Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

‘Spare me.’

‘Seriously, Sal, you ought to think about getting a system. The amount of stuff you’d have there at your fingertips.’

Oh yeah, and the amount of time it’d take me to access it. ‘I can’t even afford a fax at the moment, Harry.’

‘Tax deductible.’

‘I don’t pay enough blinking tax to deduct it. Besides, it’s money up front which I can’t manage.’

‘Or credit.’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’

‘Shame. Plenty of your lot are in there already, you know.’

‘Yeah, well, lucky I got you, isn’t it?’

‘Why keep a dog and bark yourself?’

I laughed. ‘Something like that. Besides, you’re an expert.

You’ll let me know if it gets too much?’

‘Go on. But promise me…’

‘What?’

‘If there’s a story…’

‘I thought you’d given up on the journalism.’

‘Oh, I still need a nice juicy scandal now and again. One that I write up instead of seeing it mangled by the other hacks.’

‘You’ll be the first to know. But don’t hold your breath.’

So there were plenty of legitimate reasons for Goulden and Simcock to meet at the hospital, a word about business if not a conscientious visit from the GP concerned about his elderly patient.

But I wasn’t thinking about legitimate reasons. I was more interested in the other sort.

By quarter to six I was regretting my offer to take Agnes to the hospital but I didn’t want to let her down at the last minute. Ray still wasn’t in from work so I resorted to going up and asking Sheila if she’d keep an eye on the children till he got back. She was happy to. I braced myself for another tantrum from Maddie but she didn’t turn a hair when I explained what was happening. I was the only one who was uncomfortable with the situation because I felt I was imposing on Sheila.

On our journey to the Infirmary I told Agnes about the business and family links between the three doctors. ‘Mr Simcock is on the board of directors there and Mrs Goulden is the Managing Director so that could be one reason why we saw Dr Goulden at the hospital – he’s got business connections with Simcock.’

Silence. ‘Agnes?’

‘Let me get this right. Mr Simcock is on the board of the company?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Dr Montgomery?’

‘Yes. And what’s more, Mrs Goulden, who works there, is actually the sister of Dr Montgomery too. It’s very incestuous.’

‘I don’t like it,’ she said sharply.

‘It stinks,’ I agreed, ‘and there are too many coincidences flying around. All these people have been involved in Lily’s treatment – is that just because it’s a specialised area? Is it just nepotism, the old boy network, or is there something else going on?’ I was speculating aloud.

Agnes shook her head.

‘You’d think one well-paid job would satisfy,’ she remarked, ‘with all this unemployment.’

‘It might be greedy but it’s not illegal,’ I pointed out. ‘Besides, they’re directors of the business – they employ people to work there.’

‘And money makes money. Always has done. What about them?’ She pointed towards a cluster of youths who were gathered outside a local off-licence. ‘Nothing, no hope. Even in the thirties there was hope, the belief that things could change. Now…all this talk about moral standards and the fabric of society. A return to Victorian values. Huh,’ she snorted, ‘Victorian values were savage, smothered in hypocrisy.’

I was fazed at her outburst and I’d no idea what had set her off. I said nothing. We arrived at the hospital.

The curtains were still drawn round Lily’s bed and no sooner had we sat down at her bedside than a junior doctor arrived. She introduced herself and explained that they were using intravenous antibiotics to try to fight the infection that had raised Lily’s temperature. The saline drip was to prevent dehydration.

‘Has she been awake?’ asked Agnes.

‘She’s been sleeping. That’s no bad thing, rest can help a great deal.’

‘Is she going to be all right?’

The doctor didn’t give her a straight answer, she probably couldn’t. ‘If we can get her over the infection there’s no reason why she shouldn’t make a complete recovery from the haematoma.’ She left.

Agnes slid her hand under Lily’s. The face on the pillow was peaceful enough but her breath was harsh and ragged, painful to listen to.

‘I’ll wait in the lounge for a bit,’ I offered. ‘Don’t want to give her this cold on top of everything else.’

Half an hour later I returned. I was ready to go. The heat on the ward was making me sweat, my head had started pounding and I was beginning to feel unsteady, slightly dizzy.

As I slipped behind Agnes and touched her shoulder, Lily woke. She stared at Agnes, then blinked slowly.

‘Lily. Lily, it’s Agnes. You’ve not been well, you’re in the MRI.’ Lily blinked. I wondered how much she could see without her glasses on.

‘Olive,’ it was a hoarse whisper, ‘my Olive.’

‘Oh, Lily.’ Agnes stroked her hand.

Lily closed her eyes again and soon the noisy, dragging breath returned. Persistent but irregular. Gently Agnes released her friend’s hand.

‘Olive was her daughter,’ she said. ‘She died a week after her third birthday. Milk sickness, TB.’

She stood up. We made our way slowly and in silence past the bright murals down the long corridor to the exit.

‘MAN CHARGED IN ACHEBE SLAYING. HUSBAND RELEASED,’ brayed the evening paper. Front-page news. Complete with one of the shots I’d taken of the man I’d seen at the hotel with Tina Achebe.

I sank into the chair, my coat still on, and scanned the text. He was named as Bill Sherwin, forty-two, a local businessman. There was nothing about why he might have murdered Tina, though much was made of the fact that they were both married. A police spokesman was quoted as saying forensic reports were still being prepared. No further details could be released at present. The paper rehashed details of Tina’s death, included quotes from neighbours and family about their response to both Jimmy’s release and Sherwin’s arrest, and showed a photo of the terraced house complete with police tape across the gate.

The police were also eager to hear from anyone who had been in that area of Levenshulme that day, who might have seen anything, perhaps without realising it, that could help build up a picture of the events that morning. It was clear that Bill Sherwin had not confessed to the killing and that they were still building the case against him.

I felt a wave of relief that Jimmy was innocent, and by implication that the murder of Tina Achebe had not been the result of my revelations. Unless…a fresh grub of guilty worry hatched as I wondered whether Sherwin had killed Tina because of the chain of events I’d set in motion: I told Jimmy, Jimmy confronted Tina, Tina told Sherwin…

Oh stop it, I admonished myself. Jimmy was free. And what horror had he been through these past days? Losing Tina, brutally murdered – that was enough to destroy anyone. But then to be accused of that murder, to be suspected, held, questioned. The rage he must have felt, the agony of it.

I made myself a strong hot toddy – whisky, water, lemon and honey – and watched the television news, waiting for the regional slot that followed. There was a report on Jimmy’s release with a brief film clip of him getting into an unmarked car, and shots of the house in Levenshulme and of Manchester Crown Court.

I retreated to bed. I looked in on the children on the way up. We don’t expect to outlive our children but Tina Achebe had died before her time. And Lily Palmer, she had lost her three-year-old daughter. How had she borne it? Had it been any more bearable back in the days when so many children died in infancy? I didn’t think so, although perhaps the rituals were there then, the means to acknowledge and mark the deaths of young ones. A child had died in Maddie’s class the previous year, a road accident. The whole neighbourhood had reeled with the shock. He had older brothers at the school too. They’d held a special assembly for him, Maddie had been full of it. I hadn’t known the family, I hadn’t felt I had any right to speak with the mother, not even to offer condolences. I’d bought a bunch of flowers instead and left them in the pile of cellophane bundles by the lamppost beside the road where the accident had happened.