From Higher Places Read online

  ‘Why do you hold back?’ she said.

  She felt him weaken and draw towards her, an amalgam of misery and desire, his great plan, his strategy for the evening – for she knew there was one – perilously close to failure. After a minute he drew away, she thought to ponder whether his resolve could ever be restored. She knew this, for it had happened before, with others. She gently touched his cheek. ‘Now tomorrow, when I start on the wards, this experience will not even cross my mind.’

  ‘So it means nothing to you?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. It’s just that I can switch off when I need to.’

  ‘And you think I can’t?’

  ‘I don’t think you can.’

  ‘Perhaps we should go.’ He sounded bitter and forlorn.

  ‘Just like on the balcony?’

  ‘Yes, just like on the balcony.’

  His frustration with himself angered her too. Then, suddenly and unaccountably, she was sorry, and guilty. It was how she had felt when she had once slapped her sister in temper and happened to touch her eye and hurt her; the remorse was terrible.

  Brian had turned to go but she stayed at the balustrade looking far into the distance.

  ‘What was it you said about a tower? That building we passed?’

  ‘Nothing much to tell, except that it seems to have been a brainchild of Stricker’s – or at least he invested money in it.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘It’s many things – apartments, offices, shops; but what it’s best known for is that it houses a highly exclusive club. Beyond that I know little about it. One hears tales, of course, but I’m inclined not to believe them, still less repeat them.’

  ‘Could you join?’

  ‘Hardly. Entrance is astronomical, and highly selective. Stricker once said that if I became a consultant he might just consider sponsoring me, but in any case I probably wouldn’t get in. I remember being hurt at the time. He was quite resolute about it. Strange, when he’s usually so easy-going.’

  ‘That suggests something to hide!’

  Brian cast her one of his burning glances. ‘You might just be right.’ She saw him pause, debating whether to say more. ‘You know, you can see it from here.’

  He took hold of her shoulders and rotated her body. She pressed her cheek against his hand.

  ‘You see that pinpoint of light, midway between here and the city, where we passed?’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘Sometimes I bring my telescope up here. It’s not always the stars that are interesting.’

  ‘And what have you seen?’

  ‘Just the top floor, all lit up. That’s all. There’s a kind of translucent dome. If you look carefully there’s sometimes movement inside, as if there’s a party going on.’

  ‘Do you have it now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your telescope, of course.’

  ‘It’s always in the car.’

  ‘Then let’s get it.’

  They set it up in a small leafy alcove beneath the balustrade, facing the city, where the ground sloped away, invisible from above and protected from pedestrian intrusion from below.

  ‘You’ve always been here alone?’ she asked, squatting beside him.

  His embarrassment was palpable in the darkness. ‘Yes.’

  Her response was a wearisome sigh born of experience. Surprising him, she grasped his arm tightly. This time the lifeline she knew he ached for was not repulsed. It was a long while before they again gave their attention to the telescope.

  Below them, across the river, the red lamps of cranes heralding the development of the docklands drew the eye westwards over the glowing tapestry of the city. Sarah saw the metropolis from a perspective she had not appreciated during all her student years. It was like the day she had grasped the human form anew, placing within the grace and vigour of its shell the tissues and systems that previously had been meat on the dissection table, or dull pages of physiology text. So the city could be seen to live, breathe and pulsate. Was this what Brian had seen, helping to shape his destiny so young? She thought she could glimpse her own life-course establishing itself before her eyes.

  Then, by chance, she saw it: the pinpoint of light transformed through the lens into a vibrant, quaking spectacle. She could hear in her mind the frenetic beat of unseen rhythms and see in the shadows that flitted back and forth behind its pearly shell the workings of spirited decadence.

  4

  The dusting of snow on the rooftops opposite Sarah’s flat glistened in what remained of the afternoon sunlight. She paused to look as she pulled at the curtains. Then, with a flourish, she snapped them shut and turned to Alice, who was lying on the sofa. ‘Three,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that impressive?’

  Alice looked up from her book. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I expected one, two maybe. But three!’

  ‘Sarah, I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.’

  ‘If you’d received just one you’d know.’

  Alice rolled onto her side to face her. ‘OK, you have my attention. What are you on about?’

  ‘The first was your friend, Dr Murphy.’

  ‘What makes you think he’s my friend?’

  ‘Confidant, then. Come on, I’ve seen you exchanging glances. Definitely not my imagination.’

  ‘Quite right! And I’m surprised your ears aren’t burning.’

  ‘What?’

  Alice seemed reluctant to reveal her secret. ‘That’s for later,’ she muttered to herself. ‘So what about Alan Murphy?’

  ‘He’s asked me to the Christmas ball.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. He seemed to get good value last time. The Travellers Bar, remember?’

  Vague and troublesome images she could not quite place crossed Sarah’s mind. ‘Anyway, he was the first to ask.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘Davison – and you accepted.’

  ‘Yes… well no. I mean, I don’t intend to accept.’

  ‘No? Strange. I thought that’s what you were angling for.’

  ‘Guess again.’ Sarah said, hinting at the ultimate prize.

