Others (17 page)

A tall trim man, over six feet in height, entered and raised a hand to bid me keep my seat. I was half-way up anyway, so I continued, proffering a hand towards him.

‘Mr Dismas.’

His grip was firm rather than strong.

‘Dr Wisbeech?’

I supposed I’d expected him to be wearing a white coat, stethoscope draped around his neck (or, as in the new fashion for young doctors, around his shoulders), but no, he wore a dark grey suit, finely-cut, mohair weaved into the material so that it seemed to have a subtle sheen to it.

He nodded to me. Won’t you please be seated?’

His manner was extremely cordial, his light blue eyes keen with interest. He glanced at the bruising on my face, but made no comment; those eyes were taking in
all
of me.

The doctor was a handsome man and I judged him to be in his low sixties, possibly a bit younger. His well-groomed hair was dark grey, lighter-grey-to-white at the temples and over his ears, and he sported a neat beard, shot with white, not quite a goatee, but stylish all the same. He had a strong, almost patrician face, with a sharp, high-bridged nose that went well with his defined cheekbones. His pale blue tie and cream breast-pocket handkerchief were silk and the cuffs of his white shirt fell precisely three-quarters of an inch below the sleeves of his jacket. Even his black shoes had the right kind of dull shine and I was willing to bet his socks were black or matched the grey of his suit. I was trying to think of the movie star he resembled and it had come by the time he took the seat opposite. It was one of the old crowd, long since dead, but a major player in his time.

Michael Rennie. Remember him? Harry Lime in the black and white TV series, an alien in the film
The Day the Earth Stood Still.
Tall, gaunt, cold - and the perfect gentleman.

‘I understand you are a private detective,’ he said. (Incidentally, I’d have won my bet - his socks were charcoal grey.)

‘Private investigator, actually,’ I replied.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know there was a difference.’

He smiled as he spoke and I saw his teeth were something of a disappointment; not that they were unsightly, but they were yellowish, stained here and there by too much tea or coffee, a blemish on an otherwise impeccable presentation. It gave me some satisfaction.

Well, an investigator is less glamorous,’ I explained, immediately aware of the irony in my statement. ‘Our work is usually pretty mundane,’ I added.

‘I see. And you are interested in one of our guests.’

Not ‘patient’, nor ‘resident’, but ‘guest’.

‘Hildegarde Vogel,’ I said unnecessarily.

Yes, so I believe. Can you tell me why?’

As we spoke, his eyes were constantly studying me as if interested in my misformed physique.

‘She acted as midwife for a client of mine some eighteen years ago. My client claims the baby was taken away from her only seconds after the birth and she never saw it again.’

Then presumably the baby died.’

‘She says it didn’t.’

Was it a difficult birth, do you know?’

‘She didn’t say it was,’ I lied.

‘I merely wondered if she had been overwrought at the time. Sometimes the labour is a terrible ordeal for the woman, especially if it’s a long-drawn-out experience. The mother might imagine all sorts of dreadful things, none of which have any basis in reality. Does she say the baby was healthy?’

‘No. They told her that there was something wrong with the boy, that he died within minutes.’

Then I really don’t understand…’

‘Neither birth nor death was registered.’

You checked this for yourself. You went through the normal agencies?’

I nodded.

‘And you contacted the hospital in question? I assume the infant was born in hospital and not at home.’

I nodded again. ‘Unfortunately the hospital - it was the Dartford General - burned down some years ago.’

‘And all records were destroyed?’

‘Apparently so. That doesn’t explain why the birth and death wasn’t registered elsewhere, though.’

‘Such things happen in any bureaucracy, especially one the size of the NHS. Incompetence, neglect, sheer laziness -it’s rather common in the public services. I think we all know that the National Health Service is undermanned and underfunded, at least where medical matters are concerned. Mistakes and omissions happen all the time. And eighteen years ago, before computers were truly regarded as tools of the trade, the system was in an even worse state.’ He still watched me keenly, now looking straight into my eye - or, I should say, the puckered hole where an eye had once been. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t relate this to your client,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you needed the work?’

I ignored the implied sneer (his face was passive, not even the hint of a smile beneath that finely clipped moustache). I suppose I could have explained about the whispering voices, the mirror images, the illusion of thousands of wings, but I had sense enough to realize how utterly crazy it would all sound.

