Читать книгу Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard - Страница 15

Chapter 8

According to the Know Your Medics notice on my office pinboard – a classic fifth-generation photocopy – Consultants can clear tall buildings in a single bound, walk on water and give policy to God. But when Murdoch put his head round the duty-room door, it was only to ask if we were all okay for transport next Thursday evening.

‘I’ve room for two more if not; three, if you count the roof-rack …’

We assured him that we’d manage, and were looking forward to coming – which was true. Sickness and workload had conspired against the unit’s Christmas meal out last month, and it had gone by the board; an act of surrender that had left us feeling pretty flat. He’d picked up the vibes – and quietly organized a party at his own house. I don’t know about the others, but that gesture had really warmed me inside. Some Consultants stay aloof; but Murdoch, medic and manager, was very much one of our tightly-knit team.

It promised to be fun: a night off we all needed. I just hoped I wouldn’t be the spectre at the feast …

‘Well if there’s nothing else, I’ll be wending my merry way homeward …’ He glanced down at his briefcase. ‘I’ve got my mobile, if anything interesting crops up.’

I smiled goodbye, and listened to his footsteps click away towards the exit; then looked round at the others.

‘Really nice of him, isn’t it? The party, I mean.’

Johann (Senior Reg: clears short buildings with a favourable wind, and talks to God) leaned back, grinning. ‘He has these aberrations sometimes.’

‘I couldn’t have imagined it when I came here,’ Lucy murmured, from the depths of our comfiest chair. ‘Him throwing a party. I was really scared of him to start with.’

‘You are not alone,’ Johann said, with a wink at me. ‘I think even Rachel is afraid of Dr Murdoch.’

‘Good God, yes,’ I agreed cheerfully, tucking my feet up under me. ‘Bloody Godzilla would be scared of Murdoch when he’s in one of his moods …’

‘His wife’s meant to be very nice,’ Michelle put in. ‘She’s a nurse, isn’t she?’

‘Used to be, I think. What’s her name, too … ?’

‘Mrs Murdoch.’

‘No. Her proper name.’ I gave Johann a withering look; he beamed it back at me.

‘It’s not an other-halves do, is it?’ This – without enthusiasm – from Lucy, who was currently unattached.

Michelle shook her head. ‘Members only.’ Which was what most of us preferred. I quite liked showing Nick off on occasion – but there were times when we needed to be together as a group. It had been the same in A&E, and on other wards before it. The things we’d shared between us forged a special kind of bond.

‘You and your bloke well settled now, Rachel?’ Lucy asked me.

‘Mm.’ I smiled. ‘My parish priest was asking how my “significant other” was, the other week. Always teasing me about it, he is.’

‘You haven’t managed to drag him along to Mass, then?’

‘He keeps threatening to mention that I’m on the pill. Rotten sod. Don’t know why I put up with him, sometimes …’

‘Do we know who’s bringing what to this bash?’ asked Theresa, which brought my head round: I’d half-suspected she’d nodded off. She’d been the doctor on call last night, and it was obvious.

SHO: makes high marks on wall when trying to clear short buildings; is sometimes addressed by God …

‘I said I’d do some sausage rolls,’ I told her, ignoring the look of mock-panic that passed across Johann’s features.

‘Right. I think I’ll do something veggie, just in case …’ She stifled a yawn.

It was almost time to get back to it.

I felt at ease in here – unwinding from a dismal afternoon. The hours of routine graft hadn’t been enough to distract my thoughts from the man in that empty ward down on Orthopaedics; still less from Razoxane, and whatever she was planning. Break, in this comfortable room, had provided a welcome refuge from all that, with everyday friends relaxing around me. But all good things must come to an end.

‘Okay, folks,’ I said, unfolding myself and reaching for my shoes; and the others sighed and complied. Even Johann: because Senior Reg is just no match for Sister.

Lifts buildings and walks under them. Freezes water with a single glance. She IS God.

It had rained hard during the evening: a sour, spiteful noise against our darkened windows. I’d tried to ignore it, hoping it would somehow have cleared by the time I knocked off – and when I finally emerged from the front entrance, I was pleased to find it had done.

The road was a river of lights: white and red and orange all reflecting from the glistening surface and shimmering in puddles. I thought it looked quite pretty. The air felt cleaner, too – freshly-scrubbed of its fumes; the City grit dampened down. And up above my head, seeming not much higher than the hospital’s grey gables, the moon was unravelling the clouds.

So I kept my brolly furled, and walked on down towards the tube station with a damp breeze in my hair. It was turning chilly now, and my long nurse’s raincoat wasn’t thick enough to keep it out, so I didn’t hang around. A brightly-lit bus hissed past; a whirring taxi. Then enough of a gap for me to cross the street, and hurry in under the reassuring glow of the Underground sign.

