The Nurse Read online

  “Are they looking at me?”

  “Yeah, I think you've been noticed.”

  He helps me to the seat, and then I take a moment to gather my composure. Having already been paid to wait for me, the driver steps away, leaving me to imagine the faces of everyone turning to look at me. I'm sure they'll all enjoy my humiliation, and this is the day I've been dreading for months. Finally, however, I'm ready to face justice for the terrible mistake I made.

  ***

  “- which resulted in the immediate assumption,” Doctor Parsons continues, still reading from the report, “that an incorrect dosage had been administered to the patient by Nurse Alice Bradshaw.”

  I flinch at the mention of my name, and I'm quite certain I can hear a faint rustling sound that indicates people are turning to look at me.

  “Doctor Michael Ames,” he adds, “quickly noticed that a batch of amilocyclin was missing, and it was on this basis that Anthony Harper was treated as he went into shock. Subsequent post mortem analysis showed that it was, indeed, amilocyclin that was the primary cause of Anthony's death. If he had been given his normal medicine, he would most likely have still been alive and well today.”

  Are they all looking at me now? Have any of them wondered why I'm wearing these large, dark glasses?

  “Nurse Bradshaw was immediately placed on unpaid leave,” Doctor Parsons explains, “while the investigation into this horrific tragedy began. Every hospital worker who came into contact with Anthony Harper has been thoroughly interviewed, and we have sought to determine exactly what chain of events led to the boy being given the wrong medicine. We have done this not only out of respect for Anthony's life and his family, but also because we have a duty to learn from what happened and to ensure that it can never be repeated.”

  The room falls silent for a moment. Now Doctor Parsons is going to deliver a summary of the review's conclusion, and my guilt will be confirmed. I've waited so long for this moment.

  “It is the finding of this review board,” he continues, “that Anthony Harper's death was primarily caused by Nurse Angela Ajo's failure to notify her colleagues that a quantity of amilocyclin had been incorrectly transferred to an unmarked container. The hospital has strict policies regarding the transferal of medical supplies, and on this occasion those policies were not followed. No blame can be attached to Doctor Michael Ames or to any of the other staff members who were on duty that day. In particular, I would like to confirm that the review board completely clears Nurse Alice Bradshaw of any wrongdoing. I know that certain media stories targeted Nurse Bradshaw in the immediate aftermath of this tragedy, and I hope that the board's conclusions will be of some comfort to her, and that she will be able to move past these awful events. She is a trusted and valued member of the hospital's staff, and we very much look forward to welcoming her back.”

  There's a fresh rustle of voices all around me, but I'm more focused on the words I just heard. I know I must be wrong, that I must have imagined everything that Doctor Parsons seemed to say. I know I'm guilty, I know Anthony Harper's death was my fault, but...

  For the next few minutes, I sit in a daze as the report's final pages are read out. Over and over, Doctor Parsons explains that I have been cleared of any wrongdoing. He has to be mistaken, or perhaps this is some kind of cruel joke, but eventually he starts accepting questions from the floor, and several people ask him about me. They want to know if I'm truly innocent, and he says repeatedly that I'm a good nurse.

  “Hey,” a hushed female voice says, nudging my arm, “Alice. I'm so pleased for you. I know you were really hard on yourself, and I know some people blamed you... I just wanted you to know, I always had faith in you.”

  “So are you coming back to work,” another voice asks. “We'd be really glad to have you back on the ward, Alice. It hasn't been the same without you.”

  “Alice?”

  I freeze as soon as I recognize this third voice.

  Doctor Ames.

  “It seems I owe you an apology,” he continues, and it sounds as if he's standing right next to me. “I should have taken more time to analyze the facts before...”

  His voice trails off for a moment.

  “Well, like I said, I'm extremely sorry for blaming you. It's quite clear now that Anthony Harper's death was in no way your fault. It must be such a relief to finally know that.”

  I sit completely still, unable to truly believe what I'm hearing. I know I'm to blame for what happened, and I know the review board is going to accuse me of killing the boy, so why are these people acting as if I did nothing wrong?

  “You're a murderer,” I hear Father's voice sneering, echoing through my thoughts. “You killed that kid and you deserve to rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

  “Alice?” one of the other nurses asks cautiously. “Are you okay?”

  Feeling a faint trickle on my cheek, I reach up and wipe the tear away. Another comes soon enough, and then another. I should leave, and find somewhere private so that I can get my thoughts together, but I feel as if I might collapse if I try to stand. Instead, therefore, I simply wipe away more tears, even as I hear more murmurings of concern all around me.

  “Alice, what's wrong?” Doctor Ames asks.

  “Nothing,” I stammer, as tears reach my lips, “I just -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that the tears don't taste like tears at all. Instead of salt, I'm tasting blood, and when I reach up and slip a finger behind my sunglasses, I find that the stitches in my left eye have come slightly undone, allowing blood to leak out. I was so certain that I had managed to make the wounds neat and tidy, but now it seems they're coming undone, and more and more blood is flowing down my face.

