very difficult for you. But we need to go through this so we can get you in the system, access services to help you.’

Norma didn’t want to be in the system, she didn’t want to be here at all. Lonely, widowed, sixty-two years old. Yes, people built new lives, like the police inspector had said, they joined clubs or volunteered, they lunched and golfed and started charities. Other people. Not her. She’d never been a joiner, never had any interest.

She wanted to go back, to the woods in France and the time when Pierre played the harmonica, and kissed her neck. When life lay ahead like a promise, or before the baby when she and Don were giddy with love and punch drunk from studying and working. He would test her at the breakfast table, regions of the brain or indications of pulmonary heart disease.

She wanted to go back, not forward.

The woman repeated the question. ‘No,’ Norma said, ‘no attempts.’

And there was no chance in here. The medicines came round in the trolley, two nurses carefully unlocked it and measured and ticked off what was dispensed.

The social worker carried on. Norma answered the questions, she had to because the hunger was growing and she was more and more desperate, her throat dry and tight, her vision pitching and blurring. She must do as they said to get the methadone or whatever they would put her on. For now that was all that mattered.

When Howard came into the living room, Adele had all the papers from the inquest and all the cuttings from the papers strewn around on the couch and the coffee table.

The laptop was on her knee and she was copying something onto a pad of paper.

‘What’re you doing?’ Howard said.

‘Research,’ Adele said. She tapped her pen on the pad. ‘All the groups who are campaigning for a change to the drugs law.’

‘Seriously?’

She turned to him. ‘You think I should just give up now, because Halliwell’s dead?’

‘You’re exhausted,’ he said, ‘and all this…’ He waved his hand across the papers.

‘This keeps me going,’ she said, ‘I’m doing it for Marcie, for all the others who end up shooting up in some rat hole because they’re treated as criminals not patients. Because the politicians decide that they’ll win votes if they keep banging on about a war on drugs. Never mind that it doesn’t work.’

‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Howard said.

‘There’s people talking about a return to the English system,’ she said, ‘when addicts were registered and managed by the doctor, they weren’t forced onto other drugs or weaned off stuff too quickly. They lived with the addiction, safely. It worked. They weren’t out robbing and mugging people to buy drugs. In Portugal they’ve legalised drugs, all drugs, ten years it’s been like that and addiction rates have fallen.’ Adele realised her voice had risen and Howard was looking at her with a half-smile on his lips.

‘You go girl,’ he said.

‘You watch me,’ she said.

The wind was cold, coming from the east. It made his eyes water. The priest finished the final prayer and sprinkled more holy water down onto the coffin. There had been a fantastic turnout at the mass and maybe half had come on for the burial. The programme made it clear that there’d be no gathering afterwards. It had all happened so quickly that people probably imagined Roy hadn’t been able to hire a venue, though the church hall might have been available at short notice. Anyway there would be no tea and finger buffet, no sherry and swapping of shared memories and words of comfort.

He took the box of earth and picked up a handful, let it fall into the grave, and passed the box on. When everyone had taken their turn, the priest blessed them and sent them on their way.

People came to him, taking leave, hands grasping his, or touching his arm. Finally the priest left and Roy stood alone.

He saw the cars arrive, sensed they were here for him, surprised, if he were honest, that they had put it all together so quickly. He hadn’t wanted witnesses. If they’d only taken half an hour longer. No one should have to witness this.

When Simon died, when the police came with that dreadful news Roy had felt anger and grief, but more than that he felt awash with guilt. Because he’d not fought harder for his son, because when he challenged Don Halliwell about the treatment, about the known dangers of that medication and Halliwell had dismissed him, Roy had not done more.

Peggy hated the strife between them. ‘He’s a doctor, Roy, we have to trust him.’ Even when Roy had shown her the evidence, the headlines, the cries for reclassification, the stories of teenagers made even more sick by this very same medicine, Peggy had said, ‘Well, he knows now, and if he thinks it’s not working, surely he’ll change it.’

But he wouldn’t, Roy realized when it was too late. He wouldn’t because the man was stubborn and arrogant and he would rather sacrifice a child’s life than admit he was fallible.

It had just happened again with Adele Young’s daughter. The man had learned nothing. What good were complaints procedures and inquests in the light of such a wilful disregard for other opinions?

Halliwell would not listen, he would not learn. He set himself up as being above all that. Better than his patients. Always right. And he never said sorry, not once in all the horror of Simon’s death had Halliwell ever taken them aside or stopped for a moment to say, I am sorry, you tried to tell me.

He accepted not one shred of responsibility but acted as though Simon’s desperation, his paranoia, his desire to die, to escape it all, was some force of nature. Random and inexplicable. Not directly linked to the drug he prescribed. Never mind the fact that Roy had run himself ragged before it happened trying to get Halliwell just to look at the studies, begging him to consider the concerns, warning him that lives had been lost.

Halliwell had fobbed Roy off and sent him home where a look at Peggy’s face confirmed his fears. Simon was worse.

Now at the cemetery, a gust of wind blew and Roy felt it cold against the back of his neck, on his ears, nipping at his shins.

That last time, after Halliwell had almost lost his temper, snapping, ‘For God’s sake, Roy, we’ve been over this. I’m Simon’s doctor. There is frequently a period of adjustment and if things have not levelled out in another week I will be happy to review the prescription then. Now, please, I have work to do.’ Roy saw that Halliwell was immovable. Roy could not bear the prospect of another week with Simon living in terror, seeing demons and hearing voices, rocking and sobbing. Simon, so scared that he bought a gun. It was a situation, a world, that Roy could barely comprehend. His boy with a gun in his bedroom. What would he shoot with it? The monsters that his illness had conjured up?

Roy found it by accident when Simon was in the bathroom. Peggy had been persuading him to have a shower or at least a wash. Simon said he couldn’t. He asked Roy to cover the mirror up. Roy was exasperated. What should he do? If he went along with this latest delusion, would he be reinforcing it? Should he refuse, insist that there was nothing sinister in the mirror, or behind the shower curtain? In the end he ran some hot water, so the steam covered the glass.