Nick Oldham - Fighting for the Dead

‘I was thinking how much I loved you, part of the reason being because you were so passionate about your work.’

She swallowed and her breathing juddered in her chest.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said inadequately. ‘This should never have happened.’ This was the first proper conversation they’d had in the last week, and Henry was dreading it.

‘No, it shouldn’t,’ she whispered and swallowed again. Her eyes were puffed up to the size of Kiwi fruits and much the same colour. Her injuries were terrible and when Henry had scrambled across the back seat of the Mercedes to her, he had thought she was dead at first.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again.

‘It’s not your fault.’ Her lips hardly moved as she spoke, they were so swollen. He touched the back of her left hand, into which a drip had been inserted. It felt frail and cold. She might have said those words, but there was no way on this earth did Henry feel that it wasn’t his fault. It was. Intent, effect, all that crap. It had to be his fault and he was creased with guilt and worry.

‘Henry,’ she said, ‘Henry… listen to me.’ He leaned over even closer so his ear was only inches away from her lips. ‘It doesn’t matter… not to me, not to me… know why?’

‘No.’

‘Because I saw your face at the window when that man was showing me to you, at that house. I saw your face… and I knew…’

‘Knew what?’ The memory of that moment would be forever etched into Henry’s mind’s eye.

‘I knew you wouldn’t stop. I knew you’d come for me and not let them win. Sounds pretty corny, eh?’

‘No, sounds good. So…?’

‘Are we still in a relationship? Is that what you want to know?’

‘Are we?’ he asked, terrified of the answer.

‘Bet your arse, copper.’