What Doesn't Kill You Page 7

  She closed her eyes and allowed the scene to play out. It was enough to make her sick, there and then.

  ‘Give it up,’ she whispered. ‘Set it free.’ She eased open her eyes, listened to the sounds of the world outside, and brought herself back to the empty vehicle. He wasn’t right there with her, but sometimes … sometimes she could smell him – cardamom, amber – expensive aftershave she could no longer bear. Sometimes she could hear his intimidating, insistent commands to do as he said – vile, disgusting things. And sometimes she could taste the stale mint of the gum he would push into her mouth with his tongue.

  He wasn’t there; he couldn’t be there; but he would never leave.

  Evie chanced a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror and accepted the mess staring back. A brush and a band would tidy her hair, but she didn’t tie it back these days.

  She didn’t need a visual reminder of Neil’s cruel method of controlling her.

  Pulling her around by her ponytail had been a favourite pastime of his.

  She appreciated the sense of freedom leaving her hair down produced.

  With her nerves under control, she clambered out of the car and hurried to Logan’s door, aware time was marching on. She thrust the key in the hole and let herself in.

  ‘Morning, Logan. Sorry I’m late.’

  No answer. This had become the norm in recent days. It didn’t help with Evie’s nerves. She needed to hear a response from him. ‘I’m coming upstairs,’ she called. ‘Are you decent?’ Still nothing. Was this it? Was this the moment she’d been dreading for the past few months?

  She waited outside Logan’s bedroom, her hands clasped, her knuckles kneading her mouth. What if he was dead? What if he’d managed to … No. He said himself he couldn’t open the pill containers. He was sleeping, that was all. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. No one should die alone.

  A dim glow from the bathroom window cast Evie’s small shadow onto Logan’s door, and she stood, transfixed on the shape.

  This could be the moment she was released from Logan’s impossible proposition.

  Horrified she’d permitted such a callous thought to run loose, she scolded herself. She didn’t wish anyone dead.

  Except Neil MacDonald. And that wish had been granted.

  She grasped the brass handle and edged her way into the room.

  ‘Logan, my love, it’s me, Evie.’ As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw Logan slumped against his headboard, his chin tucked to his chest and his arms hanging by his sides. She drew back the hefty velvet curtains, filling the room with positive, faith-restoring light, and examined him further. As shallow as it was, there was air passing between his lips. There were also splashes of sick on the blanket concealing his lower half. Logan’s mobile was spattered with the same. ‘Oh, Logan.’

  The old man opened his eyes. ‘I called you,’ he said, his voice not much more than a whisper. ‘I called you and you didn’t answer.’ A tear tipped over the brink of his lashes and pooled in the deep trench above his cheekbone. Another, and then another, until the tiny salt lake could hold no more and water flooded his face.

  Evie cradled his head to her bosom, offering apologies and hushes for comfort. She gave no excuses, no reasons for her negligence regardless of its origin. They wouldn’t help Logan, and right now that was all she wanted to do. ‘You’re not to worry, do you hear? It’s only sick. I get worse at home. It’s nothing I can’t handle.’

  With those words, Logan’s body went into spasm, inconsolable sobs accompanying every one. Evie softened her hold and stooped to see him, but he refused to expose his face.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t look at me.’

  ‘Logan. It’s fine.’

  His head rocked from side-to-side. ‘It’s not fine. It’ll never be fine. Never.’ He jerked free from Evie’s hold, scrunched his eyes shut and clenched his jaws together. ‘Can’t you smell it?’ The words were forced through his teeth. ‘Can’t you smell the shit?’

  Chapter Eight

  Griff

  As the taxi pulled up next to the cottage, Griff hugged Dylan close to his chest. They’d spent the journey from the hospital snuggled together, both strapped behind one safety belt. In the chaos of yesterday’s emergency, taking a car seat in the ambulance had been the last thing on Griff’s mind.

  ‘We’re home, little feller.’ He reached into his pocket, tugged out a crumpled note and knocked on the panel separating the passengers from the driver. ‘Cheers, mate. Is that enough?’

  The man in the front seat took the money from Griff, waved his thanks and reset his meter.

