by Zoe Sharp
He was just rising from the chair next to Clare’s bed, bending to speak to her in low tones and patting her hand. He was wearing a beautiful dark pinstripe suit. A box of tissues was sitting on the blanket next to my friend, half its contents having been used and scattered around her. She was still very red around her nose and eyes.
I hurried forwards just as the man was moving away from the bed. Both Sean and I fixed him with a hard stare as he came past us, but he swept on oblivious to us lesser mortals. He could only have been a consultant.
“Clare!” I said. “Are you OK?”
She made the effort of a big brave smile that just managed to break the surface then sank like a rock. “Oh, hello Charlie,” she said, her voice a little wavery. “Yes, I think so.”
“Who was that?” I demanded, jerking my head in the direction of the departing Asian doctor. “What’s he said to upset you?”
For a moment she looked confused. “Oh, no, Mr Chandry’s been lovely,” she said vaguely, picking up the tissues and dropping them into a carrier bag that was hooked onto the door of her cabinet. “I s’pose I’m just not having a good day, that’s all.”
“Do you want us to go?” I asked, uncertain.
“No, no, please, sit down. I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
I sank onto the chair the consultant had occupied. Sean was still standing by the foot of the bed. He glanced from one of us to the other.
“I think I’ll raid the coffee machine,” he said.
“No, Sean, don’t go.” Clare gave him a watery smile. “I know you’re just being tactful, but I wanted to talk to you, too.”
She waited until he’d pulled up his own chair on the opposite side of the bed. She was looking down at a tissue in her bruised hands, concentrating on teasing the edges apart so it split into gossamer-thin layers. There was a drip plugged into the back of her left hand and a bag of clear fluid suspended from the bed frame.
“I don’t really know where to start,” she said.
I glanced across at Sean briefly. Maybe now we were going to get the whole story.
Then Clare looked up suddenly, straight into my face, and said, “How do you cope with causing someone’s death?”
I opened my mouth and shut it again.
Sean came to my rescue. “In what way ‘causing’, Clare?” he asked gently.
She shrugged awkwardly, pushing both fists into the mattress to ease her body into a more comfortable position. The pins moved too, like porcupine quills. The whole of the frame creaked slightly as it tracked with her and readjusted.
“Yesterday Slick was alive and now he’s dead,” she said, her voice miserable. “I keep thinking suppose there was something I should have done differently, you know? Suppose by one action, somewhere back down the line – a day ago, a week ago – I could have averted this. And I didn’t do it. How do you cope with that?”
“Time,” Sean said. He was leaning forwards with his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes fixed intently on Clare. “There’s an old saying – this too will pass. Sounds corny, but it’s true. The memory fades and things will get better. You just have to let it go.”
Clare looked wholly unconvinced. I desperately wanted to ask why she thought it might have been down to her, but I knew I couldn’t do it. To introduce an element of doubt now would be devastating. Besides, her eyes had already started to fill again.
“I just feel so guilty,” she gulped, pulling another tissue from the box. It snagged and tore and she let her hand drop, defeated. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”
“Come on, Clare,” I said, desperately searching for something to encourage her. “Madeleine will track down Jacob soon and he’ll be home before you know it—”
If I was hoping to hearten her, I had the opposite effect. The tears spilled over and trickled down her white cheeks. She scrubbed at them angrily.
“I’ve caused so much disruption to everyone,” she said, forlorn. “Jacob was so excited about this trip. There are some classic bikes coming up for grabs this week that he’s been trying to get hold of for years. And now I’ve messed it up for him.”
“How can you say that?” I asked quietly. “If it was Jacob lying here and you were away you’d drop everything to be back with him, in a heartbeat. You know you would.”
“Jacob wouldn’t have got himself into this in the first place,” she said, sobbing now. “Jacob’s too s-sensible to have made such a stupid decision on the s-spur of the moment.”
“We all make them,” Sean said. “The big decisions are never the ones that trip you.”
Clare looked at him and tried for a smile that was only partially successful. “Even you, huh?”
“Especially me,” he said, giving her one of his smiles that usually made my knees buckle. But despite his light tone I knew it was no easy responsibility for Sean. When he made the wrong decisions, people died. He’d so nearly become the victim of his own error of judgement.
“So how do you do it?” she asked. “How do you go on like nothing has happened, day after day?”
She was talking personally now. Clare knew I’d been driven far enough to kill. Hell, she ought to know. Death wasn’t an abstract concept to me. It was a reality. Maybe that was precisely why she was asking.
I glanced at Sean, sitting calmly on the other side of the bed, that sometimes cold face creased with concern over my friend’s tears. In a twisted way I took comfort from the fact that her anguish disturbed him. It seemed to indicate a measure of humanity that, watching him dealing Eamonn, I’d been deeply afraid he’d lost.
