The Eighth Day (Jason Ford Series) Page 3

  Glenn had that unhurried, relaxed manner that was essential to winning a patient’s confidence. Yet his determination came over, the will to succeed but not at the expense of others. A man who had clawed his way up from the masses, refused to be submerged in an age of characterless human automatons. BB did things his way, Glenn did them differently, but ultimately the result was the same. And a few years as a junior doctor in the practice would complete the younger man’s capability to take over as senior partner. Naturally, Doctor Booth did not reveal his future plans to Wilcox; the other would find out soon enough, a decision that would be made entirely in the interests of the patients.

  Glenn’s life had never been without its problems. An attractive young man with prospects, those members of the opposite sex who appealed to him always seemed to favour more macho types. Twice jilted after lengthy relationships, he then suffered the heartbreak of a broken engagement within a month of the wedding date. Two years of loneliness followed, a frustration which he bore in secret, until he met Sandra.

  Sandra was big and beautiful, and ten years his junior. Ironically, she seemed to favour small men, possibly because of her dominant nature. For her, size represented power but this was not apparent to Glenn until after they were married. Nevertheless, it was a small price to pay for happiness, one merely had to adjust to a secondary role within the marriage. So long as it did not hamper his medical duties, he was prepared to accept an almost subservient domestic role.

  She provided him with everything a man had a right to expect and he had no objection to her insistence upon a couple of nights a week out on her own. She played squash and was an excellent swimmer, neither of which interested him, so he was happy for her to pursue her interests. Even when it got to three nights a week out, he did not object. She mentioned that she might be joining a local amateur dramatic society.

  Glenn’s world collapsed that day when Sandra confessed to having an affair. Worse, she was leaving him for another man. Not, she added with pseudo kindness, that she did not love her husband; simply that she loved somebody else more. Had the other man been a consultant specialist, a barrister at law or a wealthy businessman, then perhaps Glenn could have conceded his failed marriage somewhat graciously. But Sandra’s twice-weekly lover was nothing so glamorous as any of these; he was an out-of-work builders’ labourer. A mountain of a man physically, his coarseness came through even the designer suit which Sandra had bought him. All of which proved the myth over physical size which Glenn had fought so fiercely to disprove.

  All credit to his professionalism and devotion to duty, Glenn did not let it affect his work. Indeed, neither of his senior partners were aware that anything was amiss until he informed them three weeks later when Sandra had left. He had the rare ability to segregate his domestic and professional life. The former was now non-existent, he threw himself headlong into the latter. Both Booth and Wilcox were secretly grateful to have a volunteer for night call-outs, week after week, along with a readiness to take on the two midweek afternoon surgeries and assist with home calls in addition to the fixed rota. Booth’s estimation of his protégé soared beyond his already high expectations. All the same, he would keep a watchful eye on the younger man; marriage break-ups often had delayed reactions.

  Two months later Sandra was killed in a road accident.

  The surgery was always crowded on Monday mornings. Hangovers from an alcoholic weekend, shirkers looking for a sick note, hypochondriacs favoured the first working day of the week, plus the genuine patients who had finally conceded to some ailment after hoping to shake it off during Saturday and Sunday. This morning was particularly busy, all three doctors were at full stretch.

  Glenn watched the ageing Mr Tolson shuffle out of the consulting room. The doctor had diagnosed pleurisy; tomorrow he would give the other a home call. It might entail hospitalisation.

  He picked up the next file, clicked on the intercom connected to the waiting room. “Kate Leonard for Doctor Whittaker, please.” Idly, he wondered who Kate Leonard was, the name was not familiar to him. Either she was new to the district or else she consulted one of the senior partners.

  Kate knew when she woke up that morning that there was no way she was going to be able to cope with the bank today or tomorrow. Or for the rest of the week. Or ever again.

  That didn’t bother her, she had no loyalty to an establishment which many considered to be the epitome of respectability. Her temporary job had long gone beyond the limits of her endurance of routine. What did bother her was the length of time from waking to coming to terms with reality. A kind of haziness, a mental fog that seemed to take an aeon to disperse. Struggling to work out who she was, where she was, what day it was. All she knew was that she was a reluctant bank clerk who craved creativity which she would not find behind a counter.

  The rape came back gradually as if her mind was breaking it to her slowly, gently. It didn’t shock or frighten her. Just hatred for an unknown man because in one particular physical feature he resembled her father. And she hated him for that most of all. And she hated Paul Roden because he had that same Gentile characteristic; she had never thought of it like that before. In effect, all three of them had raped her, they might as well have been the same man.

  Her head throbbed, her palate was soured and her hand shook uncontrollably when she reached out to switch off the radio alarm. Shit, I’m ill, she thought. It was quite frightening, she hadn’t been ill, apart from the odd cold, since her days at school.

  She debated whether or not to remain in bed; you were allowed three days off without a doctor’s note. She needed more than that concessionary period, time to get herself together; time to rebuild her way of life.

  She checked the living room, there was no sign of Paul. He wasn’t in the bathroom. The sight of the toilet had her throwing up. After that she felt marginally better. Well enough to walk down to the health centre on a bright spring morning.

