Читать книгу Specials: Based on the BBC TV Drama Series: The complete novels in one volume - Brian Degas - Страница 30

In the kitchen the next morning Anjali had breakfast in the presence of her mother and Uncle Ram, though in total silence. Yet she knew him well enough to know he was building up to something. After he had settled in with his tea, he began to fold the newspaper he had been reading (or failing to read, more likely) in half, then again, and again, until he finished with a neat square. Finally he looked at her.

‘I have come to a conclusion regarding last night.’ He paused once more, deliberated, then resumed. ‘I may have made an error of judgement regarding the young man we met. It struck me at the time that he was most definitely not a wise choice: agewise or classwise. After all, what is he? No more than a purveyor of baked beans!’ He went no further; that was his speech.

Anjali arose from her chair at the table and went to his side, kneeled next to him and gave him a kiss. Sometimes, she had learned, when personalities in a family were unalterably opposed, the only answer was love, however irrational. Uncle Ram made a fuss of pushing her away, but it was crystal clear to her that he enjoyed this moment of being loved by the niece he had sheltered as his own child, whatever their differences. She resumed her place a much happier individual.

‘I’m glad, Uncle Ram, that you accept that my private life is just that – private.’

The cup froze on Ram’s lips. ‘That is not what I said. If you ask me what I said, I will tell you what I said.’

She groaned in anticipation of another petty dispute. ‘So what was it you said?’

Ram cleared his throat and assumed his full dignity. ‘It is still my responsibility to see that you are married. But I realize I will need to do things differently.’ He made a small, deferential nod in her general direction. ‘Clearly, what you require is an older man, a father figure.’

Anjali growled, too annoyed to put her immediate reaction into kinder words. Ram simply ignored her.

‘And there is something else.’

By now she was numb. ‘Something else?’

His duty done, Ram now returned to the sore subject of a prior insult in a different matter entirely, yet a grievance he could not forget, not let go unspoken, and thus unpunished. ‘I am thinking about sueing your hospital for being manhandled and suffering loss of dignity.’

Anjali wavered between laughing aloud and barely retaining her temper. ‘Oh really. Then let me warn you.’ She was galled by his utter gall. ‘You were very lucky not to be arrested. The very idea that you think you can peep through windows at middle-aged ladies wearing no clothes!’

Stunned, Uncle Ram’s mouth opened and shut like a soundless goldfish gulping water. Her mother was horrified.

‘Ram? Is this true?’ she asked in fearful shock.

Continuing his fish impersonation, he floundered.

Holding a wrapped bunch of flowers, Bob Loach walked slowly along the corridor looking for one particular ward he didn’t particularly relish the thought of finding. Just up ahead he saw something – or, rather, someone – and his progress became slower. Sitting in a chair was Big Jess, as if she were a dead load dumped in place, a pile of leftovers in the waste bin.

He approached her tentatively. Appearing to be heavily drugged, she looked up at him without recognition. Still, he recognized her, regardless of her appearance. Yet he didn’t know how to say what he felt must be said, by him, to her.

‘I screwed up. It may not mean much, but …’ He had to force himself to go on. ‘… I feel sick to the pit of my stomach.’ He struggled for strength one more time.

‘I’m sorry.’

Big Jess gave out a weary laugh, raising her clawed hand. ‘You know … last night I’d’ve pulled your heart out. But somewhere in the wee small hours, I said “what the hell!” You can’t stay angry all night, Loach.’ She noticed the flowers, and noticed soon after checking his face that the flowers were not for her but for her friend. Nonetheless, a tired smile lifted a few of her sagging facial muscles for a brief respite. ‘Anyway … you’ve the bottle to turn up,’ she reminded him, referring to the flowers. ‘There’s not many would do that for a brass.’

He reached out to touch her, but quickly and clearly her eyes signalled that he shouldn’t, and he respected her wishes. Her eyes then motioned his to the side ward just off the corridor.

‘She’s going back to Newcastle …’ Her mind seemed to wander. ‘Who knows? Maybe her old boyfriend might have her back. Even considering …’

She never finished the sentence. He learned why in the side ward. Lying in the solitary bed was Jackie, or what was left of her. He couldn’t see much really, as most of her head and upper body was swathed in bandages. What yesterday had seemed such a fragile, delicate beauty had been fractured and torn to pieces … and partly, at least, because this ephemeral creature had trusted him.

Over by the window, Detective Inspector Dutrow was standing with a nurse. ‘She’s asleep,’ he said softly.

Awkwardly, Loach handed his bunch of flowers to the hovering nurse, and Dutrow gestured that they leave the room. Loach was grateful to accept the suggestion, since there was obviously nothing he could offer Jackie anymore.

In the corridor they passed Big Jess, who ignored them. Loach tried to think of what to say to Dutrow, something that wouldn’t be embarrassingly inappropriate … anything, in fact.

‘Jess tells me Jackie’s going back to Newcastle.’

‘That’s good.’ They walked on in silence for a while. ‘If she stays, the likes of her could well be dead by this time next year.’

The thought of her further suffering and early death depressed Loach to the point of tears. He desperately tried to hold them back, though without knowing why, except that he was with a fellow officer, so he must not surrender to grief or self-pity. Like a robot, he followed Dutrow to the lift, which they entered in silence.

‘I’ve another visit to make,’ Dutrow announced on the way down. ‘I’d like you to come with me.’ Loach wondered what was next, but didn’t say anything, rather accompanied the Detective Inspector mechanically.

In some other ward, in some other bed, Dutrow showed him another mummified patient, wrapped in bandages and tape, who appeared to have broken every single bone in his or her body.

‘You may not have heard, but there was a nasty accident last night at my Division. You know the front steps there are pretty dangerous. We’ve all complained about them. Just shows you. They tell me he’s in a worse state than Jackie upstairs.’

Loach looked down at the bandaged body manifestly unconscious and oblivious to his sympathy. ‘Is he one of your constables there?’

‘No, no. I thought you knew him.’

Perplexed, sceptical, Loach shook his head. ‘How could I? There’s no way I’d know him through all those bandages.’

‘True …’ Dutrow gazed at the motionless form on the bed. ‘Anyway. He’s the civvie on duty at the reception. You know?’ He turned to Loach. ‘The one you gave the letter to? For me? I hear he was a nice lad. Pity it hadn’t happened to that punk Diesel, eh?’ he nudged Loach. ‘But you never know your luck.’