Part 12 : Untitled
"We find the defendant not guilty," the shock tracks round the room like a shot gun, her fingernails dig deeper into the wooden bench aged by anxiety as it sinks in, something she's been fighting for months has just collapsed around her. What makes it even bitterer is the trident smiles on his family's face, the cheer as they clap their obese hands together, wrinkling their specially bought Primark outfits, at least her suit fits, it may sound petty to pick on little things such as their appearance but if fills her with a happy denial, that she would have to face the thought of rape for another thirty seconds.
"You still did really well," her husband intones feebly as the sneers cross the court, she's unsure of whether it's correct court etiquette to blow a gasket and rub in the fact her life has f u c k e d itself up once again. She thinks not.
"Connie, are you going to say something," her other companion asks, it's not often that he pushes her for an answer but she's taken up some odd sort of rocking motion as they grow more worried for her, both have been party to her antic's in the past and a repeat performance would be pleasantly avoidable.
"Bastard covered it, Ric" her voice is a confusion of emotions, rage, angst, fury, pity, loathing, hatred. She flinches as her husband reaches a pitying arm round her, it's a belittling sign that she can't cope, and if anyone accused this woman of not coping they'd be stupid to hang around, both these men know this though and still sit there as she waits for everyone around them to file out. Let the ruckus and rejoicing calm down before trailing through the halls, no doubt the family will be doing the macho, 'well done, I knew you had it in you, stupid up-themselves-posh-I've-got-enough-money-to-do-nothing pricks trying to mess with the gormless wonder clan'. What they don't realise is that they're meddling in their precious NHS that by wining this case and having another obese slob in the house may prevent someone from getting a new heart since the life they screwed up happened to be a top heart surgeon, are they bothered. NO.
Eventually the sounds of happiness die down and they're ok to leave, slowly Ric gets up and lets her pass in front of them, they keep to her quick pace as she strides past the foreboding looking group. It would appear that the male members are restraining her attacker hurling abuse in all directions within her ear shot 'told you I'd get away with it ponce,' 'lazy rich b I t c h got what was coming to her' 'you've ruined my life, you utter foolish cow.' It felt like an off tasting icing as he let the last bout rip, she continues marching on, fury quantifying itself as bile as she begins an offbeat run to the toilets to basically hide.
It left Michael and Ric stood there unsure of what to do, turning on the sneering amass of slobs he decides his feelings need voicing, only reducing himself to their low level he starts his spiel, "Do you actually know what you've done? Do you realise that my wife is a top heart surgeon, renowned worldwide, with the skill to save someone like you who's eaten themselves to a premature death? You must be ecstatic that she'll probably be unable to work for what, oh a year, by which point she'll be jobless just like the rest of you scum bags, and back to square one. You must be so thrilled that the sick kid making headlines in your s h I t hole of an estate who needs a new heart will now die because when one does become available there won't be a surgeon there to perform the operation because, oh yeah, Connie Beauchamp is sitting at home unable to leave the house for fear of being done over again. So yes, well done, you've escaped a life lengthening jail sentence, I'm pleased for you," by the end of his speech he's worked hard to prevent a blood vessel bursting, his face flushed from venting months of anger, his blood laced with revengeful adrenaline, coursing through at a rate of knots.
"Michael, just leave it, we're not them," Ric muttered, restraining his foe with all his might. Had it not been for the backward blow of 'posh git, who the hell does he think he is' they'd have left it without a backward glance. Reaching the front steps of the court the reason they'd been there, the woman held in both their affections was dragging on a cigarette, she may have been dealt the biggest blow since Georgia but she couldn't help but look like nothing more than the weather had changed.
"Did you really have to Michael," was all she could muster, her voice still calm and emotionless.
"Yes, Connie, I did, and smoking really isn't good for you," comes the selfish reply, it was clear he was still happily riding out the ego trip wave, it's in his nature, it's something he's programmed to do so well. Care about number one then others, he'd be useful in an emergency, don't you think?
