Authors: Alex Gray
The Grange was perched on a windy hill overlooking the terraces of Mount Florida and Cathcart. Like many of the old Victorian properties that had survived conversion into service flats after the war, it now served as a medical clinic. A wide strip of lawn curved around the chipped driveway then fell sharply away to a steep bank, ending at the path below in a mass of shrubbery. Tom Coutts noticed the huge buds of the rhododendrons tipped with scarlet. A few more weeks of sunshine and the whole lot would be a blaze of colour. As he approached the massive front door his eye rested on the ancient brass bell that pulled straight out of the stonework. There were still so many original features in this rambling place and Tom had some times wondered why they hadn’t been swept away with all the other alterations to the old house. He heard the jangle of the bell and almost immediately footsteps came hurrying towards the frosted glass door.
Her smoky blue uniform appeared as an Impressionistic blob then the door was flung open and a young nurse
stood there staring at him. Tom frowned at her then his brow cleared in recognition.
‘Kirsty? Kirsty MacLeod?’
‘Dr Coutts. Gosh. It’s a while since I saw you. What brings you here?’ The nurse ushered Tom into the darkened hallway where light from outside filtered through lozenges of stained glass flanking the main door, casting streaks of green and yellow across the pale emulsioned walls.
‘I’m a patient,’ Tom grimaced but saw that his half-smile had brought a look of curiosity to the young woman’s eyes.
‘Depression. Like most of the cases in here.’ Tom shrugged. ‘Just never got over her death, I suppose.’
‘Oh,’ the girl suddenly seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. Are you in for a therapy session, then?’
‘Yes. I’ve been coming for a while now,’ Tom answered, directing his gaze at a spot on the floor. ‘Anyway, I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He looked up then put out a hand, touching her sleeve.
‘Community nursing wasn’t…’ she broke off as if stuck for an answer.
‘Satisfying enough?’ Tom suggested.
‘Something like that. There was a post going here and I grabbed it. Not too many private clinics for nurses specialising in neural diseases, you know. I was lucky to get it.’
‘Nonsense,’ Tom chided. ‘Nan always said you were the best.’ He hesitated as if trying to find the right words. ‘We couldn’t have survived without you, you know.’
Kirsty looked away from him and he tried in vain to see her expression.
‘Funny I’ve not seen you here before.’
‘I’m normally on nights. Just covering for someone today,’ she replied. Kirsty turned back towards Tom but did not meet his eyes. ‘Your appointment,’ she reminded him, stepping towards the corridor that led to the therapy rooms.
Tom followed her, his heart thumping. It was the same every time. He had come to banish his demons but now the very act of entering this place had added to them. What tricks would they have in store for him today, he wondered, giving Kirsty MacLeod a little nod as he turned the door handle of a room marked ‘patients’ lounge’.
Inside there were several people seated in a circle. One metal chair was empty and as Tom entered all eyes turned towards the latecomer. His mind shifted briefly to the comforting familiarity of the lecture theatre where his students would meet his arrival with friendly enthusiasm. Now, as he faced this room full of people who were still strangers, all he could feel was a clutch of fear deep in his stomach.
‘Tom, come on in,’ the psychotherapist beckoned him over to the only remaining chair set in the circle. On either side of the empty seat were the two men he least liked in the group. One was a young man whose shaved head bore strange Celtic tattoos. His faded black t-shirt was torn at the shoulders with another twisted design circling each pale, muscular upper arm. Bron had been in hospital for his depression, a fact that he flaunted to mere day patients like Tom.
On Tom’s other side was Sam, a former shipyard worker who had been redundant for years. In the beginning they had told one another of their occupations and Sam had been openly contemptuous about Tom’s profession.
‘Psychologist, eh?’ he had sneered. ‘How come ye cannae sort yourself out, then?’
Now as Tom sat down, he glared at the University lecturer as if he had no right to be there at all. Even the therapist came in for some verbal abuse but Tom knew this was part of his job. He probably expected it. How about the nurses, though? Were they trained to take that sort of crap, too?
As the therapist began his session Tom tried to concentrate on his words, using them as a mantra to focus on the topic. Anxiety. It was ironic that the very act of coming into this group situation should create anxieties for him, he thought. Being a psychologist didn’t help in the least, in fact it had made him even more self-critical. Nan’s death had been the trigger. But now he must move forward, he’d been told. Be positive. Affirmation was the key.
He would heal. He would be well again. Then there would be no need for him to sit with these patients whose anger reached out at him with invisible tentacles.
Divine unclipped the belt that had pinioned her to the airline seat for considerably more hours than the scheduled flight should have taken. Her fellow passengers were rising now and pulling travel bags from the overhead bins. Divine waited. She was in the unenviable middle of the row of five that DC10 passengers strive to avoid, so she wasn’t going anywhere fast. Besides, she was in no hurry now that they’d landed. The shuttle was leaving Heathrow in just under two hours. Plenty of time to ease herself out of this pigeon coop and find her connection.
