Louise Welsh - A Lovely Way to Burn

Falling stars and children dead beneath their sheets, the bodies laid together in the basement. For a moment the images in Stevie’s head threatened to overwhelm her. She gripped the armrest of the chair.

‘I want to know why Simon died.’

‘Why Simon died.’ Dr Ahumibe repeated her words as if they were in a foreign language he was in the early stages of learning. ‘There was no reason. It was just one of those things. Sad at the time . . . devastating . . . but now I think, lucky bastard, “to die upon the midnight with no pain”, and miss all of this.’

‘He was murdered.’

‘Is that why you’re here? Because you think someone killed Simon?’ The doctor opened a drawer and took out a clutch of white paper boxes. His hands were shaking but he stacked the boxes patiently on the desk, one on top of the other, concentrating on the task as if it was important to get their edges straight, their corners aligned. ‘Everyone liked Simon. No one would want to murder him.’ He looked up and met her eyes for the first time. ‘You must have loved him a lot, to still care.’

‘Don’t you care?’

‘I told you, I think he was lucky to go when he did. Simon always was lucky.’

‘According to Alexander Buchanan he wasn’t lucky at cards.’

‘Xander told you about that?’ Dr Ahumibe gave a sad, vague smile. ‘It seemed like a big deal at the time, thousands of pounds owing, criminal types creeping into the hospital in search of Dr Sharkey.’ He shook his head. ‘Simon used to say, “What’s life without a little danger?” It made me angry, but now I realise he was the only one of us who really knew how to live.’ He flicked a finger at the tower of boxes, toppling them across the desk. ‘A short life, but a merry one.’

From somewhere inside the hospital came the sound of screaming and running feet. Dr Ahumibe reached into his trouser pocket, took out a set of keys and pushed them to the edge of the desk.

‘Lock the door and turn out the light. People may be looking for drugs.’ He pulled off his white coat, his movements slow and awkward, as if the pockets had been weighted with stones. ‘It’s best no one knows I’m a doctor.’ He shoved the coat under his chair. ‘I can’t help them any more, and there are better ways to go than being beaten to death.’

Stevie turned the key and clicked off the room’s fluorescent light. The dusk was coming in, another day drawing to its close, with no clue of what tomorrow would bring. She wondered fleetingly where she would sleep that night. The sound of pounding footsteps built until they passed the office door and faded down the corridor. She waited until she was sure they were gone and then said, ‘I think Simon died because the revolutionary treatment you were peddling was a con.’

‘We never set out to deceive anyone.’ Dr Ahumibe shook his head. ‘All I ever wanted to be was a good doctor.’

He started to stack the boxes back into their neat piles.

Stevie said, ‘Tell me what happened.’

The doctor’s voice was Mogadon-calm. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. Nothing does.’

Stevie wanted to hurt him. To get a knife, cut through his bristled cheek and hear him scream. She got to her feet and swept a hand across his desk, knocking the boxes of pills to the floor.

‘All of these people, the ones who caught the sweats, they didn’t want to die, but no one could help them, no matter how hard they tried.

‘There were too few of us left to keep the children alive. I gave those who could drink a glass of orange juice, the others I injected, and then I walked from bed to bed and watched them fall asleep.’ He looked up at her, his eyes tunnel-black. ‘It was peaceful.’

‘If Simon had been here he might have helped to keep them alive.’ She wouldn’t think of the children, the bodies in the basement. ‘Simon’s death could have been avoided. Okay, he might have caught the sweats, but at least he would have had a chance, and who knows? He might have been immune like me.’ Stevie could feel all the emotion she had tamped down beginning to rise, treacherous, in her throat. ‘He might have been here now.’

Dr Ahumibe bent and calmly began to pick up the scattered pill packets. His movements were slow, like a pearl fisher diving deep against the tide.

‘When did you speak to Buchanan?’

Stevie sank back into the seat. The silk scarf she had wrapped around her face, in an attempt to mask the stink of the basement, was still strung around her neck. Even so, Stevie supposed the air smelt bad, but she had grown used to it. She slid off the scarf and wiped her eyes with it.

‘I don’t know. A few hours ago.’

‘I phoned him but he didn’t pick up. I thought maybe . . .’ Ahumibe shook his head. ‘Was he still uninfected?’

She blew her nose on the scarf’s hem.

‘He didn’t say.’

The doctor’s eyes met hers. ‘Some people live for up to three days, others go within hours. I should take these soon.’ Ahumibe glanced at the packs of pills. ‘Once the vomiting starts they’re less reliable.’

Stevie watched his trembling fingers, the tower of boxes growing.

‘The package I was to deliver to Mr Reah was a laptop. It contained data that proved your research was flawed.’

‘I know.’ Dr Ahumibe put the final box on the top of the pile. It looked like a miniature version of Simon’s apartment block, white and modernist. ‘Simon told me.’

‘Did you kill him?’

The doctor stared at the tower he had made and then retrieved the topmost box, opened it and slid out a blister pack. He dropped the empty box in the wastepaper basket, as if it was still important to be neat, and laid the slim pack on the desk.

‘Simon died of natural causes.’

‘Buchanan attended the autopsy. He said that he found evidence Simon had been injected with something shortly before his death.’

Dr Ahumibe looked up. Sweat prickled his brow but his eyes looked less drugged, sharper than before.

‘That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

‘Maybe not on its own, but Simon was about to give Mr Reah data that proved the treatment you had collaborated on was worthless. You and Buchanan both had a vested interest in stopping him.’

The chemist had insisted that the treatment was effective, but Dr Ahumibe didn’t bother to contradict her. He said, ‘Simon had as big a stake in the business as we did.’

‘Did he know that it was worthless?’

‘It wasn’t worthless. There was a glitch, a temporary glitch.’

‘A glitch.’ Stevie remembered the photograph of Joy Summers, the big box-office smile framed by the wheelchair headrest. ‘Did Simon know?’

‘Not at first. None of us did.’

‘Whose fault was it?’

‘We were a team. We were all equally responsible.’

Ahumibe glanced away. It was the kind of feint that lost you the sale and Stevie knew that even though Death had both hands on his shoulders, ready to push him into a grave, the doctor was dissembling. She scooped the packets of pills from the table, shoved them into her satchel, took the gun from her pocket and pointed it at him.

The doctor looked at the gun, unmoved. ‘You’d be doing me a favour.’

‘Not if I shot you in the legs and left you to bleed to death.’

She wondered if she would be able to do it and decided that perhaps she could.

‘Go ahead. If there was an easy way out, I’ve already bypassed it.’

‘I could still make it harder for you.’

‘Do you really think so?’ The doctor held her gaze. ‘Put the gun down.’ He brushed the air in front of him with his hand, as if trying to flap something away. ‘Killing people makes you feel bad.’

‘I told you. I’m not threatening to kill you.’ Stevie slipped her finger from the trigger and rested the gun on her lap, her hand still tight around the grip. ‘The person who analysed the data on Simon’s laptop said he thought there had been a genuine mathematical mistake.’