‘Hey, I’m sorry. Did I give you a fright? I didn’t realise you were living here until I broke in.’
‘I—it isn’t that.’ She sniffed and he handed her the handkerchief.
‘Be my guest!’ he said in Michael’s voice, and she bit down the sob.
After a few seconds she pulled herself together and blew her nose hard, pocketing the handkerchief.
‘I—I’m sorry. It’s just that I didn’t realise—you’re so like him, it was a bit of a shock. He didn’t tell me …’
‘That we’re clones?’ He gave a short, slightly bitter laugh. ‘No, it’s a fact he normally tries to escape from. He’s spent his life trying to be different, and I’ve copied him in everything, just to annoy him, but I guess he’s won this time,’ he said with heavy irony. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
She noticed that there was an open bottle of wine on the table, half finished, and another empty on the worktop.
‘Don’t frown disapprovingly. I’m sure lover-boy won’t mind.’
‘No, I’m sure he won’t, but you’ve had rather a lot, and presumably you have to drive to your hotel for the night——’
‘What hotel? There’s a spare room here, surely it won’t worry you if I kip down in it?’
Clare sighed. This was Michael’s twin brother, after all. She could hardly turn him away. ‘Of course not. And yes, I will have a drink. Thank you.’
O’Malley came in and wound round her legs, then with a little yowl he leapt on to the worktop and up again on to her shoulders, draping himself round her neck.
‘Hello, rascal,’ she said, dropping gratefully into a chair, and he greeted her with a trembling squawk in her ear.
‘Nice little place he’s got here,’ Andrew said with an expansive wave of his hand. His red wine slopped over the edge of the glass and dribbled on to the floor.
Clare got up and mopped it.
‘What a domesticated little thing you are,’ Andrew slurred.
‘Not at all,’ Clare told him repressively, ‘but red wine stains the bricks.’
He stared at the floor for a moment and then back at Clare. ‘Sorry. So, Clare, tell me about my little brother—how is he?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure. Physically fine, mentally—I don’t know how well he’s coping. He’s shut himself off from me——’
‘Oh, join the club. That’s why I didn’t rush over—knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. He’s always been reclusive—I suppose that’s why he gets on so well with the damn cat—they both go off to lick their wounds.’
‘Except he can’t.’
‘Not yet, maybe, but he will, just as soon as he can. Me, I want all the sympathy and company I can get!’
Clare laughed, despite herself. Andrew was all right, and he couldn’t help looking like Michael. Although, as she was beginning to realise, the resemblance was only physical. Michael was just as open and direct on the surface—whereas she rather thought that Andrew was all surface, with none of Michael’s quiet, still depths. Perhaps she was doing him an injustice.
‘Would you mind very much if I deprive you of my sympathy and company tonight? It’s been a long day and I have to be at work by eight.’
He raised his glass. ‘Be my guest. Goodnight, sweet Clare. Sleep well—and get up quietly, eh?’
She gave him a level look. ‘I always do.’
‘Wonderful. Adieu, fair maid …’
She left him, slouched against the table, his glass dangling from his fingers. He was going to have a hell of a head in the morning.
In fact he was up and about by seven, with no obvious signs of the previous night’s excesses.
‘Seen the Porsche?’ he greeted Clare, coming in through the back door as she came down the stairs.
‘Good morning, Andrew. No, I imagine it must still be at the hospital where Michael left it on Friday. Why?’
‘Well, obviously he doesn’t have any further use for it, so I thought I’d have it back,’ he said with a shrug.
‘Fine—how did you get here yesterday, by the way?’
‘Taxi,’ he said economically.
‘Oh—right. I’ll give you a lift in. Did you make coffee?’
‘Sorry. I put the kettle on but that’s as far as I got. Do you suppose I could see him this morning, or do I have to wait for visiting?’
Clare put two cups on the worktop and turned towards Andrew. It still hurt her in a way to look at him, to look into those startling blue eyes so frankly assessing her. ‘No, we have open visiting. You can see him at any time. Why don’t you come in with me in a minute?’