"Oh please Michael, and neither is being told your rapist will be on the streets tonight, I think I'm allowed a fag," Ric allows himself a moment to be amused at the marital tiff playing out before him. "Look even Ric is pitying you," her voice is starting to loose it's control, it's laced with humour that long since evaporated from her soul, she can't remember the last time laughter was anything but false to her, but she can't be bothered to remember. Her soul is weary from company, she's under constant watch, and she suddenly feels like she's fourteen again, like she's a petulant child, being told what to. Rebellion rises.
"Connie, you need some tlc, why don't the three of us get a cab and go for some food and then spend the evening at the house," his suggestion goes down like a lead balloon, far from being caring it would be bloody pointless, she's being blunt, s c r e w I n g both of them and they know this, infidelity is rife in hospitals, surgeons' included. No point in denial about this, to sit through an evening of polite conversation followed by an uncomfortable silence at home isn't anyone's idea of fun, so why b u l l s h I t?
"Don't patronise me Michael," she's contemptuous now, it's a wise idea that they backed off, and she's on a trip of her own, a downward spiral of loneliness in a bustling world that neither of them are powerful enough to prevent, "if you don't mind I want some time on my own to think, so why don't you and Ric go home and I'll come back when I'm ready," it's her own polite public way of saying f u c k off and give me some g o d d a m space. But she's on the street and Jo Smith is walking beside her, no need to see how messed up she is. Smirking as the men give each other discerning looks she stalks off into the distance, her bag draped on her arm as normal, and her pace somewhat mangled as she turns the corner, out of sight, out of mind, no?
"Well, I'm not going to argue with her," Ric muses eventually, silently following Michael as he flags down a cab, it's a boring part this, the journey is slow through the traffic, it's pace quickening as they move further away from the nucleus of the city, the hub, they're only a spot in the map but a significant spot to them. He pays the taxi driver and lets Ric into their house, picking up the detritus that litters the hall floor, quickly flourishing through to the kitchen where he flicks the kettle in avoidance behaviour. "I really thought we would have won that," he states eventually, Ric left leaning on the breakfast bar, unsure of what to say or do.
"You mean Connie didn't win," he corrects, he isn't usually this irritable but he's concerned, unlike her astute husband he's worried that Connie is going to do something stupid. Being in Holby was bad enough; he really doesn't want her doing the same, or worse.
"Ric, stop fretting like a girl, if she wants to be on her own, she has to be on her own, we can't stop her," comes the reply, it's insufferable, and the ego attitude comes out at every possible moment, shining like a star, bright and twinkly. Except it's drowned by the sunlight of day.
She's half way home by now, sitting on the tube with nothing more than her bag and a bottle of vodka, it's like some aged movie, drinking yourself silly to regret your actions in the morning. She's hurting though, the act's been committed, Lucifer's come, danced, and moved on, perhaps not a cry for help but a signal that she's not ready to move on, alone or with help. She's incapable of getting past the thought of it all, of her life in general. It's like the journey she's on just now, going from A to B, birth to death, starting in the deepest, seediest estate, beginning from the studious girl that was, breaking free, going to uni, being the antichrist, the odd ball, the cow amongst sheep, the rebellious life style, the martyring husband that accepted her, loved her, showered love attention and gifts on her. Gave the baby he never wanted, she believes it's this point that Lucifer took over, killed her baby. Destroyed her soul, inverted her happiness, and reduced her to the cold shell that coasts. It spirals from there, the deceitful relationship, the infidelity, the patronising conversations, the constant moving, the journey speeding up, leaving Holby and going to London, the rape, the denial, the guilt, the hatred, always the hatred, of her, of life, of God.
"She could be on her own in the house then we'd know she's not going to do something stupid," Ric suggest, taking the cup of tea bitterly, sipping it before sitting down on the sofa, Mike gives him an odd look, he's clearly itching to differ.
"You don't know the real Connie then," he states stiffly, busying himself with drinking his tea as Ric formulated an answer that doesn't consist of 'f u c k and off' he's better than that and they both know it. Ric can see Mike licking the afflicted wound from the earlier outburst.