The flight attendant smiled at her sympathetically. Not a hair of the young girl’s head was out of place. It prompted Divine to return the smile and comment, ‘How come you girls look so fresh after a night like that?’
In an Irish accent that had charmed her American passengers the girl announced, ‘Oh, I’m bionic, me!’ As if to prove her point she hopped up onto an armrest, revealing a tiny waist and a slim pair of legs as she reached towards another bin. Stretching her own long legs was something
Divine was longing to do. Her sigh turned into a yawn.
At last the trail of passengers disappeared down the aisle and Divine ducked out of the seat and made her way onto British territory for the first time.
The flight to Glasgow was uneventful and a lot more comfortable than the larger aircraft that had ferried Divine across the Atlantic. She recognised several of her fellow travellers from the earlier flight. Some were obviously families and couples returning home to Scotland after their trip to the sun. There was a tall man with greying hair who had spent the entire journey deeply ensconced in paperwork. Divine glanced at his hawk-like profile several times. He was worth looking at and he intrigued her. Divine was a people person, her old mother used to say of her youngest daughter. If she couldn’t work out what a person’s occupation was, then she’d simply make it up. Like Paul Simon, she had always loved ‘playing games with the faces’ of people she travelled with. Who was the guy? Expensive suit, thin tweedy coat folded on the spare seat beside him. (Another good thing about this flight were the empty spaces where folks could spread out.) A scientist, maybe? Looked the scholarly type.
Her gaze swept over the other travellers. There was that boy with the ponytail. He’d come across with them too. American down to the toes of his sneakers. But not such a boy either. His ponytail was thin and the sideburns showed grey curls. He could be any body. Divine knew these things now. Anonymous looking guys might be bums or millionaires. She used her powers of observation these days instead of her imagination. After all, that’s what had brought her so far in her varied career.
Lorimer looked at his watch then scanned the arrivals screen. Where the hell was Lipinski? At last the information on the screen rolled over and proclaimed that flight BA2964 had landed. Lipinski would have gone through customs at London so there wouldn’t be too much longer to wait.
At last the figures of travellers began to emerge and Lorimer’s blue eyes bore down the corridor. A thin fellow carrying a worn leather document case under one arm strode past the policeman without a glance, his long tweed coat flapping around his legs. There were several family groups, one of whom was an Asian couple and their little daughters. The two children were obviously exhausted, clinging to their parents’ sides like colourful small limpets.
The stream of passengers dwindled and Lorimer began to look at his watch again with impatience. A tall figure strode into view, wheeling an enormous carry-on bag behind him. As the figure drew closer, Lorimer could see that it wasn’t a man at all but a black woman, her shiny hair drawn back into a tight knot. There was something commanding about her that made Lorimer stare; that loping stride and the head held high. For a brief moment the woman’s eyes flickered in his direction and he looked away. it was rude to stare, his mum used to scold him. From the corner of his eye Lorimer noticed the woman pausing to change the hand that dragged her baggage. But then he was aware that she had not moved on and was standing right beside him. For a moment Lorimer was confused as he cast a look over a face that was on a level with his own. Then she smiled that smile he’d seen in the photograph and Lorimer recognised her.
Divine thrust out her hand at the rugged-looking man before her. ‘Officer Lipinski. How are you?’
The introductions at Divisional HQ were over and Divine Lipinski from Florida State police Department was ready to go. She’d made an immediate impression on the team, though at six-feet two that wouldn’t be hard, Lorimer thought. A commanding figure she might be, but the woman was yawning now and Lorimer was suddenly glad that Maggie had insisted on him bringing the American home for her first evening in Scotland.
‘OK, you’ll meet them again tomorrow.’ Lorimer was about to turn and escort Divine out to his waiting car when he noticed DC Cameron stiffen and look beyond them. He sensed rather than saw the Superintendent enter the room and there was an almost tangible shift in the atmosphere. Even Divine noticed that, he saw. She straightened up, feet together, and folded her large hands behind her back.
‘Ms Lipinski, Superintendent Mitchison,’ Lorimer heard his own voice make the necessary introductions as the Superintendent came forward, a smile fixed to his thin face. Again Lorimer found himself irritated by Mitchison’s body language; the fingers circling the air, that condescending head to one side. He watched Divine’s face to see if she would succumb to the good-looking senior officer’s overtures. Detached, Lorimer heard the small talk as Divine politely described her flight.
