Page 67

SIXTY-SIX

It was dark, and smelled of disinfectant, and he could only get around slowly, because the air was thick and gloopy.

His mouth tasted bad, as though he’d swallowed something sour.

There was a loud, low hum and pressure on his ears as if he was underwater, so he couldn’t make out what Helen was saying to him, or Nicola or Phil who seemed keen to tell him something, and when he tried to speak to them nothing came out.

They were all smiling, but when they’d drifted away others appeared through the murk who stayed silent and seemed a lot less happy to see him.

Melita Perera and Stuart Nicklin.

Brigstocke . . .

Then it was just . . . nothing again, until the hum began to fade and he struggled his way to the surface.

Thorne slowly opened his eyes and squinted into the light.

‘Hey . . . ’ Nicola Tanner’s voice.

When he tried to turn his head, he realised immediately that he would need to do so very carefully. Tanner and Hendricks were sitting together by his bed.

‘About bloody time,’ Hendricks said. ‘Christ, hospitals are boring.’

Tanner put down her magazine and moved her chair closer. ‘How you feeling?’

Thorne intended to say ‘I’ve been better’, but managed no more than a croak.

Tanner reached for the plastic jug, poured water into a paper cup and leaned in so that Thorne could take a sip.

He lifted his head, just a few inches from the pillow, and as he drank he saw the plaster running from his thigh on one leg and from knee to foot on the other.

There were several different tubes snaking from his hand and he could only guess that one of them was delivering a healthy supply of morphine because, although it wasn’t easy to breathe with strapping of some kind across his chest, he wasn’t in any particular pain.

He said, ‘Helen . . . ?’

‘She’s just outside with the doctor,’ Tanner said.

‘Who I couldn’t help noticing was extremely fit,’ Hendricks said.

‘I reckon your missus is after him, and it’s not like you can blame her, what with you at death’s door and all that.

But if she isn’t, I might have a bash at the dreamy doc myself, ask for a thorough examination.

I haven’t had my prostate tickled in a dog’s age. ’

Thorne laughed, then winced because now it hurt.

‘Shit . . . sorry, mate,’ Hendricks said.

‘OK, so what’s the damage?’

‘You really want to know now ?’ Tanner asked. ‘You should be resting.’

Thorne managed a small nod.

‘OK, well . . . one broken leg, a broken ankle, several broken ribs and a fractured pelvis.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Well, there’s quite a lot of bruising.’ She pointed to his face. ‘Down to the airbag, most of it.’

‘It’s a definite improvement if you ask me,’ Hendricks said.

Tanner ignored him. ‘It could have been a lot worse.’

‘If you say so.’ Thorne stared up at the pale-yellow ceiling. He listened to the drip of saline and the hiss of some machine for a few seconds, the clatter of a trolley outside the door, then turned back to Tanner. ‘Brigstocke?’

She shook her head. ‘Gone . . . but he can’t hide for long.’

‘Right.’

‘You’ll still get the chance to nick him, Tom.’

Thorne wasn’t quite as convinced as Tanner that he would, but it was still as good an incentive to make a quick recovery as he could wish for. He remembered the last thing Holland had said to him before the crash. ‘How’s Dave doing?’

The look that passed between Tanner and Hendricks was momentary, no more than that, but it was enough.

‘Tom . . . ’

Thorne felt a powerful jolt of pain that no amount of morphine would ease and, as it began to spread and settle, he closed his eyes and pressed his head back into the pillow.

He wanted only to find his way back to that thick and quiet dark.