Lydia

Lydia.

By JJBHughes.

The doctor had whispered that there wasn't much hope, that she would be
permanently brain damaged if she had survived, so it was my ultimate
decision to switch the machine off. She was seven years old at the
time.

That was one year, five months and two days ago now, and it still
gouges out pieces of my will to live. The responsibility of her life
was passed on to me; I was her judge, jury and executioner. It should
never have been that way. The court had given the driver of the car
three years, but he would probably be out in 16 months (according to my
disgusted friends). He had broken nearly every rule in the book: No
tax, no insurance, drink driving and he had never passed his driving
test. It was ironic then that he had received such a light sentence
because of his lack of knowledge of controlling the vehicle he was in.
His defence stated that Lydia, my daughter, had walked (?) out from
between two cars. The only choice for him to follow was to drive into
her rather than veer right into the path of an incoming car thereby
causing a multiple pile up, in which any number of people could have
been killed. His lawyer revealed the ill health of his mother; who
would be helpless without him and also the derogatory effect an
imprisonment could have on such a young soul. So justice was served
upon him, congratulating him on his wise decision.

In truth it was I, not him, that had ended her life. He had knocked
into her, I grant you, twirling her around like a sycamore pod. Her arm
had smashed the rear side window as she had spun and had caught in the
sleeve of her paisley frock, dragging her down the road before she
succumbed to the rear wheels, whip lashing her down to road level. It
was all over in 'half a split second', to quote the words of David
Longton, 28, part time driver and killer.

I remember Dr Singh saying in a monotonous, staring at his shoes
mumble that, 'her quality of life would, should she survive, be
seriously lower.' He had continued, 'extensive damage to both legs
and&;#8230;' Pause, '&;#8230;and right arm would seem to dictate
that there would not be any use in them in the foreseeable future.' I
recalled at the time that he had faltered on whether it was her right
or left arm that had been damaged. To him there did not seem to be a
real difference, but to me it was an overwhelming factor in trying to
keep her alive. It was her left hand that she had displayed her passion
for painting. I thought back of the picture on the fridge door. A
portrait of me at work she'd said, though my feet did look worringly
like large hands and I was wearing a fluorescent green hat.

In the end, all the facts and positive points for keeping her alive
were as useful as a devil's blessing. I knew there was less than a one
percent chance of her ever recovering, that keeping her alive would
just extend the feeling of helplessness which in turn would extend the
feeling of guilt afterwards.

So am I angry with myself? Do I need to take revenge on Mr Longton? Or
would anyone do. Dr Singh was also a prime target along with Nurse
James. In its totality anybody, in any way could be connected with the
event. Do I metaphorically put them all up against the wall? Well,
everyone but me.

After leaving the hospital for the last time I hoped the dreams that
night would cease. The spit drying, crying nightmares of being so
helpless. The slow motion of me, witnessing the accident and running
treacle footed towards her. I try to stop thinking about it for
now.

*

It was now one year, seven months and four days after her death and
three days since Mr Longton was released from his incarceration.
Eighteen months had paid for my daughter's life. Eighteen months of
boredom had paid for, perhaps another seventy years of life. It didn't
add up. My business had also suffered, unable to concentrate and
permanently miserable had effected my ability as a vet. I did not care
for anything anymore. My only hope of recovery would be to exact my
revenge on Mr Longton, nothing too extreme, just something to let him
know that his little mishap had not gone unnoticed.

Bee, my black Labrador sidles up to me while I stare sullen faced out
of the window of our home. I pat her and kneel down to hug her.
Thoughts flood back to Lydia enquiring why we had to rename Blackie to
Bee, 'just because the neighbours were of Pakistani extract.' We had
agreed on a compromise that in the house she could be called Blackie,
but outside she should be called Bee. It had worked for two weeks until
the new neighbour had asked Lydia what the dogs name was, Lydia had
replied innocently, 'Blackie. But only when you're not around.' They
had laughed to me later about it - It did little to pacify my
underlying embarrassment.

The alarm clock on the fridge in the kitchen signals that it is eight
thirty a.m. The school bus would pull up any minute, triggering off
more memories, so I stand up, go to the kitchen and pour another
coffee. I have been drinking a lot of coffee lately, to fend off the
lethargy and daydreams, I suppose. I have to be in the surgery by nine
thirty but I'll leave early today as I have an operation to
perform.

I arrive at the surgery at five past nine and unlock the door to go
in. The place had fallen into disrepair over the last 17 months, but I
think that is because I know what it used to look like. The majority of
my clientele used to know what it looked like, but as they no longer
book appointments (either through sympathy or the fact that their pets
no longer get ill, I think the former), nobody is any the wiser.