‘OK. Is that coffee for me?’
‘Yes. Andrew, do you mind if I say something?’
He shot her a keen look. ‘No, of course not. What is it?’
Clare took a deep breath. ‘Do you think you could cover up your legs?’
He gave a short laugh and his eyes travelled over her with undisguised interest. ‘Why? Are they upsetting you, my love?’
Oh, God, she thought, he even calls me the same thing. ‘No, not really, but they may well upset Michael.’
He sobered instantly. ‘Hell, I hadn’t thought. Yes, I’ll sling some trousers on before we go. Have I got time for breakfast?’
‘Yes—go and change now while I make it. There’s some bacon——’
‘Bacon sandwich would be fantastic—thanks, Clare.’
He bounded up the stairs, and Clare’s heart sank. He was so fit and vital, so much like Michael had been this time last week. How cruel of fate to send him now to taunt them. Perhaps he would be less insensitive with Michael than he was with her?
He was back in seconds, much less disturbing in a pair of light cotton trousers. ‘How’s that?’
‘Better,’ she said quietly. ‘Thanks, Andrew. Here’s your breakfast.’
They ate in silence, mainly because Clare made it obvious she didn’t want to indulge in small talk, and then they left for the hospital.
‘There’s the car,’ she told Andrew, pointing across to the doctors’ car park. ‘You can be independent now—have you got keys?’
He tossed them in the air and caught them with a flourish. ‘Found them on the dresser. Right, let’s get this over with.’
Clare gave him a keen look, and noticed the lines of strain around his eyes. ‘I’m sorry—this must be hard for you, too—I’m so bound up with Michael’s feelings I haven’t really taken in anybody else’s. Come on—I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’
She took him up to the ward and left him in the day-room while she joined the others in Sister’s office for the report.
Danny was quieter, much to everyone’s surprise, and Pete Sawyer had had a better night. Barry Warner was still very depressed, but had slept better.
‘In fact,’ Judith Price said with relief, ‘everyone seems to have had a better night, although Mr Barrington was a little restless once or twice—probably because he’s not on pain relief any more.’
‘None?’ Clare said in surprise.
Judith Price shruggd. ‘He refused it—I imagine he knows his own limits. He said phantom limb pain was just exactly that, and he wasn’t afraid of ghosts! Right, everyone, I’m off. See you tomorrow!’
Clare hung back until the others had left, and asked Mary O’Brien if Michael’s brother could visit him.
‘Of course—how marvellous that he’s here. I think he’s needed visitors—although Ross Hamilton’s been over a couple of times and his grandfather yesterday, but still—yes, Clare, take him in. It’s the best time, really, as he’s so busy with Physio now.’
So Clare went and found Andrew deep in conversation with Tim Mayhew, and took him down to Michael’s room. His likeness to Michael attracted quite a lot of comment, but he was obviously used to it.
‘He’s in here,’ Clare said, popping her head round the door. ‘Hi, there.’
Michael was standing by the window staring out. He was dressed in boxer shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, and was leaning
on his crutches. He turned to her with a serious look.
‘Clare, about last night, we need to talk——’
She smiled. ‘Not now. You’ve got a visitor.’
Andrew opened the door and walked in, then stood looking at his brother for a long moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice was husky.
‘I didn’t really believe it …’
Michael laughed, a hollow, sad laugh. ‘Believe it, Andy. It’s true.’
‘Oh, God, Mike——’
Before Michael could move Andrew was across the room, enfolding him in a bear-hug. Clare heard a broken sob, she wasn’t sure who from. It probably didn’t matter. Turning quietly, she left them to it and carried on with her work.
Tim Mayhew went in some half-hour later, and stayed for a few minutes while Andrew lurked uncomfortably in the corridor. His eyes were red-rimmed and he seemed shaken.
Clare shot him an understanding smile. ‘You don’t look as if you like hospitals.’
‘Hate them. Never have been able to understand how Michael could spend his life in them.’
