Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) (3 page)

She put the
mugs down on the kitchen table with the carton of milk and a bowl
of sugar cubes. ‘Help yourself,’ she said, sitting down. She used
her fingers to drop four sugar lumps into her tea and then slowly
stirred it with a white plastic spoon. ‘The next day, Ben went
around to play. I said he should leave her be for a while but he
didn’t have anyone else to play with so he just kept on nagging.
Well, that evening when Ben came back he was all excited and saying
that Tracey had seen an angel.’

‘An angel?’
said Nightingale.

‘I think she
meant the Virgin Mary but the family isn’t religious and I think
Tracey was just confused. Ben said that the angel had cured
him.’

‘He said
that?’

Mrs Miller
nodded. ‘He said that the angel had told Tracey that the cancer had
gone. We thought it was ridiculous, of course. Maybe they’d been
watching a DVD that had given them ideas or something. We told Ben
not to be so stupid and to go to bed. But from that day on he
started to get better. It was as if the leukaemia had gone into
remission, Dr McKenzie said. Then it was gone. Like he’d never been
sick. Dr McKenzie said he’d never seen anything like it.’

‘You said Dr
McKenzie also treated Tracey?’ said Nightingale.

‘He went around
to their house every day after the surgery closed to change her
dressings,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘But the bleeding didn’t stop. That’s
when a journalist found out about Ben and came around to write an
article. The paper printed the story and then all sorts of
journalists started coming around. TV, radio, the papers. They were
knocking on our door at all hours. After a couple of days Dave came
around and said they were moving. He wasn’t sure how long they’d be
away but he said they had to protect Tracey.’

‘What did he
mean by protect?’

‘I don’t know,’
said Mrs Miller. ‘He just said it was really important that they
took her away. The next day they’d gone. Ben was distraught. But on
the positive side, he’s back in school now and doing really
well.’

They heard the
front door crash open and slam, and then rapid footsteps in the
hallway. Mrs Miller looked up at a clock on the cooker. ‘That’ll be
him now,’ she said.

A schoolboy
hurtled into the kitchen and tossed a backpack on the floor.
‘What’s for tea, mum?’ he asked. Nightingale recognised the boy
from the newspaper article. He was tall for his age and had a crop
of freckles across his nose and cheeks.

‘Fish fingers.
But you need to get your homework done first.’

‘Hi Ben, I’m
Jack,’ said Nightingale. ‘This is Jenny.’

‘Are you
reporters? You look like reporters?’ He looked at his mother.
‘Tracey says we mustn’t talk to the papers, you know that.’

‘We’re not
reporters, Ben,’ said Nightingale. ‘I have a nephew who’s sick like
you.’

‘I’m not sick
any more,’ said the boy. ‘I’m cured. Tracey cured me.’

‘I know, that’s
great news,’ said Nightingale. ‘Tracey helped you get well,
right?’

The boy nodded.
‘The lady made me better. She talks to Tracey.’

‘Did you talk
to the lady?’

The boy shook
his head. ‘Only Tracey can see her. Tracey’s special, you see.’

‘Upstairs with
you now,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘I want all your homework done before
you touch your PlayStation.

‘Yes, mum,’
said Ben. He headed for the door.

‘Ben, before
you go,’ said Nightingale. ‘Did Tracey touch you or do anything to
make you better?’

Ben stopped and
nodded. ‘She put her hands on my head and said a prayer. The Lord’s
prayer. Our father who art in heaven. You know it?’

Nightingale
nodded. ‘Sure. And that was all? After that you were okay?’

‘It was a
miracle, Dr McKenzie said. He says he hopes that Tracey will be
better soon, too.’

‘Is Dr McKenzie
still treating Tracey?’

The boy nodded
enthusiastically. ‘He takes letters to her from me and he brings
letters from her.’

‘Do you know
where she is?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Ben, homework,
now,’ said Mrs Miller firmly. Ben ran out of the kitchen. ‘Dave and
Carla don’t want anyone to know where Tracey is,’ she said. ‘I’m
sorry, but I have to respect their wishes.’

‘Do you have a
phone number for them?’ asked Jenny.

‘I do, but they
were quite clear that I shouldn’t give it to anyone. Anyone at
all.’

