Distraction

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It wasn't her fault. The driver who knocked her off her bike, he had to take the majority of the blame, but the surgeon who'd left a piece of bone in her back, his hands weren't entirely spotless. Even God, whose benevolent nature she'd been brought up to believe in, he'd let this happen to her.

But it wasn't her fault.

Gloria had been left in almost daily pain, as the bone fragment loitered too close to her spine. Too close to be removed. She winced as she tried to lift the teapot.

'Let me?' Elizabeth McBride said, taking the pot from her. 'How are you?'

'Oh, you know. No worse than usual.' It's what people expected to hear. They didn't want to know about the ineffective prescription painkillers rattling inside her handbag, or the more effective, but illegal drugs she had in her knitting bag.

'And, have you...' Elizabeth paused, sipping her tea. 'Have you read the paper?'

Through the fug she'd lived in since Halloween, Gloria laughed. The effort sent a bolt of agony up her spine. 'Do you mean about Jonathon and his latest whore?'

For fifteen years, over fifteen years, she'd been unable to make love to her husband, not that she'd been overly anxious to before her accident. It was only natural that he'd look for his release elsewhere, but how funny it would be her. The sense of history spiralling around, always moving on, but points colliding, filled Gloria with awe. Maybe God did have a plan.

Margaret Keeley had been Gloria's source of a very good anaesthetic: marijuana. News of her death had been a bitter blow and Gloria had fallen into a depression, lost without her only source of the drug. She was a fifty year old woman. How could she buy dope?

Then one day, back in September, Jonathon informed her that Maggie's niece, Zoe, was working for him at the Estate Agent's. She'd considered it fate. Would Zoe have her aunt's green fingered talents? She'd invited the girl over for lunch, planning to ask if she had the marijuana plants while Jonathon was out of the room. What she hadn't planned on was Jonathon being overly-familiar with the twenty-something girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to her great-aunt. And he'd barely managed to eat his salmon, too busy staring at the girl's cleavage. Gloria had merely poured more wine, pretending she hadn't noticed.

It'd only been a matter of time after that, but as recompense, Zoe promised a regular supply of marijuana. The girl was so reliable, the skunk so effective, Gloria stopped caring that Jonathon had taken to making... No. What they did could hardly be described as making love. Jonathon had taken to fucking his little whore in their guest room, just like he had Maggie.

The doorbell rang, returning Gloria to Elizabeth's polite, but banal chatter.

'Should I get it for you?' Elizabeth asked.

'No, no. Jonathon's here.'

She toyed with the glass vial in her cardigan pocket, longing for Elizabeth to finish her tea and leave. 'How's everything at the surgery? I am sorry to let you down.'

Elizabeth smiled. 'Gloria, you need to look after you. Please, don't worry about work. Everything's fine. Grace is helping out.'

The silence stretched between them, The Archers filling the space.

'Did the police ever catch anyone for the break in?' Gloria asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. 'Patrick was devastated, blames himself, and Grace feels just as bad, the poor wee thing, but she swears she'd switched the alarm on.'

'Poor Grace. Dreadful business.'

After a polite knock, Jonathon popped his head around the door. 'Gloria, I'm heading out for an hour or two. Squash.'

Gloria smiled, not believing a word of it. 'Have a nice time, dear.'

'Night, Jonathon.' Elizabeth gave a little wave.

Gloria sipped her tea, desperate for Elizabeth to go so she could let oblivion take over. She'd take a little more tonight, in case Jonathon brought his whore back to the house again.

In the darkened room, with Vivaldi playing quietly in the background, Gloria's pain eased. Her arms and legs floated, as she glided along the sand, towards the sunshine, leaving her ravaged body on the bed. She glanced back. When had she gotten so old?

'Are you okay, Gloria?' God stretched out a hand, stroking her hair.

I'm fine. Happy. But why did you do it?

'Do what, Gloria?'

Hurt me, God.

'I didn't hurt you, Gloria. That was Mr Simmonds in his BMW. Remember?'

She wandered on along the beach, glancing behind her, at the single track of footprints. Are you really carrying me?

'Of course, I am.'

Is it time to let go?

'Only if you want to Gloria.'

I want to. It hurts so much. Every day, it hurts so much.

'Then just stop.'

But who'll look after Jonathon? Who'll wash his clothes, make sure there're always bananas in the house?

'He'll be fine. Don't worry.'

Gloria smiled as she breathed out.

Her mind simply forgot to breathe in again.

*

Tears splashed from Jonathon's face onto the bed. Relief, grief, he had no idea which. He stroked his wife's hair, remembering their wedding. He'd loved her, but he'd let her down. He'd selfishly used her accident as an excuse to fulfil his own desires, letting her sink into more and more prescription drugs. No, it wasn't like that. He'd tried so many times to help her, but the pain was too much for her to bear.

But not anymore. She looked so peaceful, with her gentle, kind smile. Had she died happy, finally free from pain? He took her hand, bringing it to his lips, but a small glass bottle fell to the bed. He lifted it to the lamp, peering at the label.

Ketamine? Where the hell had she got Ketamine from?