Louise Welsh - A Lovely Way to Burn

‘I was told she was in intensive care.’ Stevie’s voice was salesgirl-bright. ‘But I think there’s a good chance she’ll be out of there by now.’

The receptionist asked her to spell Joanie’s second name and rattled it into the computer keyboard.

Her eyes met Stevie’s. ‘Are you a relative?’

‘A friend.’

‘I’m afraid Mrs Caniparoli is still in intensive care.’ This time there was sympathy in the woman’s voice. ‘That means only close relatives are allowed to visit.’

Stevie wanted to tell the woman that she saw more of Joanie than any of her relatives did, but the reception telephone buzzed. The receptionist answered it and returned her attention to her computer screen, looking for whatever the person on the other end of the line needed to know.

Stevie followed the directions to the private wing. There was a flutter of apprehension in her stomach, a quickening of the feeling she still got just before the studio clock hit the hour and they went on air. She glanced at her mobile phone and then switched it off. It was 2.45 p.m. so she should be in good time for the end of Mr Reah’s rounds. Stevie straightened her back, trying to assume the air of someone who had a right to prowl hospital corridors. If anyone asked her what she was up to, she would tell them the truth. She was delivering a laptop from the recently deceased Dr Simon Sharkey to Mr Reah. What could be more reasonable? After that she would go to intensive care and tell whatever lies she needed to, the same way Joanie would if Stevie was lying alone in a hospital bed.

She shifted her bag, transferring the weight of the computer to her other shoulder, and wondered how Joanie would look. The thought conjured a memory of Julia Sharkey’s gaunt cheekbones, the wry smile in the skull face.

‘We doctors have a way with death.’

Stevie hoped, for Joanie’s sake, that they had a way with life too.

Stevie washed her hands with the antibacterial gel from the dispenser in the corridor and pulled at the door to the children’s ward. It refused to open. She tried pushing and then pulled again, but it stood firm against her.

‘What did you expect me to do, Simon?’ she muttered beneath her breath. ‘Use a battering ram?’

There was a security pad on the wall, similar to the one she swiped her identity card on at the television station. She thought again of Simon’s letter, his appeal to her ingenuity. But she was powerless against locks and electronic alarms.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor behind her. Stevie could tell it was a man by the confident length of his stride and the flat sound his shoes made against the floor. She took a step backwards, fished out the small handbag she had slipped into her satchel with the laptop and started rummaging in it. When the stranger was almost upon her, she tipped the bag’s contents, a jumble of receipts, pens, card wallet, purse and cosmetics, on to the floor.

‘Damn.’ The case of an Yves Saint Laurent lipstick had cracked when it hit the ground, and her curse wasn’t entirely an act. Stevie crouched and started gathering up the muddle of stuff. ‘I’m sorry.’ She had hoped the newcomer might bend and help her pick up the spilled contents, but she could feel him standing behind her. Stevie glanced up and saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a white coat staring down at her. His brown eyes were shielded by glasses, but his stiff posture was as impatient as a clicking finger.

‘I’m sorry.’ She got to her feet, apologising again. ‘You’re in a hurry.’ Stevie read the name card pinned to his lapel as she stood up: Dr Ahumibe . The doctor’s expression was stern, but his eyes did a quick flit, down, then up her body. Stevie smiled, forcing herself not to show too many teeth. Face-to-face selling required more subtlety than the brash, late-night TV pitches she was used to giving. ‘Can you tell me where to find Mr Reah, please? I was meant to meet him after his rounds, but I seem to have lost my bearings.’

Dr Ahumibe closed his eyes for a second. His expression was tight, like that of a man who knew he was reaching the end of his tether, but was determined to stay in control.

‘I’m sorry,’ Stevie said again. ‘It’s a big hospital, easy to get lost.’

The doctor opened his eyes. He swiped the door and ushered her into the ward.

‘Are you a close colleague of Mr Reah?’ His voice was deep and upper class, touched with a hint of an accent she couldn’t quite identify.

‘No.’ The question startled her.

‘A friend?’

‘We haven’t met before.’

‘That’s good.’ He took off his glasses and dragged a hand across his face. Stevie’s calves felt tight, the way they did after a long run, and some instinct told her to turn around and walk away, but she stayed where she was. The doctor replaced his glasses. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Reah is dead.’

‘Dead?’ Stevie repeated the word, as if saying it would make death more real. ‘When?’

‘Yesterday.’

The edges of the ward seemed to sharpen. She saw the grey floor, the doors to the private patients’ rooms, the nurses’ station midway down the corridor, everything sure and distinct.

‘Was it an accident?’

‘No, it wasn’t an accident. But it was sudden.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll appreciate we’re working at full capacity. The ward is two doctors down and the hospital as a whole is facing a massive challenge. Perhaps I can point you towards someone else who can help you?’

Stevie took a step backwards. The smell of the hospital was in her nostrils; the scent of her illness filtered through a chemical wash, harsh and sweet.

‘No, it’s fine, thanks.’

She turned to go but there must have been something furtive about the way she moved, because the doctor gripped her by the wrist, keeping her there.

‘Are you a journalist?’

Stevie wondered why the presence of a journalist would spook him. She forced another smile. ‘No.’ There was a move she had learnt in self-defence classes when she was a student – a chop to the attacker’s forearm, designed to hit a nerve and release his grasp – but force was always the last resort. She lowered her voice and whispered, ‘Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’

‘It’s not acceptable for people like you to go wandering around in search of an angle or a scoop, or whatever it is you call it.’ The doctor kept his voice low, but his words were like bullets. ‘This is a hospital. The children on this ward are extremely sick. Some of them are dying. Is that a big enough story for you?’

A piece of spittle had landed on Stevie’s cheek. She resisted the urge to wipe it away.

‘You’ve a good instinct for professions. I used to be a journalist but I haven’t worked as one for quite a while. My name is Stephanie Flint. I was Simon Sharkey’s girlfriend. He asked me to deliver something to Mr Reah.’

The doctor let go of her arm, as if her skin had suddenly scalded him, but a note of suspicion still coloured his voice.

‘Simon never mentioned you.’

‘We hadn’t been going out for very long.’

‘So why the subterfuge?’

‘Simon probably thought it wasn’t your business who he went out with.’

The doctor touched her arm.

‘That’s not what I meant. Why didn’t you tell me who you are?’ His anger had vanished and his voice was gentle.

Stevie couldn’t tell him about the letter from beyond the dead, the trouble Simon had gone to, hiding the laptop in her loft, the resolution she had made to follow his instructions.

‘Simon was insistent that I deliver the package to Mr Reah personally. I didn’t realise I had to introduce myself.’