‘We
understand,’ said Jenny. She took a pen and a notepad out of her
handbag and scribbled a phone number on it. ‘Could you mention it
to Dave and Carla, tell them that we’d like their help, and get
them to give us a call.’

Mrs Miller took
the piece of paper. ‘I will, but I’m pretty sure they won’t contact
you. I probably gave them two dozen numbers just like yours after
they left and I know they didn’t follow any of them up.’

‘You’d think
they’d want to help others the way that they helped Ben,’ said
Nightingale.’

‘They were
really worried about something,’ said Mrs Miller.

‘What exactly?’
asked Nightingale.

‘They didn’t
say. But I think they were worried about somebody wanting to hurt
Tracey.’

‘Who, do you
know?’

Mrs Miller
shook her head. ‘It was just a feeling.’ She looked at the clock
again. ‘I’m sorry but my husband’s going to back soon so I need to
get his dinner ready.

Nightingale
finished his tea and stood up. ‘Thanks for your time, anyway.’

‘And we’re
really pleased for Ben,’ said Jenny, standing up. ‘It’s great to
see him looking so well.’

Mrs Miller
nodded. “I hope your nephew gets better,’ she said. ‘I really
do.’

* * *

‘I hate lying
to people,’ said Jenny as they walked back to the car. She was
relieved to see that her wheels and windows were still intact. ‘Now
she’s fretting over an imaginary nephew with leukaemia.’

‘She’ll have
forgotten it already,’ said Nightingale. ‘And let’s be honest here.
We told her that we have a nephew dying of leukaemia and she just
shrugged and said she couldn’t help.’

Jenny
pressed the fob to open the Audi’s doors. ‘That’s not fair, Jack.
She said she’d pass on the message but she didn’t think the
Spradberys would help. It’s not her fault.’

‘I’m just
saying, there’s nothing wrong with bending the truth a bit to get
the information we need.’

‘That was a
barefaced lie, not bending the truth,’ said Jenny. She climbed into
the car and Nightingale got into the passenger seat. ‘Now what?’
she said.

‘We need to
find out where Dr McKenzie works,’ he said. ‘Can you do a bit of
Googling on your iPhone?’

Jenny took out
her phone. It took her less than two minutes to find the address of
Dr McKenzie’s surgery. It was a short drive away, and a few minutes
later Jenny was parking across the road from the surgery, a
detached bungalow that had once been a family home . The garden had
been paved over to make a car park and there was a large sign
saying ‘DOCTORS ONLY, ALL OTHER CARS WILL BE CLAMPED.’

‘I’ll do this
one,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s good
because I think I’ve passed my quota of untruths today,’ said
Jenny.

Nightingale
climbed out of the car and lit a cigarette. Jenny wound down the
window and looked up at him. ‘Seriously? You’re going to go in
there smoking?’

‘No, I need a
cigarette. I’ll smoke it then go in.’

‘You should try
patches,’ she said.

‘I can’t get
them to light,’ he said. He took a drag on the cigarette and walked
across the road to the surgery. Through a window Nightingale could
see half a dozen people, mainly pensioners, sitting on wooden
chairs and beyond them a reception area. He took a final pull on
his cigarette and then flicked it towards a drain before pushing
open the door. He walked across a tiled floor to the reception. Two
middle-aged women were sitting at desks staring at computer
terminals while another woman was on the phone, explaining why it
wasn’t possible for the caller to have an appointment the following
day, or the day after.

Nightingale
stood and waited. The two women stared at the computer screens and
he got the impression they were deliberately avoiding eye contact.
To his right was a corridor that presumably led to the consulting
rooms. There was a digital sign above the corridor that gave the
name of the last patient and the number of the room they were to go
to. Nightingale figured it saved the reception staff from having to
talk to the patients.

‘Because all
our appointments are full,’ explained the woman on the phone. ‘The
day after tomorrow is the best I can do.’ There was a brief pause
then the woman spoke again. ‘Well I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she
said. ‘You can always try A&E.’

To the left of
the reception area there were framed photographs on the wall of the
four doctors who worked for the practice. Dr Ron McKenzie was on
the far right. He was in his fifties with grey hair, round
spectacles and a kindly smile. According to the brief notes under
the photograph he had been with the practice for ten years and
specialised in young patients.

