Angels of Mourning. John Pritchard

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