I open the notes on Nipper, a rat, booked in at ten for the removal of
a benign tumour on the left shoulder. The offending area will be cut
out and the resultant hole will be stitched back, resulting in the
tiniest of scars. A benign tumour does not invade or destroy any
surrounding cells but grows independently. Removing it is akin to
removing a scab. The half-hour I had before Miss Lucke and Nipper
arrived would be well spent in preparation. I decided on
fentanyl-fluanisole with diazepam as an anaesthetic as it was easily
administered, and the effects easily reversed with naxalone. Either
that or a tap on the head with a teaspoon, as my old university
lecturer used to joke. I place my operation tools in the hygiene wash
and laid a disposable paper cloth over the table.
At seven minutes past ten Miss Lucke arrives, clutching a Clarke's
shoebox; formalities are exchanged and Nipper is sedated. I had given
Miss Lucke the option of watching the operation but she declined on
account of being squeamish. The rat lay almost motionless, save for the
rise and fall of its ribcage, as I shaved around the effecting area and
disinfected it. Its shoulder muscle twitched at the first incision and
its head tried to crane around to look, but it was an involuntary
reaction. The second incision created a small moat of blood around the
tumour 'island'. I stopped and stepped back. A strange thought
occurred. That I had, not the well-documented power of life and death
but the power of grief and happiness. If I let the girl's rat die, then
it would not only cause her untold grief but perhaps a small amount to
me aswell. Would this in anyway lessen my grief? I also let Lydia die.
But would that not be equating Lydia's death to that of a rodent? No a
life is a life is a life. That was instilled into you from the very
start of medical school, the ethical code. The
do-not-become-too-attached-to-your-patient code was also instilled. I
removed the lesion and prepared to suture the wound closed. Threading
to semicircular needle focused my eyes onto the slowly waning breaths
of Nipper. I needed to adjust his anaesthetic to compensate. An eighth
of a turn of the gas tap was the difference between life and death. Joy
and grief. Good and evil.

He was to survive I concluded and nudged the tap. Miss Lucke remarked
later that Nipper was her boyfriend's pet and if she'd had her way she
would put it down quicker than a hot potato. So much then for my
concern. The whole operation had taken 45 minutes, about 15 minutes
longer then it should. At least Nipper was probably grateful.

After treating a Bull Terrier to the removal of grass seeds from his
anal glands and an overfed stick insect's dietary demands I proceeded
to tend to a stray tom-cat brought in by a worried old lady. She had
found it in a distressed state, on the pavement, obviously after being
hit by a vehicle, its rear leg would have to be removed, there was no
doubt in that, and tissue damage down one side could be repaired quite
easily. But what would be the point? The animal would only go back to
the street or I would send it to a cat's home. I assured the lady that
care would be taken of the unfortunate moggie and that he would be
recuperating in the finest cattery once his ordeal was over. She left
reassured and I took the cat into the surgery and administered a lethal
injection with the words, 'give my love to Lydia,' on his departure.
Indeed, it made me feel a lot better.

The remainder of the afternoon was filled with three examinations and
a call from an irate farmer asking me to call out to check his flock of
sheep. I stalled him until Wednesday. I wasn't in the mood for
sheep.

Three thirty arrived, I decided to close as I had no more
appointments, probably jeopardising the event of seeing any customers
calling in on the off-chance. I decided to drive around for a while.By
a quarter past five I was home again, surrounded by the ghosts. Not
ghosts to be afraid of, but ghosts to be attentive to. They needed to
be listened to and understood, I knew they were in my mind and I wanted
them for company and punishment. I was, though I hated to admit,
becoming scared of the dark I found it oppressive and suffocating, I
associated it with the time that I was told of Lydia's accident, it had
now become a bad news messenger.

My thoughts returned to Mr Longton, his whereabouts and his life. How
could he pay for his misdemeanour?

A knock at the door sounded. I vanish the poison thoughts and shuffle
to the door to open it.

'Oh James. I thought there was something wrong,' said Mrs Pugh, my
neighbour with a torch in her hand 'I thought you'd done something
terrible.'

'How do you mean Mrs Pugh?'

'I saw you come hom' haff hour agoo and your lights ha' been off all
that time. You know I just thought the werst.'

'There's no need to worry,' I explained, 'my trip switch has gone.' I
walked over to the mains box and flicked the switch off and then on
again. 'There we are' I
switched on the main light. 'Working.'

'Do you want to come over for something to eat? Harry would be
pleased?'

'No, I have to read up on an operation I'm performing tomorrow.'