She laughed. ‘I think some of the patients would agree with you.’
Tim came out and Andrew went back in for a short time before taking himself off ‘for a look round the local metropolis’ as he put it.
Clare had intended to take her coffee in to Michael’s room and drink it there, but he was down in Physio and stayed there until nearly lunchtime, then after lunch which he ate with Barry Warner he had a rest before going back to Physio again for another hour.
She went off duty at four and he still wasn’t back, but she rang in the evening and was told that his brother was with him.
She didn’t go back in, but did some washing instead and fidgeted restlessly with the house. In the end she rang her mother and poured out all her worries, telling her how he seemed to be avoiding her as far as it was possible in the hectic atmosphere of the ward.
‘I expect it’s just reaction, dear,’ she said vaguely.
‘Probably,’ Clare agreed, but she was getting more and more worried.
She was in bed by the time Andrew came back, and was gone before she saw him in the morning. Once again Michael was avoiding her, but this time by seeking company. He was getting competent on his crutches, and as he swung past the entrance to Borstal, Danny Drew called him over.
Clare was in the corner doing Pete Sawyer’s pressure areas, and she watched as Michael manoeuvred himself over to Danny’s bed and eased himself down on the edge.
‘The other day,’ Danny said quietly, ‘I was out of line. I’m sorry, Doc.’
Michael nodded. ‘That’s OK, Danny. I understand. How about a game of cards?’
‘Pete’s got some—here, Pete, borrow your cards, mate?’
‘Sure—here, Staff, could you give them to him?’
‘Of course.’
Clare took the cards and walked over to Michael. ‘Are you going to play patience?’
‘Happy families, I thought,’ he said with wry humour.
They were still there half an hour later when Tim Mayhew came on to the ward. By this time the card game had deteriorated into a riot, with Michael showing the others card tricks and Danny outdoing him right, left and centre.
‘Good morning, Mr Barrington!’
Michael looked up at his boss and his mouth quirked into a grin. ‘Arr, Tim lad!’ he said, brandishing his crutches, and swung himself down the ward after his despairing boss, leaving the young lads howling with laughter.
‘He’s a great bloke, isn’t he?’ Danny said with a touch of hero worship in his eyes.
‘Yes, he is,’ Clare agreed, her heart aching.
Mary O’Brien and Tim Mayhew echoed the sentiment a few minutes later.
‘Doing really well,’ Mr Mayhew said with satisfaction. ‘His morale seems high, too.’
Privately Clare disagreed. Are they all blind, she thought miserably, or is it just because I love him that I can see he’s dying inside?
‘Mr Mayhew, is there any chance I could take him home for the weekend? I think he could do with anchoring himself in reality a bit. He doesn’t really need nursing any more now, and I can do his stump dressing at home.’
Tim Mayhew gave her a keen look. ‘You don’t agree with me, do you?’
She shook her head. ‘I think he’s dreadfully depressed. I also think he’s doing his best to hide it from everyone, because under the bonhomie he’s such an intensely private person. I really think he needs to be at home for a while to come to terms with what’s happened in privacy.’
He nodded slowly. ‘You could be right. Well, so long as you watch him. When did you have in mind?’
‘I’m off at twelve-thirty tomorrow until twelve-thirty on Sunday—that would give him twenty-four hours.’
Mr Mayhew nodded again. ‘Sounds fine. OK, do that. I’ll pop in and have a look at him tomorrow morning before you go, but I can’t see any problems.’
There were none. At twelve-forty the following day Clare wheeled him down the corridor to the main entrance and over to her car. With a combination of stubborn pride, ingenuity and sheer brute strength he levered himself across the gap to the passenger seat and leant back, sweat beading his brow.
‘OK?’ she asked anxiously.
He shot her a weary grin. Tine. Take me home, Clare.’
They arrived at the cottage to find Andrew was nowhere to be seen. Clare climbed out of the car.
‘Hang on,’ she told Michael, ‘I’ll get Andrew to help.’
