In the dawn light, Arthur sat with his legs wide in front of him, bent over a box, asleep. He woke with a start and swore. His neck had seized up and he rubbed it. He ached. Remembering where he was, he checked the room for signs that Beryl had come in during the night, and realised that she hadn’t. The door was still locked, the cupboard remained in front of it, and the window looked intact. So much so that it made the air inside the room stale and stuffy. His skin was covered in a layer of unwelcome sweat, and he rubbed his eyes, which felt as though grit stuck them together. Moving was painful and he felt all his fifty-eight years.
He gazed around the room and the orange shadows from the rising sun made it look like a museum storage facility. The hospital bed remained in the middle of the room. The IV drip was discarded and useless as it hung to the floor, without a patient to bring it to life. Saline bags were scattered on the floor and bottles of pills, bandages and bowls remained where he’d last seen them. The sheets were stained with fluid and the pillow still indented where a human head had lain, in agony and confusion.
Arthur sat for long minutes until he realised that he needed to go to the toilet. His bladder was aching, and he got up slowly, looking around for something to urinate in. It didn’t take him long to locate something to piss into. He relieved himself into a funnel placed into a glass jar, found amongst the detritus of Beryl’s medical stores. Satisfied, he went to the sink in the corner and took a long drink of water, then, gripped with panic he turned off the tap and stared at it. The water was killing animals, but he reassured himself that it didn’t affect the house, it was somewhere outside, in the ground, by the beck. The environmental health would find the source tomorrow. He was becoming paranoid. He wasn’t even sure if he could last in here until the police came, and he didn’t have his phone. He hadn’t thought things through too well.
He went to the window and peered out. Beryl’s car was gone. He walked to the door, dragged the cupboard away, and put the key in the lock, turning it gingerly. He opened it and poked his head out, straining his neck for sounds of another human in the house. There were none.
He came out timidly and went along the hall, checking all the rooms along the corridor, finding no signs of Beryl. He’d left his phone in the kitchen, by the cooker, he remembered, and went in there to look. It was still there. He went to it and picked it up. It was almost out of charge, so he found a charger and went back to the spare room, locking the door behind him again, kicking himself for not bringing some food with him from the kitchen.
He went back to the sink, after plugging in his phone, and doused his face and hair with water, waking him up somewhat. Then he pushed the hospital bed to the wall and began dragging boxes off shelves and opening drawers and cupboards. If it took him all day, he was happy to sit here and read every single piece of paper he found, and that was his plan. It wasn’t the best one, but it would have to do for now.
Tomorrow his mother’s body would be exhumed, and he wanted to know why. Somewhere in all these files, hidden in here, even as Victor lapsed into unconsciousness on the bed, were the answers he sought. He wasn’t leaving until he found them. Whatever Beryl was up to – and he truly wished that he was wrong – no judge in the land would believe that her spouse didn’t know about it. His defence couldn’t simply consist of ignorance. What would he tell them? That he feared her? The reality of that hit him and the only thing he could do to take his mind off the consequences of his behaviour was to keep searching.
He didn’t know what for until he saw it.
It was in a drawer inside a file.
He sat down amongst the mess he’d created, surrounded by the evidence of other people’s lives and how they’d wasted away, and read it. The contract was dated a couple of months ago and it made Morningside Nursing Home the sole beneficiary of Victor’s will.