She turned and waddled back home, calling back, 'Well if you e're need
anything, call us. O.K.?'

'You know I will, Thanks Mrs Pugh.'

I did have an operation to perform the next day, an amputation on a
twelve-week-old kitten that had been the victim of its owner's
impetuosity. While playing around the rear of the car, the owner had
reversed unknowingly over the kitten's leg. I'd hoped that the leg
could remain as, though it would be unusable, it would lessen any
trauma to the animal. It would also be used as a counter balance to the
other leg. Unfortunately dry gangrene had set in, leaving no option but
remove the offending limb. I needed to determine from my book whether
to amputate above or below the knee joint.

I sat in the lounge, all the lights off save for a small majolica lamp
and opened a bag of crisps left on the table from the night before. My
eating habits had become egregious lately. If I could not consume it
within five minutes then I would not even attempt it. I knew I had lost
weight but had convinced myself that I looked better for it.

The medical tome lay heavy on my lap as I leafed its pages.

Three quarters of an hour later I had decided on the correct course of
action and retired to bed.

I hear the rattling ring of a pre-war fire engine as I wake and
realise it is the kitchen alarm clock. I've overslept. I spring out of
bed, the blood rushes to my head so I stop and steady myself.
Immediately Lydia jumps into my head, waking me up after I had
overslept, sweet peppermint breath on my face. I sit back on the bed
and tears well in my eyes. Can I never escape the mourning?

Breakfast consists of two cups of coffee gulped down in quick
succession. After letting the dog out I collect my stuff and go to my
car. I start to think of a way to get back at Mr Longton. I needed to
find out where he lived or where he worked. How would I find that out?
I remembered his name was David J. Longton of, I think, Chapel drive.
Perhaps if I parked up there like a P.I. I could gain some information.
It was maybe easier to just knock on a door and ask about him. It
wasn't a very large street and he was bound to be the focus of the
local gossip.

On my way to work I took a detour down Chapel Drive, it was about a
quarter of a hour out of my way, it didn't surprise me that he lived in
a place like this. A run down melange of mottled magnolia abodes. The
rat's nest. There were about forty buildings, twenty each side, all in
the same state of disrepair. I drive on through and catch back onto the
road to the surgery. I'm ten minutes late and must hurry to get back
onto track. By the time Mr Lee arrives I am up and ready.

'So how's she been Mr Lee, much discomfort with the splint?'

'No dern't seem t'bother her, fact she seems to like all the fuss.
Bloke 'o hit her's gin us fifty quid for vet bills n'all.'

'Ha, now I know what to charge you,' I joked trying to blank out my
thoughts of accidents. I removed the bandage and splint and said,
'she's getting on a bit now Mr Lee, isn't she?'

'Eleven and haff, still runs about like a spring chicken tho'.'

'Well you're going to have to make her rest until she's used to having
that leg again, and give her one of these a day. Either push it gently
down her throat and hold her mouth close 'till she swallows or empty
one out into her food.' I went over to the drug cabinet out of sight,
pulled out an empty pill bottle and placed twelve calcium capsules in
it. Without giving it a second thought I pulled apart one of the
capsules and emptied it down the sink then opened the toxic cabinet and
refilled the capsule with powdered pentibarbitone. I placed it back in
the pill bottle and screwed down the top. 'There we are now, it's a
course of twelve,' I said as I filled out the label, 'she'll be as
right as rain in a couple of weeks.' I rattled the bottle as I passed
it to him.

'Thanks Doctor, how much?'

'Don't worry about that now Mr Lee, you can see me again but it's
nowhere near that fifty pounds you were given, so you go and spend some
of that money on her, she deserves it.'

'Thanks Doc, yar one in a million.'

He picked up the dog and left. Her life was in his hands now, a twelve
to one chance, but he had the innocence of ignorance. Once the dog had
eaten even one third of the powder it would have about two hours to
live. It would be completely painless. I didn't feel any guilt; in fact
I felt elation, not for me but for him.

I went out to the counter in the waiting room, a middle-aged lady with
a hamster and a young man with a collie cross sat expectantly before
me. The collie had lost its fur around the hindquarters. Mange, I
thought. I looked in the appointment book and traced the second name in
the book with my finger. 'Mr Longton?' My mouth went dry, I felt faint,
my eyesight speckled and I dropped the pen I was holding.

'Um, Langley, it's Mr Langley.' Corrected the young man.

