Gates. Brady knew that that letter ‘N’ wasn’t just coincidence. What it meant he didn’t know but he sure as hell was going to find out why it had been burnt into Simone Henderson’s breast.
‘Thanks,’ he said to the receptionist before turning and heading down the maze-like corridor.
The only thing on his mind now was Simone.
Regardless of what Conrad had said in the car, he needed to see her.
Brady pressed the intercom button for the security doors leading into the Intensive Care Unit.
‘Detective Inspector Brady to see Simone Henderson,’ Brady said into the intercom, trying to keep his voice level.
The door buzzed open and Brady walked through into the sterile, white hall and headed for the nurses’ desk at the end.
‘Simone Henderson? DI Brady,’ he added as he flashed his ID at the young Filipino nurse.
She nodded distractedly as an alarm from one of the patients’ machines went off.
‘Down there, Room 2. On your left,’ she instructed before hurriedly walking off in the direction of the alarm.
Brady turned and walked past the ward of male and female patients. Most of an age, attached to bleeping machines that monitored their every breath and heartbeat. Brady looked straight ahead, not wanting to witness the loss of humility that came with old age. Craggy, parched mouths hanging open, with skin peeling off from their tongues due to lack of hydration and eyes either tightly shut against their situation or open, staring ahead with a watery, glazed look.
Brady hated hospitals. Hated the smell, the noise and the fact that death morbidly clung to every patient, silently waiting.
Brady didn’t need to be told which room. The uniform outside was obvious enough. Brady approached the door of the private room, noting that the blinds on the window looking into the room were closed. Immediately, he knew it was a bad sign.
‘Sir?’ PC Smith asked uncomfortably.
Brady could see in his eyes that Smith, along with everyone else, knew that he was the reason Simone Henderson had transferred out of Whitley Bay.
Brady looked at him. He was twenty-three, if that.
‘I’m here to see Simone Henderson.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been instructed not to allow you in,’ the PC answered nervously.
‘Who by?’ demanded Brady as he edged towards PC Smith, forcing him to strategically place his six-foot-four, rugby-playing bulk between Brady and the door.
‘DI Adamson, sir,’ explained PC Smith, his cheeks reddening.
Brady noted that Smith was another Conrad in the making. Smart appearance, short, cropped blond hair, bright, boyish blue eyes and clean-shaven. But more importantly, Smith had that look of integrity about him.
‘Is he here?’
‘That’s not the point, sir.’
‘I only want a minute, Smith. That’s all. I just need to see that she’s OK.’
PC Smith uncomfortably stared straight ahead past Brady, refusing to make eye contact.
‘I can’t do that, sir. I have my orders.’
‘Fuck your orders!’
Smith fixed his stare on the wall ahead of him, clearly desperate for someone to intervene.
‘One minute is all I’m asking for, nothing more,’ attempted Brady, too aware that getting angry with Smith wouldn’t get him anywhere.
‘I wish I could, sir, but her father’s here. And he’ll be back shortly. He’s only gone to fetch a coffee from the cafeteria.’
‘One minute. You can leave the door open and warn me when he returns.’
PC Smith frowned, torn between doing his job and loyalty to Brady. He’d worked on an investigation headed by Brady nine months back and had seen what a dedicated copper Brady was at heart.
After a beat, Smith shook his head resignedly.
‘One minute, sir,’ he said. ‘But if anyone finds out …’
‘No one will,’ assured Brady. ‘Thanks, Smith.’
PC Smith turned and opened the door to allow Brady in.
Nothing could have prepared Brady for what greeted him.
DC Simone Henderson lay unconscious. From what he could tell she had been heavily sedated. Various other wires were attached below her paper-thin hospital gown, recording her heartbeat with irritable regularity. Intravenous tubes wormed their way into her lifeless arms.
Brady stood, unable to move towards her. Her face was unrecognisable from that of the woman he had seen the night before. Brady clenched his fists as he played the ‘what if’ game. What if he had gone over to her? Maybe she wouldn’t be lying in a hospital bed fighting for her life.
Brady didn’t need a doctor to tell him that she was in a bad way. The ghostly, sickly greyish pallor that clung resiliently to her skin scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know whether to go over to her and try his damnedest to shake her out of the shadowy underworld she now inhabited. He wanted to shout her name out loud enough to bring her back. To remind her that she didn’t belong where she was, that she needed to return to the living. He needed her to regain consciousness so he could find out who had done this to her. So he could hunt them down and make them suffer the way she had been made to suffer.
He struggled to hold her name at the back of his throat, knowing that if he uttered it out loud it would only be heard as a painful, primeval, anguished sob.
He forced himself to walk towards the bed. Each step feeling as if he was walking barefoot on broken glass.
He reached her side and waited. Willing her to feel his presence.
She didn’t move.
He bent over her waxen, taut face, gently brushing her long, damp hair away from her cold, translucent skin.
‘I’ll get them, Simone … whoever did this to you … I’ll get them … .’
He couldn’t help but notice how young and fragile she looked. And yet, there was something about her which suggested she was too old for this world. She had seen too much and was done with this life.
Brady breathed in and tried to get his head together.
He didn’t have time to reflect. He had work to do.
Hand trembling, knowing that what he was doing was breaking every rule in the book, he pulled back the tape holding the gauze padding covering her left breast. He knew he shouldn’t be interfering with the dressing but he needed to see for himself the four-inch letter ‘N’ burnt into her flesh.
He forced himself to look. He willed himself not to react as he took in the gnarled, weeping, open wound. He took out his phone, the reason he was there, and photographed the letter ‘N’.
Satisfied with the image, he carefully replaced the dressing and turned away, feeling disgusted with himself. He fought back the overwhelming tumult of emotions coursing through his body.
He pulled himself together. Now wasn’t the time to get emotional. He owed Simone more than that. It was simple: he had a job to do and that had to be his main focus. Breathing slowly he gave her one last look before turning and walking out.
‘Sir,’ greeted PC Smith, relieved when Brady joined him in the hall.
‘Thanks, I owe you one,’ Brady said.
But he couldn’t bring himself to look at him. He didn’t want the junior copper to see the pain etched across his face. Or the shame he felt at what he had just done.
He turned and walked away, head bent down as he sent Claudia the photograph accompanied by an explanatory text.
He watched as the signal ebbed and then surged, until the photo finally disappeared, along with the
