Chase, page 8
Why? Hoping to see Daisy hiding behind the sofa as she loved to do?
He took a deep breath.
You’re never going to see that again. Get used to it.
David closed the door behind him and made his way back up the stairs. As he reached the top he heard a sound coming from one of the other bedrooms. From Daisy’s room.
He moved towards the door, moving as slowly as he could so he didn’t step on one of the creaky boards. The silence was almost oppressive as he approached the door, ears alert for the slightest sound now. He could hear something as he leaned closer to the wooden partition. There was a large multi-coloured sign on the door that proclaimed;
DAISY’S ROOM
She’d made it a couple of years ago at school and it featured a small photograph of her, smiling happily surrounded by her toys. David reached out with one index finger and touched it tenderly, his eyes filling with tears.
The door suddenly swung open before him and David stepped back, his heart suddenly racing.
‘What are you doing?’
Amy was standing at the threshold of the door, looking out at him with questioning eyes.
‘I woke up,’ he told her. ‘I wondered where you were.’
Amy stepped back into the room, seating herself on the end of the small bed. She picked up the small stuffed Dalmatian she’d been holding.
‘Dummy dog,’ David murmured looking at the little toy.
Amy nodded.
‘I remember buying this the day she lost her dummy,’ she said. ‘She lost it in a sand pit when she was playing and I couldn’t find the bloody thing. I bought her this little dog to take its place. She never needed a dummy again after that, did she?’
‘I remember,’ David told her, sitting down beside her. ‘Do you remember that little doll she used to carry around with her all the time when she was about eighteen months?’
Amy nodded.
‘I took her for a walk one day in her pushchair and she dropped it in the river,’ David went on. ‘I had to get on my hands and knees and fish it out.’ He managed a smile. ‘I nearly fell in but I got the doll back. That was all that mattered.’
‘Memories are all we’re going to have from now on.’
‘Good ones.’
‘But to know that there won’t be any more.’
He snaked his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him.
‘Have we done anything to deserve this?’ Amy said, softly.
‘What do you mean?’ he wanted to know.
‘You know what they say about Karma, that if you do something bad then something bad will happen to you eventually. What if...’
David cut her off.
‘What could we have done that’s bad enough for us to lose our daughter?’ he said, irritably. ‘Don’t even think that. No one deserves to feel like this. Nothing we could have done would have caused this to happen. Don’t even think that.’
Amy nodded and they sat silently for a few minutes, surrounded by the stillness until she spoke again. ‘How do we do it, David?’ Amy asked, helplessly. ‘How do we go on without her?’
He wished he had an answer.
SEVENTEEN
David Carson fumbled in his jacket for his house keys. As usual he felt the same contradictory feelings he always experienced when he got home. He was glad to be back but there was also a feeling of something best described as dread. As much as he hated work, it at least offered some respite from his own unrelentingly painful thoughts. The distraction was welcomed. When he was working at least he had no time to consider his own situation or to think about the death of his daughter. Any respite from the barrage of thoughts was to be seized. When he got home he was fully exposed to the memories and desperately aware of his failure to cope with them.
Raw pain had subsided into a dull ache for him. Like an open wound that was slowly closing and leaving behind thick scar tissue, his despair had become more deep seated now.
He pushed the key into the lock and turned it, stepping into the hallway.
The house was quiet. It always seemed to be quiet these days. David told himself that he had probably come home many times in the past to find it in a similar state but now, without Daisy around, it just seemed as if a constant cloud of stillness had settled on the building and it’s interior, never again to be broken by the sound of her voice.
Don’t start thinking about that now.
David sucked in a deep breath and walked into the sitting room. It was empty. He wondered if Amy had gone to see her Mum or one of her friends but, as he turned he saw that her coat was hanging up in the hallway and she would, he told himself, have told him if she wasn’t coming straight home.
‘Amy,’ he called.
No answer.
David wandered through to the kitchen but she wasn’t there either. He moved to one of the windows and glanced out into the small back garden but there was no sign of Amy out there. There was mug on the kitchen table and her handbag was there too. He was even more convinced that she was at home now or at least had been home but, he reasoned, she wouldn’t have gone out again without her handbag. She didn’t go anywhere without that and he could see that her purse was still inside. He made his way upstairs.
In their bedroom he found Amy’s work clothes strewn over the bed, discarded as if they’d been torn off hastily. That wasn’t like her.
‘Amy,’ he called again, moving out onto the landing once again.
As he did he heard the sounds coming from Daisy’s room and he hurried towards the door, pushing it open.
The sound was Amy sobbing. Sounds of such anguish that it almost froze him in his tracks for a second.
She was kneeling beside Daisy’s bed, her head on the animal pattern duvet, her hands gripping the material as if she was afraid it would escape her clutches.
David didn’t speak he just knelt beside her, putting his arm around her heaving shoulders. She turned towards him without speaking, her sobs continuing. He could feel her whole body trembling as he held her, each spasm causing her to shudder. David clung to her helplessly knowing there was nothing he could say or do that would stem this tide of despair now. It was as if the dam had finally broken. Every emotion she had been battling to keep in check had finally forced its way through and she was drowning in the deluge.