  All she wanted was a note to give her legitimate absence from work. A virus, enteritis, she had glanced at herself in the mirror on the way out, she had a wide permutation of illnesses that would fit what she was. But Doctor Glenn Whittaker was not one to go for the obvious, take the easy way out.

  “I’d like to check you over, if I may,” he regarded her steadily, consulted her file again. “It may just be a virus but I’d like to be sure.”

  He was small, she wanted to dislike him for that but his manner dissuaded her. At least he didn’t ask her to strip off and lie on the couch. He checked her pulse, took her blood pressure, listened to her chest without requesting the removal of her bra. He made some notes on her file, pursed his lips. Which, in some ways, was disquieting. All I want is a bloody sick note.

  “Are you sleeping all right, Miss Leonard?”

  “Fine.” Except when my bloody boyfriend gropes me.

  “I see.” He obviously didn’t. “Are you experiencing any nervous problems? Stress? Listlessness?”

  “The usual,” she took her time replying. “Banking is stress. Living is stress. They both get you down at times, don’t they?”

  “You’re not married.” A statement, then, “Do you have a relationship? I mean, a live-in boyfriend perhaps?”

  “Not any more,” the answer was spontaneous, she didn’t even feel outrage at the personal question. Because he was the kind of man who could ask anything without causing offence. And you would tell him the truth. Mostly, anyway. All the same, she asked, “Why?”

  “Because all relationships are stressful to some degree. I know only too well,” he paused, she saw how his lower lip trembled slightly. “My wife left me a few weeks ago, I went through it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Kate experienced a fleeting sensation of pity. Then she was on her guard. Men whose wives left them often looked for a replacement. “My boyfriend might come back. We had a row and he walked out. We haven’t talked since.”

  “I see. Well, I hope you sort something out. In the meantime, I’m going to give you someth
ing that will relax you, ensure that you get a good night’s sleep.”

  He was scribbling on a prescription pad, tore the sheet off with a flourish, handed it to her. “Take one when you go to bed each night.” He reached for another pad. “You won’t be going back to work for a while.”

  “Am I having a nervous breakdown?” The words spilled out before she could check them. Fear and anxiety, she hadn’t told him about her loss of memory this morning.

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that,” he smiled reassuringly. “Most certainly you are a victim of stress, and I think there’s a lot that you haven’t told me. Nevertheless, get some rest, take your tablets, and come and see me a week today. Or sooner, if you feel you need to.”

  “Thank you,” she averted her gaze, felt embarrassed. The doctor was shrewd, he had sussed her out. Emotional problems, talk to me about them if you want to. If you don’t want to, then don’t.

  She left the surgery, went outside. It was warm and sunny, another day like yesterday. The sort of day when she could have gone down to the lake, sketched or painted all day. But she wouldn’t, not because of what had happened there but because it wouldn’t be fair to the ducks. Her mood would come over in her work, tranquillity would be turned into hostility all because of three men who had forced themselves upon her, made her like she was. A triple similarity that blended into one and embodied itself in a physical revulsion.

  Which was why she decided to spend the day in the public library.

  4.

  Kate’s stomach knotted, her pulse raced. She tried to ignore the headache which had plagued her since waking. That was a minor inconvenience. Her mouth was dry, she almost changed her mind and headed back towards the flat. No, she would never rest if she did that, not now that the that idea had infiltrated her confused mind. The sight of the library in the block which had once been part of her school excited her.

  Her step quickened, she had to hold back forcibly from breaking into a run, reminded herself yet again that the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

  She was out of breath by the time she reached the second floor, had to pause for a moment. She was trembling visibly. She breathed deeply, savoured the pleasant aroma of polish which permeated this place of silence, mingled with the faint musty odour of the books. The only sound was the rustling of newspapers from the reading room; if you dared to speak in here then it was a hushed whisper and even then heads turned disapprovingly.

  She found herself walking on tiptoe, holding the glass doors until they closed, afraid in case they banged. A woman with short-cropped grey hair glanced up from behind her semicircular desk, looked away again. If you needed to know anything she would assist, otherwise she wasn’t interested. Help yourself, please, stay as long as you like, but don’t make a noise.

  When Kate had studied for her A levels the library had been situated in the old museum building. Somehow it was out of place here, just the smell was familiar.

  Somebody dropped a book with a dull thud. From behind one of the partition screens a throat was cleared. The distraction was an irritation. The silence filtered slowly back.

  There were maybe half a dozen browsers and readers perched on stools by the wall desk at the far end of the long room. Students revising; Kate scanned them nervously, prayed that there was nobody there who would recognise her. There wasn’t.

  Guilt now, it had her knotted stomach churning. Don’t be so bloody stupid, you’ve come here to look at some art books. Or maybe some waterfowl books. She ignored the sign designating the Arts section. Fiction. History. Literature.

  No thanks.

  Medicine.

  Again, she looked around apprehensively but still nobody was taking any notice of her. Why should they? The librarian was busy checking records.

  Kate crossed to the medicine section, was grateful for the shelved partition which shielded her from the view of the others. Thankfully, there was nobody else inside the small alcove.

