'Not so much your pretend kinky schoolgirl, as an actual schoolgirl.' 'FUCK!' 'You were saying something about dirty old men?' The intensive care ward was quiet, just the hum and ping of machinery to break the gloomy silence. Insch was wired up to a bank of equipment, little round sticky pads on the pale pink expanse of his chest; an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth, misty with condensation; another pulse monitor on the end of his finger. The inspector's wife, Miriam, was sitting by his bedside, sniffing into a handkerchief, looking twenty years older than she should have. Logan stopped at the end of the bed. 'How is he?' She looked up, saw who it was, then went back to staring at her husband. 'They're waiting to see if ... he needs to be stronger, or they can't operate.' 'We ...' Logan gave an embarrassed cough, and held up the massive get-well-soon card in the shape of a teddy bear. 'Everyone signed it. We ...' Another cough. 'You know he's too damn stubborn to give up.' 'It all went so wrong ...'
Brilliant evening. Spectacular. Like a hole in the head. Vicky clambered out of the car and plipped the locks. Sodding Marcus and his sodding parents and this sodding, GODFORSAKEN DINNER PARTY tomorrow night. All over town looking for organic sodding lamb in the rain ... If Marcus wanted roast lamb with sodding baby vegetables to impress his sodding parents, he could sodding well get out here and help her unload the car. She tried the front door, but it was locked. 'Oh for God's sake.' As if anyone was going to break in while he was there - and she knew he was in: his car was in the drive and all the lights were on. She tried her key, but it wouldn't turn. The idiot had left his key in the lock. Vicky leant on the doorbell. 'Come on Marcus! Answer the sodding door!' She took two steps back and scowled up at their three bedroom semi-detached rabbit hutch. He was probably in the toilet making smells and reading Dilbert, or one of his 'postmodern-ironic' lads' mags. Yeah, young ladies getting their boobs out. Very post-sodding-modern. 'MARCUS!' Nothing. 'Sodding hell.' She turned and stomped back down the drive. Fine, if Captain Useless wasn't going to help her, she'd just have to-- She heard the door unlocking behind her. Vicky turned, hands up in mock rapture. 'Halleluiah!' Only there was nobody there. The lazy sod had unlocked the door and disappeared back into the house. You know what? Fine. She'd unload the car on her own, and if Marcus thought he was getting any sex for the next month he was going to be very disappointed. He could go have a post-modern-ironic wank for all she cared. She threw her handbag over her shoulder, grabbed as many carrier bags as she could manage and staggered back up the drive, her high heels clicking on the wet lockblock. In through the front door. The television was on: some pretentious latenight discussion programme droning on about a book no one would ever read. Why couldn't he watch the sodding Simpsons like a normal person? That's what she got for marrying someone called Marcus.
