"Get an alibi and make a phone call from home."
"Don't say anything in the phone call, just chat about the court case tomorrow or something." He raised a finger and bent low to look her in the eye. "And don't mention me. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Not to anyone. Ye haven't told anyone, have ye?"
"Not a soul."
His fingernail was an inch from her eye and she understood it as a threat.
"Never tell anyone – anyone," he said, jabbing the air. He tilted his head back, looking down at her like an impatient owner warning a dog. "I'm here because of you."
"I know."
"Remember."
"I'll remember."
"Shut up," he muttered, and turned back to the window.
To their left a car pulled up the drive, the headlights licking the jagged gravel path in front of them before it turned and stopped at the front of the building. They waited until the driver got out of the car, locked up and entered the building, heard the door click shut.
"When do ye take the knife out?"
"In the room, when he's standing in front of me."
"Make sure he can't see ye take it out. He'll mibi panic." He turned and looked at her, a full-face stare, then nodded, pushing past her to lead her back to the path.
They parted without speaking. Maureen climbed out of the trees and walked towards the kitchen door, feeling more alive than she ever had before, hearing voices echoing up the hill from the open windows on the nurses' dorms, smelling damp soil, the coldness of the stone and lingering exhaust fumes. Doyle had jimmied the door to the kitchen earlier and it opened easily, fresh splinters of sweet-smelling wood pulling out of the lock as she slipped it open. She slid into the building and closed the door after her.
It was a large room, tall and long, smelling of dust and disinfectant. A black, empty patch of floor showed where the industrial cookers had been. Against the far wall a rickety stack of solid hospital wheelchairs gathered dust by the door. She hoped that Doyle had been sensible when he broke the lock and had worn gloves. She looked at her hands. She didn't have gloves on. It hadn't occurred to her to wear gloves, because it was hot, because she was leaving everything to Doyle. She'd have to be careful, watch what she touched the whole time – she couldn't leave her fingerprints all over the place. She stared at her hands, watched them shaking, and thought of what Doyle had said, that it wasn't too late. But it was too late: she'd imagined herself here too often before for another outcome to be possible.
Maureen lowered her hands and listened to the noise of the building. It was ten thirty and she would have to get home soon if she was to make a plausible phone call to anyone. The ceiling above creaked a low sigh and she heard a ticking in the pipes. She tiptoed along to the far door, leaving perfect prints in the dust, opened the door a crack and looked out.
The corridor was empty but brightly lit. There was a door off the corridor at the far end, and coming from it she saw a familiar yellow night-light. The door had a sign reading "F4" on the lintel. She could hear men talking, their voices loud and joking, but she couldn't work out where they were.
She waited fifteen minutes, trying to pinpoint the voices and work out what to do. Finally she saw a shifting shadow in the yellow doorway and pulled the door in front of her closed a little. He had on a white nurse's shirt. "Aye," he said loudly, laughing back into the room. "He did it an' all." He walked down the corridor, passing close. She smelled soap and tobacco. He turned the corner at the far end of the corridor. The patients must be in a bad way in that ward, heavily medicated enough for the staff to shout at each other when they were trying to sleep. It occurred to her that Michael might be too deeply asleep for her to move him, and the possibility blossomed warmly in her chest.
Suddenly, the other voice came towards her out of the ward. He was fat, dressed in pale blue and holding a fiver, jogging with his heavy arms up at his shoulders, running after his pal, calling in a mock whisper. "Hughie," he said, "Hughie, get us a couple o' Twixes." He turned the corner, going after his pal. Maureen held her breath and slipped across the corridor.
It was a small room with four beds arranged two against each wall with the curtains pulled between them. A very old man was asleep in the bed in front of her, his hand lying limply by his side, a newspaper on his chest. She crept round the curtain. In the bed beyond, she saw Michael sitting bolt upright, wide awake and looking at his feet. She waited for a scream or a lunge, but Michael sat still, a small man in pajamas. He had Liam's eyes and square jaw.
Maureen stepped forward and Michael turned to her, looking for guidance. He didn't know who she was. She pulled back the bedcovers and he swung his feet around to the floor, feeling for slippers with his toes. For reasons she would never be able to fathom, she helped him on with his dressing gown before taking his upper arm and guiding him out of the room, across the corridor to the dusty kitchen.
It was dark and silent apart from Maureen's labored breathing. She held his arm tight and felt her skin burning where it touched him. Michael didn't struggle or try to get away. He seemed to find her fingers digging into him reassuring, as if she was grounding him. He smelled of sour vodka and dusty cheese. The smell infected her, getting into her lungs, sticking to the moist membranes in her mouth. She felt Michael seeping in through her skin.
They listened to the fat nurse's feet as he came back down the corridor and went into the ward. The chair squeaked as he sat down. He hummed to himself and cracked open a paper. Beside her, Michael was still. She led him out of the kitchen, pushing him in front of her, afraid to let go of his arm in case she couldn't bring herself to take hold of him again. He followed her prompts compliantly and said nothing until they were two corridors away.
"Is it-it-it?" he asked, smiling nervously as though they had just been introduced.
Maureen heard it through the rush and roar in her ears. He reminded her of Farrell. "Yes," she whispered, walking just in front, reminding him to keep moving. "Do you know this way?"
"Yes," he whispered back, chopping a straight path with his hand, gesturing ahead.
"What are they doing to you in here?" she said.
He hesitated, unsure. "Walking?"
"They're walking you?"
"Yes," he said definitely. "It's walking."
He was watching her, reading her face, trying to work something out, who she was or why they were whispering.
"Do you know me, Michael?"
"Yes," he said.
"Who am I?"
"A doctor."
She stopped and looked at him. "Who are you?"
"I'm… mm." He chopped forward with his hand again, forgetting what they were talking about. "A doctor?"
"You're in a hospital but you're not a doctor. What are you?"
"I'm in. Nurses? Nurses? I make nurses?"
The burning in her hand subsided. He wasn't addled with medication: it always left a blurriness in the eyes. She heard the clatter of a trolley being pushed a long way away. They had to get out of the corridor.
As they hurried along she tried to remember what Doyle had said. Leave the knife, but wipe it first. Take the knife out when Michael was looking away. Phone someone when she got in, talk about the court case tomorrow or something. Just as they arrived at the door to the disused wing of the hospital, she suddenly wondered how Doyle knew about the case tomorrow.
Maureen pushed open the door and stepped down into a fog of stale, damp air. Blinking to adjust her eyes to the gloom, she could hear her heart beat. Michael followed her, dropping the step to the corridor. He stumbled, letting out a little frightened exclamation. She reached out and caught him under the arms and wondered what the hell she was doing here, stealing this confused old man with Liam's eyes. He stood upright and she turned away from him. This wasn't the time to think – she'd been thinking about it for a year already. But Michael hadn't been real then: he hadn't been as small and he hadn't been confused. Don't look at him, she told herself, steeling herself against humanizing pity. Don't think about it, just do it.