Denise Mina - Field of Blood

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I promised to be somewhere. I’m on a late tomorrow, we could go in the morning.”

“Why can’t you do it today?”

“I just can’t.”

“It’s to do with that ned builder, isn’t it?”

She could see he regretted the comment as soon as it was out of his mouth.

“You don’t know Sean,” she snapped. “He’s not a ned. He’s a lovely person.”

Terry held up his hands in surrender. “Okay.”

“He’s a good man,” she repeated.

He nodded. “Right.”

But his eyes were smiling, and she knew she had betrayed Sean. It was as if the sex were a matter between him and Terry and she was just a little fat prop.

The newsmen at the table smiled fractiously as they left, sliding into the spare seats.

“By the way,” he said on their way downstairs, “did you hear about Pete?”

She hadn’t thought about Pete once since this morning’s excitement and felt a guilty pang as she realized she had him to thank for it all.

“What about him?”

“He’s in the Royal.” Terry frowned. “An ambulance was called to the Press Bar last night after hours.”

Paddy could feel the wind gathering on the platform, a small gust of excited air. The feeling increased as she climbed the stairs, and the other commuters pulled their coats around them, knowing it was coming. She turned the corner and struggled into the push. Five feet beyond the corner it was calm again, the wind gone as suddenly as an imagined symptom.

The underground exit was between two high tenements, in a dingy alleyway where shopkeepers dumped foul-smelling rubbish and men relieved themselves on the way home from the pub. At the end of the alley she could see Sean waiting for her in a shaft of light, looking very far away. A hopeful little smile tickled his lips when he saw her coming. He had defied his mum to contact Callum, and Paddy knew how hard it would have been for him to do that.

He swung his brown roll bag into his left hand, reflexively reaching out for her coming towards him, remembering too late that he wasn’t allowed to touch her. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. She remembered Terry Hewitt’s nipples suddenly and smiled, squeezing her eyes tight to hide tiny tears.

“Hiya,” she said, mirroring Sean’s awkward gesture by patting his shoulder back. “Thanks for this, Seanie.”

“No bother,” he said.

They fell into step, walking close but feeling a hundred miles distant because they couldn’t hold hands. Sean bumped shoulders with her as they waited at the lights.

“To be honest, I’m glad you asked me to come and see him,” he shouted over the noise of the traffic. “They said he’s asked not to see his mum anymore and no one else has been in touch from the family. I’m not allowed to take food in to him because they’re worried someone’ll try to kill him.”

She rubbed his back, caving in to a compulsion to feel the warmth of his skin and let her hand linger for a moment between his shoulder blades. Sean arched away from the touch. The traffic in front of them stopped and they crossed over, saved from a scene by the green man.

The modern hospital was set on a small, sharp hill, back from the busy road. It was a recent build, all straight lines and pragmatic compromises, erected and then almost instantly meshed over to stop incontinent pigeons turning it into a biohazard.

The entrance was round the back. Thirty feet behind the new hospital was the abandoned old gothic building it had replaced, a turreted baronial flurry, now empty, the windows and doors on the ground floor boarded up. They entered the new building through a small door at the back and took the lift up to the fifth floor, sweating at the unexpected high temperature. Sean held out his hand.

“You need to put this on.” It was the engagement ring box. “They’ll only let you in if they think you’re my fiancée.”

Paddy apologized with her eyes and took the familiar ring out of the box. It was uncomfortably tight; she could feel the top of her finger swell under the pressure. The doors opened at five to a cluck of student nurses smiling polite audience grins as two middle-aged doctors chatted.

Sean and Paddy followed the signs around three corridors to a nurses’ station in a corridor. The table was layered in pink and green forms. They were met by a pretty little blond nurse with a crimped wedge haircut and blue eyeliner. Her figure was so slight she looked prepubescent. When Sean and the nurse smiled at each other Paddy wanted to slap her.

“I’ve been told to ask for Sergeant Hamilton,” said Sean quietly.

The nurse’s smile deflated. “I’ll get Matron.”

She disappeared into an office behind the desk. Matron, a snippy woman in her forties, fiddled with the watch pinned to her chest and asked them again if they were looking for a sergeant. What was his name? Was he expecting them? The questions were a pointless rehash of Sean’s basic statement, but Paddy could tell that the woman was thrilled they were there, that she was thinking about the story she would have to tell one day, when she could talk about it. She looked Sean up and down, noting his dusty work boots and cheap slacks. He had changed out of his work clothes and looked clean but was still noticeably poor. Mimi bought his shoes in the Barras market and picked up secondhand shirts for him in Murphy’s at the Bridgate. Paddy was used to being the poorest-looking person in the newsroom. She kept her engagement finger on view to show that they were decent.

The matron picked up the phone on the desk, running her tongue along the front of her teeth as she dialed a four-digit number. She turned away and whispered into the receiver, nodding and repeating “uh huh” when the other person spoke. She hung up, raised her eyebrows at the phone and pinched her lips.

“He’ll be here in a moment,” she said, as if it were against her express advice.

The sergeant was in the corridor before the matron had time to make them feel any worse. He was solid and broad-shouldered, with graying hair and a kind face. He came towards them, shaking his head as he dabbed the sweat from his brow.

“Oof,” he said to the matron, “too hot in here.” He turned his attention to Sean, giving him a look-over. “Right, now, can I have some sort of identification from the both of yees.”

It was an order, not a question. Sean had brought his post office savings book and a union ticket, Paddy had her library card.

“Okay, pal, coat off.”

Paddy gladly took off her duffel coat and handed it to the policeman, who checked the pockets and lining. Sean handed over his Harrier jacket.

“Can’t be too careful,” said the sergeant, smiling as he searched the coats, trying to keep it light. “Care is the watchword here.”

He patted Sean down but balked at doing the same to Paddy, who was wearing a pencil skirt and a plain sweater. He checked the contents of Sean’s roll bag, flicking through things with a cautious finger, frowning when he saw a Celtic poster.

“All the stuff in there’s for him. Is that okay?” Sean sounded timid and young.

“Aye.” His eyes flickered over all the different bits in it. “Aye, this is all okay.”

Handing the bag back, he gestured for them to follow him.

It was disconcertingly hot in the hospital. They each began to sweat as they made their way around corners and down gray corridors, taking a small spur off the main passage. Beyond another corner they could see two policemen outside a door, one sitting, the other standing, both drinking out of cups and saucers, a well-thumbed tabloid sitting on the floor underneath the chair. They stiffened when the sergeant approached, hiding the cups of tea and pulling their uniforms straight. Paddy guessed that their boss wasn’t so sweet all the time.