Читать книгу Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard - Страница 12

Chapter 5

I felt suddenly – absurdly – afraid to turn the page, but only for an instant. Then, with a rustle of paper, it was done – and the entry leaped to meet me.

Johann’s dog-eared copy of the British National Formulary: I’d picked it up from where he’d left it on the desk, without thinking, and started browsing morbidly through it, towards the page I used to dread. Perhaps today it would help me get a grip: seeing the word again in black and white.

Razoxane.

Just a drug-name; one of God alone knew how many aliases she’d used (like McCain, which I’d known her as first, and which – it seemed – her terrorists called her still). Its very sound was viciousness enough; but it was appropriate for other reasons too. Because razoxane’s a chemo drug, one of those for people with cancer. Cytotoxics, as they call them. Cell-killers.

Kill or cure.

The last time our paths had crossed had been like one of those operations which succeed at the cost of the patient’s life. She’d come on like a medieval doctor – bleeding and butchering in her hopeless quest to heal. I scarcely dared think what she might be up to this time.

So don’t, I told myself grimly. Don’t think. Just do what she wants and forget it. I did feel a twinge of guilt at the prospect of helping a terrorist escape – but only a twinge. The cold, unpleasant instincts of survival quite eclipsed it.

It would happen anyway, and what could I do? Tip off the police? Tell them the current round of atrocities had been unleashed by an eighteenth century witch, who believed she was a reincarnated fallen angel? Oh, yeah, that would really go down well.

Besides, whatever they thought, they’d never catch her. And she’d cut much more than my vocal cords next time …

A sudden quick shudder went through me: the sort you might get if you linger too long on a whiff of vomit, and your body starts coming out in sympathy. Still grimacing, I glanced up – and found Sue leaning over the upper worktop, watching; mouth nervously half-open.

I reshaped my expression as fast as I could, but discouragement was there in hers already. I could have kicked myself. Because Sue had something on her mind, I knew it: something that had been troubling her for days. And just then she’d seemed on the brink of broaching the subject.

She didn’t now. Just swallowed, and asked me to crosscheck Mr Jackson’s next drug infusion with her. I did so, waiting for her to try again even as I compared label and drug-chart. But she didn’t; and in another moment the rhythm of the unit had drawn us apart again, with different nursing matters to attend to.

I wondered what was up. Boyfriend trouble? Or something more work-related? I didn’t think it was that poor girl’s death: Lucy’s friend in the burning car. Sue had been preoccupied before that happened. Quieter than usual; sometimes snappier, too. Something was there inside, and wanted out.

Another job for Sister.

It wasn’t one I’d shrink from. Like Lucy, she was a friend as much as a member of my staff. I wanted to see her smiling again; I’d be happy to listen and advise – when she was ready.

When I got back to the station, the BNF was still lying there open: almost mockingly. I closed it on that awful word, and glanced down at my watch. Nearly ten to one: it would soon be time for break, and a well-earned breather.

And a wander, on some vague pretext or other, to the Orthopaedic wards.

They were trying to be less obtrusive. I’d gathered there had been complaints about armed policemen parading around. But the situation was obvious enough – a uniformed copper in an unzipped anorak sitting boredly outside the side-room door. The window-curtain was drawn behind him. A rather superfluous note sellotaped against it advised all-comers not to enter without seeing the nurse in charge – a form of words more commonly used on the wards to convey the discreet message There Is A Dead Body In Here.

But not this time. At least (oh, Razoxane …) not yet.

I’d been through two Ortho wards already; it was getting difficult to keep my cool. I was in full uniform, of course – laminated ID badge and all. No one had given me more than a glance (a guilty one in the case of a Care Assistant I’d found gossiping in the corridor). But I still felt unnervingly exposed; as if the eyes of every patient and nurse I’d passed had turned to watch me.

Pure paranoia, of course. The walk down that last long ward had felt like half a mile, but the two girls doing the drug round only looked up long enough to judge, from the briskness of my stride, that I knew where I was headed. Beyond them, another nurse was perched on the paper-strewn desk, the phone tucked under her chin as she scrawled out a note. We’d exchanged a casual smile; she kept on talking. I kept on walking.

The adjoining ward was empty.

