Parallel Life (13 page)

In the good old-fashioned way, Magda took a pulse from the wrist. Mathilda's heart was as steady as a rock. There was no blood in the urine bag, no change in skin colour, nothing at all to put into the report. Nevertheless, the altar cloth was ignored for the rest of Magda's shift. Something odd was happening, and she did not know what to think, what to hope for.

‘I never did have much of an imagination,' she told the still form. ‘I'm not given to seeing things that aren't really there. Did you move that hand? Did you? And, if you did, does that mean you will wake? If you wake, how will you cope?'

These questions circled in Sister Mary Magdalene's head like a carousel at a funfair. Mathilda would have no language and insufficient strength to sit, let alone walk. She could be brain-damaged. Whilst technically alive, her mind had never functioned on its own, had never been employed since she was a very small girl. ‘Even when you were a child, you had the fits. You don't want to be going through life with the fits, do you?'

Magda sat and counted Hail Marys on her rosary. Scarcely daring to blink, she stared at the patient and wished . . . Wished for what? Hoped for what? That a beautiful young woman who was really a baby might wake and spend the rest of her time in a wheelchair? That death would provide a blessed release for someone who could well be severely epileptic or worse? ‘God's will be done,' she begged at the end of five decades. ‘Please, Jesus, do the best You can for her.'

Angelus was well under way when Magda reached the chapel. She prayed with her few sisters, continuing to concentrate on the princess in the tower. If anything else happened, the visitor would have to be contacted. Mathilda's real nightmare could begin if and when she woke from her long sleep. Life in a coma was no life at all; yet it was difficult to pray for improvement, as that would bring a minefield of difficulties.

As she dipped her finger into holy water on her way out of chapel, Magda was joined by Mother Benedict, matron of the convent. ‘Are you all right, my dear?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘You seem a little distracted. Is there something on your mind?'

Magda thought for a second. ‘Nothing real,' she replied. ‘Nothing that requires reporting or confessing.'

Mother Benedict grinned. ‘What a shame. I just fancied a bit of juicy gossip. Still, I'm hardly your Father Confessor, am I?'

There really was nothing to be said. Mathilda showed no definite change. The hand hadn't moved, was incapable of moving. So there was nothing sensible to say. But, for the rest of the evening, Mary Magdalene remained on tenterhooks. From now on, every time she was on duty, she would watch Mathilda like a hawk.

He ran out of the house as if the devil himself were pursuing him. The copse was no use – it was all cement mixers and sewage pipes. The van. That would have to do. He fumbled with keys, failed to open the door, tried again, dropped the keys, swore . . . panic, panic.

Inside at last, he threw himself on to the bed in the back. Nothing would take away those terrible pictures. Breathing was difficult – there were no paper bags in here to help stop hyperventilation.
Slow down, slow down. It's happened and you can't change it.
Where is he? Where does he live? No, no, where
did
he live. Others had seen it, too. He hadn't been the only one on Blade tonight. Never again.

Sex and pain. It had all been about those factors and he . . . he didn't belong any more, wasn't a part of all that, could not live any longer on the fringes of society. ‘I can be ordinary,' he said aloud, the words fractured by quick, shallow breaths. ‘I don't need . . . that. I need Harrie's psycho woman.' There was help. Help involved people, invaded space, shared oxygen, a mix of words, feelings released, fears shot down in flames. ‘I either get some help with this, or . . .' Or he might well end up crazy enough to copy what he had seen tonight.

When his breathing slowed, he left the van and walked round the corner towards the nearest housing estate. It had to be done. Perhaps some of the others had already reported the event, but Ben still needed to do it. He found a phone box, breathed deeply for a few seconds, then dialled 999.

He gave the officer the web address of the site, then managed to approach the terrible truth. ‘It was on a webcam,' he said. ‘If you can get on the site, it may still be there. He wore a mask. A few of them have masks. Then he shoved an orange in his mouth and . . .'

‘Go on, sir.'

‘Hanged himself. I don't think he intended to die, but his camera was still filming him a few minutes ago. He wasn't moving.'

‘And you are?'