  “Excuse me,” I whisper, getting to my feet and staggering forward, forcing myself to keep going even though my knees feel terribly weak. “I must get to the -”

  Suddenly my legs buckle and I topple forward, although someone catches me before I hit the ground. My sunglasses fall away, however, and I'm unable to keep them from clattering to the floor. As I'm helped into another chair, I hear gasps of shock from all around.

  “Oh God,” a voice says nearby, “what happened to her eyes?”

  “Call an emergency team!” another voice yells. “Hurry!”

  “I'm fine,” I gasp, although blood is flowing down my face and running into my mouth now. “Please, I'm absolutely fine. There's no need to make a fuss...”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Alice - Twenty years ago

  “Please,” I tell the taxi driver as I stagger through the front door, “just go. I don't need you anymore.”

  “But -”

  I swing the door shut, cutting him off, and then I stagger forward until I collapse at the bottom of the stairs. Blood is still running down my face, but I refused all help at the hospital and I shall refuse all help now. They wanted me to go to the emergency room, to talk to them and explain everything. I couldn't, though. I had to get back to the house.

  To him.

  “Malcolm, is that you?” Father yells from upstairs. “Did you hear any news yet? Did they throw the book at the dumb bitch?”

  “I'm not a...” I whisper, but my voice trails off.

  I've lost a considerable amount of blood, and I'm starting to feel rather weak.

  “I hope they throw her in a cell,” he continues, “and leave her to rot. I always knew she'd be a terrible nurse, and I was right. She's not fit to wipe other people's arses.”

  I try getting to my feet, but I know I'll only fall again. Instead, I start hauling myself up the stairs on my hands and knees, determined to get to Father's room. He's still calling out, and it seems that he thinks I must be Malcolm. By the time I get to the top of the stairs, however, I can hear a hint of doubt in his voice, as if perhaps he's starting to consider some other possibility. He sounds a little nervous, maybe even scared, and I can't help smiling as I drag myself across the landing, heading toward his bedroom door.

  “What's g
oing on out there?” Father shouts as I grab the door-frame and pull myself through. “Where's the -”

  His voice stops suddenly.

  Evidently he must have seen me now.

  “Alice?” he stammers, clearly shocked. “What are you... What...”

  “I didn't kill him,” I gasp, feeling weaker and weaker as I rest on the floor for a moment. “I didn't kill him, Father. It wasn't my fault.”

  “Why are you wearing those sunglasses in the house?” he asks. “Alice, what's going on? Is that blood on your face?”

  Pulling myself forward, I crawl to the side of his bed and then I drag myself up until I'm sitting on the edge. I feel breathless and on the verge of collapse, but pure anger is forcing me to stay upright. My mind is racing so fast, I can't even think properly.

  “I didn't do it,” I whimper, as more blood runs down my face. “I didn't kill him. You said I did, you made me believe it was all my fault... For months and months, you taunted me and called me a killer, and I started to believe you, but it wasn't... I was a good nurse...”

  “What's wrong with your eyes?” he asks cautiously.

  Taking the sunglasses away, I turn toward him. I can't see him, of course, but I can hear the gasp of shock.

  “Oh God,” he says after a moment. “Alice...”

  “You told me so many times that I was guilty,” I whisper, unable to raise my voice any further, “and I believed it. Just you and me in this godforsaken house, day after day and night after night... You were constantly tell me that I was to blame and I believed you. I even started to see the little boy in the house, because you planted the idea in my head that he was haunting me. I couldn't handle the guilt, so...”

  “You need help,” he gasps, and I can hear the bed creaking now as he tries in vain to pull away from me. “You're not right in the head. I always knew that. There's something wrong with you and -”

  “Is there?” I ask, feeling a renewed burst of energy as I reach over and grab a pair of scissors from the bedside table. They're exactly where I left them. I've always been very precise about these things. “Is there something wrong with me, Father?”

  “What are you doing with those? You crazy bitch, what -”

  “I'm not crazy!” I shout.

  “You're -”

  Before he can get another word out, I let out a cry of anger and drive the scissors into his chest. I feel his body shudder, and he groans as I pull the scissors out and stab him again. There's blood on my hands now, and more blood is erupting from his wounds, but I know I have to keep going until I've shut him up forever. He tries to say something, but I block his voice out and stab him over and over, determined to finally strike his withered heart. His body is shuddering now and I'm certain I've struck several fatal blows, but still I can't stop.

  “You lied!” I hiss, and my voice is trembling with fury. “You told me so many times that I was crazy, and that I was a monster, and I started to believe you but you were wrong!”

  I keep striking him, plunging the scissors into his bloodied chest for several more minutes. Long after the last gasp has left his lips, and long after his body has stopped twitching, I keep striking him.

  Finally, feeling a fresh wave of anger, I struggle to my feet with the scissors still in my hand.

  I can hear blood dripping down onto the wooden floor, but – other than that faint sound – the room is silent.

  I wait.

  Nothing.

  “Do you have nothing to say now?” I ask after a few minutes. “Don't you want to come back as a ghost and taunt me again? I'll wait right here for you. Come on, Father, give me a sign. This can't be the end.”

  I stand in silence for several more minutes, but the house seems so quiet now.

