Angels of Mourning. John Pritchard

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СКАЧАТЬ as I was on his. This sort of horror in hospitals was against the rules as well. Was out of order.

      He didn’t know the half of it.

      The next item of news came on, and at last I leaned my head back. His face was close to mine, and full of concern. I smiled faintly.

      ‘I’ll be okay tonight, don’t worry. Been looking forward to it …’

      ‘Just ring when you’re ready to come away from there.’

      ‘No, don’t wait up. I’ll call a cab …’

      ‘You ring me, right.’ His hand closed firmly on my shoulder. ‘Please, Rachel. There’s some bad bastards around at the moment.’

      I wouldn’t dispute that, either. The murders at our hospital had made such a splash (sorry: wrong word) on the evening news that other items had been pushed aside; but as I’d listened to GLR while doing my cooking this afternoon, the local news had provided a grisly little snippet of its own. A prostitute found hanged in a bedsit near King’s Cross. The police didn’t reckon it was suicide.

      And whoever had done it had used piano wire.

      We could have done without that detail; the very thought set my teeth on edge. Learning that the body had hung undiscovered for several days didn’t help, either. Maybe she was already dead and dangling when I’d made my abortive recce of the area. Maybe I’d passed quite close, and never known it …

      ‘What time’s your friend coming?’ Nick asked, straightening up. I glanced at my watch. Nearly six-fifteen.

      ‘Seven.’ Which was plenty of time. I’d had my bath already; washed and dried my hair. Now I could spend ages deciding what I was going to wear.

      I was determined to enjoy myself tonight; leave all my cares behind me. If that meant drinking lots of wine, then well and good, but I had other reserves to draw on too. Like a nurse’s ability to distance herself from dreadful things she’s had to deal with. And – after all I’d been through three years ago – a survivor’s resolve to keep on going forward.

      Besides, for me the war was over. Surely. I’d done all that Razoxane had asked of me; it wasn’t my fault that someone got there first.

       … someone looking for me …

      Her dry, remembered words made my stomach lurch; but that was pure reflex. I was out of it now. Whatever she might be pitting her wits against this time, it was no concern of mine.

      So it was curiosity as much as anything that made me ask if there’d been any progress with the Kentish Town fire-bombing.

      Nick shrugged. I’d wandered through to watch him prepare his supper; ever ambitious, he was doing beans on toast.

      ‘Nothing definite, not yet. The bloke who got savaged by the dogs is the only one who can say anything, and he’s still pretty shocked. Not making much sense at the moment …’

      He paused to add what seemed a suicidal amount of West Indian Hot Pepper Sauce to the beans; then glanced back over his shoulder.

      ‘One word that keeps coming up is “Wiking”, apparently.’

      ‘What, with a W?’

      ‘Yep; it’s a bit confused … But there’s an offshoot of the BNP round there who call themselves the Vikings … silly buggers … and the gentleman was coloured. So we’ve pulled a few of them in for questioning.’

      That threw a new light on things. I straightened hopefully up from where I’d been leaning against the wall. ‘And the others – the people in the house. Were they black too?’

      ‘No; all white. But we thought we’d give these bastards a going over anyway.’ He grinned and turned back to his beans; not seeing the flicker of hope on my face snuffed out again.

       Someone looking for me.

       Wiking.

      I shook the words right out of my head, and went hastily upstairs to choose my clothes.

      Not wanting to get too giggly (or go to sleep), I’d decided to take it easy with the wine. Just a glass or two of white, to keep me cheerful. But halfway through my third or fourth, I just thought, belatedly, sod it; and let Murdoch top me up again.

      It was going well, though: I was glad I’d come. The house, up in New Barnet, was lovely – wide white rooms, deep carpets and the sort of chairs you could doze off in. Mrs Murdoch – Emma, she insisted – had prepared a delicious hot-and-cold buffet, to which we added our various contributions; Michelle and I helped her lay it all out on the long dining table. Going back through to the lounge, I’d glimpsed two young kids peering down at me through the banisters at the top of the stairs. Grinning, I gave them a little wave. The little girl returned it shyly; her brother stayed politely serious. Already very much his father’s son, I mused.

      Still smiling, I thought of Sandra, who I hadn’t been able to visit for a while. I hoped she’d be safely home soon as well; and that I’d have a chance to say goodbye before she went.

      With the ice pretty much broken by the warmth of our welcome, the evening unfolded smoothly. We ate, drank and talked at length and leisure. Sitting on the lounge carpet, next to a hi-fi system as imposing as some of the life-support equipment we worked with, I felt like someone snapped out of a trance, brought back to the land of the living. In the midst of this cheerful gathering, the dread of the past few days seemed quite unreal, like something I’d dreamed. Even the ghastly sights of yesterday were wholly dislocated from the here and now. Madness, terrorism, murder: it was all sealed off as safely as the night beyond the curtained picture windows.

      Maybe people coming out of schizophrenic episodes felt just like this.

      I took another sip of cold, sweet wine. The background music – something light and classical – blended softly with the conversations round the room; the readouts on the CD player beside me rose and fell like biorhythms.

      Most of the team had made it tonight; those who’d drawn the short straw to cover the Late and Night shifts would be guaranteed their place next Christmas. I was quite sorry Jean wasn’t here: her deadpan anecdotes were always a treat.

      I wouldn’t have minded watching her tease Lucy, either.

      That was me being bitchy, but I couldn’t help it. Looking across at Lucy now, I almost instinctively found fault: saw sulkiness in her smile, heard smugness in her voice. And knew this was going to get addictive if I didn’t watch out …

      ‘You’re very quiet tonight, Rachel,’ Emma Murdoch said lightly, easing into the unoccupied chair behind me. I glanced back at her with a smile, relieved at the distraction.

      ‘I’m always quiet.’

      ‘Enjoying yourself, though.’

      I nodded vigorously. ‘Very much, thanks. It was a gorgeous meal. And I love the house.’

      ‘It is nice, isn’t it? We’ve been here three or four years, now …’ She paused. ‘I’m glad it’s going well. John said you all needed the break. I hear your hospital’s … СКАЧАТЬ