“You just—” I broke off, helpless. Just what? Got over it? Moved on? “I don’t know,” I said at last. “You just do.”
There were people moving around the ward all the time, so I’d ignored the footsteps behind me until they stopped close by.
“Charlotte,” said my father’s voice, quietly reproachful.
I turned in my seat and found him eyeing Clare’s distressed face. He was wearing surgical garb. The top of his head was covered by a bandana that seemed absurdly jaunty, given his position.
“I’d like a word with you before you leave.” His tone made it clear that departure was going to happen sooner rather than later. We rose obediently and said our goodbyes to Clare.
“We’ll call back this evening,” I promised.
“Clare is scheduled to go back down to theatre this afternoon,” my father said as we walked away. “I would suggest you leave any further visits until tomorrow.” From him it was an order.
He waited until he’d got us outside the entrance to the ward before he delivered his next punch.
“Please do not harass my patients,” he said coldly, once he’d got my attention, “or I will ask for you to be excluded.”
I couldn’t suppress a gasp at that. Sean was standing behind me and I felt his hands close on my upper arms. I wasn’t sure if it was to stop me hitting my father, or to stop himself. I swallowed.
“It was one of the consultants who was harassing her, not us,” I snapped. I took a breath and said, more calmly, “Why’s she going back into theatre? Is she all right?”
My father regarded me for a moment. “The damage to your friend’s limbs may well require a number of surgical procedures over the coming weeks,” he said, icily mild. “I trust I do not need to consult you about each of them?”
“No,” I muttered. “Of course not.”
His gaze remained on me a moment longer, then shifted to take in Sean. His curt nod of recognition was the only greeting he imparted.
“Sir,” Sean said, the same noncommittal response he’d given to officers in the army who had yet to earn his respect. He let his hands drop away and I saw my father’s eyes narrow, as though he didn’t like Sean touching his daughter. I stepped forwards.
“I’m sorry,” I said, making peace. “Clare was crying when we arrived. I was worried about her.”
“I understand,” he said stiffly. H
e transferred his scrutiny from Sean back to me. “Why are you limping?”
“I’m not,” I said automatically, surprised.
“You have a problem with your knee.”
I shrugged. I knew exactly what was the matter with that knee but I wasn’t about to tell my father. “Then I suppose I must have banged it,” I said.
He was silent for a moment, as though he sensed I wasn’t telling him the whole truth. Another figure appeared, wearing the same kind of pale blue outfit, and hovered just inside his line of sight. He nodded to them.
“As I mentioned, Clare won’t be up to visitors again today,” he said to me, with a touch of impatience. “I have your number, Charlotte. I’ll call you when there’s any progress to report.”
I nodded, feeling dismissed.
“Put some ice on that knee,” he said as he moved for the door, his parting shot. And to Sean: “You should take better care of her.”
I felt Sean stiffen as the comment hit home on all kinds of levels.
“Yes sir,” he said, his face expressionless. He waited until my father had turned his back and was three paces away. “And so should you.”
My father’s hearing was excellent, always had been. But he carried on walking without a break in stride, as though Sean had never spoken.
I waited until we were nearly back to the Shogun before I asked the question that had been in my mind ever since Clare put the subject there.
“So how do you cope with it?”
Sean was in the middle of fishing his car keys out of his jacket pocket. He stopped and half-turned towards me. “With what?”
“With having blood on your hands,” I said.
He went still again but his answer came fast enough that I knew it was something he’d either been asked before, or had asked himself.
“I concentrate on what isn’t there,” he said. “On the blood that never got spilt because I did my job and I was good at it.”
“So it doesn’t bother you?”
He shrugged. “Not as much as it probably should. But I’ve never lost a principal I was guarding and I never killed anyone I didn’t intend to,” he said, his words cool and totally matter-of-fact. “There’s not many people in our line of business who can say the same.”
I was still thinking about a response to that when Sam’s Norton Commando came burbling into the car park. Sam spotted me and pulled up alongside. He cut the engine and fumbled with the strap on his helmet.
“Hi, Charlie!” he said, flicking wary little glances in Sean’s direction. “How’s Clare?”
“Not so good,” I said. “They’re operating on her legs again this afternoon. No visitors for a while.”
He looked disappointed and relieved at the same time. “Any sign of Jacob?”
Sean shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.
Sam looked at him fully then. “You must be Sean,” he said in a hearty tone, holding his hand out. “I’m Sam Pickering. Charlie and I are old mates, aren’t we, Charlie?”
Sean raised an eyebrow but shook Sam’s proffered hand easily enough. Sam was wearing his habitual old jeans and battered black leather jacket and when he took his helmet off his hair reached down to his shoulder blades. I watched them sizing each other up. The ex-squaddie and the modern hippie. What a combination.
“Really?” he said, pleasantly. “Well, thank you for coming and telling her about Clare’s accident. We appreciate it.”
