‘The usual?’
Grace shrugged. The Black Lion was not his favourite pub, in a city that was filled with great watering holes, but it was convenient and had its own car park. He looked at his watch again.
‘Meet you there at a quarter to eight. But one drink only.’
When Grace arrived, ten minutes later than he had said, Glenn was already seated at a quiet corner table, with a pint in front of him, and a tumbler of whisky on the rocks, with a jug of water on the side, for Grace.
‘Glenfiddich?’ Branson said.
‘Good man.’
‘I don’t know why you like that stuff.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t know why you like Guinness.’
‘No, what I mean is that Glenfiddich isn’t the purist single malt, right?’
‘Yep, but I like it best of any I’ve ever drunk. You have a problem with that?’
‘You ever see that film Whisky Galore?’
‘About the shipwreck off the Scottish coast – with a cargo of whisky?’
‘I’m impressed. You do actually impress me sometimes. You aren’t a complete cultural ignoramus. Even though you have rubbish taste in clothes and music.’
‘Yep, well, I wouldn’t want to be too perfect.’ Grace grinned. ‘Anyway, how are you? What’s happening with Mrs Branson?’
‘Let’s not even go there.’ Glenn shook his head. ‘It’s a fucking train crash, OK?’ He raised his glass and drank. Then, wiping the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, ‘I want to hear about you and Munich – and Sandy?’
Grace picked up the tumbler and swirled the ice cubes around. Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’ was twanging out of the pub’s speakers.
‘Now, that’s real music.’
Branson rolled his eyes.
Grace took a sip, then put the glass down.
‘I think Sandy’s dead – and that she’s been dead for a long time. I’ve been a fool for holding out hope. All it’s done is to lose me years of my life.’ He shrugged. ‘All those mediums.’ He sipped some more whisky. ‘You know, a lot of them said the same thing, that they could not get through to her – meaning that she was not in spirit – like, the spirit world.’
‘What does that signify?’
‘If she’s not in the spirit world – i.e. dead – then she must be alive – in their rationale.’ He drank some more, and saw to his surprise that he had drained the glass. Lifting it up, he said, ‘That was a double?’
Glenn nodded.
‘I’ll get one more – just a single – keep me legal. Another half for you?’
‘A pint. I’m a big guy – I can take more than you!’
Grace returned with their fresh drinks and sat down, noting that Branson had drained his first pint in his absence.
‘So you don’t believe these mediums?’ Branson asked. ‘Even though you’ve always had a belief in the paranormal?’
‘I don’t know what to believe. It’ll be ten years next year that she’s been gone. That’s long enough. She’s either physically dead or at least dead to me. If she is alive and hasn’t made contact in nine years, she’s not going to.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘I don’t want to lose Cleo, Glenn.’
‘She’s well fit. Great lady. I’m with you on that.’
‘If I don’t let go of Sandy, I will lose Cleo. I’m not going to let that happen.’
Glenn touched his friend’s face gently with his balled fist. ‘Good man, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you talk like this.’
Grace nodded. ‘It’s the first time I’ve felt like this. I’ve given instructions to my solicitor to start the process to have Sandy declared legally dead.’
Staring at him intently, Glenn said, ‘You know, mate, it’s not just the legal process, it’s the mental one that’s the most important, yeah?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
He tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s believing it – in here.’
‘I do,’ Roy Grace said, then smiled wryly. ‘Trust me, I’m a copper.’
81
Dr Ross Hunter sat on the edge of Caitlin’s bed, while Lynn was downstairs, fussing up a cup of tea for him.
The chaotic room was stuffy and airless, and thick with the rancid smell of Caitlin’s perspiration. He could feel the clammy heat coming off her as he stared through his half-moon tortoiseshell glasses at her deeply jaundiced face and the heavy dark rings around her eyes. Her hair was matted. She lay under the bedclothes, propped up against the pillows, wearing a pink dressing gown over her nightdress, with her headphones hanging around her neck, and the small white iPod lying on top of her duvet, alongside a paperback about Jordan’s life and several fluffy bears.
‘How are you feeling, Caitlin?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been sent glitter,’ she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
‘Glitter?’ He frowned.
‘Someone sent me glitter, on Facebook,’ she mumbled, only semi-coherently.
‘What exactly do you mean by
‘It’s like, you know, a Facebook thing. My friend Gemma sent it. And I’ve been poked by Mitzi.’
‘OK.’ He looked bemused.
‘I got sent wheels by Mitch Symons – you know – so I can get around more easily.’
The doctor peered around the room, looking for wheels. He stared at the dartboard on the wall, with a purple boa hanging from it. At a saxophone case propped up against a wall. Then at a tiny toy horse on wheels, standing amid the shoes scattered all over the carpet.
‘Those wheels?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she mumbled, and windmilled her right hand, as if trying to tease a thought out from inside her head. ‘It’s a sort of Facebook thing. To get around. They’re sort of virtual.’
Her eyes closed, as if she was exhausted from the effort of speaking.
He bent down and opened his medical bag. At that moment Lynn came back in with the tea and a digestive biscuit lying in the saucer.
He thanked her, then turned his attention to Caitlin.
‘I just want to take your temperature and blood pressure, is that OK?’
Still with her eyes shut she nodded, then whispered, ‘Whatever.’
Ten minutes later he walked back downstairs, followed by Lynn. They went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. She knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth, just from the worried set of his face.
‘Lynn, I’m very worried about her. She’s extremely ill.’
Feeling her eyes watering, Lynn was tempted, desperately tempted, to open up and confide in him about what she was doing. But she could not predict how he would react. She knew he was a man of the deepest integrity and that, whether or not he believed in the course she was taking, he could never condone it. So she just nodded, silently and bleakly.
‘Yes,’ she gulped, her heart heaving. ‘I know.’
‘She needs to be back in hospital. Shall I phone for an ambulance?’
‘Ross,’ she blurted. ‘Look – I…’ Then she shook her head and sank her face into her hands, trying desperately to think clearly. ‘Oh, God, Ross, I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘Lynn,’ he said gently. ‘I know you think you can look after her here, but the poor girl is in a lot of discomfort, quite apart from danger. She’s raw all over her body from scratching. She has a high temperature She’s going downhill very quickly. I’m shocked how she’s deteriorated since I last saw her. If you want the brutal truth, she’s not going to survive here, like this. I spoke to Dr Granger about her earlier. A transplant is her only option and she needs one very urgently, before she gets too weak.’
‘You want her back in the Royal?’
‘Yes. Right away. Tonight, really.’
‘Have you ever been there, Ross?’
‘Not for some years, no.’
‘The place is a nightmare. It’s not their fault. There are some good people there. It’s the system. The National Health management. The government. I don’t know where the blame lies – but it’s a living hell to be there. It’s easy for you to say she should be in hospital, but just what does that mean? Sticking her in a mixed ward, with confused old people who try to climb into bed with her in the middle of the night? Where you have to fight to find a wheelchair to move her around? Where I’m not supposed to be with her, to comfort her, after eight-thirty at night?’
‘Lynn, they don’t put children into adult wards.’
‘They have done it. When they were overcrowded.’
‘I’m sure we can see that it doesn’t happen again.’
‘I’m so damn scared for her, Ross.’
‘She’ll get a transplant quickly now.’
‘Are you sure? Are you really sure, Ross? Do you know how the system works?’
‘Dr Granger will make sure of it.’
