As he walked from the lift, he caught the eye of a woman in the glass-fronted office in Reception. She waved at him and he recognised her as Anne's secretary. He couldn't remember her name. He pointed at the doors and she nodded, signaling at him to go on through. He remembered the three-digit code that opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped through them into the Intensive Therapy Unit.
He let the sister on duty at the nursing station know where he was going and set off down the corridor towards Alison's room. As he walked past the other rooms he realised that he knew nothing about the people inside. He'd never spoken to Anne about her other patients. He presumed that none were suffering in quite the same way as Alison was, but that all had seen their lives changed in a few short seconds. The time it takes to trip on the stairs or miss time a tackle or lose control of a car.
The time it takes for a brain to short-circuit. He listened at the door of the room opposite Alison's. The same telltale hum of machinery from within, like the lazy throb of a dozing beehive coming slowly to life after a long winter. Whoever lay in the bed inside that room was here by accident. That was the difference.
Thorne turned and moved across to Alison's door. He knocked quietly and reached for the handle. He gasped as the door was yanked open from the inside and David Higgins all but pushed him back into the corridor.
'She's not here.' Higgins was in his face.
'What?' Thorne tried to push past him into the room.
'You're out of luck, Thorne. Sorry.'
Thorne looked at him, not understanding. Higgins began to raise his voice. 'My fucking wife. My fucking wife, who you are fucking. She. Isn't. Here.'
Thorne could smell Dutch courage.
'I'm not here to see Anne. Move out of the way.'
'Of course. Have fun.'
Higgins took a step to his left but Thorne didn't move, just looked at him. 'What does that mean?' Knowing exactly what it meant but wanting to hear him say it.
'Well, in the absence of the lovely Anne, who doesn't actually enjoy it that much anyway, you might as well… make hay with someone who really doesn't have a great deal of say in the matter. Like a blow-up doll with a pulse.'
Thorne had always thought that the accusations about his relationship with Alison were a little cheap for the killer. A little beneath him. Now he knew who had been responsible. The motivation was obvious but Thorne asked anyway. 'Why?'
Higgins swallowed, licked his lips. 'Why not?'
As his right arm bent and swung at speed, Thorne unballed his fist. A slap seemed so much more appropriate. Higgins wasn't man enough to punch.
The hard flat hand caught Higgins across the jaw and ear, sending him sprawling across the highly polished linoleum. He lay still, whimpering like a child. Without looking at him, Thorne stepped across Higgins's outstretched leg and opened the door to Alison Willetts's room.
The second he looked at her, she began to blink. Once, twice, three times. Thorne realised that she'd heard the noise from outside and was disturbed. Maybe he should call for a nurse. What had Higgins been doing in her room anyway? Probably just looking for Anne, but couldn't he have spoken to someone at reception?
Thorne's mind was racing. He needed to calm down if he was going to be able to say what he came to say. Alison was still blinking. One blink every three or four seconds.
'It's OK, Alison. Look, I'll try and keep this short. It's about what I said the other day, about being close to him, the man who did this to you…'
She was still blinking.
Please, for fuck's sake shut up, and listen. Get the board…
'What's the matter?' His eyes darted across to the blackboard, still lying against the wall and covered with a sheet. He looked back at Alison. One blink. Yes.
Yes!
He moved across the room, whipped off the sheet and dragged the blackboard to the foot of the bed. He knew roughly how the system worked. He hurried to switch off the main light and then, using the remote at the end of the bed, he raised Alison up so that she was nearly sitting. Then he picked up the pointer, switched it on and positioned the small red laser dot beneath the first letter: E. He began to move the pointer slowly along the letters. Nothing.
Starting to speed up, studying her face, watching for the smallest reaction.
Come on… come on…
Then a blink. He stopped.
'S? Was that an S, Alison?'
Yes, for Christ's sake! Of course it was! Hurry up. Move. Wait. Watch. Move. Wait. Watch. Move… Another blink. Thorne was sweating. He threw off his jacket. 'L. Yes? OK, that's S, L. Right.'
Back to the beginning again and.., a blink. No, two blinks.
'Is that a no to the E, Alison?'
No, it isn't fucking no. Two blinks is usually no but when I'm doing this it means 'repeat'. Didn't Anne tell you any of this?
'Or do you mean two Es? Yes? Right. S, L, E, E… sleep? Do you want to go to sleep, Alison?'
Fuck, fuck, fuck…
Two strong blinks. One, two.
No. L Don't. Have you got any idea how hard this is?
He raised the pointer again. Point. Stop. Look. Point. Stop. Look. Point. Stop… a blink. No question about it. A big fat positive Y.
'You're sleepy? I'm sorry, Alison, I can come back when…'
She was blinking quite rapidly now. Repeatedly. Do I look fucking sleepy? Well, do I? Come on, Thorne, sort it out…
The sweat was running off him. He was making a complete mess of it. One more try and then he'd go and get somebody. Back with the pointer. And Alison blinked. And blinked again.
An H. Another E…
And the word became obvious.
And a firework went off in Thorne's stomach. A memory file, a tiny sound bite was pushed forward in his brain and something pressed the button marked 'play' and lit the fuse. The charge began to churn through his guts and the explosions rang in his ears and the sparks were dancing behind his eyes, green and gold and red and silver, and he was squeezing Alison's hand. And he was scrabbling in his pockets for change for the phone.
Running from the room.
'Bishop? This is Thorne…'
'What?' Weary, but also frightened.
'I know what you said to her. I know what you said to Alison before you stroked her out. What you said to all of them?
'What are you talking about?'
''Night-night,.' Same thing you said to me when you put me out for that hernia operation last year.'
His tongue heavy in his mouth, his voice growing weaker as he counts backwards from twenty, wondering if it will hurt when he wakes up, and seeing the smiling face of the anaesthetist looming above him. Murmuring…
'Is there a point to any of this, Thorne? I'm expecting somebody.'
'The same thing you said to me, Bishop. 'Night-night,.''
'Look, if it helps you, yes, I say that to patients sometimes when they're going under and I say, 'Wake up,,' when they're coming round from the anaesthetic. It's a silly catchphrase.. A superstition. For God's sake, I used to say it to my children when I put them to bed at night. Is this helping you, Thorne? Is it?'
'I was about to let it go, do you know that? You were so close to walking away. I thought I was wrong, but I wasn't, was I? Now I'm fucking certain…'
'You need help, Thorne. Serious professional help…'