‘By all means
write to your MP,’ said the woman on the phone. ‘That’s your right,
of course it is.’ She banged down phone. ‘Just as it’s my right to
hang up on you. Silly woman.’ She looked at Nightingale over the
top of her spectacles. ‘How can I help you?’ she asked, in a tone
that suggested she had zero interest in helping him in any way.

At the rear of
the reception area a piece of chipboard had been nailed over a
window. Nightingale flashed her his most boyish smile. ‘What
happened there?’ he asked, pointing at the broken and patched
window.

‘We had a break
in,’ said the woman.

‘Did they steal
anything?’

‘There’s
nothing to steal,’ she said. ‘Except the computers maybe. The
police reckon it was drug addicts. Stupid because we don’t keep any
drugs on the premises. So how can I help you? There’s no chance of
a walk-in appointment today, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m moving
into the area and just want to check how easy it would be to have
this as my local surgery.’

‘Where are you
living at the moment?’

‘Near Kilburn,
North London. I’ve got two children and I’m told that Dr McKenzie
is good with kids.’

‘He is, yes. He
set up this surgery, actually.’

‘So no plans
for him to leave?’

‘Dr McKenzie?
Oh no, they’ll have to carry him out of here.’

‘Is he in
today?’

‘Yes, but he’s
far too busy to see anyone other than his appointments. Now, do you
have your NHS number?’

‘Not with me,
no. I just wanted to know what I needed to move.’

‘Your NHS
number, some form of identification such as a driving licence or
passport, and the name and address of your current doctor.
Providing everything’s in order it won’t take long.’

‘Brilliant,
thanks,’ said Nightingale. “I’ll bring my details in once I’ve
relocated.’ He took a last look at the photograph of Dr McKenzie
and then headed outside.

Jenny had the
engine running to keep the car interior warm and Nightingale rubbed
his hands. ‘He’s in his fifties, grey haired, glasses.’

‘Not my type
then,’ said Jenny.

‘I was telling
you so that you can keep an eye out for him. There’s only four
doctors there, two of them are women and the other guy’s a Sikh
with a full turban. Dr McKenzie is in there now.’

‘So what’s your
plan?’

Nightingale
looked at his watch. ‘Ben said that Dr McKenzie is still in contact
with Tracey. I’m assuming that means the good doctor is still
treating her. Open wounds like you have with stigmata probably need
cleaning every day so assuming she’s not going to the surgery, he
must go around to see her. Best time to do that would be after he’s
finished at the surgery.’

‘Terrific. And
what time does the surgery close?’

Nightingale
sighed. ‘Ah. Forgot to ask.’

Jenny shook her
head sadly and took out her iPhone. She went to the surgery’s
website. The opening hours were on the main page. ‘Eight o’clock
tonight.’

‘In two hours,’
he said. ‘Perfect. Fancy a curry? There was a curry house down the
road. On me.’

* * *

Nightingale and
Jenny were outside the surgery again at ten to eight, having
polished off a lamb korma, a chicken vindaloo and a chicken
biryani. Jenny was always loathe to let Nightingale behind the
wheel of her beloved Audi so he had a couple of bottles of
Kingfisher lager while she stuck to water.

‘I’m going to
tell you this just once, Jack,’ she said. ‘But if you break wind
even once I’m kicking you out and you can get the bus home.’

‘My bowels are
sealed,’ he said. ‘But just to be on the safe side, how about I
crack the window.’ He opened the window a few inches and settled
back in his seat. ‘They had a break in, not long ago.’

‘Who did?’

Nightingale
nodded at the surgery. ‘They did. There’s a broken window at the
back. And Connolly seemed to know an awful lot about Tracey’s
medical records.’

‘You think he’s
behind the break-in?’

Nightingale
shrugged. ‘It could be a coincidence, I guess.’

‘I can’t see a
priest breaking in anywhere, can you? Not in that cassock he was
wearing.’

Nightingale
laughed. ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. But it’s strange that he knew
about her medical records but didn’t seem to know that she’d
moved.’ He grimaced. ‘Maybe I’m overthinking it.’

The last
patient emerged from the surgery at eight and one of the
receptionists turned the SURGERY OPEN sign around to read SURGERY
CLOSED. The Sikh was first to leave, followed by one of the women
doctors, then two of the receptionists, and finally Dr McKenzie
appeared, wearing a beige raincoat and carrying a black medical
bag. He walked around to the car park and got into a black BMW.