Even when she finally looked at him, her eyes puffy and red rimmed, her cheeks soaked with tears, she couldn’t speak. The words wouldn’t come. David ran his hand through her hair, kissing the top of her head in a comforting gesture that, he was all too aware, was too insignificant.
She snaked her arms around him and held him, not wanting to break contact with him, knowing that he was the only other person in the world that was feeling the kind of agony that was now ripping her soul apart. He was the only one who understood the depth of despair she was feeling. United in their inconsolable grief, they remained where they were, surrounded by the tangible memories of their daughter and wishing that there was some way they could have her back.
It was a long time before either of them spoke but it was Amy who finally murmured some muted words.
‘I can’t do it, David,’ she blurted. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘Do what?’ he wanted to know, tears now pouring down his own cheeks.
‘I can’t go on like this.’
‘Please go to the doctor, Amy,’ he urged. ‘Get something.’
‘Pills you mean?’
‘Get whatever he’ll give you. You need help.’
‘What about you? Why don’t you?’
He hugged her tightly.
‘I want to help you,’ he said, quietly.
‘You’ve got a right to grieve too, David.’
‘I know and I’ve done nothing but grieve since she died, believe me.’
‘You haven’t said anything.’
‘About what? What good would it do?’
‘Have you spoken to anyone about how you feel?’
‘Would I tell someone else what I won’t tell you?’
He kissed her on the forehead and felt her hold him more tightly.
‘Get some help, Amy,’ he murmured. ‘Please. I love you too much to see you suffering like this.’
‘He’ll give me Valium or something. Just fill me full of tranquillisers. I’ll be like a zombie.’
‘As long as he does something for you. Promise me you’ll make an appointment.’
She stroked his forearm gently as he held her.
‘Amy, promise me,’ David said again. ‘I love you and can’t stand seeing you like this.’
‘I love you too,’ she said, softly. ‘And I will get help, I promise,’ she murmured.
SEVENTEEN
As Amy sat in the doctors surgery the same thoughts kept circulating inside her mind. Spinning round and round like a pebble in a blender.
Why am I here? What can anyone do to help me?
She glanced at her watch, realizing she’d now been waiting for more than thirty minutes. Amy was about to get to her feet and walk out when she heard her name being called over the intercom. She smiled despite herself, thinking how unbearably cheerful the doctor sounded as he announced her appointment. She stood up, striding briskly towards the corridor that led down to the surgeries. There were four GPs at the practice and the room she wanted was the last one on the right at the end of the corridor.
She glanced up at the nameplate over the door, knocked, and then walked in without waiting for acknowledgement.
Doctor Stephen Jacobs was in his early forties but sported a shock of grey hair that would have been more appropriate on a man ten or twenty years his senior. He stood up when Amy walked in, gesturing towards the chair beside his desk. She seated herself and took a deep breath.
‘What can I do for you today?’ Jacobs asked, sitting back in his swivel chair.
‘I’m not sure you can do anything,’ Amy told him. ‘I only came because my husband wanted me to. He wants me to get some antidepressants.’
‘And do you think you need them?’ Jacobs asked. ‘I know your husband does but do you?’
‘I think I need something. Whether it helps or not is another thing.’
‘What’s caused your depression?’
Amy opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come. She was afraid that if she told him everything she needed to that she’d be in tears after the first two or three sentences. She ran a hand through her hair and shrugged.
‘My daughter,’ she began, finally. ‘Was killed in a car crash.’ She exhaled deeply, almost painfully.
‘When?’ Jacobs enquired. ‘How long ago?’
‘Two months,’ Amy told him.
‘Have you felt like this for two months? Why didn’t you seek help earlier?’
‘It’s all I can do to get out of bed most days,’ she told him. ‘It’s been getting worse though. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Are you working?’ the doctor enquired.
‘On and off,’ Amy confessed. ‘I’ve been in a few times but it’s difficult. I’ve used up most of my holiday allowance by now.’ She smiled but there was no humour in the expression. ‘I can work from home so I’ve been trying to do that but..’ The words trailed off into the empty air of the consulting room.
‘I understand,’ Jacobs said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘No you don’t understand, doctor,’ Amy said, smiling thinly. ‘No one understands. No one understands that kind of loss unless they’ve experienced it.’
Jacobs nodded.
‘Have you spoken to anyone about it?’ he wanted to know. ‘Loved ones? Friends? Relatives?’
‘What’s the point? It’s not going to bring her back is it?’
‘Neither are antidepressants, Mrs Carson,’ Jacobs reminded her.
‘Talking about it isn’t going to help,’ Amy persisted.
‘Well, normally, I would recommend some kind of cognitive therapy before prescribing tablets. To talk about what happened with others who..’
‘Talking isn’t going to help,’ Amy interrupted. ‘My daughter is dead. If I talk for three hours straight she’s still going to be dead when I finish talking isn’t she?’ Amy closed her eyes. ‘Please, just give me some antidepressants.’