‘I don't matter. He spoke once, and he had a Midlands accent. He was Caucasian. I think I watched a man die tonight.' Ben slammed the receiver into its holder and ran back the way he had come, banging the door of the van in his wake before bursting into tears.

It had been a game at first, a lot of silly people typing ludicrous messages about sexual highs and how to achieve them. Several used drugs – he had always known about the cocaine that many of the group advocated. Then, suddenly, the discussion had taken on a darker hue. Someone famous had died this way, but he had used the wrong knot. With a bit of sense, a line of coke and a great deal of care with the rope, a man could reach nirvana without the help of a partner of either gender. And they had watched. All those separate people in widely spread geographical areas had witnessed the death of a man.

‘Perhaps he's still alive,' Ben whispered. ‘If the cops and ambulance can find him . . .' But would they? Sites like Blade were well-hidden, bounced all over the world: a server within a server, like an onion waiting to be peeled.

The man had hung the rope over a hook on his bedroom wall. It was a bedroom like many others. Aston Villa poster. Ben should have told the police about that. It had been over in seconds. The writhing might have been mistaken for pleasure, might have started as pleasure, but the stillness that followed was horrible.

Messages had come in:

Do you think he's dead?

What can we do if he is?

Anyone know where he lives?

I told him not to do it.

IT WAS HIS OWN CHOICE.

That final message, ‘shouted' in upper case by Bladerunner, supposed leader of the gang, had sent Ben rushing out of the house. ‘It was his own choice'. Sometimes, people needed saving from their own wrong choices. Sometimes, a man's sister had to take him to the hospital after a close encounter with bleach.

I am intelligent enough to know what's wrong with me
, he thought.
And even if I don't fit squarely into society, I don't have to be completely weird. Maybe I will be some sort of hermit, but not like the Blades. Please, not like them
. Insight into his own condition had to count, had to mean that he could improve.

Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder was not a killer. Many people lived with it, managing to hold down jobs and hide their peculiarities from the rest of mankind. Lining up tins in a cupboard was one thing, but being unable to tolerate the untidiness of others had kept him in the margins. He didn't play football, cricket, rugby or tennis, had flatly refused to participate. He was different.

He was so different that he had sat and watched a man take his own life. That was nothing to do with OCD. Because he had known himself to be distant from and at odds with others, he had allowed himself to be dragged into areas that housed the truly unacceptable. Ben was not unacceptable – he was unaccept
ing.
‘I am going to conquer this,' he told the ceiling of the camper van. ‘And Harrie will have to help me. She will if I ask.'

He wiped his face with a tissue, sat up and stared through the windscreen at the dark house. In there, everything was normal. But somewhere, about a hundred miles away, an Aston Villa supporter of indeterminate age had put on a show for his fellow lunatics. That man would not see tomorrow, would never again hear birdsong or Brahms. It had been a terrible way to learn some sense, but Ben must heed his own reason now. It was time to make many changes. It was time to call himself to account.

Lisa was arranging some silver chains in a corner of her window when she noticed the small, tousle-haired woman with an infant in her arms. It was Annie. Poor little Annie. Annie would probably be cross if she knew she was being described as ‘poor', because she was feisty to the point of utter carelessness. She was straight. She had been loyal to her man until the final straw had broken the spine of her life. There had been many last straws, guessed Lisa. Annie deserved better.

Rushing out of the shop, Lisa called Annie's name. ‘Coffee?' she shouted. ‘In the back. We're not busy.'

Leaving her assistant to guard the shop, Lisa went into the office and set the kettle to boil. Instant would have to suffice. Annie wouldn't care. ‘I shouldn't care, either,' muttered the manageress of Milne's Jewellery.

Daisy was a beautiful child. She sat on the floor with a marker and a pad while the adults talked. She coloured carpet as well as paper, but Lisa found herself past caring. What was a carpet at the end of the day? Floor covering, no more and no less. ‘She's lovely,' Lisa commented.

‘Aye,' agreed the child's mother. ‘She's lovely till she wants her own road, then she does a fair imitation of Idi Amin, or whatever his name was. Our Daisy's what you might call wilful.'