"Well I do know that when someone is in a fragile a state as she is, leaving them be for too long is lethal," he muses eventually, his gaze barely lifts from the tea cup as he speaks, his mind is mentally drawing up a list of places she's gone, the pub, the park, the shops, the river any seem possible, he's not been down here with her long enough to know exactly where she's gone.
"Did she ever tell you about Georgia?" comes the plain reply, they know something is going on, that she's confiding in Ric and staying with Mike, complicated puts it lightly.
"Yes, after a particularly horrific night in London before the hearing, why?" he response, shifting slightly in his seat, unsure of whether the other knows about her enjoyment of blades or not, he knows it was happening around the aforementioned moment in time but he's not entirely sure if Mike knew.
The train stops, she gets off, her life is finally under control, she's taking herself off track, it may not be the end of the line, the point at which you stop, die. But she's got the shortcut, the memory of things she needs, the knowledge her life has been lived. Everyone is taken care of her husband will morn, take leave, sit at home, get over her, and introduce new budget cuts. It's his life; Ric has Jess, Lola, Zubin Khan at a push, people who will help him get over her, it's what love does: hurts. It's in some sort of transitional state that overcomes her as she walks, the park isn't far, the grave yard is a little beyond it, she doesn't want to be alone, yet not in company, she's fed up of that. She wants silent company, people who will ease her journey to St Peter, the back stage pass to see her daughter, be with someone who offers unconditional love, someone who respects her! She's well equipped; the drink has quelled the doubts, the perception that anything is real, and the pain. The blades will merely finish the process at her doing, when she knows Georgia will be waiting, she must be, what seven now, she needs to wait till bedtime, say goodnight properly, speak to her, apologise for being a bad mummy, right the wrongs. She's arrived, the Iron Gate is left a cast as she weaves unsteadily between the head stones, then she sees it, "hello Georgie, its mummy, I came," …
"She spent a lot of time on her own and, well…" he let the predictable silence reign for all of thirty seconds before spluttering out the "she cut herself" bit in a haste, as if her were deeply disappointed in her.
"I know," he has a voice full of frank admittance, they've finally cut through the c r a p, the s h I t e that most doctors can be accused of hiding between, sitting with it out in the open appears to have relaxed them both, well marginally. "She decided to use her arm as a carving board the night she got back from Nice," he says it with a deathly laugh, more nervous chuckle. Michael is taken a back someone, he's always taken it as a weakness, something you don't discuss in public for fear of being shown up, it's the dynamic their relationship always works too.
"You mean, she cut when you came back from Nice, Jesus, I thought you'd ended up at some seedy hotel doing stuff I'd rather not know about, " he come across completely arrogant, up him self and egotistical, it's fortunate that Ric is too concerned about Connie's current antics to lamp him one, he's not that type anyway.
"Michael, she'd been put in a horrible situation and it was the only way she could cope, it's not a pleasant thing, but it's making her feel better, I, just, well, I don't like the thought of her doing it again," he winces as the atrocious images replay in his mind, the bathroom, the bed, sitting on the sofa holding her as she sobbed, repairing the damage she'd inflicted, cradling her till some over due sleep wafted into her body.
"You'll never be able to stop her Ric, no point in trying," Michael states proudly, puffing his imaginary feathers, it's a chronic case of upmarket pounce boy laziness, getting Connie to stop self harming would take a lot of effort and sacrifice on his part, both of which wouldn't hold large enough rewards for him to bother with.
"She needs to talk, the little she's done with me has helped her so much, Michael, I'm sorry to be blunt but she can't trust you, fair enough you looked after her when she was first attacked but did you hear her in the bathroom at night sobbing, or the over use of alcohol which sends her to being violently ill without you realising since she waves it off as period pains. I think I'm more concerned with the thought of her doing worse this time, leaving her to come home may not actually have that effect," it wasn't exactly like a blunt blow to the head with some solid object, nor was it a pat from his affectionate niece in a fitful bout of innocence, but it showed him up, completely, for being the inextricably lazy, ignorant t w a t of a husband.
