Belinda Bauer - Rubbernecker

‘If she’s aware of anything at all,’ Spicer said, ‘it must be the highlight of her week.’

‘Do you think they are aware of what’s going on around them?’

‘I’m sure some are,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure that’s always a good thing.’

Meg nodded. She knew what he meant. They’d all done rounds in the neurological ward, shocked into silence by the horror of both the endless inertia of those who might never emerge, and the rage, pain and frustration of some who already had.

‘What are you reading to her?’ asked Dilip, bringing her back to the present.

Meg reddened slightly. ‘Well, I did start Ulysses , but neither of us liked that, so now we’re on some rubbish that I found on her bedside table.’ She didn’t tell them that it was The Da Vinci Code , or that she could hardly bear to put the book down between sessions, even if it did make her feel intellectually dirty.

She also didn’t tell them that when the book was finished she hoped never to go back to the coma ward.

‘I’m sure it’s not easy,’ said Dr Spicer, as if reading her mind. ‘Good for you.’

‘Shit,’ said Dilip, ‘I’ve gone through the artery.’

Talk of the devil , thought Meg. At the foot of the long ramp down to Park Place was Patrick.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘I got expelled,’ he said.

‘I heard. For hitting the porter?’

‘No, before that.’ He then cut her off before she could ask a follow-up question. ‘You have to do something for me.’

Meg arched a sarcastic eyebrow. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have to take photos of Number 19’s mouth and oesophagus.’

Too late she realized her sarcasm had been wasted. ‘I can’t do that, Patrick. We’re not allowed to take phones or cameras into the DR. You know that.’

‘Then give me your code and I’ll do it.’

‘I can’t do that either.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because then I’d be expelled too.’

‘It’s an emergency.’

‘How can it be an emergency? Bill’s already dead. You’ll be asking me to do CPR next.’

‘That would be stupid,’ said Patrick. ‘This is not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think he was murdered.’

‘Who? Bill?’

‘Yes.’

‘ Murdered? ’

‘Maybe.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘OK.’ He shrugged.

‘No, I mean, explain to me why you think that.’

‘OK,’ he said again. ‘He was allergic to peanuts and was being fed through a tube, but he had a peanut in his throat when he died.’

‘OK,’ said Meg, nodding agreement.

‘That makes no sense unless someone gave it to him,’ said Patrick. ‘Anaphylactic shock could have led to a heart attack, which is what’s been listed as the cause of death, but that’s just how he died, not why .’

Meg frowned at him. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘I found out his name and spoke to his daughter. She’s inherited the nut allergy; that’s what made me think of it. But when I went to look at the peanut, it had gone. Someone took it and that means they’re hiding something. There’s only one dissection class left – then the bodies will be taken away and then I’ll never know what happened. That’s why it’s an emergency. That’s why you have to help me.’

Meg stared at Patrick in amazement. ‘You found out his name ?’

‘Yes. Samuel Galen.’

‘And you spoke to his daughter ?’

‘Yes.’ Patrick wondered if she was hard of hearing.

‘How?’

‘It’s not important. I can’t get in to do it. You have to help me.’

Meg was astonished into silence. How had he found out the cadaver’s name? How had he spoken to the dead man’s daughter? She shuddered at the thought of that social interaction. It all sounded crazy and, from anyone else, she would never have believed it. But Patrick was compelling. Not his words, but him . His usually blank expression was gone. He was flushed and alive. Even his eye contact was better as he begged her – in his own way – for help.

Looking at him, Meg felt her defences slipping. Still she stalled. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’

‘There were cuts in the mucous membranes of the throat, remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘At the time I thought Dilip had made them because he’s so poor with incisions. But now I think perhaps they were made ante-mortem.’

‘So you think the person who took the peanut could be the same person who put it there in the first place?’

Patrick stared at her so intently that Meg mentally kicked herself for sounding keen and involved when she was loath to be either. She looked into his eyes and felt a little shiver – before she realized that he wasn’t even seeing her. He was looking right through her to the solution on the other side.

‘Maybe,’ he said. His face split into the first smile she’d ever seen from him, and Meg knew with a sinking heart that she was about to do exactly what he asked. She made a last-ditch effort to get something out of it for herself.

‘I’ll do it on one condition.’

‘OK,’ he said.

‘You have to go and read to Mrs Deal.’

‘Who’s Mrs Deal?’

‘She’s a woman in a coma. There’s nothing to it.’

‘What do I have to do?’ he said warily.

‘Only read to her.’

He frowned. ‘Out loud?’

She smiled. ‘If you want her to hear you, yes, you have to read out loud.’

‘Read what?’

‘A book.’

‘Does it have to be a long book?’

It flitted through Meg’s mind to say, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ but then thought of poor Mrs Deal at the mercy of Patrick’s choice of reading matter.

‘It has to be over two hundred pages. It must be fiction and it must be popular. Off the bestseller lists or a classic. But it can’t be about war or some boy-rubbish like that. Or sci-fi.’

‘No war, no sci-fi.’ Patrick nodded sombrely, and Meg realized she could give him specific instructions and he would carry them out with the precision of a computer. For a cruel second she almost demanded Pride and Prejudice from him, but pushed it aside with an inner giggle.

‘If I do that, you’ll take the photographs?’

‘I will take the photographs.’

‘OK then,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Do your best,’ said Meg.

‘I always do my best,’ he said seriously.

She laughed and stuck her tongue out at him and he blinked.

‘I’M PREGNANT,’ SAID Tracy, and Mr Deal finished chewing a mouthful of steak, leaned back in his chair and looked at her. Tracy felt her smile falter and worked at it harder, despite the shaking inside her.

Mr Deal – Raymond – was a meticulous man, who felt no need to gush or to pander. She found him hard to read, but she also knew that if she pushed, he would take even longer to give. It was annoying, but strangely exciting, too.

He cleared his throat and sipped his red wine. ‘How far along are you?’

‘Far enough.’

‘Are you going to keep it?’

Of course I’m going to keep it! This is the plan!

‘If that’s OK with you?’ she said carefully.

He cut another piece of steak. He ate his meat blackened and bloodless. ‘Of course,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’

Why are you checking? she asked herself. Why are you giving him another chance to say no?

Mr Deal finished that mouthful, then dabbed his mouth with his napkin and leaned across the table to kiss her cheek. ‘Of course I’m sure,’ he said. ‘It’ll give us something to put on the kiddy toilet.’