something that she believed to be completely harmless but it had not been. It had killed him.
Anger, superseding disappointment, erupted in Jenny. 'No damn it! I did not give him anything. How many times do I have to say it! You are on the wrong track!'
Fenton felt the unspoken 'as usual' hang heavily in the air. He stopped badgering to create a silence in the room that threatened to be louder than the argument. Reining his voice, he said softly, 'Jenny, you must see that it is the only logical explanation. You must have given the boy something, something you would not give a second thought to, something you have forgotten about, please…think?'
'No! No! No!' Jenny's eyes blazed as she refused to have any more to do with the notion. Fenton made to put his arm round her but she turned away and stared intently at the fire. Fenton got up and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. The kettle was empty so he had to re-fill it and wait until it boiled. He did not return to the living room in the interim, choosing instead to stare distantly out of the kitchen window at the blackness with his hands in his pockets. Jenny had never turned away from him before. He felt angry, sad, sorry, ineffectual, stupid and, after standing still in the kitchen for some time, cold. He poured the coffee and took it through.
Jenny did not look up when he put the mug down beside her; she continued to stare at the fire. He sat down on the other chair and looked steadily at her left profile until she did relent and turn towards him then he broke into a half apologetic, half self-conscious grin. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered.
'Oh Tom…'
They held each other tight while the tears, the whispered apologies, the cheek nuzzling tenderness, combined to soothe the wounds that they had inflicted on each other. A new silence ensued but this time it was a comfortable pool of serenity with both of them reluctant to speak lest they ripple the surface.
Fenton woke at three, his body damp with cold sweat. He sat bolt upright to free himself of the images of a nightmare, Neil Munro's face, a fountain of blood from Timothy Watson's mouth and, through a red mist, the spectre of Jamie Buchan's dead face. A forest of arms had reached out towards him in the dream, Mona Buchan's arm had pointed and accused, Timothy Watson had held out both arms in pitiful appeal and anonymous arms had reached out from a deep freeze to wave like pond weeds. Luke Skywalker had wielded a sword; this image remained with him as he reeled into consciousness. In the darkness of the room he saw again the boy at the harbour, the strangely familiar boy with his hands on the handlebars of the Honda. 'Can I have a hurl Mister? Can I have a hurl please?'
The image of the boy's face exploded into nothingness as Fenton realised something. It was not the boy himself who was familiar it was what he was wearing! He had been wearing coloured plastic bands round both wrists…hospital name tags!
Fenton shook Jenny hard in his excitement and coaxed her into wakefulness. She covered her eyes from the glare of the bedside lamp.
'Think Jenny think! Did you give any hospital name tags to Jamie Buchan?'
An overture of confused sleepy noises gave way to silence as Jenny considered the question. 'Yes, yes I did.' Her eyes cleared with the recollection. 'I had a bunch in my uniform pocket. I gave them to Jamie to play with.'
Fenton stared at her without saying anything.
'All right, so you were right, I did give him something, I gave him a few name tags but surely you are not going to suggest that he ate them and poisoned himself are you?'
Fenton conceded that he was not but he was not going to be ridiculed either. He took both Jenny's hands in his and said, 'It's a start and what's more it's a connection, a connection between Jamie and the Princess Mary. What else did you give him?'
Fenton's surge of confidence overwhelmed any argument that Jenny might have considered. She thought deeply before answering. 'No, I'm quite sure this time, nothing else.'
'Good, make some coffee will you.'
Jenny's eyebrows arched but Fenton was deep in thought and didn't notice. He sat on the edge of the bed staring into space, his right thumbnail tapping rapidly against gritted teeth. Jenny made coffee and brought it through. 'Your coffee oh wise one.'
Fenton ignored the sarcasm or, more correctly, it did not register. He took the cup and said, 'Well if all you gave him was a plastic name tag…that's what must have killed him.'
Jenny, with less reason than anyone to scoff at suggestions which diverted suspicions from herself, was forced to do so at this one and said so in no uncertain manner.
Fenton remained adamant. 'If the name tags are the only connection between the hospital and Jamie then they are the reason. It's logical, however unlikely it may seem.'
'How?' said Jenny accusingly.
'I've no idea,' said Fenton.
Jenny shook her head. She said, 'You said that you saw Jamie's friend wearing the arm bands. He was quite healthy wasn't he?'
'Yes.'
'Well?'
'I don't know, but I repeat, if the arm bands were the only thing you gave to Jamie then they are responsible. Do you still say you gave him nothing else?'
'Nothing,' said Jenny.
'I'm going to talk to Tyson in the morning but meanwhile…'
'Meanwhile what?'
'How long is it since we made love?'
'Quite a while,' said Jenny.
'That situation is about to end.'
'Do I have some say in the matter?'
'Not really,' said Fenton.
'Shouldn't we discuss this first…' murmured Jenny, her body beginning to respond to his touch.
'No,' whispered Fenton, 'I've already decided.'
Tyson listened patiently while Fenton told his tale and did not interrupt but Fenton could tell that he was failing to convince. Tyson's eloquent silence diluted his enthusiasm until the implausibility of what he was saying loomed up at him like guilt for some long past sin. Tyson cleared his throat and began to speak. Fenton could tell that he was editing what he had to say in the cause of politeness. 'What you are really saying is that Saxon plastic kills people. Frankly, that is ridiculous.'
The words, coming from Tyson, carried the weight of a punch. Fenton tried to defend himself. He began, 'I know it sounds a bit…'
'Not a bit, a lot. It is just plain ridiculous. Saxon plastic has been through every test in the book and passed with flying colours. Do you know what tests any new health product must pass before it ever gets near a hospital?' Fenton did not but he could guess.
'Saxon plastic is safe. It is non toxic, non poisonous, non inflammable. It is safe when you heat it; it is safe when you freeze it and safe if you are stupid enough to want to eat it! Now I know that you have been under great strain but this kind of nonsense is dangerous. We have enough trouble in this hospital without a law suit from Saxon Medical. Understood?'
Fenton sat in his lab silently licking his wounds. Nothing Tyson had said had made him change his mind; he clung to his belief like a bull dog gripping a rag. The only thing now was he would have to prove it all on his own.
Fenton's lonely war was waged on a battlefield of paper as he read and re-read every scrap of information he could find on Saxon Medical and their new product. He examined all the graphs and tables from the original trials and re-plotted the data in what turned out to be a fruitless search for flaws. Quite simply, there were none, a fact that he had to come to terms with after a week of silently preoccupied evenings during which Jenny had plied him with coffee and kept, what politicians liked to call, a low profile. As he conceded defeat and put down his pen to rub his eyes on Friday evening he heard the sound outside of an ambulance siren floating above the wind and rain. It made him wonder if its occupant was bound for the Princess Mary. She was.
The week had been special for Rachel Morrison because it had been her eighth birthday on Wednesday, a day
