If he’d been in the mood he would probably have found that particular irony amusing.
As it was he had other things on his mind.
He had no idea how long it had taken him to drive to St Ann’s hospital in Harringay. The journey had been a blur, as if he’d been travelling through some drug-induced trance, not really seeing or hearing properly. He drove instinctively, amazed he hadn’t killed anyone, such had been his haste to reach this place.
This place that smelled so strong it made him feel sick.
The room in which he sat was about twelve feet square.
It reminded him of a cell but for the leaflets on the wall.
Multiple sclerosis.
Rabies.
Cancer.
Always fucking cancer.
That particular leaflet was pinned just above the red and white sign which proclaimed: no smoking.
Talbot felt more like a cigarette than he’d ever done in his life.
A nurse had brought him a cup of tea when he’d first arrived.
That same cup now stood untouched and cold on the table before him.
The room was lit by a small table lamp fitted with a forty-watt bulb. It was barely adequate and the room was filled with long shadows. Thick and black, they seemed to move of their own accord.
The door of the room opened and two men entered, one of whom Talbot recognised as Dr Hodges from Litton Vale. The other man was also, he assumed, a doctor, his features pinched, his hair swept back so severely it looked as though his scalp had been stretched.
But, for all that, he had sad eyes. Great saucer-like orbs which homed in on Talbot like searchlights on a fleeing man.
‘How is she?’ the DI asked, rising to his feet.
The man with sad eyes kept him fixed in that watery gaze.
‘I won’t lie to you’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be surprised if she lasts the night. I’m very sorry.’
Talbot stood motionless. ‘What was it?’ he said, looking at Hodges.
‘A massive heart attack,’ the doctor told him. ‘One of the night staff called me: I live close to Litton Vale, I don’t know if you know. I drove there, I called the ambulance immediately, then I called you.’
‘Can I see her?’ Talbot asked.
‘She’s in a coma,’ the sad-eyed man told him.
‘I didn’t ask you that. I asked if I could see her,’ the DI persisted.
‘I’d advise against it, Mr Talbot-‘
‘I don’t want your advice, I want to see my mother.’
The sad-eyed doctor glanced at Hodges then back at Talbot. ‘She’s in ICU. I can show you-‘
‘I’ll find it,’ said Talbot, pushing past him.
As he stepped out of the room he saw several signs on the blue-painted hospital wall.
One pointed the way to Intensive Care.
Talbot stalked off down the corridor and jabbed the lift call button, waiting as the car bumped to a halt before him.
As the doors slid open he saw an old man in a dressing gown inside, who shot him a questioning look. The man was using a frame to walk and even that didn’t seem to be of much help.
Talbot wondered what he was doing up and about at such a late hour.
The policeman stepped into the lift, watched by the old man, pressed the required button and the doors slid shut.
He leaned against the rear wall as the lift rose to its appointed floor.
The smell here seemed even stronger, but Talbot ignored it and headed towards the nurses’ station, his footsteps echoing through the stillness.
The nurse who looked up at him was in her early twenties.
‘I’m looking for Dorothy Talbot,’ he said. ‘I’m her son.’
The nurse stared at him, pity filling her eyes, then she rose.
Talbot followed her along a short corridor towards a room, the door of which she pushed open, ushering Talbot inside.
‘Oh Christ!’ he whispered.
The only sound in the room was the steady blip of an oscilloscope.
‘You can’t stay long’ the nurse said, apologetically, stepping aside as Talbot moved closer to the bed where his mother lay.
There was a plastic chair close to the bed and he pulled it over, seating himself beside her, gazing into her face.
Her skin was the colour of old newspaper, her eyes sunken so deep into her face she looked skeletal.
The nurse paused a moment then stepped out of the room.
Talbot sat gazing at his mother, at the tubes running from both arms to drips near by. At the catheter, half full of dark liquid.
‘Mum,’ he said, softly, reaching for her hand.
It was so cold.
Her skin felt waxen to his touch.
And so cold.
He could see her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly but he couldn’t hear her breathing.
All that was covering her was a sheet, and that was only pulled up as far as her waist. Talbot muttered something under his breath and noticed a blanket carefully folded on the bottom of the bed. He unrolled it then pulled both it
and the sheet up to his mother’s chest.
Carefully he tucked one of her hands beneath the covers, gripping it gently.
‘Don’t die.’
She looked so frail, so drained of life. So different from the last time he’d seen her.
Well, at least you won’t have to worry about bringing her home, will you ? You bastard.
He squeezed her hand more tightly, as if the action might rouse her from the coma.
Heart attack.
Jesus Christ, wasn’t fucking cancer enough?
Talbot noticed that there was a small wooden cross hanging above the bed.
He eyed it malevolently.
She didn’t deserve to suffer. Her least of all.
Allowing his mother’s hand to slip from his grip, he got to his feet and plucked the cross from the wall placing it on the bedside table.
‘Satisfied now?’ he said, his words directed at empty air.
At a God he didn’t believe in.
He reached for her hand again.
So cold.
‘You sleep, Mum,’ he whispered, barely realising there were tears rolling down his cheeks. The oscilloscope continued its slow rhythm.
Everything else was silent.
The nurse came to the door, peeked through the glass panel and saw Talbot sitting holding his mother’s hand.
She hesitated a moment, then walked quietly away.
Eighty
The note had been on the pillow beside her when she’d woken that morning.
Cath had rolled over sleepily, slapping a hand in the general direction of the alarm clock, expecting also to feel the warmth of Phillip Cross’s body but the photographer wasn’t there.
