Denise Mina - Field of Blood

“Lucozade.”

He sat up, genuinely pleased, and patted the top of his bedside locker. “Put it up there.” She opened the door to the cabinet, but he stopped her. “No, no, put it on top.”

He glanced around the room, and she followed his eye to the other patients’ lockers. Every one of them had bottles and bags of sweets and flowers and cards stacked on them, but Pete’s was completely bare.

“I was rushed in this time. When I came in before, I brought my own. I won’t be pitied by bloody nurses.”

He wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t been on morphine, and she was shocked to hear that he was so alone. Whenever she’d been to visit relatives in hospital she’d had to queue in the corridor, waiting for a batch of family to leave before she could get in. She felt ashamed for him and changed the subject.

“I’ve always wondered,” she said, “why do they call you Dr. Pete?”

“I am a doctor. I’ve got a doctorate in divinity.”

She waited for him to laugh at her credulity and admit it was a joke, but he didn’t.

“Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to be a minister. I’m a son of the manse.”

“Your dad was a minister?”

“And his father before him.”

“You’re less like a minister than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I was a disappointment. I liked what you said to Richards, about substituting the basic text. My family couldn’t conceive of a life outside the kirk. I’m just getting there myself.”

“I lost my faith early, before I made my first communion. I still can’t tell my family.”

He reached across, a beatific light in his eye, and patted her hand. “Lie to them. Let them not worry. I hurt my father. It was needless. I didn’t change his mind and he didn’t change mine. We argued on the day he died.”

Paddy shook her head. “I can’t fight with my father. He’s very meek.”

“Ah, the meek. Playing the long game. Sneaky bastards.”

The man across the room let out a soft groan. His wife reached out and patted the bed without taking her eyes off the paper.

“That man’ll be dead in the morning,” said Pete. “If he’s lucky.”

Paddy glanced over at the man and felt her face flush suddenly. She hadn’t come here to have her nose rubbed in the inevitability of death. Pete saw her eyes redden and looked alarmed.

“No, it’s not about you,” she blurted, realizing too late that it would be wrong to say she didn’t care that he was going to die. “Oh God almighty, Pete, I’ve done an awful thing. I planted evidence on Henry Naismith and now he’s confessed to killing Brian Wilcox. I was sure it was him.”

“What did you plant?”

“Hair.” She rubbed her eyes hard. “Heather Allen’s hair. And he confessed to killing her and Thomas Dempsie as well.”

“Naismith didn’t kill Thomas Dempsie. He was in the cells that night.”

“I know. So if he’s confessing to that as well, how genuine can the confession to Baby Brian be?”

Pete’s eyes widened calmly. “Why would he make a false confession?”

“It was his son. He’s protecting his boy.”

Pete frowned for a moment. “Garry Naismith.”

“That’s right. Garry killed Thomas and let Alfred take the blame.”

“Did Alfred Dempsie know that’s what happened?”

“Maybe. I think Naismith found out about Garry and blamed himself. I think he’s been covering up for his son ever since.”

“Makes sense. Henry saw the light after Thomas died. Changed his life.” Pete could have been discussing biscuits. “Naismith’s giving up his life to save his boy. Greater love hath no man.”

She nodded at the familiar phrase heard out of context. “You did do divinity, didn’t you?”

The curtain on the far side of the bed swept back suddenly, and a neat nurse looked at them accusingly.

“What are you doing here?” She addressed Paddy, pulling her lips back in a smile that wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Her eyes were set wide and prominent.

“Visiting,” said Paddy.

The nurse’s mouth spasmed wide, and she busied herself tidying the folds in the curtain. “Family are allowed to visit outside visiting hours, but I’m afraid everyone else has to come between three and eight.” She turned to face Paddy square on. “You’ll have to leave.”

Confused and embarrassed, Paddy reached for her bag.

“Iona, Iona.” Pete pushed himself up on the pillow, coming alive at the possibility of a fight. “Get your thumb out of your arse. She’s my daughter.”

Nurse Iona glanced at his ring finger.

“That’s right, she’s a bastard. A love child. I wouldn’t marry her pregnant mother because she was ugly and below marriageable age.” He lifted his bandaged hand. “In Texas. Give me more?”

The nurse was staring unkindly at Paddy, taking in her cheap black sweater. It was bobbled under the arms and stretched at the bottom from being self-consciously tugged down to hide her body whenever she stood up off the bench.

“It’s not time for more, Mr. McIltchie, as well you know.” She looked from Paddy to Pete but couldn’t find any echo of his face in hers. “If she is your daughter, why isn’t she down as your next of kin?”

“She’s untrustworthy. A dipsomaniac.” Pete’s face was bright with innocent enjoyment. “When I die she’ll be in here pulling rings from my fingers before you can say ‘cock and balls.’ ”

Iona thanked him not to use that language and pissed about a bit, taking his pulse and looking at her watch, before leaving them alone again. Pete sighed contentedly and stroked the sheet.

“There, you have to come back and visit me now.”

“She’s a bit scary.”

Pete pulled himself up and leaned across the bed confidentially. His breath smelled foul. “She’s a fucking cow. I watch her going around this room bullying them all. I try to frighten her back. She scratches when she washes me. Every time.” He leaned back against the pillow and looked at the door. “I don’t want to die in here. Have to keep fighting.” He frowned briefly at the sheet, banishing whatever thought was interfering with his medication. “Sad.” He shook his head. “As if we’re not scared enough in here. I’d hate to recant at this stage.”

Paddy didn’t know what to say, so she apologized again. He didn’t notice. “I’m dying,” he told the sheet, sounding surprised to hear it himself. “And I don’t believe in God. I hope I don’t get scared at the last minute.”

“I’ve got to go, Pete.”

“Where?”

“I need to get the bus to Anderston and tell that wee bastard Patterson what I’ve done. There’s nothing else for it.” She half hoped he’d think of something.

“Right enough.”

She saw into her future, and the best she could hope for was a job in a shop or a factory. She wouldn’t marry; she knew that she’d only marry someone if she panicked now and didn’t have a career. The disappointment was so bitter it made her bones ache.

“I’ll never be a journalist now.”

“That’s right.”

She looked at him. He was staring up at John Knox. She wasn’t at all sure he was really listening. He had other things on his mind, she supposed.

“It would be a shame to recant at this stage,” she said quietly.

He became animated suddenly. “Wouldn’t it? Fear. ’S fear. There are ministers and lay preachers and hairy beasts patrolling the corridors of this hospital, waiting. They can smell moments of weakness. I don’t want to weaken. I’d die sad. This, here”- he pointed at the cannula on the back of his hand-“this is my last defense against them. I’d like to go out on a big burst of that.”

It took her the rest of the visit to work out that he was talking about his four-hourly doses of morphine.