Cutting Edge

Twenty-four

“Helen, this is simply not the best time.”

“No?”

“No.”

“But then, Bernard, it never is.”

Bernard Salt put both hands briefly to his face, covering his mouth, tiredness; his eyes alone had any brightness left in them and even they were showing signs of strain. All the damned day in theater and now this.

“Look,” he extended his hands towards her, palms up, fingers loosely spread; the way he approached relatives, persuasive, calming; the way he approached them when the prognosis was poor. Helen Minton knew: she had seen it in operation many times before. “Look, Helen, here’s what we’ll do. Your diary, mine, we’ll make a definite date for later in the week …”

Already she was shaking her head.

“Go somewhere pleasant, that restaurant out at Plumtree …”

“No, Bernard.”

“Give us a chance to talk properly …”

“Bernard, no.”

“Relax. Surely that’s better than this?”

Helen Minton lifted her head and began to laugh.

“Look at us. You’re tired, I’m tired. It’s the end of the day.”

“Yes,” Helen said, still laughing. “It’s always the end of the day.”

He came close to taking her by the arm but thought better of it. “Helen, please …”

The laughter continued, grew louder. Salt glanced anxiously towards the connecting door, the faint shadow of his secretary at her desk, the soft purr and click of the electric typewriter maintaining the same even tempo. The laughter rose and broke and was gone.

“Don’t worry about her, Bernard. She’ll think I’m just another hysterical, middle-aged woman for you to deal with. I’m sure she’s used to them, trooping in and out of your office. The fact that this one’s in uniform probably doesn’t make a lot of difference. She’ll never betray your confidence, expose you to anything as unsavory as gossip.” Helen smiled without humor. “She’s probably in love with you herself.”

Salt shook his head. “Now you are being stupid.”

“Of course,” she said, “I always am, sooner or later. If I weren’t, how could you dismiss me so easily. Ignore me as a fool.”

The consultant shook his head and sat down. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do. It’s simple. Give me an answer.”

He looked up at her and back at his desk. Slightly muffled, there was a knock at the outer office door. “I can’t,” he said.

They stayed as they were, Helen staring at Salt, at the fleshiness around his jaw, hating it, sickened by it, the sight of him; if he turned his head towards her now and said the right words, she would weep with gratitude and fall into his arms.

“Excuse me,” said the secretary apologetically, opening the door, “but the inspector is here. To collect the patients’ details. He wondered if you had a minute to spare.”

Without another word, Helen Minton hurried out, past the secretary, past Resnick, into the corridor.

“Of course,” said Salt wearily. “Ask him to come in.”

The book shop was on the ground floor, close to the medical school entrance. Situated in the broad corridor outside was the telephone from which Tim Fletcher had tried to call Karen Archer the night he was attacked; around the corner and through the doors was the bridge where it had happened.

Ian Carew was wearing a sports jacket and underneath it a T-shirt with the slogan, Medics have bigger balls. Navy blue sweatpants and running shoes. In his hand, held against his side, were an A4 file and a textbook on anatomy and physiology. He watched Sarah Leonard walk into the corridor from the hospital and cross towards the bookshop and go inside. He gave her half a minute and went after her.

In amongst all of the professional sections there were a few general paperbacks, Booker runners-up and beach reading. Carew pretended to browse through these, watching Sarah all the while, the way the muscles of her calves tightened as she reached for something from an upper shelf.

Suddenly, she turned to face him, as if aware that he had been watching her and Carew had only two choices. He walked straight to her, finding his smile easily, glancing at the books in her hands.

“Teasdale and Rubinstein. Heavy duty, even for a staff nurse with ambitions.”

Sarah looked at him as if expecting him to move aside, allow her to get to the cash desk.

Carew didn’t move. “I recognized you,” he said. “From the other night.” Pointedly looking at the engraved badge pinned above her breast. “Sarah.”

“Yes,” she said. “You were curb crawling.”

Carew tut-tutted. “I offered you a lift.”

“You tried to pick me up.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?” she asked, sensing immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

Because of your hair, Carew thought, the way you were walking, striding out. He didn’t say those things; not yet. He wasn’t so stupid or inept.

“Are you really getting both of those?” he asked, tapping the uppermost of the books.

“They’re not for me. One of the doctors …”

“Don’t tell me he’s got you running errands.”

“He couldn’t get here himself.”

“Too busy.” Just an edge of sarcasm.

“He was badly injured. A few nights ago.”

“Not Fletcher? Tim Fletcher?”

“Do you know him?”

Carew shook his head. “I read about him. Poor guy.”

“Yes.”

“How’s he coming along?” Carew asked. “On the mend?”

