Angels of Mourning. John Pritchard

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      I found the top was in my fingers once again: I’d fished it up from my drawer without thinking. Turning it over in my free hand, I put Michelle down for the Late – then gave in to the temptation, and set it spinning one more time.

      Maybe I should just tell them I can’t spare the time, I thought glumly, watching it move. Maybe I’ll even manage not to make it sound too selfish …

      Maybe.

      The little top toppled, and spiralled to a stop before me.

      Ace of bloody Spades.

Chapter 3

      The next day I passed a uniformed policeman in the downstairs corridor: a bag of sandwiches from the foyer shop in one hand, a coffee in the other – and a huge black revolver in a holster at his belt. He seemed not to notice my startled double-take. So I was left to speculate – until Jez broke the news at the gossipy tail-end of Report.

      ‘Heard who they’ve got down on Ortho? Only one of those bloody terrorists …’ You could tell he was pleased with our reaction: his freckled face lit up. ‘Under armed guard. One of the porters was telling me.’ Which made it gospel, of course.

      ‘I heard it was some gang leader or someone,’ Lucy countered equably. ‘Got shot, and they’ve had to give him armed protection.’ She hesitated. ‘Or maybe he was stabbed …’

      The hospital grapevine was obviously working well. I smiled to myself, still writing.

      ‘Well he wouldn’t be on Bones if he’d been stabbed, would he, Lucinda?’ Jean pointed out beside me: putting on her most sententious tone. The sort with nearly thirty years in nursing to back it up. And I, with less than twelve, might be Sister to her Staff Nurse – but it still sometimes felt like she was the headmistress, and I was just head girl.

      Most of it was just an act, of course – though her sense of humour was too dry for some people, who took it all seriously. But Lucy knew the score, and they got on well. No one else would dare call her Lucinda: she hated that.

      ‘Now, Mr Clarke,’ Jean continued, fixing Jez with shrewd grey eyes. ‘If you would be so kind as to expand upon your information … ?’

      He was glad to. ‘Well, according to Bob, he was brought in after the Liverpool Street bomb: leg and back injuries. But something about him didn’t fit. The cops who interviewed him got suspicious. Now they reckon he probably planted the damn thing, and didn’t get clear fast enough …’ His smile had faded now. Like the rest of us who’d been on that night, he was clearly recalling the mess that bomb had made of two hapless human beings.

      The second victim had survived his emergency op, and come through to us in the small hours of the following morning. He was still with us now: still struggling. Scarcely a square inch of his skin visible between the bandages, IV sites and ECG electrodes.

      ‘Bastard,’ Sue muttered, with a glance towards the bed. Hardly an original sentiment; but a sincere one. I added a rider, something about them probably not being sure yet. But I knew it lacked conviction.

      I taxed Nick with it when I got home; he confirmed Jez’s version in a roundabout sort of way. Terrorist suspect under guard. There’d been nothing about it on the news as yet. But give it time, I thought.

      What most unnerved me was the thought of armed police around the hospital – for all that they were trying to keep the profile as low as possible. I couldn’t forget the look of the pistol that PC had carried – strapped snug into its holster, but still full of latent threat: seeming much bigger and heavier in real life than the guns you see in films. I’d stepped much further aside than I’d needed to let him pass; but while one part of me had shied away, another had stared in morbid fascination.

      It would have to be loaded, of course. Live ammunition. And what would happen if someone made a try for their charge? Would they draw those guns in a hospital ward, and start to shoot, with helpless patients all around (and nurses, come to that)? It almost made me shudder just to think it.

      So I was glad I had other – happier – things to occupy my next day off. Besides, it was worth it just to see Nick’s face when he walked drowsily into the kitchen to find me having breakfast with a giant yellow teddy bear.

      ‘… who’s it for?’ he asked again, still eyeing it warily while he poured his coffee. Propped up in the chair at my elbow, it seemed to stare affably back at him through its cellophane wrappings.

      ‘Sandra. You know, that girl we had in with us the other week. Meningitis …’ I had another spoonful of cereal while he came and sat down. ‘She’s still in the kids’ ward, and … I don’t know, I just wanted to brighten her day.’ Which was the only way I could express it, really. I’d been thinking about her a lot of late; and buying this had suddenly felt right.

      ‘Fair enough.’ He made a show of leaning forward, face set, as though intimidating a suspect. The bear remained unfazed. ‘Got a name, has he?’

      I shrugged, grinning.

      ‘Utilising his right to remain silent, eh? I know his type …’ He snorted; then reached across to take my free hand, and squeeze it. ‘That was a really nice idea, Raitch. I hope she loves it.’

      ‘Me too. She’s a nice kid.’

      He gave me a half-suspicious look. ‘Not getting broody, are we?’

      ‘No, we are not.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Any more questions?’

      ‘Are you wearing anything at all under that shirt?’ he asked conversationally.

      ‘Nick. I’m having breakfast.’

      ‘So. We can improvise.’

      ‘Sod off.’

      He met my smile with a look of injured innocence; then sighed dramatically, and spread his hands.

      ‘Well, then: can I interest you in some toast?’

      At least his hope for the afternoon was realised; and mine as well. Sandra liked her present lots.

      I sat back in the bedside chair and watched her hug it – pressing it up against her cheek. It looked about to smother her.

      ‘Oh, Rachel … he’s lovely. Thanks ever so much.’

      ‘Thought you’d like him,’ I murmured, feeling almost as delighted as she looked: enjoying the glow of warmth that grew inside me. Nothing to do with broodiness, despite Nick’s suspicions; just the simple, heady buzz of making somebody’s day. Someone I’d seen at death’s door, and helped nurse back to health. She was still a little pale, but her fine brown hair had its sheen back now – and her eyes their sparkle. She looked like an eight-year-old girl was supposed to look: carefree, and full of fresh life.

      And I’d been her age once, of course – but I couldn’t imagine it. Not any more. Couldn’t dream of seeing the world with such unclouded eyes.

      I felt my smile becoming wistful, and glanced away: around the bed-bay. The colour scheme was insistently cheerful – bright paint backing СКАЧАТЬ