But I couldn't answer. I bent down behind the desk and to pick up my
pen and regain my composure. Was it him? Can't be, perhaps he's come to
taunt me. He said Langley. What if it is him? Don't be so bloody
stupid. Did I look at his face? No, I had looked at the dog. I stood
up. No, it wasn't him. I looked back down at the book; the way I had
written it in haste could be deciphered either way. I'd extended the
tail of the 'g' to cross over the second 'l' and missed the tail off
the 'y' completely. My subconscious?

'Are you all right?' Asked the man.

I looked up from the book. They both stared at me, the dog looked at
me, and even the hamster had come to the front of the cage, paws up on
the bars. I must look shaken if it takes a complete stranger to ask if
I was all right.

'Yes,' I breathed, 'I haven't had breakfast yet, that's all.'

*

I left the surgery at three thirty, exhausted. Out of the animals I
had seen that day, the five largest had a maximum of 35 days to live
while the smaller ones would be dead after their first or second meal.
All owners were oblivious to any misdeed. I felt nothing, I'd hoped it
would give me some type of emotion but I just felt a void.

I detoured through Chapel Drive and parked at the end of the street.
There was a shop at the other end of the road, I could walk down there,
it would allow me to examine the door numbers.

The numbers were the usual odd one side, even the other. Various
colours distinguished one door from another and the single down stair
window of each house had either net curtains or ornaments turned
outwards toward the passer by. A sure sign of ignorance, my mother used
to say.

I reached the shop none the wiser as to what I was actually supposed
to be doing. I bought a local paper and a packet of cigarettes. I
already had half a packet in the car but I felt so perturbed that I
would have bought a packet of tampax if it had been the first thing in
my head.

'Do you know David Longton?' I suddenly blurted to the shopkeeper,
'medium build, brown hair, I think he may have family around here, been
away for a while, definitely lives around&;#8230;'

'Wait now, slow down. Yes I know him. He lives with his mother, you a
friend?'

Was I a friend! 'No I work with him, I have to tell him
something.'

'Work with him? That lad's never done a bloody days work in his life.
What do you do? Or shouldn't I ask?

I just need to tell him not to bother coming to work tomorrow. Or
again.'

'Sacked is he? Good enough for him. You know his history do ya?'

'Yes, I know about his prison record.'

'Oh well, he lives about halfway down the street on the left. 22 or
24.'

I thanked him and left the shop. That was all I needed to know for
now. I walked down the left side of the street glancing at the door
numbers: 16,18, 20, I slowed as I neared 22 and tried to appear as if I
was in two minds whether to go up or down the street. I stood equal
distance between 22 and 24 and faced a window. I stepped back and my
hand brushed against the ariel of the car behind me, I turned to check
that I hadn't bent it. As I turned recognition set in, vomit welled in
my throat and all the feelings of the waiting room earlier flooded
back. I stared at the Vauxhall Nova for a split second and ran back to
my car. I had to stop before I reached it to retch into a storm drain.
Three gut wrenching heaves, each with a loud groan. My stomach ached
and the acrid taste of bile washed through my mouth. I quick stepped
back to my car, fumbled the keys to get in and U-turned back the way I
had come in, not being able to bear to drive past the car that had run
down my daughter.

As I turned the car around, a figure caught my eye in the rear view
mirror. I slowed. Two figures now stood around the Nova. One, a
plumpish lady got in the drivers seat. The other figure got in the
passenger side.

Which door did they come out from? It was the door nearest the front
of the car. Number 22. The skinny figure was Longton, the driver was
his mother. She still had the car that had killed my daughter. How
could she? She must be as low as her son must be. I pulled over and
watched them. I wanted to follow them, but in the time it would take to
U-turn again I would lose them. I decided go back up the adjacent
street to hopefully intercept them.

I was about 20 yards from the junction on Church Street when the white
Nova sped past; I pulled out three cars behind them and followed them
to the other side of town. The Nova slowed and pulled in next to the
White Hart public house. I watched from down the street, parked behind
a V.W. van. It was definitely Longton; he was going for a drink. I
thought of going in but I didn't know the layout of the pub and he
could spot me as soon as I walked through the door. His mother pulled
away and I got out of the car. There were two windows on the front of
the building that I could look through. I sidled up to the first and
peered through. He was behind the bar, it seemed he worked there. He
had a Strongbow T-shirt on and was laughing to another barman. I
couldn't watch any more and returned to my car.

The drive home was just flashes of me grabbing an empty bottle,
smashing it on the bar and driving it into his face. And pulling out a
pistol from the back of my trousers and blasting him in his chest. By
the time I was home I was shaking uncontrollably with anger. At least I
knew a bit more about him. I sat in my front room and mulled over the
facts I had: He lived with his mother at number 22. He worked at the
White Hart pub. He had a lift there at 5.30 with his mother, I wasn't
sure if anyone else lived in the house but seemed to remember another
brother who lived away. I still needed to know what time he got
home.