  She swayed unsteadily as a wave of dizziness came and went, left her with a feeling of nausea. She tried to focus her vision, stared at the rows of books, blurred lettering on the spines, titles which meant nothing to her. A kind of mental block, the sheer number of volumes was overpowering. She almost panicked, experienced an urge to flee this place. You won’t find what you’re looking for here, it’s just a whim. I might. Then leave before it’s too late.

  She stayed, gradually got herself back under control. Now she was able to read the titles on the spines.

  Christ, it was a waste of time. Complicated theses, advanced text books for medical students. A dozen or more histories of medicine. Hospital histories. But nothing for the layman. If you didn’t understand the jargon then you shouldn’t be in here. Fuck off.

  A surge of anger. Maybe that woman behind the desk could help. Excuse me, I want a book on … Forget it.

  Kate sighed her disappointment. She felt weak, listless. Now her headache was making itself felt, she might have a migraine before the day was out. In which case she would go home, lie on the bed, try to sleep because there was nothing else to do.

  There was a queue of borrowers at the desk now; a rubber stamp was thumping, books banged on the mahogany top. It was as though you weren’t meant actually to take the books away, the woman was doing you a big favour. And just you be sure that you bring them back.

  Literature. History. Fiction … Religion

  For some reason Kate’s pulses kick-started again, had her staring at the sign over the end section of books. She had overlooked it the first time, maybe even if she had noticed it then it would not have registered. Because she had presumed that what she sought would be under Medical. A hunch, a gut feeling, she didn’t even bother to check that nobody was watching her.

  Innumerable histories of the Jewish religion; she scanned one, flicked the pages. There were but basic references to that which she sought, nothing detailed. Because only a Jewish person would read it and they would know, anyway. Dusty, boring volumes that had not even been browsed since the move here from the museum building, probably just crated and re-shelved. Theological books, various interpretations of The Bible. They were enough to anger any atheist.

  Kate clicked her tongue in annoyance, she was becoming frustrated now. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ll bet Doctor Whittaker would know. Christ, you couldn’t ask him that!

  A title caught her eye; it was as if it was meant to attract her attention. The Works of Josephus. A first edition, 1866. She reached it down, flicked for the index. Again it was a gut feeling, a hunch that she was right. A cloud of dust made her sneeze. She missed the page, flipped back to it, ran her finger down the C’s. Her spine tingled, she breathed fast. There it was, two columns of reference and if she needed to check some of the biblical quotes there was a bible right next to it.

  Circumcision.

  The word held a fascination for her, she whispered it over and over again to herself. It had an orgasmic ring about it.

  Circumcision: to cut off all or part of the foreskin to purify.

  Her hand shook, she had to prop the book against a shelf. Performed on the eighth day.

  The eighth day. Even if that day was the Sabbath then the circumcision must not be postponed.

  Then Zipporah took a sharp stone and cut off the foreskin of her son and said, a bloody husband thou art because of the circumcision.

  Kate’s skin prickled, the book almost slipped from her grasp.

  It was apparent that although Josephus agreed with circumcision he did not agree with it being forced upon anybody. Kate smiled to herself; that was one point upon which she and Josephus obviously disagreed.

  She checked some more of the references. Her hunch had paid off.

  It was an hour later when she finally left the library, had to hold on to the rail going down the stairs because her legs felt weak and shaky, might have buckled beneath her weight and thrown her down the steps. It had nothing to do with the weakness that had brought about
her consultation with Doctor Whittaker.

  Outside she rested for a few minutes, sat on one of the slatted benches on the paved area. The day was pleasantly warm; the weather might even work up to a heatwave by Easter.

  In the distance the cathedral clock struck twelve. Kate considered walking back to the shopping precinct, or having a coffee in the Arts Centre café and watching the ducks on the pool outside. Maybe later, but first there was something she had to do.

  The art shop was empty, Kate could hear the young assistant talking on the telephone in the small office. It sounded like she was chatting to her boyfriend, sneaking a call whilst the boss was gone to the bank. Kate thought of Paul, felt a surge of pity for the girl.

  Kate was nervous, more nervous than she had been earlier in the library. Darting glances; at the adjacent door, listening for the ting of the receiver being replaced, at the outer door in case a customer entered. There was no sign of anybody and the girl was still talking.

  Kate needed a couple of new paintbrushes, extra fine for painting the exquisite colourings on mallard’s heads. She picked up two, held them in full view as any honest shopper might do during an assistant’s absence.

  See, I want to buy these, I’m not nicking them.

  Her other hand was more furtive. It crept along the counter crab-like, slid over a box of pencil sharpeners, rested momentarily on some erasers. Trembling, drawing back. No, I can’t.

  You have to.

  It’s theft. Shoplifters Will Be Prosecuted. Her fingers curled into a tight ball as she fought against temptation.

  I can afford to pay, the money’s in my purse.

  Somebody might see you. And remember.

  Artists often buy them.

  Yes, but it’s a risk you can’t afford to take.

  Her fingers opened out again, her hand crept on another few inches. And rested on something that was hard and icy cold to her touch.

  Another look around. The assistant was laughing at some joke her boyfriend had made. People passed by outside but nobody came towards the door.