The Poison Morality (2 page)

She jerked awake over and over as the handsome man’s face showed up in her subconscious.  His expression was accusing and then soft and curious.  In her dream, all she could see was him looking up at her, his mouth moving but she couldn’t remember the sound of his voice, so there was none.  How many dreams would he haunt her in?  Until she felt safe again perhaps.

Dawn was fast approaching as Oliver finally made his way home.  The pink hue teased the skyline but it stung his eyes.  Eventually he made it to his flat, hung his coat on the hook, and left his shoes by the door; he would put them away later, he moved away but went back to put the shoes where they belonged. 

Sunlight started to filter in, giving the illusion of warmth, the howling wind a reminder that it was truly cold outside.  Sitting in the sleek chair and propping his feet on the ottoman, he pushed the chair back to recline and stared at the print of Renoir’s Nymph by a Stream over the bookcase.  A gift from Mona she had picked up at the National Gallery.  Never had she asked his opinion about it but he had never really cared for it but also never bothered to remove it, not wanting to hurt her feelings or give an excuse for its absence.  The dark eyes of the nymph reminded him of the femme fatale tonight however, and he appreciated it a little bit more because of it.  Guilty but fearful, therein lies the enigma of what he witnessed in her.

The fire should be lit or the radiator turned on.  He should change and go to bed but he wanted to think about her if just for a few seconds or minutes, yet sleep came swiftly.  Images of her dark eyes and frightened look woke him over and over.  The face of the man was already forgotten but hers stayed in his mind forever.  His subconscious played it over and over again as if his mind was trying to investigate for answers and just taking him along for the ride.

Sophie sat in front of the window, her chin propped up in her hand, staring out over London’s
Southbank. The crackle of the fireplace was cosy despite the fall of snow outside.  Something about the snow made everything hushed and quiet, peaceful, even if her mind wasn’t.  It’s Christmas Eve and Sophie was restlessly watching people gliding through the streets with their last minute shopping.  Those gifts would make someone happy.  She couldn’t remember the last gift she received that she didn’t give to herself.

It had been years since Christmas provided any kind of good memories or any memories at all really.  Sophie wasn’t bitter though.  She had her turkey entrée and Christmas movies shown on the telly all month so she had already reached her limit of holiday frivolity anyway, still sometimes she felt as if she was missing out on something everyone else understood, a secret no one let her in on.

A few weeks, at least, had passed since the incident at the train station.  Cabin fever was settling in, she hadn’t been out other than a few trips to the market on the corner, but she returned to the window at any siren or strange noise, waiting for the police to arrive, but they never did.  Painting supplies were dwindling after she relentlessly painted canvas after canvas to keep busy between spells of staring out the window.  The library books were read and past due.

Occasionally, the handsome man popped into her mind, overshadowed by John Brinkman’s red face and panting, no better to think about the other man now, the poison had done its trick, money already deposited. 

She wondered if the man who had given aid suspected and couldn’t or wouldn’t tell.  If she had any idea where he was she could watch him, see what he was doing for her own peace of mind but she didn’t.   There was a hospital close to where he found her, it would be logical that he worked there but something held her back, fear she supposed.   The ordeal best left alone as long as no one came looking for her.

Her mind, however, put him in different contexts that she never actually saw him in.  She dreamt of him at a hospital, maybe because he performed CPR, she reasoned but a restaurant also, maybe because he has to eat being human and all.  The subconscious blends things together like a giant melting pot of information and memories.  The temptation to go back to that station was almost overwhelming.

She had to admit, she was fascinated by him.  Did she find him attractive?  She wasn’t sure what that felt like anyway.  In fact, now that she thought about it, she hadn’t felt that way about a man ever.  Not since school and her first crush on, she didn’t even remember his name now, but he was a boy not a man and he had eyes for her best friend and Sophie’s life, well, took a turn anyway.

It was time to get back to work.  The envelope had sat unopened for a week and the moment she decided to open it, the snow now came down wet and heavy.  It accumulated quickly, therefore she left it unopened and the man would be able to spend time with his family for Christmas, lucky him, she thought.

Her breath fogged the windows, blocking her own view of the outside; the snow softened the hard edges of the city.  Steam drifted silently into the cold night, filling the skyline.  Sophie sighed and opened the envelope, taking out only the photo, leaving the other contents until she was ready.  This was the beginning of the ritual.  The first envelope she ever received was shrouded in mystery, its contents made her nervous and excited. 