‘I’m sure Chief Inspector Lorimer will take good care of you. We’ll see you in the morning,’ and he swept a gracious hand in their direction. Lorimer glanced at Divine and was gratified to see her narrow her eyes at Mitchison’s back as he left the muster room.
‘OK. Home-time. You’re bound to be pretty tired, right?’
‘Yeah. I could do with a nap.’ She waved briefly at the other officers who were beginning to drift back to their various duties, then followed Lorimer. He took her the quick way down the back stairs to the car park and opened the door of his ageing Lexus. Divine seemed to notice the car for the first time.
‘Hm. Nice wheels. What kind of salary are you guys on?’ she asked.
It was meant as a joke but somehow the question got under his skin. It was as if Divine Lipinski were suggesting that the Lexus was the fruit of some illicit backhanders. Lorimer shrugged and gave her his standard reply, ‘No kids.’ Even in its perennially unwashed state the car raised a few eyebrows.
He’d given his passenger plenty of legroom on the return from the airport and now she sank gratefully into the worn leather seats.
‘A short guided tour on the way home?’
‘Sure.’
Lorimer took the car right into the heart of the city, drove slowly around George Square, pointing out the City Chambers, before heading for the new High Court building.
‘That’s the city mortuary, right there,’ he nodded, then glanced across at his companion. She was fast asleep. For a moment Lorimer took his eyes off the road and contemplated the woman beside him. In sleep her features had relaxed and she looked older and more vulnerable. Suddenly he was glad that Maggie would be at home waiting for them.
Kirsty MacLeod stretched her arms above her head and yawned. God, she was weary. Never again, she chided herself. That extra shift three days ago had totally wiped her out. Never mind, it would soon be the weekend and she had the prospect of two whole days when she could lie in bed if she felt like it.
All the patients had settled down for the night. The ones on suicide watch were usually the last to drop off, despite their sleeping pills. Peter and the others were all in place, sitting near the opened doors of the winding corridor so she wouldn’t have to worry about that part of the clinic. Upstairs the girls and women with eating disorders had long since turned in. Kirsty had checked on each patient, adjusting drips and turning the heaters up. It was a cold night and these poor souls really felt every draught in the old building. She only had to see to Phyllis and that would be that. Then she’d have supper with Brenda and a bit of a blether before writing up the evening’s notes.
It had been hard working here at first after having been
out and about in the community. She’d been accustomed to her housebound patients but that could have become a problem too. Kirsty wasn’t the sentimental type but she had become close to a few terminally ill patients, and their deaths had been hard to take. Nan Coutts, for instance.
The woman’s multiple sclerosis had worsened so rapidly that the pneumonia hadn’t been too much of a surprise. And poor Dr Coutts. Now he was here as a day patient, suffering the aftermath of all that strain. Kirsty gave herself a shake. It didn’t do to dwell on the past. She’d made her choice now and the clinic was a really interesting place to work, full of challenging patients. Her training in neural disorders had made Kirsty an ideal candidate for the post here, she thought with satisfaction. Not only was she experienced with MS patients but she had nursed psychiatric cases in the community too.
The Grange only housed one patient with multiple sclerosis, however, and that was Phyllis Logan. She was in a specially designed room near the back of the house, overlooking the gardens, away from the busyness of the clinic’s everyday appointments and therapy sessions. It was peace and quiet that the woman needed now for the remainder of her days.
Kirsty closed the door to the nurses’ rest room and made her way quietly down the back stairs. Dim light shone from the uplighters cupped against the wall as she descended into the gloom. Odd, she thought. Someone’s put the downstairs light off. Kirsty fiddled with the switch at the bottom of the stair, hearing it click back and forwards. The corridor stretched into blackness and no light was visible from Phyllis’s room. It must be a fuse. She felt her way along the wall slowly, hoping her eyes
would become accustomed to the inky darkness before she reached the patient’s bedroom.
Suddenly there was the noise of feet coming towards her and Kirsty felt herself relax.
‘Thank goodness,’ she began, then her eyes widened as she saw the figure loom up out of the dark.
Her cry was stifled as gloved hands seized her throat, pressing into the jugular vein. Her heels slipped on the polished surface of the floor as she struggled. Then she felt herself falling backwards into a deeper darkness than she’d ever known.
Phyllis stared at the doorway. In the darkness she could make out a shape coming towards her. The figure moved closer and closer until she could see the eyes boring into her own. Then there was a smile that chilled her bones and a slight shake of the head that she couldn’t understand. The figure leant over her and she closed her eyes in terror, feeling the weight of this intruder across her bed. A cold wet drop of some thing fell against her hand as the pressure on the bed was released. When she opened her eyes she could see the figure looking back at her from the door. He put one finger to his lips and tiptoed out again.
Phyllis shuddered under the thick covers, wondering why he’d come in the dead of night to steal one of her flowers.