There had been a bit of an atmosphere when she'd announced that she was going out, but her mother had hardly been in a position to say anything after the way she'd changed their plans earlier.
Around her people started to applaud and she joined in. The compare was coming back on again to introduce another act. He said that there'd be an interval afterwards. She wondered if they'd go out for a meal when the show had finished; there were loads of great, restaurants within walking distance. Then they could sit in his car for a while before he drove her home.
The next comedian was a woman. She was gentler and did a really funny song about men being crap in bed to start off.
Rachel took a sip from her half of lager and smiled at him, feeling a little light-headed. He smiled back and squeezed her hand. When he'd let go she slid her arm between his back and the chair.
She was as happy as she could ever remember being. She rested her hand on his waist.., the audience laughed.., he had on a really nice linen shirt which he wore out of his trousers.., the audience groaned at a corny line.., he always wore gorgeous clothes.., the woman on stage started another song… Rachel wanted to touch his skin.., a drunk at the other side of the room started to cheer and clap.., she moved her hand under his shirt and her fingers crept round to stroke the flesh of his stomach… Then he screamed.
In that split second when everything fell apart, and he was standing up, and her drink was in her lap, and the woman on the stage was pointing at them, it seemed to Rachel that he had screamed. Christ, he had. He'd bellowed. As if he'd been scalded…
His face was a mask and she reached up to grab his arm, but he called her a stupid little bitch and grabbed for his coat and he was away, moving quickly away, pushing between the tables and knocking over empty chairs. And the woman on the stage was laughing and saying something to him as he marched out, and he turned and shouted and told her to fuck off, and people in the audience started to boo, and he looked like he wanted to hurt them.
He crashed out through the door, and she could feel the beer soaking through her thin skirt, and the eyes of everyone in the room burning into her. The door slammed shut with a bang, and the woman on the stage leaned in close to her microphone and put a hand over her eyes to stare into the lights and beyond, to where Rachel was sitting arid wishing she was 'dead.
'Bit of a domestic, love?'
A few people in the audience laughed. And Rachel began to cry.
Holland was listening to the sports round-up on Radio 5 Live for the third time in as many hours, when headlights swept across his rear-view mirror and he turned to see Jeremy Bishop pulling up outside his house.
Thorne had called at around six and Sophie was not best pleased. She'd known immediately that it was Thorne. She knew everything immediately. She'd have been pissed off at his having to go out anyway but Thorne, as far as she was concerned, represented an unhealthy future for him in the force. A future he should run from at all costs. A future without promotion, without stability, without certainty. By implication, without her.
He couldn't argue with her. Everything she said made complete sense. But they were words from beyond the grave. His father's words. Sophie was mouthing the sentiments of a man he had loved but had never admired. It was hard not to admire Tom Thorne.
He couldn't argue with Sophie, so he didn't bother. He left the house in silence and conducted the argument with her in his head as he drove to Battersea and sat waiting. In truth, he was arguing with himself as well. Thorne was clutching at straws, of course he was. Jeremy Bishop, who, Holland knew, had been at work in the Royal London hospital at the time, had dropped a ring in Maggie Byrne's bedroom as he was murdering her.
Right. Looked at rationally, these were the ravings of a man popularly thought by many of his colleagues to have gone over the edge. But there'd been something in Thorne's voice. Yes, desperation possibly, but more than that. An excitement, a zeal, a passion that had Holland reaching for his coat and wondering what he was going to say to Sophie before he'd put down the phone. He stepped out of the car and crossed the road. Bishop, who had just locked the Volvo and was about to head towards his front door, saw Holland coming. He sighed theatrically and leaned back against the car, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. Holland was ready with an apologetic shrug and all the appropriate phrases. Just a few more questions. Investigating a fresh lead. Grateful for all your help and co-operation. As he approached he could see that Bishop remembered him. He didn't care. He had his badge in his right hand with the other politely outstretched. 'Detective Constable Holland, sir.'
Bishop pushed himself away from the car and took a step towards him. 'Yes, I know. How's your girlfriend's hand?' The tone impatient, the smile saying he knew it was bollocks.
Holland was thrown, but only for a second. 'Fine.'
'How long is this going to take?'
It wasn't going to take very long at all. As Bishop had started speaking, he had proffered his left hand in return for Holland's. They'd shaken, and with a quick downward glance, Holland had got what he'd come for. What Thorne had sent him for.
No wedding ring.
I've been reading a lot. The same page usually, over and over again, but what the hell? Early on, there was a bit of a scramble to find some interesting reading matter and while they were looking, to sort of test out their new-fangled device, the occupational therapist gave me some official hospital literature to read.
Yawn…
Well, that's what I thought until I started reading. Fascinating stuff. This is a quote, and I can remember it very accurately having stared at it for twenty minutes: 'The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery, incorporating the Institute of Neurology, is a unique resource for teaching, training and research in neurology and the neurosciences. The work of academic staff and their research is closely integrated with the hospital's care of its patients.' Well, that all seems clear enough to me. The 'care' bit is very much an afterthought, you know, tagged on at the end when somebody remembered that it was supposed to be a hospital. The rest seems to be all about research and training and, frankly, they can just fuck right off.
I'm a patient. Trust me, I'd really rather not be here at all, but if I am then my job description is 'patient mate. I'm nobody's resource. Nobody's fucking teaching aid.
'Let's have a look at this poor young woman here, utterly buggered thanks to brainstem trauma. Can you try and blink for us, dear?'
No thanks.
All right, I'm being a bit over the top but when I first read that I was really upset. I lay awake all night wondering if anybody here was making any effort at all to help me get better. I'm still wondering.
Am I more use to them the way I am?
SEVENTEEN
Keable and Tughan had questions ready, and Thorne had plenty of answers. First, there was the small matter of another complaint from Jeremy Bishop.
'He claims there was somebody watching his house on Saturday evening.' Keable looked at Thorne. Thorne shrugged and turned to Holland innocently.
'Did he say anything about this to you last night?'
Tughan spoke before Holland had a chance to answer.
'You are on such thin ice, Thorne.'
Thorne smiled. He was feeling elated and no amount of sniping from Nick Tughan was going to alter his mood. One day soon they would have it all out. For now, he was best ignored.
Tughan was seated in a chair against the wall beneath the calendar, and Holland stood with his back to the door. The office felt crowded. Thorne placed both hands on Keable's desk and leaned down to him. 'So what are we going to do, Frank?'
Keable slid his chair away from the desk, retreating. He held up a hand. 'First we're going to think about what we've really got here. How on earth can she be sure the ring isn't her mother's?'
'She's sure.'