That bloke in the hospital blanket was waiting there again. Perhaps this was his pitch now: I’d seen him a couple of times since that first day of snow. He sat just inside the entrance, his back to the wall; both knees drawn up in an almost foetal huddle. He’d had an emergency haircut from somewhere, and the result made him look more like a refugee than ever.

Deliberately he met my gaze – and extended his hand.

Hungry and homeless said the cardboard sign beside him. Please help.

I was already fumbling out my travelcard; my purse was there before me in my open bag. I still managed to walk right past him. Perhaps it was the particular grimness on his face this cold, wet evening that made me turn on my heel.

His slaty eyes blinked, but showed no other emotion as I went back towards him. I knew that if I gave in to him now, he’d expect it again – looking for one friendly face amid the daily flood of blank expressions – but what the hell. I fished out 20p even as my eyes strayed to the blanket to see if it was one of ours: we’d had enough of them nicked. Then I stooped, and offered him the coin.

He made no move to take it; just looked from it to me – and grinned with all his teeth.

‘That’s kind of you, Rachel,’ he murmured drily. ‘But I’d much prefer it if you offered me a drink.’

I just stood there, arm extended. Staring.

‘You’ve gone terrible pale, girl,’ he continued after a moment, sounding amused: the grin had dwindled to a sombre little smile.

That accent: Scottish – right? Please?

‘C’mon.’ He began getting to his feet; I backed away a step. ‘There’s a coffee van just down the road. Just so’s you can make sure I’ll not be spending it on booze an’ all …’ The irony in his tone only made the accent richer; and it wasn’t Scottish.

People were brushing past me all the while. I heard muttered imprecations, but not a word of them sank in. All I could do was grip my bag – clutch it close to my tight chest. I knew I’d lost colour, all right: I could feel my bloodless cheeks becoming cold.

Grey eyes. Metal eyes. They made his dirty face seem all the bleaker. And now the smile had faded in turn, and he was watching me without expression. It struck me then that – under the soiled and trailing blanket, and the cast-off clothes beneath it – he must be carrying a gun. Something he’d use without a scruple, if the need arose.

Something he’d use on me.

‘Let’s go.’

A jerk of his head and he was off and walking. It took me a moment to unfreeze myself – and then I was hurrying to catch up, the bright, bustling haven of the station falling behind me. Not that I was keen to leave it, of course; just scared to death of putting a foot wrong.

‘Don’t look so bloody nervous,’ he muttered, as I stumbled into step beside him. ‘You’re buyin’ me a coffee, remember. Out o’ the kindness o’ your heart.’ Walking with my head down, I sensed his sidelong glance. ‘So smile, and say somethin’.’

I swallowed, forced a ghastly grin, and said, ‘Are you … really living rough, then?’

He grunted. ‘For the moment. What better cover in this shit-city of yours? I’m just another fucking Irish drunk.’ The irony was all gone now; his words had the same dull, steady bitterness as the evening’s rain. I guessed that whatever prejudices he already held against the English had surely been redoubled by his experience of the streets.

I wondered what he’d have done if I hadn’t spared some change tonight. Maybe come after me; accosted me on the platform. Dragged me back up top again …

‘At least you offered,’ he went on, his tone a little softer. ‘And without knowin’ who I was, to boot. Like I said, that was kind.’ He glanced at me again – and now that he’d cleared some of the sputum of resentment from his chest, he seemed to really see me for the first time. Including the uniform I wore.

‘It’s not usual, y’know: people from your kind of profession supportin’ the cause. They can’t see past the violence …’ From his pensive tone, I couldn’t even tell if he was admiring my vision – or just regretting the fact that even nurses could get dragged into his dirty little war.

Either way, I almost shuddered with disgust.

The snack van was up ahead: an unhygienic-looking trailer selling burgers and hot-dogs as well as drinks. I went ahead and bought two beakers of muddy coffee, avoiding eye-contact throughout; turned to hand one to him – then followed him on round past the vehicle.

To where Razoxane was waiting. I nearly dropped my drink.

She was leaning against the corner, nursing a beaker of her own in both shabby gloves. Spots of rain still glistened on the brim of her hat, where the street light fell upon it; the face below was all in darkness.

The Irishman walked over; I baby-stepped unhappily after him. And Razoxane raised her unseen eyes.

‘Evening, Rachel.’ A stripe of orange light showed up her smile. ‘How’s it going?’

I didn’t deign to reply.