  Griff shuffled forward, yanked at the handle and shoved open the door. ‘Good to be home.’ He hitched Dylan higher to his shoulder and stepped onto the path, using his hip to knock the door shut. ‘Let’s get you in.’

  As he spoke, Griff glanced along the driveway. His lump of a Land Rover was still there, but Evie’s Mini was missing. ‘Looks like your mum’s out.’ He rubbed Dylan’s back and kissed the top of his head. ‘I thought she’d be here to greet us.’ He revised his statement. ‘You. I thought she’d be here to greet you.’

  The house was still and quiet, the only sign of life being Ozzy’s tail sweeping away at a small area of kitchen floor. He’d have to wait. Dylan needed changing. The white sleepsuit the hospital had lent him was a little snug, but since he’d arrived there in nothing other than a nappy, there was no complaint to make.

  Conscious of his son’s lack of movement, Griff tucked in his chin and looked at him. The boy’s tiny rosebud mouth was parted and his dark, button eyes were closed.

  A deep, satisfying sigh, which Griff not only heard but experienced as Dylan’s body expanded within his arms, broke the anxious pause. His baby’s breath was followed by his own. ‘It’s going to take some time before I stop watching you,’ he said. ‘Can’t go through another day like yesterday.’

  But he was in no position to keep his promise, not the way things were right now, and that hurt.

  With his precious cargo in his arms, Griff forwent his usual two by two ascension to the landing, and took one step at a time, his footfall making little sound. He crept into Dylan’s room, laid him on the changing table and undid the poppers of the sleepsuit, easing his son’s relaxed limbs out of the sleeves and legs. He changed Dylan’s nappy without disturbing him, slipped him into a pair of pyjamas, and transferred him to his bed.

  Griff kneeled at his side, keeping guard.

  If Evie allowed it, he’d be doing that for all of them – watching over them. They were his family; his responsibility. His loved ones.

  With his arms resting on the hard, wooden edge of the bed frame, Griff clenched his fists together and supported his head with them. He was so damned tired.

  ‘You’re home.’

  The voice startled him into answering, but he stayed hunched over. ‘We’ve been back a few minutes. Where were you?’

  ‘In bed.’

  The belligerent tone forced Griff to look up, and he realised his mistake.

  ‘Sorry, Tess. I thought you were your mum.’ He attempted an apologetic smile. ‘You sound alike.’

  ‘She was hoping to be here. She must have got delayed.’

  Griff straightened up and stretched out his arms, tensing and relaxing his muscles to get his stiff, night-in-a-chair joints working again. ‘She’s at my dad’s, isn’t she?’

  Tess nodded. ‘She was going to wait, but we weren’t sure what time the hospital would release you. And Logan kept calling.’ She peered at the bed. ‘How’s Dylan?’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Sleep’s the best cure.’ Griff glanced at Tess. She looked as rough as he felt. ‘How are you?’

  Tess sauntered across to the nursing chair and collapsed into it – an unusual move on her behalf, suggesting she was willing to engage in conversation.

  ‘Tired, mainly,’ she said, rocking the chair back and forth. ‘I told Mum I was okay. She didn’t want to leave me here, but I could see she
was worried about Logan.’

  Griff gave Dylan another check before leaving his side. He leaned against a set of white drawers a few feet away from Tess. If he encroached on her personal space, he knew she’d edge away. To keep Tess near, he needed to keep his distance. One day he’d find out why. It had something to do with Evie’s first husband, that much he knew, but neither Evie nor Tess had discussed their past in detail, and he wasn’t about to press for information now. He propped the heels of his hands on the dresser, crossed his ankles and stifled a yawn. ‘Tired just about covers it. Can I get you anything?’

  The chair came to a halt. ‘I’m good, thanks. Mum made sure I was sorted.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting she hadn’t.’ The stare Griff was getting wasn’t the harshest he’d received from Tess, but it left him in no doubt his offer of help had insulted her. Teenagers. They were all the same. In his days as a Coastguard Rescue Officer he’d risked his life for a selection of scowls, scorns and mutterings of, ‘I didn’t need your help.’ Par for the course.

