S Bolton - Sacrifice

Gifford poured from a machine very similar to the one I kept in my office and brought two mugs back. He handed one to me and then sat down in the other chair. I had to twist sideways to look at him. He stared straight ahead, denying me eye contact.

'The initial X-rays showed extensive spread of the cancer. No one here is really qualified to deal with that so a transfer was requested. She was kept as comfortable as possible and flown, briefly, to Aberdeen. They did an open-and-shut and brought her back here. They upped her pain relief and she died a few days later.'

Open-and-shut refers to a surgical procedure cut short following the discovery of an inoperable condition. The surgeon at Aberdeen would have opened Melissa up, seen that the spread was too extensive to be able to remove the cancer surgically and then closed her again. The surgeon would have been standing beside Melissa's bedside when she woke up. I'm very sorry, Mrs Gair, but I'm afraid we weren't able to operate. He might as well have donned a black cloak and carried a scythe into the room.

'Poor Melissa.'

He nodded agreement. 'Thirty-two years old.'

With a new life just beginning inside her. How sad was that?

Except… 'No, fuck it.' I was on my feet again and shouting. I couldn't believe I'd nearly fallen for that shit. 'Melissa did not die of cancer. Melissa died when someone took a chisel, rammed it between her breast bone, forced open her ribcage and then systematically hacked through five principle arteries and several smaller ones and pulled her heart, probably still beating, from her body.'

'Tora.' Gifford was also on his feet, coming towards me. I was breathing too fast and starting to feel light-headed.

'She died because some sick fuck decided she was going to and a whole load of wankers are lying about it. Probably you, too.'

He put his hands on my shoulders and I felt an immense flood of warmth wash into me. We looked at each other. Slate, his eyes were the colour of slate. He was breathing heavily and slowly. I found my own slowing down to fall into sync with his. The fuzziness in my head faded. There was a knock on the door.

'Is everything OK, Mr Gifford?'

'Everything's fine,' Gifford called back. 'Can you give me a minute?'

Footsteps retreated outside.

'Feeling better?' asked Gifford.

I shook my head, but more out of stubbornness than honesty. I was, a little.

Gifford lifted a hand and stroked it down over my head. It came to rest on the bare skin of my neck.

'What am I going to do with you?' he said.

Well, a few things sprang to mind because, in spite of everything, it felt very nice to be standing there with Gifford, in that ridiculously furnished room, being held – almost – in his arms.

'I hate long hair on men,' I said.

Don't ask me where that came from; or why I thought that particular moment, of all possible opportunities, was the time to utter it.

He smiled. A proper smile this time, and I wondered how I could ever have thought him ugly.

'So, I'll get it cut,' he said.

I took a step closer, dropped my head and stared at the fabric of his shirt, knowing the situation had strayed way beyond the bounds of what was appropriate and that I really, really, needed to snap out of it.

'Now comes the bit you're not going to like,' he said.

I looked up again sharply, even took a step back. What was it, exactly, that I was supposed to have been enjoying so far?

'You're suspended on full pay for a fortnight.'

I backed away. 'You are fucking well kidding me.'

He said nothing. He wasn't kidding.

'You can't do that. I've done nothing wrong.'

He laughed and walked back over to the window. Turning his back on me made me want to kick him, but I didn't move.

'Technically,' he said to my reflection in the windowpane, 'I think you'll find you've done quite a lot wrong. You've interfered in police investigations, you've broken any number of hospital regulations and you've disregarded some direct instructions from me. You've broken patient confidentiality and you've upset some senior members of the community and the hospital.' He turned round again. He was smiling. 'But that isn't why you're suspended.'

'Why, then?'

He held up his index finger. 'One – if you stay, you'll carry on exactly as you have been and I can't protect you for ever.'

'I won't. I'll leave it to the police now.'

He shook his head. 'Don't believe you. Two – as you so eloquently put it over in the dental unit, the shit is really going to hit the fan here in the next few days and a lot of people will be very unhappy. I don't want you being seen as the focus – or even the cause – of all that.'

'I don't care what people think of me.'

'Then you should. When this is all over, you'll still have to work here. You won't be able to do that if everyone dislikes you.'

'They won't like me more for running away. They'll think I daren't face them. Hell, if you tell them I'm suspended, they might even think I'm involved.'

'I'll tell them you're exhausted and deeply upset by what's been going on. You'll be the object of sympathy, not resentment. Three – I'm going to have a whole lot to do in the next few days to minimize damage to the hospital, not to mention my own reputation – I don't want to hear it, Tora,' he said, as I started to interrupt him. 'I'm not a policeman. The well-being of the hospital is my priority and I don't want you around distracting me.'

I didn't have an immediate answer to that one. Something that, had it not felt so completely out of place, I would have said was happiness was twisting around in the pit of my stomach.

'Four,' he said, startling me. There was a four? 'I want you where you're safe.' Happy feeling gone! I had completely forgotten, amidst the heady rush of discovery and vindication, that – to use a cop- show cliche – there was a killer about; and I had been poking my nose in where someone – maybe even someone at this hospital – didn't want it.

He stepped forward and he was holding me again, upper arms this time. 'You need some serious time off,' he said. 'You're obviously exhausted, you're white as a sheet, your hands won't stop shaking and your pupils look like you've taken drugs. Exposure to anything infectious right now would knock you flat. I can't have you working in a hospital.'

I had taken drugs, albeit unwittingly. Was it really so obvious? Or did Kenn know more than he was letting on? I wondered again how anyone could bypass my locked office door. Kenn had done it the previous morning. He'd claimed a cleaner had let him in, but…

There was a rush of cold air through the room as the door was pushed open. Kenn was no longer looking at me but at whoever was standing in the doorway. I spun round and my day was complete. It was Duncan.

'Hands off my wife, Gifford,' he said calmly. His face looked anything but calm.

For a moment, Kenn's hands remained on my shoulders and then the warmth was gone. I moved forward, away from him and towards my husband, who was not, it had to be said, looking particularly pleased to see me.

'What kept you?' said Gifford.

'Delayed flight,' replied Duncan, glaring back at him. Then he took a step into the room and looked round. He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. 'What are you – a Harley Street gynaecologist?'

'Glad you like it,' said Gifford. 'But my predecessor designed this room.'

Beside me, I sensed Duncan stiffen.

'I just can't justify the funds to change it,' said Kenn. 'What? Did he never invite you in?'

I looked from one man to the other. Duncan was furious and I could only imagine it was with me. But, Christ, wasn't he over-reacting a bit? Gifford and I may have looked more intimate than the average husband would like but we'd hardly been caught bonking on the sofa.