I guessed it had been shut a while ago; perhaps they were even getting round to painting it. The beds had been stripped to their metal bones, looking doubly bleak in the grey daylight. But there was a fluorescent on at this end of the room, just beyond the entrance doors. Peering cautiously through the porthole, I saw the copper sitting there.

No Entry said a hand-printed sign above the window. A bit difficult to miss, but still …

The PC glanced round as I came on through, his expression dour. ‘Sorry, this bit’s closed.’

‘Oh … right,’ I said, and nodded dutifully: trying to ignore the thudding in my chest. ‘Still at it, eh?’

He grunted, but amiably enough. ‘Yeah – but not for long. Shift change in half an hour …’ His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You don’t work round here, do you …’

Oh God, he’s got his wits about him, this one. I felt my smile slipping.

‘Er … no. Just passing through. Shortcut …’

‘Thought I hadn’t seen you. Anyway, I’ll not be sorry to get going. Hate hospitals. Don’t know how you nurses stand it …’

Just an idle enquiry, that’s all it had been. A bored young man just making conversation. I swallowed.

‘Being good, is he?’ I ventured. Somehow it managed to come out sounding casual.

‘Who, him?’ He jerked his head towards the door behind him, the curtained window. Please speak to Nurse in Charge before entering. I couldn’t quite get the ominous connotations of that phrase out of my mind.

‘Good as gold,’ the copper was saying, a sneer on his thin young face. ‘Not much choice, really, has he? Sod …’

My heart was still steaming away. I was convinced I’d betray myself if I lingered for another minute. But I also knew I’d never have the nerve to try this again; and people would get suspicious if I did. I had to get everything I could in this one go.

‘You never know …’ I smiled (hoping it looked like a smile) ‘… he could be making a rope out of sheets right now.’

He snorted. ‘Nah. Brian’s in there with him. And not to read him bedtime stories, neither.’

I nodded; but my eyes had found his revolver now, the butt peeping out from under his anorak as he bent forward, and I couldn’t keep them off it.

He didn’t notice; he’d been picking up his paper. ‘There’s a lot of crap in the Sun these days, too,’ he muttered, folding it back onto the crossword. ‘I went down to get the Mirror, but they’d sold out …’ He sat back, and the gun was out of sight once more. The ease with which he ignored it only made its presence seem more menacing.

Two of you, then.

‘I’d best be getting on,’ I said quickly. ‘Have fun.’

‘I will. I’ll see you, Sister.’ With a grin, he got back to his puzzling.

I supposed if I’d been an ordinary member of the public he’d have called me ‘Miss’; a courtesy that always seemed to come out sounding cold. But uniformed professions can meet on equal terms; and trust each other. Oh, yes.

Retreating – walking off the ward and back towards the lifts – I hoped against hope that he was wrong: that the two of us would never meet again.

And that he wouldn’t be on duty when Razoxane came visiting.

Nick was late home; it was gone eleven when I heard his key in the door. More than a little relieved, I called hello – but if he answered at all, I didn’t hear it. When he came into the front room, his expression was wan and strained.

‘You’re not going on any more of those soup runs,’ he said, without preamble.

I blinked. ‘What?’

‘You heard me, Rachel. It isn’t safe.’

I was curled up on the sofa, watching Question Time. Comfortable and half-asleep – until a second ago. Now I sat up, frowning.

‘What are you on about?’

‘Listen a minute, will you …’ He saw my frown deepen towards a scowl, and spread his hands. There was a can of beer from the fridge in one of them. ‘For your own good, Raitch. Something … bloody terrible happened this evening.’

The TV seemed suddenly too loud. I fumbled for the remote and flicked it off. Then drew my knees up under me and waited.

Nick took a long swig, and swallowed it down. Wiped his mouth, still watching me. Then started to talk.

‘There was a fire-bombing over in Kentish Town – just after nine o’clock. Wasn’t it on the news … ?’

I shrugged; I hadn’t watched it.

‘Well, it was a squat, and someone burned it down. Two people were trapped inside. Died inside.’ He paused for another gulp of beer. ‘Three managed to get out: two dossers, and some woman we think was a charity worker. Shelter or whatever. They’d all had the crap beaten out of them, and …’ He paused again there, but not to drink. Just shook his head. There was a look like helplessness on his face.

I felt my heart-rate speeding up.