This was motherhood, Lisa decided. The bond between parent and infant was strong and clear enough for all to see. ‘I never knew my children,' she began. ‘My mother-in-law brought them up, because she couldn't run a shop any more. And I . . .' She took a sip of coffee. ‘I'm a very selfish woman.'

Annie nodded. ‘We all have our faults, love. You should see Billy and Craig – they're my twin boys. They have more faults than San Francisco.'

‘Did they have mumps?'

‘Did they buggery. They stuffed cotton wool in their cheeks and started talking like Marlon Brando. They don't like school. They thought mumps would be a good one, but they never knew their necks should swell up too. And they've had all them immunizations. They could start a war at Lourdes, I'm telling you.'

Lisa managed not to choke with laughter. ‘Hard work, then?'

Annie nodded. ‘And when the cash I found in the roof goes, I'm in queer street. I can't divorce him, because I can't serve papers – no idea where he is. So the house won't be sold, and I'll be cap in hand down the social. Have you seen the price of kiddies' shoes?'

Lisa shook her head.

‘Criminal. Speaking of which, yes, I did know he came by his money dishonestly but, with mouths to feed and clothes to buy, I managed not to think about it.' She paused. ‘Birmingham was the worst – a few years back now. Knowing he'd been there and yet hoping he hadn't was hell. The man in the wheelchair haunts me.'

Lisa touched her companion's hand. ‘I'll look after you, I promise.'

The tiny woman raised her chin. ‘No, you won't, missus. I don't mind being a charity case for this damned government – God knows they're throwing enough cash at immigrants – but I couldn't let you keep us.'

‘Did I say I'd keep you?'

‘No, but—'

‘No, but I didn't. Can your mother look after the twins?'

Lisa shrugged. ‘At a push with a steamroller. It'd be all right when they're at school, but she couldn't cope with holidays.'

‘Could she manage Daisy?'

‘Freda could. Freda worships my little madam. They sit on the floor with all the figurines and do fairy stories. She's all right, is my ma-in-law. I don't know how Jimmy managed to go so wrong, because his mother's a lovely woman.'

Lisa fell silent for a few moments. Had Ben been naughty as a child, had Harrie listened to fairy tales? Their mother had not been a lovely woman. Their mother had run around enjoying herself because home was boring. How many women tolerated a non-event of a marriage for the sake of their offspring? Probably thousands.

‘What's going on in that head of yours?' asked Annie.

‘Not a lot.' Lisa grinned. ‘God knows there's plenty of room for not a lot to bounce around. If I get two thoughts at once, we call it a boxing match.' She tapped a temple. ‘Work for me, Annie. Basic wage and a percentage of everything you sell. Hours to suit; a nice, clean job; learn about jewellery from me and Simon.'

Annie swallowed hard. ‘I've no experience except in a chippy.'

‘It's just the same, except for mushy peas, and you don't offer salt and vinegar.'

Annie laughed aloud. ‘Would you like a plastic fork with that necklace, madam?' She stared hard at her husband's ex-mistress. ‘That was lies about space in your brain, wasn't it? I reckon you're a very clever woman, Lisa. There's something about you, something that's held you back—'

‘A husband,' Lisa whispered. Simon knew the score, yet she still didn't want him to hear how she really felt. ‘He's a red-carpet job. America, Japan, Australia – wherever he goes, he is treated like a god.'

‘Why?'

Lisa shrugged lightly. ‘He's going to save the world.'

‘That's nice for him, I'm sure.'

‘Microbiology.'

‘Ooh, what a big word.'

‘He messes about with cultures in little glass dishes. Hospital superbugs. Flesh-eating bacteria; disease in the gut as well. And he earns a fortune testing products for big companies – medicines, household cleaners, stuff like that. Because the bugs are in our homes now, you see. He wanted the government to stop all hospital visiting, and he got really mad when they wouldn't. Can you imagine being in hospital for weeks and no one coming to see you?'

Annie shook her head. ‘You don't like him, do you?'

‘Not much. He's never done me any harm, but he's more selfish than I am.' She went on to talk about his fixation with model railways and his lady friend on Wigan Road. ‘I don't know whether the relationship is close, but he's really happy when he's been there. She feeds him, I think. I've seen custard on his tie more than once.'