Maybe, in its own way, that was the last gift she received.  She didn’t know where they came from.  In the matter of survival, it became unimportant.  Then it became second nature but now, she shook her head clearing her thoughts.  First, to familiarize herself with the face, so when it was time, she could recognize him without a reference, her memory was excellent so one look was generally all it took. 

The photo of the next victim stared back at her.  His cheesy smile and white teeth flashed.  There was something familiar about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

She had no interest in looking at them anymore than she had to but this man reminded her a little too much of …...  She tapped her fingers trying to figure it out, and then suddenly it hit her, she cringed from the memory.  He reminded her of Declan. 

Declan, the memory of him vexed her.  She hadn’t thought about him in a long time.  The dark hair, beady eyes, and smirk on the face of this man were almost exactly the same as Declan’s.  Maybe that’s why he seemed familiar to her.

She should have put the photo back in the envelope and went out for paints before the shops closed but her mind pondered again.  Picking up a felt tip pen she started shading parts of his face and
coloured in the eyes to make them darker, the nose narrower, and the eyebrows thicker.  Yes, he was somewhat similar but no matter how much ink she added to the portrait, it wasn’t as much of a likeness as she thought.  Declan, she hated him.  She drew two pointed triangles on his head and snorted, amusing herself then looking out the window again. 

She speculated if he was the same as Declan or worse.  Must be for someone to pay a lot of money to make sure he didn’t make it home one day, after the poison worked on him.  Would that person be disappointed to see him the next day because the weather wasn’t cooperating or there was too much light or too many security cameras?  Sometimes it could take days or weeks for an opportunity to present itself. 

She liked to think they were all like Declan; she liked to think that she was possibly impeding the abuse in the prey’s household.  If they had heart attacks and died did that mean someone else was saved, suffering and pain eliminated?  It only took one bastard to ruin how many lives?  Did he cheat on his wife, did he beat her or did he abuse his children?

It really was none of her business and she never knew anyway. 
Funny, she never allowed those kinds of thoughts before to penetrate her mind; the mortal and moral thoughts associated with what she did.  Not until she saw John Brinkman’s dead face, or the face of the saviour’s, his pale eyes and chiselled features, or the first time that she actually almost got caught.  It made her question her own mortality but she couldn’t be afraid of it in her line of work.

Sophie shook her head, trying to clear it.  She couldn’t think any more about Declan, this bastard, or John, there’s no point.  All she knew was the package would show up and she had a job to do.  The only job she was any good at.  There had never been an incident before, so close to being found out.

Hope you’re enjoying your holiday sir, snow gives you a reprieve.  She was hoping Declan choked on his Christmas pudding, and the man on the train, she wished ….  Why did she wish anything about him?  She had to admire the fact that he at least tried to save John on the train that night even though
she
knew it was hopeless.  Her own thoughts of him could not be kept at bay yet she hoped he forgot about her.

Rolling the needle between her thumb and index finger, she slid the sheath off and quickly and swiftly punctured the orange causing it to roll, caught it and tried again, over and over.  It wasn’t working for her.  Restlessness prevented the concentration it took to use the correct force and pressure to quickly and cleanly get the needle in and out without it moving. 

The poison is her only friend, providing for her, enabling her to survive.  It shows up, does what it’s supposed to do and a deposit into her account appeared from an anonymous source.  An endowment she doesn’t question, sometimes its hundreds, sometimes its thousands, it didn’t matter how much, it was better than zero.   And she was all too familiar with zero.

The top of the vial took little effort to remove and dipping the needle in, Sophie shook off the excess and put the sheath back on.  When the snow melts I’ll be coming for you, she thought, looking at the photo one last time and sliding it back into the package.

The smell of the orange was pungent.  Walking into the kitchenette, she flipped the switch for the kettle and proceeded to prepare a cup of tea.  Stomach growling, she unconsciously peeled the orange waiting for the water to boil.  The mist of the broken peel sprayed across her hands, making them sticky.  She pulled the sections apart, licking the juice off of one absent mindedly.  How much poison was left on the needle?  The skin and the blood of the victim for whose life it had taken still on it and now deeply embedded inside the orange. 