‘And we’ll never get to hear what happened, Rachel. Not from them. Because … Jesus … whoever did it gouged their bloody eyes out – and cut out their tongues. All of them: even the ones who burned …’

I almost flinched back from him; almost mewled in disgust. But now he’d started talking, he had to finish.

‘Some neighbour came to see if he could help – so the bastards set dogs on him, Rachel. Bloody Dobermans, from the state he’s in. Poor sod’s in ribbons. And there I am, just looking forward to booking-off time when I get called to attend that. Blood everywhere, and … screaming. Faces, screaming. And they wouldn’t stop. Not even the ambulance men could make them stop …’

I just sat there, numb, both hands to my mouth. Strands of hair had fallen into my eyes; I didn’t even think to brush them clear. This had been a cosy room a minute ago; now – in just my loose T-shirt and leggings – I suddenly felt freezing.

Nick took a deep, tired breath.

I clambered up quickly, and started towards him. His words alone had given me gooseflesh; but he’d seen sights. Such awful sights. There’d be counselling available, and colleagues to talk to – but right now, I knew, he needed holding. It was as much a nurse’s instinct as a lover’s.

Oh, Nick.

‘Still don’t believe in evil people, then?’ he asked me sourly; and even through my sympathy, I felt the barb in that: it hurt.

‘Well they’re out there anyway, Rachel. And that’s why you’re not going on any more soup runs.’ His tone was flat, and categorical. ‘End of story.’ He turned back towards the kitchen.

And of course, if he’d put it just a bit more reasonably, I might even have agreed. Would probably have jumped at the chance not to go out and get my hands dirty again – especially with Razoxane now lurking in those grimy shadows …

But to tell me what to do like that, and turn his back, had just the opposite effect. Sympathy went up in smoke. Abruptly I was bloody furious.

‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Nick Mitchell,’ I snapped, going through after him. ‘And don’t ever tell me what I’m going to do.’

I caught up with him as he was getting a second can out of the fridge; the kitchen lino felt clammy under my bare feet. I grabbed his sleeve. ‘Look, you can lay off that, as well … I’ll decide if it’s safe for me to go out and help the homeless, all right?’

He shrugged me off. Blocked me with his back while he cracked the can open.

‘All right?’ I repeated, and he turned.

‘Sorry, Rachel, I forgot. You have to be a socially responsible member of society, don’t you.’

I couldn’t stand the edge of sarcasm in his voice. Suddenly I tasted tears. ‘Just sod off, Nick.’

‘… or maybe it’s just your Christian bloody duty. Always the bloody same. God, you’re never alone with a Catholic …’

I just gasped aloud at that. He walked past me, gulping beer, and I wheeled.

‘Well, thank you. I’m bloody living with you, aren’t I?’ And yes, I did get guilt complexes about it sometimes – but that was something I could live with too.

He went back towards the lounge: I followed. The argument went round and round. Shouting didn’t help, but we shouted anyway. It struck me at one point, as I paused for breath, that this was the best row we’d had in ages – one for the archives. Perhaps he should get his bloody camcorder out, and tape it. The thought brought a moment’s bitter pleasure. Then I laid in once more.

The end, when it came, was quite sudden. Without any warning the fires went out, and left us there weak and winded; I had the same sick feeling I remembered from school sports day, at the end of a gruelling race. I turned my face away long enough to wipe my arm across my eyes, then glanced back at Nick. He didn’t look too far from tears himself.

‘Oh God, Rachel, I’m sorry …’

I sniffed.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated, almost whispering. ‘I’m worried about you – that’s all. Couldn’t stand the thought of that happening to you …’ He reached tentatively out; I slapped his hand aside. After a pause he tried again, and so did I, but he caught my wrist, and then my other – and I felt my strength and anger melt like wax. I didn’t resist as he clumsily embraced me; and after a moment I was hugging fiercely back.

‘Oh, Rachel, Rachel …’ he whispered into my hair, as I finally let the floodgates open. ‘I love you. Love you so much …’

We finished up in bed together: a reconciliation on equal terms that sweated the last of the bitterness out. Afterwards, I just snuggled up against him, with sleepy satisfaction. No thoughts left now, only feelings – and the sense of a timeless moment here in the dark: a refuge between tomorrow and today. I was probably still smiling as I floated into sleep.

And found my worst nightmare waiting.