Chapter 38
Saturday’s a write-off. He spends most of it sleeping off Friday, the shock he sustained at the top of North Berwick Law, the crushing sense of inferiority that took hold of him, refused to let go.
He barely made it down the hill before dark, staggering along to the station, back to Edinburgh on the train.
For all he knew, Gill was on the train too, but he paid no heed.
As soon as he got back to his flat, he drank what was left of the whisky from Thursday night before collapsing into bed still fully dressed.
It’s dark by the time he feels like getting up, the sun already set.
He’s lost the day and now he won’t sleep at night, either.
It’s all upside down. Fitting for the state of his head, really.
Another microwave meal, pushing the pasta round his plate joylessly.
Only a few days and this case will be over. Then he can get on with his life.
What’s left of it.
Enough of this self-pity. He jumps into the shower, turning the heat up to boiling hot before down to freezing cold, standing under the water for as long as he can bear before rubbing himself dry with a rough towel.
He’s alive, that’s for sure, every part of him glowing from such abrasive treatment.
It’s broken his torpor, given him a sense of purpose.
He sits down in front of the computer. Now it’s time, judge’s warning or not.
Gill had said Reddit (Gill, he rolls the name round in his mind, Gill.
At last he knows who she is . . .) so he goes on to the site, putting the words Witch Trial into the search engine.
The first few entries relate to historical matters, mostly Salem. Then he hits gold.
If he can put it that highly. He skims through, disappointment growing inside him at the paucity of material available.
There are strong feelings about the case, both for and against the girls.
Mostly in favour of Isobel – the consensus is clearly that she believes in the power of what’s happened and that spirits have worked through her.
No one feels that she should be prosecuted for possession of magickal powers (he can’t understand why everyone misspells it so consistently, but he can’t be bothered to find out, either).
You can’t be prosecuted for scaring someone to death is a line that’s repeated more than once.
Most people think that Eliza’s innocent, based on her photo, but they have more respect for Isobel.
Gill’s words of sympathy for Isobel flash into his mind.
She’s sorry for the girl but that’s not the prevailing view.
A true witch, that’s how she’s being hailed.
People wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.
But Matthew gets the distinct impression that they’re saying this with awe rather than horror.
A little further down he finds a thread by someone with the user name HexyBitch who is clearly sitting in on the trial.
Matthew’s chest tightens – he knows it’s public property, open to view for anyone who wants to come and watch the process of justice, but this is his trial, his evidence to consider, not there for the edification of some random person who posts anonymously on the internet.
He skims through it. Anodyne enough – the author is clearly aware of the rules that govern court reporting.
Matthew learns nothing from it that he doesn’t already know.
This is all a bit of a waste of time, really.
He’s slept off the exhaustion that was making him believe that any of this rubbish might be true, and he can’t be bothered giving more of his precious time to idiots who think that any amount of ritual will conjure up what they want.
Annoyed, he deletes the search, leaves Reddit and starts a new search for the name Christian Shaw.
Any number of news reports about the trial, though no new material that gives him additional insight.
Only an article that gives the medical background to cardiomyopathy, most of which has clearly been scraped from the Mayo Clinic website.
Damn it, Matthew wants to do something. He’s fed up with just sitting there, waiting to be told what the prosecution wants him to hear.
He’s never taken such an acquiescent role in his life, always preferring to do first, apologise later.
Go fast and break things, his version of the tech bro motto.
It’s led to advances in the way that he treats patients, cutting through a level of bureaucracy with his forthright approach.
There’s no way he should wait to be told – Matthew needs to get himself into the driving seat.
He pushes himself up from his computer, paces to one side of the room, back again.
He thought it would help, looking things up, but it’s only made it worse.
He’s truly powerless. Everything is slipping away from him, wife, job, position in everything he holds dear.
He goes to the side to pour a drink but even that eludes him, the whisky finished now, the dregs drunk dry.
Damn it, damn it. What is there to do? He can’t stay in; he doesn’t want to go out.
Back and forth, back and forth he paces, poring over and over everything that he knows about the case.
Then he comes to a halt in front of the computer, the diagram of the cardiomyopathic heart in front of him.
A pain starts up behind his left eyeball, nagging at him.
There’s something he’s missing, he knows it.
That’s what’s behind this feeling of restlessness, this sense that there’s something out there, just out of his reach, but if he gets hold of it he’ll have the key.