  He’d been like that once. So had Kieran.

  The arrogance of youth was a dangerous thing.

  ‘I can’t fight with you, Tess. Not today.’ From the corner of his eye, Griff saw Tess shrug, rise from the chair and slouch her way to the door.

  ‘I wasn’t looking for a fight.’

  ‘What was with the stare?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Griff.’ Tess slammed her hand onto the wall and glowered at him. ‘That wasn’t a stare.’

  ‘Don’t swear.’

  Tess’s jaw set firm, her eyes narrowed and her glare pinned Griff to the drawers. ‘This is the stare.’ She paused, clearly allowing Griff time to appreciate its power. ‘And I’ll bloody swear if I want to. You don’t get to tell me what to do. You are not my …’

  Griff was immediately on alert, and he stood erect in anticipation of Tess’s attack. He could count on one hand the number of times she’d used the father–daughter beating against him, but each lashing cut deeper to the bone than the last. He wanted to be a father to her, but Tess was right: it was something he could never be, no matter how much he felt it in his heart.

  To his surprise, Tess closed Dylan’s safety gate and retreated onto the landing.

  ‘We’re both sleep-deprived,’ she said. ‘And I don’t have the energy for some weird Griff Hendry version of the Battle of Trafalgar.’

  That was something. Neither did Griff. The likelihood was Tess would sink him without a trace. He waited to see what she did next, breathing a little easier now the warning light had gone to amber, and was surprised to hear her voice echo from downstairs.

  ‘Believe it or not, I think what you did for Dylan was pretty cool.’

  After a bout of fitful dreams and sudden, waking jerks that jolted the chair, Griff conceded defeat, rose to his full height and ventured to the window. Surely Evie was home now.

  The empty space on the gravel indicated not.

  ‘This needs to be sorted.’ For too long Evie had been at the beck and call of Logan. Even before the rift in their marriage, the differing approaches towards the old man’s care had created tension between Griff and Evie. Her compassion was one of the reasons Griff loved her, but she had to learn when to say no. Logan did need help, that fact was not in dispute, but he was taking advantage of Evie, and it wasn’t on.

  Griff was of a mind to employ an outside care firm and present it as a fait accompli, but that would get him nowhere, except out through the door of both houses.

  A heavy sigh did nothing to relieve the weight of his concerns. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ His words, deadened by the glass, were aimed at Dylan. ‘Promise you’ll always be straight with me, son. Always tell me the truth. Even if it’s to tell me I’m too difficult to live with.’ He turned, hoping his child’s innocent features would fill him with renewed optimism and faith.

  The half-size bed was empty.

  Griff pushed past the open gate, ran to the top of the stairs and lunged for the wooden support. ‘Tess! Where’s Dylan?’

  The living room door opened a crack and Tess poked her head round. ‘He’s in here. Why the panic?’

  Relaxing his grip, Griff slid his hand down the bannister. ‘Nothing. My fault. I was expecting to see him in his bed, that’s all. Is he okay?’ He jogged down the stairs, ensured the lower gate was secure, and waited for Tess to clear the way into the lounge.

  ‘Of course he’s okay. He’s playing.’ She stepped back and pointed to Dylan, who was busy crawling in between two piles of books. ‘He woke up, so I brought him down.’

  Griff surveyed the scene. His son fell onto his bottom, swished his hands through the hardbacks and picked up one with a picture on it of a bright red fire engine. A whispered ‘nee-nar’ accompanied his smiling face.

  ‘I didn’t hear him,’ Griff said. ‘Sorry.’

  Tess clambered over a mountain of plastic cars and giant building blocks and settled on the sofa. ‘I left you to sleep.’

  ‘I was sleeping?’ It hadn’t felt like it.

  ‘Yeah. You were twitching. Like Ozzy does when he’s dreaming.’

  ‘Ozzy!’ The dog hadn’t been walked in hours. ‘I need to get him out. He’ll need a pee.’

  Tess snorted. ‘That’s what I said to Mum about Logan. Don’t worry. Ozzy’s fine. I took him out. We had fun, didn’t we, Dylan?’