  ‘Could it possibly be Sir Edwin?’ Alice asked, with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

  Sarah had not met him socially since the dinner party at Lightermen’s Mansions months before. It surprised her that there had been no follow-up, although she had got to know Brian well. It had even seemed that Stricker had tried to avoid her, in clinics and on the wards, and their exchanges were of a strictly professional kind. But, thinking about it, it was a tactic she had seen in others: the withholding of favour, like depriving a child of sweets so that later they could be used with intent. It was no surprise when he telephoned, but she was curious about the motivation.

  ‘I think you’re playing with fire,’ Alice said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t remember Dr Shalambani?’ Alice had been to the last Christmas ball, when the young intern had graced the celebrated arm. Sarah, being ill, had not gone, but was aware of the rumours.

  ‘So he ditched her and she left.’

  ‘Could happen to you.’

  ‘Alice, you are naive. How little you know me. What have I to fear from a mere surgeon? And an ageing one at that.’

  ‘Plenty,’ Alice said, getting up and leaving the room.

  The anatomy room at the hospital was suffused with a pale fluorescent light that coated the livid green drapes with the rime of a winter landscape. Most of the students had already left for the weekend; only a handful of tables remained active. Under burning lamps the still exposed, half-dissected relics of human flotsam could just as easily have originated from a knacker’s yard as from the mortuary.
But for Sarah, recalling her preclinical days, the cadavers that were invisible held the greater menace. One could never quite be sure what they were up to under their drapes.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Davison?’ she asked the nearest of the students. The girl flicked a piece of formalin-fixed tissue from her forefinger and pointed to the far end of the room.

  Sarah studied the hunched figure from a distance before drawing closer. It was curious how his motionless body, even from the rear, could convey the same coiled-up energy that was ever present in his expression. The fine instruments picked and poked at the grey flesh with the deliberation of a blackbird dispatching a worm.

  ‘If you put your nose any closer you’ll get it pickled,’ she said into his ear. ‘What can be so engrossing, for goodness’ sake, at quarter to five on a Friday afternoon?’

  He did not look up. ‘You see that nerve,’ he said, pointing with his scalpel blade. ‘How it veers away from the vessel. It’s a favourite for surgeons to cut when they don’t remember their anatomy.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘I do now.’

  ‘You always practice before an op?’

  ‘I always aim for a perfect result, but it’s rare to go this far. By the way, how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘Alan Murphy told me.’

  ‘You’ve seen Alan?’ His face darkened; realising it, he thrust it even closer to the wormlike complex of vessels and nerves. ‘I suppose you’ve been considering our respective invitations?’

  ‘To the ball? Well yes, I have actually.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, in the interests of equanimity within the Unit, I’m going to disappoint you both.’

  She tried hard to tell whether the twitching of his facial muscles was an expression of disappointment for himself or relief at Alan Murphy’s similar dismissal. Maybe it was both.

  ‘So you’re not going then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said I’d go with Edwin, as the standard bearer for you all.’

  ‘That won’t be how he sees it.’

  ‘There’ll be conditions.’ She paused. ‘You could always take Alice, as Jeff’s away. Want me to arrange it?’

  ‘Can I stop you?’

  ‘I’ll see you on Monday morning, seeking perfection in the theatre. Goodbye Brian. Enjoy your weekend.’

  ‘Goodbye, Sarah.’

  She walked towards the exit, knowing that his eyes would be following her. Behind her an instrument clattered on the tiled floor. She felt a pang of guilt, but did not look back. As she approached the door, Alan Murphy appeared at the other side, pressing his face against the glass. She knew beyond reasonable doubt that Brian would not be enjoying his weekend but, seeing Alan’s grotesque image, she wished it could be otherwise.

  They sat together at a table in the Travellers Bar. For the first time Sarah was able to appreciate the extent of the material advantage that enabled Alan to transgress so freely within a wide framework of social responsibility. It explained the shabbiness of his suit and the looseness of his tie – and accounted for his certainty that such things did not matter. He might have been a navvy dressed for an occasion; until, in other circumstances, one noted the assurance with which his wallet was withdrawn and the largesse enjoyed by those purporting to serve him. What people thought concerned him not at all. Sarah wondered how he would fare in a profession still conservative in such matters. It seemed to her he would not remain in it for long.

  ‘You’re his exact opposite, aren’t you,’ she said.

  ‘Who, Davison?’ He leaned back in his chair. His raucous laugh seemed to bounce back off the ceiling. Everyone in the bar turned to stare. ‘Could you take your professional life that seriously?’

  ‘Part of me can,’ she said softly, watching his eyes widen in mock astonishment. ‘But then part of me is a whore, as you well know.’ In teasing him she realised she’d overstepped the mark. She felt her cheeks burning.

  ‘Whew. I never thought I’d hear a filly admit to that!’ He leaned across the table and leered into her face. ‘Does Davison know that’s what you are?’

  ‘Yes, but for the moment he chooses not to see.’

  ‘Tell me something,’ he said. ‘How do you square that with your patients – what you are I mean?’

  ‘They see a pretty lady wearing a starched white coat and smile to match.’

  ‘Lucky them.’