This is it, the last chance for anyone to come help her, save her, she's so out of her mind on stuff that she's unsure, it's a trial of doubt, spasmodic in it's approach, trickling away like a stream, perhaps it's the blood oozing from her arm, snaking it's way down on to the grass, mixing in about it, stiffening as it rests on the mud congealing as it backs up. Her arm lies limp as she reaches for the other, messages aren't getting through, the world is contorted, twisting against her as she jests with death, stealthily playing pawn in the chess game, happy to be struck off first, yet yearning for the glory of the knight, the queen. But a pawn suits her current mood, ask in five minutes and she'll probably say she's content with being the board; it's how her mind works. Aim high shoot low.
"If she's anywhere she'll of gone into work," Michael tells Ric pointedly, sitting forward to place his mug back on the coffee table, his shoulders remaining hunched over as his elbows rests lightly on his knees, he's wracking his brains for alternatives, the hospital seems to be a logical one, yet not, she won't have gone to the place that's terrified her so much in the past, anyway someone would most likely walk in and her and force her to talk, it's not particularly her scene. He moves round, London is so grossly huge that anything is a hidey-hole. It takes him minutes to realise that Ric's steadily pacing the length of the kitchen, lost in a mantra.
"Going into work would be too obvious," Ric stutters, at least their on agreement about something, "when she came to Holby she landed up at Will's grave," he pauses leaving Michael bemused somewhat, the memory of her registrar from last year is somewhat distant, he only remembers current catches, not one's that died a long time ago.
"Ric, talk sense man," he replies quickly, standing up as the various family members who lived in the area flood to his mind, she's not mentioned her parents recently, going to them isn't her style, his parent's are buried near here and she resented them every day they bore breath. That leaves his cousins, none of whom she gave more time than at the annual dinner party. "Georgia, why the hell didn't I think of it," he forgets he's spoken out loud; Ric's pounding footsteps make him ajar from his reverie.
"What, Michael, speak to me," the panic is uncommon, his voice is troubled yet the other man takes several seconds to react, lifting his coat from the hall and heading out the door, silently followed by Ric.
"She'll have gone to see Georgia, I didn't think of it earlier, it's only like a ten minute walk from here, s h I t," they walk for the most part in complete silence, their smart suit shoes tapping filling the tense atmosphere, the leafy suburban streets soon give way to a small park, it's the one she's spent hours trawling with me, yet we've never gone in there, there's not even been a mention of it, yet looking back now I can see why she's been awkward, the gate is a ajar slightly, the rugged path barely visible in the shoddily lit grave yards, the light is fast vacuuming out of the sky, sunset is lasting as long as it can, letting them have the light to see. See her. She's more of a silhouette than a person, hunched against a tiny elegant head stone, I don't read the details, I didn't want to. It's her condition I'm concerned with; her body is flaccid, limp and wrought with cuts on her arms, as we reach down to her side the stench of alcohol is livid on her breath.
They've come, they've been clever enough to figure out where she'd gone, know she's strayed far from the tracks of life, stumbled into the no man's land of limbo, neither heaven nor hell have accepted her, they've coasted her to the waiting pile, sorry, heaven's full and you not evil enough to go to hell yet. Try living some more, the protestations manifest in her struggle to cut deeper, hit that vein that will end it all in five minutes, a quick and painful way to go but with a definite ticket to hell, the answer yes, yet the fear of living in fire, without water, dark without light, sorry without hope, the opportunity to never see her daughter again. Worth it?
"Connie," he takes her arm, cradles it gently before killing the bleed with his finger, keeping her on the thin precipice of life. It's a struggle, unsure of how long they can keep going, liver failure takes hours but a lift of the finger and it's all she deserves. Is it?
The horizon is in sight, the sun setting on it, draining it from sight, leaving it mild to the mind, creeping out of focus, she's not sure if she's crossed it, life or death, living or dying, keep going or stop and fight, taking the pain or numbing it, all in her control.