  And then suddenly I hear footsteps downstairs.

  “I found some old books in the shed,” Malcolm calls up, “but that's about it. Nothing too interesting.”

  I listen as he comes up and reaches the landing.

  “I think maybe Alice has been reorganizing things,” he continues, coming into the room behind me, “so it'll have to wait 'til I get back from holiday, but...”

  His voice trails off.

  He must have seen what I've done.

  “Alice?” he stammers, stepping closer. “Dad? Oh God, what have you -”

  I turn as he rushes toward me, and suddenly he slams into me with enough force to drive the scissors into his chest. I was holding them in my right hand, I hadn't even meant to use them again, but now I can hear Malcolm's gasps as he grabs my shoulders and tries to hold himself up. I fear that whereas I had to strike Father scores of times to find his heart, I have located Malcolm's at the first attempt. And it wasn't even an attempt, not really.

  I don't say a word as, over the next few seconds, he slowly drops down to the floor and collapses at my feet. He lets out a few more pained gasps, and I think perhaps he tries to say something, but there's nothing to be done for him. I simply listen to the sound of my brother dying, and eventually he falls still.

  And now the house is silent again.

  “I didn't kill Anthony Harper,” I say out loud, and those five words send an immediate shiver through my chest.

  I wait, just in case the child's ghost might want to say something, but all I hear is silence once more. He was never here. Not really.

  Stepping forward, I almost trip over my brother's body, but I manage to reach the door and head out onto the landing before slumping down. I feel so weak now, I honestly don't think I shall ever be able to get up again. Leaning against the wall, I take a series of slow, shallow breaths and drop the scissors, letting them clatter to the floor. My head droops a little and I feel myself slipping into darkness, and I realize that this misery might finally be coming to an end. At least I learned the truth, and I know now that the poor boy's death wasn't my fault at all.

  Someone knocks on the door downstairs, but I don't have the energy to answer. There are more knocks, but I slip down and my head bumps against the floorboards.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Alice - Twenty years ago

  “Okay,” a voice says firmly, somewhere in the distance, “get her onto the stretcher. She's lost a lot of blood, so let's move!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Alice - Twenty years ago

  “But do you understand why you're here, Alice? Do you understand that the court felt this would be the best place for you to be incarcerated, while you're assessed by a specialist team?”

  He falls silent for a moment.

  Is he waiting for me to say something?

  “Alice? Are you listening to me?”

  “Do what you want,” I whisper, hoping that he'll leave me alone. “I don't care.”

  “I wanted to talk to you today about your father,” he continues. “I know this is most likely going to be a rather upsetting topic for you, and I know you didn't want to discuss him during the court appearance yesterday but... As part of our therapy sessions, I believe we should -”

  “It's not upsetting,” I say calmly. “It's just... not particularly important. It's in the past now.”

  Silence again, and then I hear him shifting slightly in his seat. Now that I can't see anything, I'm becoming much more aware of the sounds all around me. This doctor, for example, seems unable to sit still for more than a few seconds at a time.

  “There's only one thing I want to hear from my father,” I continue finally. “I want him to apologize for what he said to me all those times. I want him to admit that he was wrong when he accused me of killing that little boy.”

  “Alice...”

  He seems hesitant, perhaps even a little nervous.

  “Alice, are you aware that your father -”

  “He's dead,” I reply, interrupting him. “I know that.”

  “But a moment ago you said that -”

  “He's still in that house.”

  Another pause.

  “What do you mean by that, Alice?”

&nbs
p; “I mean exactly what I said.” I feel a faint flutter of frustration. “I want to go back to the house. His ghost is there, it has to be, and I want him to apologize. He wouldn't do it while he was alive, but perhaps he'll do it now that he's dead.”

  “I see.”

  I listen for a moment to the sound of him writing something down.

  “How long do I have to be here?” I ask.

  “At the hospital? Well, that depends on what the court decides. I'll write a report at the end of the month. The court might decide that you should be sentenced to stay here with us, and that's most likely what I'll recommend. But they might also decide that you're well enough to be moved to a prison.”

  “But how long will it take before I can go back to the house?”

  Silence.

  “I'm very patient,” I continue, “but I'd like to know a ballpark figure. A year? Two years? Five? Ten?”

  “I can't really say, Alice.”

  “I killed my father,” I add. “And my brother. Please, if you get the chance, tell my sister-in-law that I'm sorry. Malcolm was an accident.”

  Again, the doctor's chair squeaks slightly.

  “Clearly I'll be here for a while,” I say after a moment. “That's okay, though. I'm quite certain that his ghost will be waiting for me when I finally get out. And when I do get back there, I'll make him apologize to me. He has to. After all, everything he said to me was wrong, and while he might have been an awful man, he wasn't a fool. He'll admit he was wrong.”

  “Is your father's forgiveness important to you?”

  “Not forgiveness,” I reply, correcting him. “I just want him to admit that he was wrong. I don't think he ever admitted being wrong about anything, but he was wrong about me.”

  “You're referring to the times he accused you of killing...”

  I hear him shuffling through his paperwork. He can't remember the boy's name.

  “He accused you of killing Anthony Harper.”