She walked into the kitchen and found him grinding coffee. She touched him on the arm to attract his attention.
Startled, he turned to her and covered his chest with his hand, laughing. ‘God, woman, you scared me to death!’ He turned off the coffee grinder. ‘How is he?’
‘OK, I think. Andrew, there’s something I hadn’t thought of—accommodation. Obviously I can’t sleep with him in view of what’s happened, but I must be here this weekend, I promised.’
‘You could always sleep with me——’
‘I don’t think Michael would understand,’ she said with a light laugh.
‘No problem,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ll get my stuff out of your room now.’
‘You do that,’ Michael said from the doorway behind them.
Clare spun round and gasped at the white-lipped anger on his face.
‘Michael, what’s the matter?’
‘I thought you’d grown out of that,’ he continued coldly, looking over her head at Andrew with eyes like twin chips of ice, ‘I was obviously wrong. You can do whatever you like in private—Clare and I are finished. Just have the decency not to do it in my home.’ And with that he turned on his heel and stumbled out into the garden, slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER SIX
AFTER a few seconds of stunned silence, Andrew strode out of the kitchen after his brother. Clare, shocked and appalled and totally confused, slumped against the table and listened in mounting horror to their raised voices.
‘What kind of a bastard do you take me for?’
‘If the cap fits—you’ve done it before, after all. Why not now?’
‘Just thank your lucky stars you’re in the state you’re in, or I’d be tempted to knock some sense into you——’
‘Yes,’ Michael sneered, ‘not even you’d hit a cripple, would you, you chicken-livered bloody hypocrite?’
‘Don’t push your luck!’
‘Look, Andrew, just go away, would you? Even the sound of your voice makes me sick. And take Clare—I don’t want to see her either.’
‘Clare’s done nothing—I’ve done nothing. Why the hell are you so steamed up? You’re so bloody jealous you’ve lost your reason!’
‘Get out of here.’
‘Look, Michael, for God’s sake——’
‘I said get out!’
There was an endless stretch of silence, and then a car door slammed, the engine roared to life and with a great splutter of grav
el Andrew tore off down the lane. Through the window Clare saw Michael’s shoulders slump.
Taking a deep breath, she went out into the garden. ‘Come and lie down and rest,’ she said gently. He shook his head.
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Michael, you need to lie down—you look awful.’
He turned towards her then, staring at her with eyes that blazed with hatred.
‘Whose fault is that?’
She ignored him, unable to answer because of the dreadful pain inside.
‘I’ll find you a sun lounger—I think there’s one in the shed.’
She found it, and after a few seconds managed to open it. She reached for his arm. ‘Here, let me help you.’
‘I can manage.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Desperately hurt and confused, Clare turned away.
‘I’ll get your room ready,’ she threw over her shoulder, and went up into the bedroom she had shared with him before the accident, sat on the edge of the bed and cried.
When the tears finally slowed to a halt, she gathered her things together and moved them into the spare room, repacking Andrew’s clothes and possessions that were strewn carelessly across the room. She changed both beds, turned Michael’s down ready for him and unpacked his wash-things in the bathroom.
Finally there was nothing left to do, so she went back downstairs and out into the garden. Michael was asleep in the dappled shade of a willow tree, O’Malley sprawled possessively across his chest. He mumbled something in his sleep and shifted restlessly. O’Malley stood up, stretched, kneaded his claws in Michael’s shoulder and with a lithe leap faded into the undergrowth.
Michael rubbed his shoulder and sat up. ‘Damn cat,’ he muttered, and then he noticed Clare.
‘You’re still here,’ he said flatly. ‘I thought you would have gone.’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I’m not going anywhere until we’ve talked—or at least, until you’ve talked.’ With a superhuman effort, she met his eyes. ‘What did you mean when you told Andrew that we were finished?’
He looked away, his jaw working.
After a long time, he said, ‘I think we were hasty. We thought we were in love, but we were in love with love—with a dream. It’s just as well this happened when it did, Clare—it’s given me time to think.’
A Perfect Hero Page 9