‘Have you thought about suicide?’ Jacobs offered.
Amy shook her head dismissively.
‘As an alternative to antidepressants?’ Amy said, bitterly. She shook her head. ‘What good would that do?’ she said, wearily. ‘And my husband’s lost a daughter it’s not fair that he should lose a wife too is it?’
‘I have to ask,’ Jacobs said almost apologetically. As he spoke he leaned forward and began flicking through a large book on his desk. ‘How’s your husband coping?’ he asked.
‘He’s been brilliant,’ Amy said. ‘If it hadn’t been for him I don’t know what I’d have done, how I’d have gone on. It isn’t fair on him that I’m like this all the time.’
‘And he was the one who advised you to come here?’
Amy smiled.
‘I think he’s fed up with me,’ she admitted, twisting her wedding ring gently.
‘Do you have any religious beliefs, Mrs Carson?’ the doctor wanted to know. ‘Sometimes people with strong beliefs find comfort...’
‘I don’t believe in anything,’ she said, flatly. ‘I lost my father eighteen months ago. If there’s a God, He and I aren’t on speaking terms any more.’
Jacobs nodded gently.
Amy took a tissue from her handbag and dabbed at her nose.
‘I know this is probably a pointless question, Mrs Carson,’ the doctor continued, writing something on a piece of paper. ‘But you haven’t got any holiday booked have you? Anywhere that you and your husband could go to just get away from what’s happened. Even if it’s only for a weekend. The change of environment can sometimes help believe it or not.’
Amy let out a hollow laugh and nodded.
‘We had a holiday booked in America,’ she said, quietly. ‘We were going to cancel it when...’
‘If you can go then you should go,’ Jacobs said. ‘The break will do you more good than any amount of antidepressants. It’ll be good for your husband too.’
Amy sighed and got to her feet, turning towards the door.
‘Thank you, doctor,’ she said, walking across the room.
‘Mrs Carson,’ Jacobs said. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss but things will get easier. I promise you.’
Amy pulled the door open.
‘Will they really?’ she said, flatly. ‘Can I have that in writing?’
And she was gone.
THE CONVERSATION
COLORADO, USA
The Priest pulled his iPhone from his pocket and put it on the table before him, setting down his coffee next to it then he checked to see if he had any calls.
There were two from numbers he recognised immediately and another from one he did not. He nodded to himself and decided he would check his Facebook page before he left Starbucks. He had asked a friend to set it up to make the church appear more modern and accessible but there had been little response locally or nationally. A few people had left crude and, on one occasion, revolting messages on his wall, but other than that there had been little interaction. He decided to leave the page up for another week and then, if things hadn’t improved, remove it once and for all.
He took a sip of his coffee, aware of movement close to him.
‘Father.’
The word startled him for a moment but then he looked up and saw that the man was standing over him, looking down.
‘I’m not disturbing you am I, Father?’ the man asked.
‘Of course not,’ the priest said.
‘I saw you come in,’ the man continued. ‘I wondered if I could just speak to you for a minute. If you’ve got time of course.’
‘Sit down,’ the priest said, motioning to the chair opposite.
The man accepted the invitation and settled himself, putting his own caramel macchiato down.
‘I wanted to ask you something,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not but if it’s a spiritual question you might be better off asking your own minister, I..’
‘It’s not a spiritual matter,’ the man interrupted. ‘At least I don’t think you would class it as that.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Have you ever encountered real evil in your time as a priest?’
‘There are all kinds of evil,’ the priest offered.
‘I mean true evil. Irredeemable, satanic evil?’
The priest regarded him warily for a moment.
‘I’ve seen what I would consider to be evil. Suffering. Pain. Hopelessness.’
‘That’s not real evil,’ the man snapped through clenched teeth.
The priest looked at him again, sipping slowly at his coffee.
‘Then tell me what you mean by evil,’ he said, evenly.
‘The kind of thing that twists men’s minds. The sort of evil that challenges God.’
The priest considered the question but, before he could speak, the man went on.
‘Do you believe evil is in all of us from birth or do we acquire it?’ the man continued. ‘Do we collect it like we collect loose change?’
‘I think some people are born evil, if that answers your question.’
‘But we’re all shaped by things in our lives aren’t we? Things we’re exposed to?’
‘Some people believe that.’
‘But not you?’
The two men locked stares.
‘I think there is a dark side to every human heart and soul,’ the priest said. ‘And sometimes it’s hard to control. Not everyone is capable of controlling it.’
The man sipped his caramel macchiato, his gaze fixed not on the priest now but on the table between them.
‘Some Red Indians believed that a child would bring about the end of the world,’ he murmured. ‘They believed that hundreds of years ago. I wonder if they still do.’
‘Red Indians,’ the Priest said. ‘You mean native Americans?’
‘Does it matter what you call them. You know what I mean. Some tribes believed that all the evil of the world was contained inside children and that by destroying that evil they could rid the world of it.’
