‘Come round,’ said a voice that floated past in the teeth of the gale. The greyness was lifting, and with it came a vague discomfort, but this was better than the blackness, the icy blast of the wind that numbed his flesh and clawed at his skin. This was better than the tunnel, too, even if there had been that enticing light at the end of it. He wasn’t ready to go there, not yet. Or at least he didn’t think so.
‘Is he…?’ asked another voice.
Female voices.
They gave him no comfort, females. Deserted him, abandoned him, caused him pain.
Now he felt it, in his heart, in his chest.
Ruby
Bianca
Ah no, Gilda, he couldn’t think about her. Too much pain.
Oh Jesus, it hurt.
‘What’s the matter with him, is he all right?’ asked Ruby.
Kit was twisting in the bed now, as if fighting restraints; his eyes, beneath their closed lids, were flicking back and forth frantically, and his mouth was open in a silent scream.
‘It’s something he has to go through,’ said Corinne reassuringly. ‘This is a good sign. Wait outside now, if you would. We’ve things to do.’
What things?
Ruby stumbled to her feet.
‘Outside,’ said Corinne, and Ruby went, dazed and distressed, into the waiting room where Fats loitered, watching everyone with suspicious eyes. Ruby took refuge in the women’s toilets, where she could be alone and cry her heart out in peace.
Fats was waiting for his replacement but the guy was late, silly bastard. Bladder bursting, he had to give in at last and respond to a call of nature. He strode off down the corridor, past the nurse’s station, past the endless wards. He got to the men’s toilets, hurriedly relieved himself, washed his hands. Then he made his way back as fast as he could.
There was a squat man with scarred, pockmarked red cheeks and black hair standing at the nurse’s station, asking about his nephew Kit Miller. Fats knew that Kit had only two uncles, and one of them was long dead. The other was out at Chigwell, almost too old and infirm to walk, let alone make hospital visits. This bloke looked all wrong. He was too young. Too Latin. And he had a face like a pizza. He looked like someone had played join-the-dots on his face with a lit cigarette.
Tensing, Fats walked straight on past the man and dived into one of the sidewards. Instead of beds and bleeping monitors and hospital equipment it was full of decorators’ gear, and the window was open wide to get rid of the smell of fresh paint. Fats stood there peering through the crack in the door, waiting.
Soon, the man came past, limping slightly. So much the better.
Fats stepped out quietly behind him, glanced around to check that he was unobserved, and kicked the man hard in the back of the knee. His weight took him down. Fats clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a yell. Then he dragged him backward, off-balance, into the side ward and let the door swing closed behind them.
‘Kit Miller might have an uncle, but you ain’t it,’ snarled Fats, running the man across the room to the window.
‘NO! ’ the man tried to yell through the hand gagging his mouth, his legs scrabbling uselessly as Fats got him over the edge of the windowsill. For a moment he swung like a pendulum, then his weight and a hefty push took him over and out. A thin cry escaped him; then he was gone. When he hit the ground far below, he barely made a sound.
It was awful, a suicide like that. Not that it was the first time such a thing had happened within the hospital grounds, but still, it was shocking. Poor man jumping to his death, how low would you have to feel, to do that to yourself?
Corinne and a couple of the other ICU nurses heard about it within the hour.
‘It’s terrible. So sad,’ said Corinne, on her coffee break.
‘The good-looking one’s coming round then,’ said her colleague.
‘Kit Miller? Yes, he’s coming along fine.’
Corinne thought that Kit was good-looking, extremely so. But he had an air about him that disturbed her. And those burly men, hanging around in the waiting room, she didn’t care for that. She’d asked Kit’s brother, the big one with the sexy khaki-green eyes about it, and he had reassured her, though not entirely. He didn’t look anything like Kit, for a start. But he’d told her Kit was an important businessman and these were his bodyguards. Still, it gave Corinne an uneasy feeling. And now Kit was coming round, the police would be here to question him. With gunshot vics, they always did.
88
Daisy and Rob dropped Bianca off at one of Kit’s safe houses near Lambeth – not the one where Jody and the twins were being concealed, he told Daisy, so she mustn’t start on about seeing them.
‘I won’t,’ she snapped.
‘Good.’
This enforced separation from her babies was torture, but Daisy understood that it was for the twins’ safety and that had to be paramount. Again she thought of Simon, dying the way he did. No, Matthew and Luke were safer where they were, even if it did crucify her to be apart from them.
On the way to the safe house, they picked up two of Kit’s most dependable men, to watch over Bianca.
‘Do they know what happened? That it was her…?’ Daisy asked Rob when the two men were out of earshot.
‘They know,’ said Rob. ‘All the boys know.’
‘Tell them you don’t want her hurt, or touched. That’s very important. She’s not to be let outside the door, or allowed to make phone calls. Tell them they’re to keep her in perfect health, that you’ll be very cross if they disobey you.’
‘Very cross?’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said.
Rob was shaking his head at her. ‘Are we sure about this?’ he wondered.
‘Perfectly sure. They’re trying to get to Kit in case he talks to the police. But now we have Bianca – and you’re going to tell them that. They’ll back away.’
‘You hope.’
‘They will. She’s our one and only bargaining chip now that Vittore’s stepping up the pressure, but we have to look after her really well. It’s vital.’
‘And never mind what’s she’s done,’ said Rob sourly.
‘Precisely. Forget that,’ said Daisy with a flash of steely determination in her eyes.
After dropping Bianca off, Daisy insisted that they call by Michael’s flat. Rob parked outside Sheila’s restaurant and led the way to the side door. He was about to put the key in the lock when he saw that it had been forced.
He paused, looked at Daisy. Held a finger to his lips.
He pushed the door gently, and it swung inward. Seeing no one there, he ran up the stairs, Daisy following close behind.
‘Christ,’ said Rob in a whisper when he found the flat door busted too. ‘Stop here a minute, Daise,’ he said quietly, and ducked swiftly inside, looking left and right at a scene of chaos.
He moved through the main lounge, into the kitchen; then into the bedroom and the bathroom. It seemed every drawer had been tipped onto the floor, every cupboard ransacked. The mattress had been slashed open, there was stuffing all over the place. The bathroom cabinets had been emptied, creams and vials and deodorants smashed on the tiled floor. The sofas in the lounge had been given the same treatment as the bed, the cushions thrown carelessly aside, the coverings ripped. Even the curtains had been pulled down from their tracks. In the kitchen, it looked as though a whirlwind had hit. There was food all over the floor, smashed eggs and spilled milk, and the refrigerator door was hanging open.
The place had been comprehensively turned over.
‘Jesus,’ said Daisy, standing thunderstruck in the open doorway. ‘Do you think they’ve taken anything?’