Beneath the Bleeding. Val McDermid

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      ‘The police? You were the one who said it was someone else’s problem, determining how the ricin got into his system. We can’t call the police in on a hunch.’

      ‘But he’s still having lucid spells. He can still communicate. If we wait till tomorrow, he could have lapsed into a coma and he won’t be able to tell anyone how this happened. If it happened,’ she added, seeing the ominous expression on Denby’s face.

      ‘And if you’re wrong? If it turns out to be something quite other? This department will have lost all credibility within the hospital and the wider community. Let’s face it, Dr Blessing, two minutes after we call the police in, the media will be screaming from the rooftops. I’m not prepared to put my reputation and that of my team on the line like that. I’m sorry. We don’t tell anyone – not another living soul – until we get the ELISA results and we know for certain. Are you clear on that?’

      Elinor sighed. ‘I’m clear.’ Then her face brightened. ‘What if I was to ask him? When we’re alone?’

      Denby shook his head. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said firmly. ‘I will not have you interrogate a patient like that.’

      ‘It’s kind of like taking a history.’

      ‘It’s nothing like taking a history. It’s playing at Miss bloody Marple. Now please, let’s not waste any more time. Get started on the ELISA protocol.’ He managed a faint bloodless smile. ‘Good thinking, Doctor Blessing. Let’s just hope for once you’re wrong. Apart from anything else, Bradfield Victoria have no chance of making it into Europe next season without Robbie Bishop.’ Elinor’s face must have revealed her shock for he rolled his eyes and said, ‘I’m joking, for Christ’s sake. I’m as worried about this as you are.’

      Somehow, Elinor doubted that.

      Tony started awake, eyes wide, mouth stretched back in a silent scream. The power of morphine dreams to recreate the gleam of the axe, the battle cry of his attacker, the smell of sweat and the taste of blood was terrifying. His breathing was fast and shallow and he could feel sweat curdling on his top lip. Only a dream. He deliberately controlled his breathing and gradually the panic subsided.

      Once he’d calmed down, he tried to raise his wounded leg from the hip. He clenched his hands into tight fists, the nails biting into his palms. The veins on his neck corded up as he strained to move a limb that seemed to have been transmuted into lead. The futile seconds stretched out, then with a grunt of frustration, he gave up. It felt as if he’d never move his left leg again.

      Tony reached for the bed control and eased himself upwards. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour till they would bring his evening meal. Not that he felt like eating, but it was a way of punctuating the day. He almost wished his mother had stayed. At least it gave him something to butt against. Tony shook his head, aghast at the thought. If his mother’s company was the answer, he was asking the wrong question. Not that there weren’t aspects of the history of their relationship that he ought to confront and deal with. But this wasn’t the time or the place. He wasn’t sure when or where would be appropriate for something so potentially painful, but he knew it wasn’t here and now.

      Still, it couldn’t wait for ever. Carol had met her now, and she would have questions. He couldn’t just blank her; Carol deserved more than that from him. The problem was where to start. His childhood memories lacked a narrative. They were fragmentary, a series of incidents loosely linked like dark beads on a tarnished chain. Not all of the memories were bad. But his mother featured in none of the good ones. He knew he wasn’t the only person with such an experience. He had treated plenty of them, after all. Just one more aspect of his history he shared with the crazies.

      He flapped his hand in front of his face as if swatting a fly and picked up the remote control. He began to flick through the limited range of channels. Nothing engaged his attention, but he was spared having to make a decision by a knock at the door.

      The person on the other side didn’t wait for an invitation. The woman who marched in looked like a peregrine falcon run to fat. Glossy brown hair swept back from her forehead in a wavy bob that stopped just short of her shoulders. Deep-set hazel eyes gleamed beneath perfectly shaped eyebrows and the hawk’s nose jutted out from plump cheeks. The sight of Mrs Chakrabarti lifted Tony’s spirits far more than any TV channel could have. Here was more interesting news than BBC24.

      She was trailed by half a dozen acolytes in white coats who looked young enough to be doing sixth-form work experience. She gave Tony a swift, practised smile as she reached for his notes. ‘So,’ she said, looking at him from under her brows. ‘How’s it feeling?’ Her accent bore a greater resemblance to that of the royal family than to the denizens of Bradfield. It made Tony feel as if he should doff a cap or tug a forelock.

      ‘Like you replaced my leg with a lead pipe,’ he said.

      ‘No pain?’

      He shook his head. ‘Nothing the morphine can’t take care of.’

      ‘But you’re not feeling any pain once the morphine kicks in?’

      ‘No. Should I be?’

      Mrs Chakrabarti smiled. ‘It’s not our preferred option. I’m going to take you off the morphine drip tomorrow morning, see if we can achieve the pain management by other means.’

      Tony felt the clutch of apprehension. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

      The smile grew positively predatory. ‘Just as sure as you are about the advice you give your patients.’

      Tony grinned. ‘In that case, let’s just stick with the morphine.’

      ‘You’ll be fine, Dr Hill.’ She replaced the chart and studied his leg, angling her head round to see the twin drains carrying bloody fluid away from the wound in his knee. She turned to the students. ‘You’ll see there’s not much coming off the wound site now.’ Back to Tony. ‘I think we might take the drains out tomorrow and get this splint off so we can get a sense of what you’re going to need. Probably a nice cylinder cast.’

      ‘When can I go home?’

      Mrs Chakrabarti turned to her students with the perennial condescension of the surgeon. ‘When can Dr Hill go home?’

      ‘When he can bear weight on his leg.’ The speaker looked as if he should be delivering newspapers, not clinical judgements.

      ‘How much weight? His whole body weight?’

      The students exchanged covert glances. ‘When he can get around with a Zimmer frame,’ another offered.

      ‘When he can get around with a Zimmer frame, do a leg raise and climb stairs,’ a third chipped in.

      Tony could feel something inside his head stretch to its limit. ‘Doctor,’ he said forcibly. When he had her attention, he spoke very clearly. ‘That was not an idle question. I need to not be here. None of the important things in my life can be accomplished from a hospital bed.’

      Mrs Chakrabarti wasn’t smiling now. This, Tony thought, must be what a mouse feels like eyeball to eyeball with a raptor. The only good thing about it is you know it’s not going to last long. ‘That’s something you have in common with the vast majority of my patients, Dr Hill,’ she said.

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