Heathen/Nemesis

Five

How many tears could the human eye produce?

As Donna sat sobbing she wondered.

How much pain was it possible to feel at the death of a man you loved? Could pain be measured, calibrated and categorised like anything else?

Chris would have known.

She felt a hand clasp hers; it seemed to exude strength and feeling.

The nurse who sat beside her was in her mid-thirties

(maybe a year or two older than Chris)

and she had the most piercing blue eyes Donna had ever seen. But in those eyes there was only concern now. The small room had yellow walls, two or three threadbare chairs and posters which bore slogans like

SAVE THE NHS

OVERWORKED DOCTORS ARE A DANGER TO EVERYONE: CUT HOURS

On the small table beside her there were tea cups; one was still steaming.

‘Drink it,’ said the nurse, holding the cup towards Donna, gripping her other hand firmly.

Donna looked at her, then at the WPC who sat opposite. She took the cup and sipped the tea.

‘Good girl,’ said the nurse, still holding her hand.

Donna swallowed a couple of mouthfuls then put the cup down. She sucked in a deep breath, as if to replace air that had been knocked from her, then sank back in the chair, one hand over her face, her eyes closed. Her sobs subsided into a series of quivering inhalations and exhalations. She could feel how wet her own cheeks were.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered, swallowing hard, aware for the first time of the heavy silence in the room and of the ticking of a clock above her.

11.06 p.m.

‘What happened?’ she asked, looking at the nurse and the WPC in turn.

‘You fainted and we brought you in here,’ the policewoman told her quietly.

‘Oh God,’ Donna murmured again. The words were like a litany.

The room was lit by a sixty-watt bulb that cast thick black shadows. Outside, beyond the closed curtains, she could hear the wind. The hospital seemed very quiet. Donna sat for interminable minutes just staring ahead, wondering why her mind was so blank. It was like a blackboard wiped clean of chalk, all feelings wiped away. She just felt a terrible emptiness, so intense it was almost physical, as if a hole had been gouged in her soul. Could so much emotion be expended that a person was left without feeling? When Donna looked down at her own body she saw only a shell, with nothing left inside. Just a husk, devoid and emptied of feeling.

She put down the teacup, touched the nurse gently on the back of the hand and released her grip, resting both arms on the worn arms of the chair. Tilting her head back she closed her eyes and took another deep, racking breath.

‘How did it happen?’ she asked finally, her voice low.

The policewoman looked at her and then at the nurse, as if for permission to speak.

‘How was Chris killed?’ Donna had no recollection of Cobb telling her about the accident.

‘A car crash,’ the WPC said quietly.

‘When did it happen?’

‘I’m not really sure, Mrs Ward,’ the policewoman told her apologetically. ‘I wasn’t on duty when it happened.’

‘Is there anyone here who could tell me?’ Donna asked, smiling thinly. ‘Please.’

The policewoman got to her feet, excused herself and slipped out of the door, closing it behind her.

The clock continued to tick loudly above Donna’s head.

‘You must have done this so many times,’ she said to the nurse, ‘comforted the grieving relatives.’ Her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away hurriedly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ the nurse told her, clutching her arm warmly. ‘Don’t apologise for the way you feel. I was the same when my father died; I was saying sorry to everyone. Sorry for being a nuisance, sorry for crying all the time. Then I realized that it didn’t matter. You have a right to your grief. Don’t be ashamed of it.’

Donna smiled, despite her tears. She touched the nurse’s hand.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

The door of the room opened and the WPC re-entered. Mackenzie was with her. He nodded awkwardly to Donna before sitting down opposite her.

‘You wanted some information about your husband’s death, Mrs Ward?’ he said.

She nodded.

‘The crash happened some time this afternoon,’ the DC said. ‘We think at about four o’clock. His body was brought here for identification. It was easier to reach you.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘His brakes failed, as far as we can tell. He hit a wall.’

Donna felt that feeling of despair rising once more like an unstoppable tide.

‘Was anyone else hurt in the crash?’ she wanted to know.

Mackenzie hesitated, licking his lips self-consciously.

‘I’m afraid there was another death. We ... er ... we found another body in the car with your husband. A young woman. Her name was Suzanne Regan.’

Donna sat forward in her chair, a frown creasing her brow.

‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. ‘And she was killed, too?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. Did you know her?’

‘She worked for my husband’s publishers. I don’t know why she would have been with him, though.’

‘She obviously knew your husband quite well?’

‘They worked together,’ Donna said, her confusion growing. ‘Well, not really worked together. Like I said, she worked for his publishers. She was only a secretary, as far as I know. What makes you think she knew him?’

‘Well, she was in the car with him, for one thing, Mrs Ward. I suppose he could have been giving her a lift home, something like that.’

‘What are you trying to say?’ Donna snapped, sucking in a deep breath.

Mackenzie clasped his hands together and looked evenly at the distraught woman.

‘One of the reasons we couldn’t identify your husband after the crash was because he had no ID on his person. No driver’s licence, no credit cards, no cheque book. Nothing.’

‘He always got me to carry his credit cards for him,’ she protested.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mrs Ward. He did have credit cards and his cheque book but he wasn’t carrying them. After we’d taken the bodies from the wreckage we found your husband’s cheque book and credit cards in Suzanne Regan’s handbag.’