The next day was spent closing down my practice and referring all my
patients to another veterinary practice. I had said that I needed a
holiday and couldn't find another vet to cover for me. Nobody
complained.

I also found out later that night that he left the pub at around
eleven o'clock, drunk and by taxi. I had all the information I needed
and that night had the best sleep in 18 months.

*

-Which brings me to where I am now. It is four a.m. in the morning and
I am in David Longton's bedroom. His mother is sleeping peacefully in
the next room and Longton is also in a deep sleep before me-

I gained access to the house quite easily, I had just waited until Mrs
Longton arrived back from dropping off her son and accosted her in the
street about how she had been picked to showcase a new outdoor paint. I
had said that her property had been picked as it was mid street and
would contrast well with the exteriors either side. She had fallen for
it hook, line and sinker.

-I pick up a piece of gauze from beside Longton and place it in the
bin bag I'd brought with me-

Once Mrs Longton had started to trust me or rather once she had seen
the forms I had prepared on computer the night before, she'd invited me
in for tea eager to sign on the dotted line.

-I pick up the sponge and soak up some liquid from beside Longton and
squeeze it into the mop bucket by my feet-

Inside the house it was easy enough to drug her as she'd filled the
kettle, chatting away about how jealous her neighbours would be and
what colour she should have. I had just walked up behind her and
emptied a syringe into her right buttock, then covered her mouth with a
cloth and dragged her to the floor. Her eyes had bulged with fright but
she was out after about five minutes. Getting her upstairs had been a
greater problem, taking about a quarter of an hour, but once she was
tucked up in bed, I had the house to myself.

-I pick up the mop bucket, go into the bathroom and slowly empty the
crimson contents down the plug hole, trying to keep the splashes to a
minimum-

I had expected Longton at about 11.20 p.m. but it was 12.15 when he'd
opened the front door. I listened to him staggering about down below,
he'd turned on the t.v. and turned it off again, poured himself a water
and ascended the stairs. I had hidden behind his bedroom door. I had
removed the light bulb and had ready a rope looped into a noose. He
checked on his mother then used the toilet.

-I walk back to the bedroom with the mop bucket and place it at the
bottom of the bed then try to roll up the plastic sheets I have placed
on the floor. I end up scrunching them up and putting them into the bin
bag. The plastic sheets I have placed under Longton's body would have
to be removed aswell. I don't really mind a bit of blood on the sheets
as long as it won't be visible when he awakes-

On hearing the bathroom light click off, I readied for him to enter.
He did. He tried the light, muttered, I nudged the door closed and
slipped the noose over his head. As soon as it hit his shoulders I
jerked back the shank and drove a knee into his back. The end of the
bed caught his shins and took his legs away. He flailed about face down
on the bed and I had visions of him freeing himself, but his hands had
got caught inside the noose. I knelt on his back and slipped the end of
the rope around the bars of the bed head and wrenched it back causing
his head to smash into the wall. He suddenly stopped his struggle,
realising the futility of his situation. He gurgled something but I had
no care to know what it was as I grabbed the syringe off the bedside
cabinet and jammed it into his neck. He struggled again but was also
out within five minutes.

The worst part of the amputations were the removal of another quarter
of an inch of bone from each limb, as once the respective parts were
re-attached, I did not want too much tension on the stitches. I had
also tried to tie back the main blood vessels, as massive quantities of
blood were my worst hindrance. I gauged that he had lost about three
pints of blood. Not too bad seeing as he'd had four amputations. I had
used tourniquets aswell, above each knee and elbow. Rejoining the lower
leg parts where the forearms should be had fitted better than I'd
expected, though when stitched it had looked as if I'd pleated
it.

-I look down on Longton as I administer another morphine injection. He
did look extremely odd, hands where his feet should be and feet where
his hands should be. He will wake in about three to four hours,
hopefully pain free thanks to the morphine. What his brain is going to
make of it I can not tell you. It will probably just register,
'everything o.k.' at first, but as the anaesthetic wears off and facts
don't add up he'll go into a massive shock. I hope he doesn't die, I
really do.

I stuff the bin bags in the cupboard out of the way and remove any
traces that he may see on waking that I have been here. I want him to
wake as normally as possible, preferably thinking he has a
hangover.
I then place his mothers green felt hat on his head, pin Lydia's
painting onto the back of his bedroom door and pull it shut as I go
downstairs.

J.J.B.Hughes.---2001

jjbhughes@hotmail.com