  ‘Actually, yes. I do my best for them. And that’s something I have in common with Davison.’ She copied Alan’s movements aggressively across the table. ‘Now you tell me. What do you suppose I have in common with you?’

  ‘Heh, heh. Bitch. Licentiousness to be sure. But mine is all irresponsibility and gay – or not so gay – abandon. Yours is calculating. But the bottom line is physical. Would you settle for that?’ He was suddenly thoughtful. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’

  ‘Nothing doing.’

  ‘Champagne dinner at Lovatt’s. Roadster back to Chartwood. Get up just in time for lunch in the orangery, where there’s also a pool. Needn’t set eyes on me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s tempting, but no.’ She smiled at him. ‘Some other time perhaps.’

  Sarah saw Alice emerge from a knot of people gathering at the doorway and snake towards them between the tables. ‘She’s coming to tell us something. She’s got that look. Do you think Davison’s invited her already?’

  ‘Then she ain’t got nothin’ to fear.’ Alan got to his feet. ‘I must go. Still time to pick up a nurse or two at the hostel, if I’m lucky.’

  Alice was now beside him, taking the vacated seat. ‘Where are you bound this weekend, Alan? St Peter’s? House of the Blessed Virgin?’

  He looked at her blankly as she bent her head towards Sarah. ‘They’re our local convents,’ she whispered. ‘The inmates are noted – no, prized – for their chastity.’

  ‘Well, there’s a contradiction in terms.’ He bowed low to each of them in turn. ‘Bye girls.’

  ‘So, Alice. Back to Brian. Did he fall or was he pushed?’

  ‘Brian? Oh definitely pushed. I don’t usually wear your cast-offs, Sarah, but on this occasion…’

  ‘Changing the subject,’ Sarah said, ‘how well did you know Dr Shalambani?’

  ‘Jazreel? We were friends, sort of, in the second year. Then she went ahead when I did the BSc. We lost touch after that. Look, Sarah, you’re not checking up on Edwin, are you?’

  ‘Stable character?’

  ‘Why, yes. Why?’

  ‘I thought I’d visit her this evening. Want to come?’

  ‘To Brixton? You’ve spoken to her?’

  ‘Not exactly. Only to her boyfriend, I think. Said she was asleep. So I said I’d arrive at five and then hung up before he could say no. He sounded hostile!’

  They parked around the corner and walked the fifty yards or so to the front door. The wasted elegance of the three-storey terrace house frowned upon bare earth bespewed with rubbish from a split bin bag. There had once been a gate, but the rusting hinges now shared only a single fragment of rotten wood bearing traces of black paint. A cat sitting on the step hissed at Alice as she bent to stroke it, then slunk away across the street.

  ‘God, Alice, is this mess really necessary?’

  Alice shrugged. ‘Rachmanism lives on.’

  They were taken to the first floor by a tall, softly spoken Eurasian whom both women recognised but could not place. At first he seemed reluctant to acknowledge a connection, then gave way and offered his hand.

  ‘Ali. Technician in Anatomy. No reason for you to remember.’

  ‘But I do, of course I do,’ Sarah said. ‘You’ve shaved your beard.’

  ‘She’s in here,’ he said, opening the door to the front room and rubbing his chin as if rueful of
a lost manhood. ‘But I must tell you that you won’t be welcome.’

  The curtains were drawn against what remained of the evening light but didn’t quite meet in the middle. The window was closed, against common sense, preserving the stale atmosphere. Jazreel was lying on a double bed in the far corner of the room, propped against a pile of faded oriental cushions.

  ‘Jazreel?’ Alice looked horrified.

  ‘Why have you come?’

  It was a question Alice could not yet properly answer, in spite of quizzing Sarah on the way. ‘Just a social call,’ she replied lamely. ‘We heard you weren’t well.’

  ‘Isn’t it a little – how would you say – late in the day, to be concerned?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alice mumbled, ‘but I don’t remember us being that close.’

  Jazreel jerked her head towards the wall. ‘No-one was, when it mattered.’

  Sarah’s resentment welled up inside. At that moment she saw in the woman’s demeanour not her true mental state but only self-pity. She strode towards the bed. Then, as their eyes met, she stopped short, her urge for confrontation dissipated. She bit back the words sharp on her tongue and said simply, ‘You need help, Jazreel.’

  Jazreel twisted rapidly to engage her fully. ‘You’re all cheats and liars!’

  Sarah could not reconcile the haggard face with the photos she had seen of an alluring and beautiful woman.

  A baby began to cry in the adjoining room. The cries turned to lusty screams. Jazreel banged her fist on a cushion. ‘You see what you’ve done?’

  ‘We’ve done nothing!’ Sarah cried, losing patience. She made for the door but again something – that recurring prick of remorse – held her back. She turned and spoke softly to the woman, who was now sobbing into the cushions. ‘Jazreel, is the baby yours?’

  ‘Yes, mine, all mine! So now you know. Now go please!’

  Alice looked in desperation towards Ali, who seemed to be blocking the doorway, as if their continuing presence there offered a lifeline. There was despair in his eyes.

  ‘The baby is not well. It keeps crying. It will not stop.’