He would never normally have shown a flicker of emotion but today, drinking with an old school friend, he’d dropped his guard. His face contracted. He knew her.
‘Who is she?’
She could almost hear the gates being slammed shut, the drawbridges being drawn up. But it was too late. He’d given himself away.
‘Dunno. Never seen her before.’
‘Come on, Tomas. It’s me here. I know you’re lying. You know her.’
‘No. I Do. Not.’ His eyes chilled, turning the colour of dirty ice, and for the first time she saw the hard man he was behind the old schoolboy bonhomie.
‘She tried to kill Ricky.’
Lucy could have announced she was going to be the next woman in space for all the response he gave. He was cold and unapproachable. She watched him down the rest of his pint. She’d left her phone on the bar with the photograph of Chris Malone open but he was taking care not to look at it.
‘Aren’t you interested in why she poisoned him?’
He put his glass down with more force than was necessary.
‘No.’ But he didn’t move.
‘I think it’s because Ricky knows something dangerous. Maybe he saw the killer. Maybe one of his clients wants him out of the way. He’s in a trusted, confidential position as their accountant. He might have information someone doesn’t want shared.’
Tomas turned his head. Looked her, expression cold. ‘I’d be careful, if I were you. You dig too deep, you might not like what you find.’
She could feel her eyes widen. ‘Are you threatening me?’
At that, he deflated. Ran a hand over his head. ‘Fuck, no. I just don’t want you to… fuck.’
She watched him with interest. He was conflicted. Angry. Anxious.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It was nice to see you.’ His tone was stiff.
‘You too.’
‘But I don’t think we’ll be doing it again.’
He threw a couple of twenties on the bar and stalked outside without looking back.
When Lucy got home, her mother was in front of her laptop in the kitchen, frowning. A glass of wine sat at her elbow.
‘You’re not working, are you?’ Lucy asked. ‘It’s getting late.’
‘I’m trying to help a friend with a diagnosis in Chelsea and Westminster…’
As her mother picked up her phone, Lucy walked to the fridge. Had a look to see what she might have for supper.
‘Claire?’ her mother said. ‘I wouldn’t think it’s aerotoxicity. You can get blurred and tunnel vision sometimes, but going blind overnight? I’d look for something more logical, like a stroke or TIA, or maybe a retinal detachment…’
Lucy’s stomach squirmed. She’d always been a bit squeamish about eyes, and the thought of her retinas detaching made her feel slightly sick.
23
Isla was waiting for her evening hot chocolate to arrive with Emily, her best friend who’d dropped everything to fly over from LA on Sunday. She didn’t think she would have got through the last couple of days without her. Em had been with her every step of the way as each test was undertaken, and by her side when the results were reported. Nothing had shown up on the CT scan or the PET. Now, they were waiting on the MRI results.
She had her earbuds in and was listening to Radio 4 on her phone, a First World War drama based on the lives of real people. She’d never listened to the radio like this before and found it not just absorbing but immensely comforting. While she listened to a live broadcast, she felt that the world was a safe place to be, people still walked to work, took buses, went to a pub, a cocktail bar at the end of their day.
How was she going to cope doing normal things if she couldn’t see? She’d have to get a white stick… What about a guide dog? How did you get one of those? How the hell did you feed it, or pick up its poop if you couldn’t fucking see?
‘Isla Hanson?’ a man called, interrupting her increasingly panicky thoughts.
She pulled out one of her earbuds, tapping her finger over the face of her phone, trying to find the pause button.
She heard the squeak as the door opened further. Thanks to the airline’s health scheme, she had a private room. She didn’t think she could have borne being in a ward with strangers.
She tapped some more, but the radio continued to play. She heard him step inside the room.
‘Can I help?’
‘I’m okay, thanks.’ He might run off with it for all she knew.
‘Charlie,’ she snapped. ‘Switch off the radio.’
Silence. Thank God for voice commands. She pulled out the other earbud. ‘Yes?’
Her pulse had picked up, her heart beating faster than normal. Without her sight, she was constantly being put under pressure. She’d never felt so vulnerable before, so helpless. She lifted her chin, fixing her gaze on the space where she guessed he would be.
‘My name’s Nykko. I’m from the London Herald. I spoke with Grant Newman and Liz Moss this afternoon. They told me about your situation.’
Her colleagues had been really ill over the last few days, with severe physical symptoms that had kept Liz in hospital and Grant in his hotel room. They’d suffered nausea, fatigue, blurred vision and tremors, but they hadn’t lost their sight.
‘We talked at length about aerotoxicity. Have you been tested?’
She didn’t think so but was reluctant to say anything. He’d said he was a journalist. She wasn’t sure if she should trust him.
‘Bob Brown told me to come and see you. He’s really concerned for you. For all of you.’
‘Captain Brown?’
‘Yes. He’s convinced you’re all suffering from aerotoxicity. Have you had your blood tested for auto antibodies?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded taken aback. ‘Are they biomonitoring your blood?’
‘Er…’
‘What about your urine? It could show 2-Hexandion or acetone, o-Kresol. This could indicate aerotoxic syndrome.’
Isla plucked at her bedsheet.
‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded genuinely regretful. ‘It must be really weird having me ask you about this,