‘I did try,’ I said, ‘but my client was adamant that the child was born and is still alive.’

‘Your client’s name?’ It was a brisk question, demanding an answer.

‘I’m not at liberty to say. Client confidentiality, and all that.’

‘Very well. Yet you expect me to let you bother one of my clients.’

‘Hildegarde Vogel might be of some help.’

His manner hadn’t changed since he’d entered the room: interested, detached, brusque, polite - yes, these were differences in tone, but his expression and attitude hardly varied.

‘You witnessed Hildegarde’s condition yesterday. Indeed, I’ve been told it deteriorated even further while you were with her. She is unwell, Mr Dismas, and very confused.’

‘She was okay when I first spoke to her. Quite rational, in fact. It was only later, when she began to remember certain things, that she became upset’

It was
then
that I noticed a change in him, a stiffening of body, an even greater sharpness in those cold, blue eyes. It was barely perceptible, but alterations in moods is another thing I’m good at recognizing - or
sensing.

He scarcely missed a beat. ‘And what was it that the poor woman remembered?’

‘Deformed babies,’ I replied.

It hung in the air between us, a statement so stark that we were both quiet for a moment or two.

Then the doctor said: ‘I’m not sure what you want’

‘My client’s intuition - a
mother’s
intuition - tells her that her son is still alive. My guess is that the baby was so sick and malformed that they did not want to show him to her, and that he died soon after the birth. But my client will not accept that. Now if I were to bring her here to talk to Hildegarde herself, she might be convinced. Maybe the meeting might nudge something in the ex-midwife’s memory, she might even recall my client - I understand that at the time Hildegarde was a great comfort to her. My client might listen to her and finally accept that her son is not alive.’

I was leaning towards him now, my one eye as intense as both of his, I’m sure, my humped back no doubt even more unsightly because of my crouched position, my gnarled hands clenched between my knees. He appraised me carefully, as glacial as ever, undisturbed by my proximity.

‘What was your diagnosis in your infancy, Mr Dismas?’

What?’ I was taken aback. Indeed, reflexively, I even sat back a little.

‘Cerebral palsy, spina bifida, osteogenis imperfecta - no, no sign of blue sclerotics in your eye. Marjous Syndrome, then? No, I doubt that’s the cause of your deformities. Perhaps you had rheumatoid arthritis as a child? Poliomyelitis? Spondylitis? No, you seem active enough. So which was it, Mr Dismas? What did they tell your parents was wrong with you?’

‘I’ve no idea and it isn’t relevant’

‘Sometimes babies are born so badly deformed that not even their parents wish to keep them.’

‘I didn’t know my parents,’ I told him, beginning to burn inside.

‘Ah. Then not even your mother wanted you.’

‘I don’t see what -‘

‘Of course not. I don’t expect you to. But I want you to understand. You see, even in this day and age, when treatment is so extensive and accessible, when the foetus can be studied in the womb and abortion is virtually on demand, malformed babies that are so grotesque that their mothers do not even wish to hold them are still being born. These poor unfortunates are taken away and left to die naturally. If there is pain involved, an injection might help them on their way. It’s harsh, yes, I know, but the grief is soon over and the parents recover, perhaps to go on and have other normal, healthy children. Who knows what terrible tribulations they would have to endure if their disabled child had been allowed to live?’

‘Everyone’s entitled to a life,’ I commented flatly.

‘An anti-abortionist?’

‘Just for
life. Hardship and nuisance-value is no excuse for preventing life. It may be difficult, it might mean a lifetime of misery for the child, but he or she deserves the chance to live and experience things in their own way. It doesn’t always have to be a bad existence. Consider your own care-supervisor.’

‘Constance?’

‘She’s obviously devoted a large part of her life to caring for the sick and elderly. She’s helped others just by her presence.’

The smile was in his eyes, but not on his lips. Was I so transparent? Could he sense my emotions towards her?

‘And of course, your own time here on Earth has proved helpful to others,’ he said, and I wasn’t sure if the smile in his eyes was not mockery.

‘Maybe it has. The point is, I was given the chance and so was Constance Bell. Think of all those others who weren’t.’

Well, there lies a huge moral dilemma: to give life and with it, great hardship, or to take it away as an ultimate kindness.’