Sarah nodded. “Slowly, yes.”

Carew angled his head back a little and seemed to refocus on her face. Sarah knew that he was going to change tack, ask her to meet him after work, something of the sort. She was conscious of the roof of her mouth turning dry.

“Well,” Carew said, “nice to bump into you.” Stepping away. “Maybe I’ll see you again some time.”

And he was on his way out of the shop, a thick head of hair, good, muscular body, something of a bounce to his walk. Perhaps, Sarah thought, I was being a bit harsh on him, maybe he isn’t so bad after all.

There were days and far too many of them when the only time Bernard Salt felt free of pressure was when he was in theater. Anesthetized in front of him, a problem to be solved and he knew the surest, the safest way to solve it. Of course, there were surprises, emergencies even. But they were what kept it alive: and they were surmountable. Within the span of his knowledge, of his hands. He stood there and at his bidding instruments were put into his hands, sterile, sharp. If something was rotten you cut it out.

As to the rest of it …

Twenty-four years of a marriage that had decently laid itself to rest. A mixture of rapaciousness and boredom that had driven him to find a solace for which he no longer had the inclination or the need. Why couldn’t she accept that? Let go. That eternal whining, you promised, you promised. Of course he had promised. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do? A married man. Senior consultant. Seven, eight years ago when it had started, he would have promised her anything. Had. Now he would promise her anything to leave him alone, only she no longer believed him. Not without words on paper, evidence, commitment. All the times you said what we might do if only you were free.

Well, now he was free and fully intending to stay that way.

She was waiting by his car again and he considered abandoning it, heading back to the hospital and calling a taxi, but she had seen him.

“Helen,” Salt said, resting his briefcase on the roof of his car, fingers in his jacket pocket circling around the keys, “how long do you think you’re going to keep this up?”

She had changed out of her uniform into a white blouse and navy cardigan, a calf-length pleated skirt and, unbelted at the waist, a camel coat. Her hands were small, tight fists. “For as long as it takes,” she said.

“And if I say no,” Salt asked.

“That’s easy,” Helen said. “You know what I’ll do then.”

He drew his breath. In the masked fluorescence of the car park, her skin looked sallow and old. “All right,” he said, “no. The answer’s no. Once and for all, no.”

Helen Minton slid a half-step sideways and steadied herself against the side of the car. Her mouth opened and there was a sound, harsh and hissing, like stale air making its escape. She almost slipped as she turned away, recovered, and walked quickly between the avenues of other cars. Salt hesitated, started after her without conviction, and when she was lost to sight behind the door leading to the lifts, he stopped.

He had done it: said it.

Only then, quite still, did he realize the extent to which his own breathing had accelerated. He made himself stand for a full minute before heading back towards his own car.

Fitting the keys in the lock, fumbling a little, his head suddenly came up, alert. A movement off to his right, behind him. Moving then stopping. Salt looked off along the line of roofs, shadows. His first thought had been that it was Helen, calmed down, back to make her peace, apologize. He could see nobody: no doors opened, engines fired.

“Hello?” Salt’s voice was oddly uncertain, hollow.

Then there was somebody, someone he knew, a fellow consultant making his way with crisp steps towards his Rover, waving: “Hello, Bernard. Communing with the old carbon monoxide?”

Salt let himself into the car and waited until the Rover had slid from its space, reversing out and following it towards the exit.

By the time Calvin Ridgemount got home it was late. He let himself in, dropping his sports bag at the top of the stairs before going into the kitchen. There were two cartons of milk in the fridge, one already opened, so he opened the other and drank the contents down in four long swallows. From the living room he could hear the sound of recorded voices and soundtrack music, his father’s laughter.

Calvin smeared plum jam on two digestive biscuits and put them together, taking a bite as he went towards the back of the house.

His father was sitting back on the settee, one leg hooked over the side, can of Red Stripe in his hand, laughing at something Barbra Streisand had just said to what’s-his-name? The one whose daughter married the tennis player Calvin couldn’t stand. It didn’t matter. He had seen it before, the film, something really stupid about boxing. His father had fetched it from the corner shop, two videos for a pound if you brought them back next morning, but this was being shown live, on TV, now.

“Where’ve you been?” his father asked, still smiling at what he’d seen.

“I told you,” Calvin said. “Out.”

“Where you going now?”

“To bed.”

In his room, Calvin tossed the bag towards the far wall, below the window. Without bothering to switch on the light, he slipped Fair Warning from its case and switched the cassette player on. Lying back on his bed, he stared up at the ceiling, eyes growing accustomed to the blackness, watching the stars come out, one by one.