He’s going to call Dominic. That’s what he’s going to do.
He may not have treated Christian himself, but Dominic might have done.
Scotland’s not that big, after all, the cardiac specialists in Edinburgh treating a large swathe of the country’s population.
If Dominic hasn’t heard of her, he’ll know someone who has.
Calling Dominic means turning on his phone.
Still, desperate times. He plugs it into its charger, waits for a few moments until it’s got enough juice to fire up.
Ignoring the barrage of pings that greets him as it updates with all the messages awaiting him, he dials Dominic’s number.
It’s Saturday night, he’ll probably be out on the town somewhere, carousing with his new woman, but Matthew can leave a message.
At least he’ll feel that he’s done something to progress this case.
To his surprise, Dominic replies immediately.
‘What do you want?’
Matthew blinks. Not the reception he expected. He’s always got on fine with Dominic, not being either young or female.
‘Yes, hello to you too, Dominic,’ he says. He’s not going to let the apparent hostility faze him. He’s got a job to do, after all.
‘Hello, hello, yes, Matthew,’ Dominic says. ‘Sorry to be abrupt. I was expecting someone else to call, that’s all.’
‘No problem, I know I’m off at the moment. I have a question for you, though.’
‘You know I can’t discuss anything with you . . .’
‘It’s about the trial,’ Matthew says, pushing through. He’s more nervous than he realised, now that he actually has Dominic on the line. He’d really been hoping to leave a message. ‘I wanted to ask if you’ve ever had dealings with a Christian Shaw.’
‘Trial, what trial?’ Dominic says.
‘The trial I’m on,’ Matthew says with some disbelief. Dominic knows exactly what he’s talking about.
‘Yes, yes, of course. Sorry, million miles away,’ Dominic says, though with little conviction. Maybe he hasn’t been paying attention.
‘Christian Shaw. Teenage girl with dilated cardiomyopathy. Have you had dealings with her?’
‘Right. Shaw. Yes. No. Maybe. Let me think.’ A long pause, clicks and thumps at the other end of the phone as if he’s digging through a drawer or something. Matthew is used to Dominic being distracted but this is next level.
‘Shaw,’ he says again. But something’s changed. Dominic’s voice is normal again. Alert. Switched on. ‘Pretty mother?’
‘I don’t know,’ Matthew says. ‘Haven’t encountered her yet.’
‘I think I did see her. Years ago. I’m not completely sure – there was an initial meeting. But one thing I can tell you, the mother felt distinctly off to me.’
‘In what way?’
‘In a Munchausen’s way.’ There’s a long pause.
‘Look, don’t quote me. I may be misremembering.
I’ll go through my files when I’m next in my office.
But I do remember getting a very strange vibe from her.
She wanted there to be something wrong with her daughter, that much I do know.
She was really pushing for a bad diagnosis. ’
‘Did you give her one?’
‘I can’t recall the details exactly, not off the top of my head.
But I didn’t think that any further intervention was required, probably because of the observations I carried out.
The mother was having none of it, though.
She marched straight out, dragging her daughter with her. They never came back to my clinic.’
Matthew says nothing for a moment. He’s trying to absorb the information. So much of the prosecution case rests on Christian’s heart condition – what if it turns out that this never existed in the first place?
‘Look, Matthew, I need to—’
‘Did you report it? Follow up?’
An awkward laugh. ‘I didn’t, I don’t think. It was only a feeling I got. A vibe. She was pushing for a diagnosis, that was all. She wasn’t making her daughter ill or anything.’
‘Was the girl on any medication? Might that have been unnecessary?’
‘Look, Matthew. You’re taking this a bit seriously if you ask me. I just got a vibe, as I said. No more than that. Anyway, should you be asking questions like this if you’re on the jury?’
Damn it, Dominic is suddenly on the ball. Time to go. Matthew thanks him, cuts off immediately. His mind is whirring. Without having seen Christian’s mother yet, it’s hard to know what difference this might make, if any. But it’s given him something to think about, that’s for sure.
Instead of immediately powering his phone off, he scrolls through the messages. Nothing of interest other than a text from Daisy saying she’s having fun. And three messages from Olivia. The last one reads: Hello. Free tonight if you are.
Tonight? He checks the date stamp. It was sent today. Only a couple of hours ago. He thinks about it for a moment. Then he makes the call.