The kettle switched off, signalling it had boiled and she opened the rubbish bin and threw the contents of the orange into it on top of take away containers, and reached for a yogurt out of the tiny little fridge instead.  Ugh, she didn’t even like oranges, just the juice and once the nectar was emptied the orange itself no longer had any appeal.

Turning off the lights, the room was brightened only by the street lights reflecting on the snow.  She yawned and threw the empty container in the bin and abandoned the tea for bed, nothing else to do.  Happy Christmas Sophie and off to bed she went.  She was drained, she didn’t’ know how or why.  Maybe being cooped up caused the energy to be wasted and it just dissipated like her thoughts.

Taking off her trousers, she lay in the dark in her tee shirt, no matter how cold it was, her legs had to be free to sleep.  Why buy something fancy to sleep in, she never figured out why people loved their pajamas and nighties so much.  Did the handsome man wear pajamas to bed?  Or did he sleep in nothing at all?  With that random thought, that made her blush, she drifted off to sleep with the toll of the midnight bells around the city, signalling Christmas had arrived and she was asleep before the last chime rung.

***

Oliver walked into the hospital’s
casualty; offering to work on holidays so that those who managed to have families could be with theirs.  While in the locker room, he wondered how they managed it and he couldn’t.  They all worked the same long, tiring hours but some even had children.  The feeling of emptiness came and he shook it off so he could get on with work.  Typically holidays were busy in casualty.  Winter, especially around the holidays, brought on bouts of sadness and sickness of the lonely, every year it was the same.  Oh yes, it was going to be a hectic night.

“Are you working with us tonight, love?”  Berta, an older nurse smiled widely at him.  Her countenance was always pleasant.   Oliver admired her for her bedside manner and her ability to put the suffering at ease.  Even those considered a lost cause, she managed to comfort them.  There was a sort of peace about her that drew people and her love of helping others fulfilled her.  They shared that in common.  The grin on her face made deep dimples on her rosy cheeks making him smile too.

“I’m afraid so.  You’ll have to put up with me all night,” he replied, winking at her.

“I can put up with you anytime darling,” she giggled.

Oliver just laughed and leaned one elbow on the counter.  “So how is life treating you these days, Berta?”

“Oh, same old thing,” she sighed.  “At least I’ll be home in time this year to see the grandchildr
en open their gifts.  I’ve made a special pudding for the occasion.”

“That will be lovely for you,” he said, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck, listening to the siren, and Daphne taking the call for the incoming.

They both started bustling to work in preparation.  “I get the best of both worlds, I get to watch you all night and go home to my family for Christmas, and it doesn’t get any better than that.”

“You’re a sweet woman, Berta and you’re good for my self-esteem,” he replied and kissed her cheek, squeezing her shoulders in a one armed hug.

“So whatcha reckon?”  She said nodding towards the ambulance.

“Come on, Berta, you know I don’t like this game,” he said a faint smile at her amusement, and then asked, “What do you think?”

“Oh probably another suicide, slashed wrists seem to be the trend this year,” Berta said, “the first of many, the cold has already brought in all kinds this winter.”  Her smile faded and she turned serious, ready to spring into action.

Oliver saw through the small window, a middle aged man in a suit, red faced, a worker doing chest compressions.   Had she been out tonight, he wondered?  What a strange chain reaction of thoughts.  Heart attacks made him think of a beautiful woman that stirred and interested him.  “No…heart attack,” he said.

One night he thought he saw her when he was leaving the hospital a couple of weeks ago, but it must have been someone else.  He didn’t see her face just long, dark hair that curled slightly at the ends, just past her shoulders and a long dark coat.  Regardless, he was distracted all that night.  Maybe he was too bored that evening.  All his patients were doing well and aside from the usual checking up on them, there was nothing else to do.

Longing to talk to her, to find out if his suspicions were valid, he wanted to see her again.  Even if he did see her again would she
recognise him?  Because he was sure he would recognise her.

He pushed her out of his mind, receiving the information from the emergency mobile team about the man who had a heart attack at the annual Christmas party at his office.  Too crowded, he thought, to be her doing?

“Too late, he’s already gone,” the medic said as they hauled the gurney out of the back and Oliver checked him and signed off on him.  He looked at the deceased, similar, very similar to the man on the train.  He could request an autopsy but by what suspicion and it wouldn’t bring him back anyway.