The Drowning Pool. Syd Moore

the girl. Searing pain crept over my fingers but her dreadful cries forced me on quicker.

      Then abruptly I was awake, covered in sweat, panting in the lemon sunlight that seeped through the blinds.

      It took me a few seconds to work out where I was. I could have sworn the smell of burnt flesh lingered in my nostrils.

      The nightmare had unsettled me but you didn’t have to be a genius to work out what had inspired it.

      I sank back into my pillow and steadied my breathing.

      The clock showed that it was early morning, but the nightmare had been vivid and I realized that it would soon be time to get up. I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anyway. Having missed my bath the previous night, I ran a tub full of water, laced it with lavender salts and gratefully sank in.

      Fifteen minutes into the soak, as I reached for the soap, something caught my attention on the fleshy mound of skin beneath my right thumb and above my wrist: a crescent-shaped welt.

      My fingertips traced it lightly. It was raw. A burn.

      I paused, disorientated. I couldn’t remember hurting myself. But then again I had polished off that bottle of red. Bad Sarah.

      Relinquishing the warmth of the water, I stepped out of the tub and rummaged under the sink for some antiseptic ointment.

      A squirt of Savlon softened the pain.

      Alfie toddled into the bathroom and had a wee as I was bandaging it.

      ‘Watcha done?’ He had an acute interest in injuries.

      ‘Mummy hurt her hand last night.’

      He closed the toilet seat with a loud crack. ‘How?’

      ‘I think I burnt it while I was cooking the pizzas.’

      Alfie stuck the tips of his fingers under the cold tap. ‘Like the girl in the garden.’

      That stopped me in my tracks. Something bitter in the pit of my stomach uncoiled. ‘Now listen, Alf, I want you to stop talking about that. It’s not very nice, you know.’ I shivered.

      He looked at me with wide eyes. ‘But …’

      I held up a finger. ‘No buts. Now come on. Let’s go and have a nice big breakfast. Then I’ve got to get you to nursery early – I’ve got to go to see the doctor today.’

      Alfie reached out and stroked my bandage. ‘About your burn?’

      ‘No,’ I hesitated. ‘Yes, about Mummy’s burn.’

      ‘Poor Mummy,’ he said, and kissed me. He could be such a darling at times.

      Doctor Cook’s surgery, situated in the right wing of his grand Georgian home, lacked the cleanliness of most GP’s but his reputation was one of kindness and benevolence. Plus he’d come with Corinne’s recommendation, having been her family’s doctor since time began. So I’d picked him over the more contemporary surgery up the road.

      The family from which the doctor was descended was one of the oldest in Leigh, well-respected and valued, often spoken of in hushed tones: back in the day when the place was significant enough to have its own mayor quite a few of the family passed through that role apparently elevating their reputation and wealth. The family seat itself was now something of a tourist spot, shrouded by lines of cedar trees and set back in sprawling but well-kept gardens. Locals were able to enter it and marvel at the baroque interiors and lush furnishings but only as patients.

      In fact, Doctor Cook was a bit of a local celebrity – not only an excellent GP and an active and well-respected councillor whose name featured frequently in many of the local papers. There was also a tinge of gossip linked to his past: an absent wife or some domestic scandal. I couldn’t remember which and was very curious to meet him. Thus far my experience had been limited to his junior partner, as the senior doctor was booked up for weeks in advance, so I was somewhat surprised to be ushered into the head honcho’s consulting room.

      Cook turned out to be older than I had imagined, in his late sixties. He had an old-school bedside manner and a taste for natty bow ties. However, he exuded gentleness and I was glad I’d got him for the appointment. I had assumed I’d be in and out like a shot with some reassuring platitudes about the thirty-something ageing process and instructions to come back if the droopy lid got worse. But Doctor Cook was thorough. After an extensive inspection of both eyes and ears, he had me up on the couch, examining my arms and legs and listening to my chest.

      After I’d got dressed and sat down in the leather chair by his desk, he asked, ‘So Ms Grey, have you noticed any changes in your character lately?’

      It totally threw me.

      ‘I, um, well …’ Blood rushed to my face. ‘Not really. I’m a bit stressed at work, but …’

      The doctor took off his spectacles and relaxed into his chair. ‘And what is that, my dear?’ His voice was rich and low with a hint of a hard upper-class accent.

      ‘I teach. At St John’s.’

      Under bushy grey eyebrows his eyes glittered, very blue and piercing. I had the strangest feeling that he was looking right into me. ‘And that’s,’ he paused to find the right word, ‘manageable?’

      ‘Well, yes. My boss is a bit of a nightmare but, you know, that’s education for you.’

      ‘Is it?’ he said, rhetorically, and picked up my bulging brown wad of medical notes. ‘I see here that you’ve been on anti-depressants for a while.’

      I gulped hard as if I’d been caught out. ‘That’s right. I lost my husband about three years ago.’ Two years, ten months and four days, to be precise.

      Usually I held back on details like this. It had a peculiar effect on people, often stopping conversations. Women floundered, not knowing whether to ask for more details, worried that they may upset me or appear morbid. Men coloured, the more predator-like practically licked their lips and stepped closer. A few people physically recoiled when I told them, as if my status was contagious. Once, the thought of telling them that Josh had run off did cross my mind. But that was such a disservice to his memory I could never get the words out.

      ‘You’re a widow?’

      ‘Yes.’ I held his gaze.

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Children?’

      An image of Alfie toddling into his nursery flew into my mind. ‘One, a boy. He’s four.’

      ‘Mm.’ Doctor Cook appeared to mull it over. He nodded. ‘Difficult. Are you coping?’

      I kept my voice steady. ‘I have family locally who help out a great deal and good friends. Sorry, Doctor, but is this relevant?’

      He pushed his chair back and faced me. ‘Well, my dear. In a way. I’d like you to consider coming off the tablets. Do you think you could?’ His eyebrows twitched into his forehead.

      This was a surprising turn of events.

      My feet hadn’t touched the ground since Josh’s accident. Then there had been so much to organize with the move back to Essex, finding a house in Leigh, starting the teaching job, sorting out a nursery. I’d started taking the pills when my body had been on autopilot and my head became frazzled with grief. Things were calmer now, it was true.

      ‘I don’t know. Why?’

      ‘Well, it might help us get a clearer picture.’

      I cleared my throat. ‘A clearer picture of what?’

      Cook leant towards me and assumed a kindly smile as he spoke. ‘I’d like to refer you to a neurologist. It’s nothing to worry about.’

      I laughed, shocked. ‘In my book a neurologist is something to worry about.’

      ‘Yes, I quite see. Well, you’re on two tablets a day. Stop taking the 10mg. I think the