‘This is Frank,’ she went on calmly, nodding to my companion – and once again I was thrown by the ordinariness of the name. Maybe I’d expected him to have been called Seamus or something.

Frank took a swallow of coffee. He looked about twenty-five, and tough: like the sort of bloke who’d start a pub fight. The press, police and politicians had poured out all their rage and frustration against a faceless enemy – but I’d looked him right in the eye. And her as well: that Jackie. Both close enough to touch. And smell …

Razoxane tipped her head up: studying the hospital across the road. I followed her gaze towards its glowing windows – and for the first time felt like an outsider myself. Excluded. Looking in from the cold.

‘What have you found out for us?’ she asked.

I told her, in a flat reluctant voice. The empty ward, the room, the guards. I’d seen a copper by the lifts, as well; another in the main foyer. When I’d finished, I just took a swig of coffee. Quite tasteless, but the heat scorched right down into my belly and made me grit my teeth.

‘When’s the best time?’ Razoxane wanted to know.

‘Um … To get to him, you mean? Probably the Late/Night handover … nine o’clock. The nurses next door will all be in Report. Out of the way,’ I added emphatically.

Frank had finished his own drink, and was putting together a roll-up; but every few seconds he glanced up the street, and down it. A wary reaction rather than a nervous one, perhaps; but nervous was what it made me.

Razoxane drained her beaker, and flipped it casually towards the nearby litter-bin. ‘Think they might transfer him?’

I hesitated, keeping my face towards the wall. ‘It’s possible, yeah. Somewhere more secure …’ I forced down some more coffee – fighting the chill.

‘We’ll come tomorrow night, then. What shift will you be on?’

‘Late again, but …’ I stopped. Then, uneasily: ‘Why?’

‘Because first you’ll have to get hold of some hospital clothes,’ she explained patiently, ‘and then meet the visitors, and show them up to the ward …’

‘Oh no I won’t,’ I blurted back, my breath still steaming from the coffee. ‘You asked for information, I gave it to you, now sodding well leave me alone.’

Razoxane seemed to absorb that in silence; the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac was very loud in the pause that followed. Beside her, Frank licked and sealed his crumpled cigarette, his gaze not leaving me now.

Then Razoxane said: ‘Remember what we agreed – about our mutual friend? I’d really hate to come between you.’

I knew she meant Nick, of course. The way she said it made me think of a falling shadow, a guillotine blade – but of course it would be more horribly mundane than that. A ring on the doorbell, perhaps; his footsteps going through to answer it. I might be in the kitchen, or reading a book. And then …

I’d have thrown the last of my coffee in her face if I’d thought it would do any good.

‘Something for two people to wear,’ her cold voice persisted. ‘White coats, theatre pyjamas – whatever. Find them somewhere to change. Then up to the ward …’

She was sucking me in again, and I knew it. Deep into her dark whirlpool of madness and terror. I should have bloody realised from the start.

‘Agreed?’

I managed one convulsive nod. It probably looked about as agreeable as a head-butt.

‘Got a light?’ Frank asked.

I simply turned to him and stared; it was Razoxane – of all people – who fished in her pocket and brought out a book of matches. Frank stooped, and lit up from the flame she’d struck; straightened a moment later with a murmur of thanks.

Razoxane kept staring at the flame.

It quivered and grew bluish in the restless air; she cupped the glow, and her glasses caught it. Even in my sick, numbed state, I registered surprise.

The shades weren’t for show, I knew that much. Whether as a consequence of the witchcraft she’d used to prolong her life, or just the centuries she’d spent delving into the darkness, she hated light: it hurt her. But still she watched the burning match.

Then the night breeze snuffed it out.

Her head half-turned towards me, as if to catch me watching. The gesture re-awoke the fright of my dream and I looked quickly – guiltily – away, across the road.

When I looked back, she’d moved in close: I had to swallow down a shudder before it set all my muscles off. Frank was smoking, over by the kerb: still watchful – but not quite within earshot.

‘It’s all part of the same favour,’ Razoxane said quietly. ‘I meant what I said before. I don’t want you involved this time.’

I stared helplessly back at her; this icy, evil woman who treated me as she might a younger sister. And suddenly a question was rising to my mouth, as irresistibly as vomit. Something that – involved or not – I knew I had to ask.

‘Last week … There was a fire-bombing up in Kentish Town. People with their … eyes and tongues cut out.’ I swallowed; the question’s bilious taste remained. So I spat it out. ‘Please tell me that wasn’t you.’

Razoxane smiled faintly. ‘It wasn’t me.’

I felt a tiny flicker of relief.

‘It was someone looking for me,’ she added softly.