“Erm, no problem,” Sam said, frowning as he realised he’d just been firmly sidelined and scrambling to regain lost ground. “So, you going tonight then, Charlie?”
“Going where?”
“Slick’s wake,” he said. He’d turned slightly further round to face me, as though he was trying to exclude Sean from the conversation altogether.
“Wake?” I said. I glanced at Sean to see how he was taking this behaviour but his face was shuttered. “That might not be a bad idea. See what rumours are flying around.”
I turned back to Sam. “OK,” I said. “We’ll come. When and where?”
“Kicks off about seven. It’s up at Gleet’s place – he’s got a workshop on a farm somewhere out towards Wray. I can probably get you in but—” He cast Sean a dubious look. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, mate, but I’m not sure you’ll blend in too well. You’ve gotta be on a bike, for a kickoff.”
“I’ll take it the way it was meant,” Sean said dryly.
My mind skated over the spare bikes at Jacob’s, but there wasn’t much beyond the Laverda and Clare’s Ducati. Both of which were too well known not to cause comment. I thought of my own FireBlade, sitting down at my parents’ place in Cheshire but there wasn’t the time to go and fetch it. Even if Sean had had a helmet or any leathers.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll go with you, Sam.”
Sam’s grin flashed. I saw Sean gathering himself to object and put my hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m only going for a nosy. And Sam’s right about needing to be on a bike.”
He saw the sense in that. Didn’t like it, but saw the sense in it nevertheless.
“So, we going undercover, Charlie?” Sam kicked the Norton back into life and rammed his helmet on. He grinned at me again through his open visor. “Just like old times then, eh?”
Sean stepped in close to him, moving suddenly enough to make Sam jerk back in the seat. “Just make sure you look out for her,” he said with quiet intensity.
Sam swallowed and flipped his visor down so he didn’t have to reply. He toed the bike into gear, circling out of the car park with a roar.
“Well, that was mildly embarrassing,” I said lightly, watching him go.
Sean smiled at me and there was a hint of smugness to it. “Sometimes you’ve just got to reinforce who’s top dog.”
“Top dog?” I repeated in disgust. “You two were practically sniffing each other’s bollocks. I expected one of you to start humping my leg at any moment.”
Sean’s smile widened into a proper grin. “Charlie,” he said, “I’d hump your leg any time.”
“Try it,” I said sweetly, “and I’ll have you straight down to the vet’s.”
“Damn, but you’re a hard woman.”
***
The wake for Slick Grannell was held in a long sloping field behind the barn workshop belonging to Gleet, out in the wilds. When Sam explained the format I was expecting something rather cheesy. In the event it was a thoroughly pagan affair, heartfelt and strangely moving.
The field, cut and cleared for hay, was stubble under foot. Someone had gathered a huge stack of dead branches and old pallets for a bonfire at the top end to rival anything put together on Guy Fawkes’ night. Perched on top, in a bizarre piece of symbolism, was Slick’s disfigured Shoei helmet and his gloves.
The music was mainly rock ballads, played at volume through a pair of Marshall stacks that had been dragged just inside the gateway on extension leads from the barn. Lots of raw-throated songs about crashing and burning and dying young.
Gleet, so Sam informed us when he swung by to collect me, was big on the custom bike scene. His family had been farmers but Gleet left the running of the farm to his sister, a sour big-boned woman who trudged silently round the place like a resentful ghost. Gleet turned his back on the day-to-day drudgery and instead, in the barn behind the house, he devoted his time to building show-winning creations that were masterpieces of steel and paint.
It was probably as much out of respect for Gleet as for Slick that the attendance for the wake was so high. There must have been over a hundred bikers turned up. Their machines clogged the yard outside the barn and ended up slotted in rows across the end of the field. Everything from the latest MV Agustas to tatty old rat bikes. My Suzuki and Sam’s Norton were safely swallowed up in the crowd. We grabbed bottles of beer from one of the overflowing barrels next to the hedge and did our best to mingle with the others.
The hot sultry weather had taken on a sudden glowering edge, li
ke it was spoiling for a fight. The shock of the early evening sunlight on the brilliant greens of the far tree-line was startling against a gunmetal gathering sky. It was heavy enough for thunder and I began to wish I’d remembered to pick up my waterproofs when I was at the cottage.
They lit the bonfire just after eight. Gleet himself walked up the hill from the barn carrying a flaming torch, with Tess by his side. She had forsaken the scrunchie and had her thin flat hair down around her face. Over a shapeless black dress she was wearing a scuffed leather bike jacket that was much too big for her. I recognised it as Slick’s.
Trotting by her side, stumbling over the stubbly ground, was an extraordinarily beautiful blonde-haired toddler of about four. She clutched tight to Tess’s hand and stared at the apparitions around her with her eyes big and wide and her thumb in her mouth.