I understood his meaning. There were many times in my own life when I wished I hadn’t been born, and yes, I’d cursed the person who had allowed me to live after the moment of birth. Perhaps the one who had dumped me outside the convent in the dead of winter - I had always assumed that it had been my mother who had left me there - had taken the easy option, unable to smother me to death themself, so leaving me there in the cold to let fate play its own hand.

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ I said, ‘it’s every mother’s own decision. I only wish some would give it more consideration. But I don’t understand your interest in me. I’m here to discuss Hildegarde Vogel.’

‘Life, in any form, has always been of concern to me. It’s why I joined the medical profession in the first place.’

There was something about his eyes that was almost mesmeric. They made me feel uncomfortable yet, perversely, they seemed to draw me in. Purposely, I looked away.

Directly to the point, I asked: ‘Will I be allowed to see Hildegarde again?’

He thought for a moment, then appeared to soften his stance (I say ‘appeared’ because I had no idea of what was going through his mind). ‘Let’s see how she is tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. I’m afraid the excitement yesterday affected her adversely: she really is quite unwell this morning.’

‘You’ll let me talk to her, though?’ I was unable to conceal my surprise.

‘If or when she’s well enough. Why don’t I get Constance to phone you tomorrow with a final decision?’

That’s fine by me.’ It was more than I’d expected.

‘Of course, if Hildegarde becomes upset again you must promise me you’ll desist immediately. You will leave and not bother my patient again.’

‘It’s a deal. Believe me, I don’t want to make her any worse than she is.’

He rose from the couch, a hand extended towards me, and I, too, got to my feet, gratefully taking that hand. As we shook he continued to observe me, his interest unconcealed. Dr Wisbeech towered over me and I could feel his power -not the kind that has to do with physical strength but the kind that has to do with the mind, the persona, stemming from an individual’s very psyche, a faculty that enables them to intimidate/dominate others, sometimes without the other person even being aware. It was hard to ignore, but then I’d been fighting that sort of thing all my life - my stature (or status, if you like) made it a regular conflict. I grinned as I released my hand from his, and I think we both knew right then that an engagement (in the sense of battle) had been postponed. It occurred to me to wonder why I was thinking in these terms as I made my way towards the door, my grin fading to an inner wry smile. I had always been quite perceptive as far as the feelings of others were concerned, particularly if their feelings were directed towards myself, but the
animus
in this man, despite its suppression and his pleasant if condescending manner, could be felt as plainly as if he’d spat in my empty eye.

‘Mr Dismas?’

I lingered in the doorway.

Who are your friends? Are they others like yourself?’ There was no apology in his question, no awkwardness.

What do you mean by “others”?’ I said stiffly.

Again, no awkwardness, no embarrassment. ‘Others with similar disabilities,’ he replied. ‘Or have you managed to become accepted by normal people? Indeed, do you accept
yourself as
normal?’

My hand gripped the door frame. I wanted to throw myself at him, beat that handsome, patrician’s face to a pulp.

‘I hope I haven’t offended you,’ he said, but not as an afterthought: he knew exactly what he was doing.

What was his game? I asked myself. Was he deliberately riding me, playing for some kind of reaction? Or… was it possible?… was he genuinely interested in how I got by? No, nobody could be that insensitive. Or that wicked?

‘I’ll wait to hear how Miss Vogel is,’ was all I said as I turned away and stomped off down the hall. If he uttered some response to that, I didn’t catch it.

Bastard,
I thought as I stomped,
absolute-bloody-bastard.
I could feel his eyes on me and I knew if I looked back he’d be there in the doorway, watching my departure with that peculiarly cool interest.
Bastard.

Outside, I forced myself to take in some deep breaths, expelling the stale degenerative air of the home from my lungs and sucking in the purer stuff. The day had suddenly become overcast again, clouds with bulging, charcoal-grey bottoms milling low in the sky, each piled, cumulonimbus heap trying to gain elbow room, pushing against its neighbour and creating deep-growling rumbles, occasional flares of pure energy. The rain soon began, great heavy dollops of it, bursting, splatting, against the driveway, drumming an escalating beat on the roof and bonnet of my car. Turning up my coat collar, I made a clumsy dash for the Ford, my head and the hump of my back soaked before I could drag open the driver’s door and bundle myself inside.