  The toddler waved at Tess and then returned to his book, scoring the words with his index finger.

  ‘You took Dylan and Ozzy out?’ This was a new practice in the Hendry household. ‘I didn’t think I was sleeping that heavily,’ said Griff. Or that long. Certainly not long enough for his family to alter their habits. The speed with which life was changing was disconcerting, and the fact it was happening without him was unnerving, but, more important than that, Tess had done something for him. And it wasn’t an empty gesture. She was still recovering from the effects of the sick bug, but she’d taken on Griff’s responsibilities so he could rest. It was a touching, caring and selfless act, and one that injected hope into his soul. ‘Thank you, Tess,’ he said. ‘I mean it.’

  Chapter Nine

  Evie

  Logan had insisted on being dressed and helped on and then off his stairlift, so he could access his living room. Nothing Evie said convinced him he was better off in bed.

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough indignities this morning?’ he’d said. ‘I’m not spending the day stuck in this godforsaken room. It’s the beginning of the end.’

  And so, after an hour of personal cleaning, sheet changing, whispered reassurances that everything was all right and shouts of, ‘This is why I want to go’, and, ‘I don’t want to be a burden’, Evie and Logan were seated in separate chairs, in silence.

  Evie gave consideration to Logan’s declaration. If this was the beginning of the end, how far away was the finish line? Her father-in-law was seventy-four. Granted, he wasn’t a young man, and this morning’s trauma had aged him, but people lived full lives well into their eighties.

  She sneaked a glance at him. He was staring at the blank TV. There was something of Griff about him – the squareness of the chin and an intensity behind the eyes – other than that, she wouldn’t have picked either of them out of a line-up as related. Their personalities were the clue. Both were confident, protective and spoke from the hip. Both would risk everything to make a difference and leave a lasting memory. And both needed to be in control of their own life.

  Or death, in Logan’s case.

  ‘You will help me, won’t you?’ Logan’s gaze remained rooted to the TV. ‘You’re the only one I can ask. The only one who will see it through.’

  ‘I signed your Advance Decision, and I’ve promised to see that through. Isn’t that enough?’ Evie cocked her head, waiting for a reply. An answer wasn’t forthcoming. ‘There are other ways, Logan. You must see that?’

  Logan turned, his hooded, blue eyes the most animated part of his body, striking the inharmonious chord
s in Evie’s conscience.

  ‘Don’t, Logan. This isn’t fair.’

  ‘And this is?’ With the physical strain extending across his face, Logan raised an arm a couple of inches and half turned his palm to the ceiling. With his body tremoring, his shoulders dropped and his hand thumped down onto his lap. ‘These were surgeon’s hands. They saved lives. I saved lives. Surely I have the right to decide when to die?’

  ‘You’re disabled, Logan. With rheumatoid arthritis.’ Evie left her seat and made her way to the kitchen. The room was closing in on her. ‘You’re not in imminent danger of dying.’

  ‘Don’t you walk away.’ Logan’s voice had gained strength. ‘Get back here and let this play out. It’s what I have to do. I don’t have the luxury of taking off when the heat is on.’

  Scolded and instantly remorseful, Evie returned to the living room. ‘I’m sorry. What I said was unforgivable.’ She perched on the pale oak coffee table. Although sympathetic towards his situation, she had to consider the gravity of the consequences. ‘You must know what you’re asking is against the law. It’s assisted suicide.’ There. She’d said it. But the jolt of speaking it out loud was greater on her than Logan, with graphic visuals of her weeping children invading her head. That was where it was heading, though. Ultimately. The death of their granddad and the incarceration of their mother. Unless Evie could talk Logan round. ‘There are other options. Other means of help.’

  Logan shook his head and closed his eyes. ‘I’ve told you before. I don’t want other help.’

  He’d objected to the idea on numerous occasions, and Evie had backed him up. She understood Logan not wanting strangers in his house, turning up late in the morning to get him out of bed, or early in the evening to put him back in. He argued he would be at their mercy, and they’d have total access to his house, coming and going as they pleased, perhaps even when he was out with Evie.