phone into which she was speaking. I
went over and waited for her to finish her phone call.
"Ben,
come in," she said when she was done. "Sorry about that - my daughter
is cooking for her in-laws and wants to know how to cook beef. I tell you, I
don't know where I failed!" She laughed, a soft tinkling laugh that she
probably reserved for children of her patients, as if their parent's incapacity
were but a trifle.
"I'm
here to see Tommy Powell, Mrs McGowan. I believe he had an intruder."
"So
he says," she replied and I could tell from her expression that Powell was
probably not her favourite patient. "Of course he had someone in his room.
The staff here check on him every two or three hours. It's part of our service.
You're welcome to see him, but it's a waste of time, Ben. Next week someone
will be trying to poison his dinner. Wait and see."
The
door to his room was ajar and I could see Tommy Powell, sitting up in his bed,
being spoon-fed creamed rice by a young nurse in a pink uniform. I watched in
wonder as she fed him, scraping the dribbled food off his chin and chatting to
him about her night out, her future plans, anything to fill the silence and
prevent her listening to his laboured, rasping breath or the soft grunting
noise he made as he ate. Her hair was bunched up under her hat, though I could
see the roots were dark. Her neck was slender, the skin soft and white as lily
petals.
I
knocked softly on the door and, when she became aware of my presence, she
blushed slightly. Something about her seemed very familiar, though I didn't
recognize her. I assumed she thought the same,
because she stood before me as if to speak. "I'm here to s ee Mr Powell," I explained, pointing towards the
bed.
"Oh,
okay," she said, smiling a little, then disappeared out through the
doorway before I could say any more.
Tommy
Powell watched me, moving only his eyes. His head rested against a pillow, his
mouth slightly open. One side of his face was frozen, as though he had just come from the dentist and I noticed a dribble of food just to the left of his mouth. As I considered
his loss of dignity, I saw again the unbidden image of Angela Cashell, lying
naked in a field, decaying leaves cushioning her head as her blood ran cold.
"Mr
Powell, my name is Inspector Devlin. I'm here about the intruder in your room
last Wednesday."
"Deblin",
he said, "who Deblin? Who your fader?"
"Joe
Devlin, sir."
"Furniture
man?"
"That's
right, sir." My father is still known as a French polisher, though he has not practised this in years. Powell's
speech may have been affected, but his memory
certainly had not.
"What...
want?" he said, visibly straining to complete even so short a sentence.
This was going to be a dull conversation unless cut it short, I thought. I
rebuked myself inwardly for my lack of charity and
decided on brevity anyway.
"I'm
here about the intruder on Wednesday night. Do you remember that?"
"Not
stupid son ... sick."
"Of
course, sir. Your son told me what happened. I was wondering if you'd anything
to add. Anything else you remember?"
"Could
... be woman ... boy".
"Excuse
me?"
He
rasped, breathing heavily through the patrician nose; his teeth were clenched
in exasperation and he struggled to straighten himself in the bed. His pyjama
jacket was unbuttoned revealing a chest, matted with wispy grey hairs, which
looked shrunken and collapsed. I could see his pulse vibrating in the wattles
of skin hanging at the sides of his throat. "Might've ... been ... a gir
... girl," he said. "Or a boy. Small."
He
dropped back against his pillow and turned his head towards the wall, not
looking at me again. His jawline flexed momentarily with anger or resentment
that I should see him so weakened. I started to ask a further question, simply
to engage him, but he waved me away with a hand so wizened and bony it could
have belonged to a woman.
On
the way out I did not see again the nurse who had been feeding Powell, nor
could I place where I
went over and waited for her to finish her phone call.
"Ben,
come in," she said when she was done. "Sorry about that - my daughter
is cooking for her in-laws and wants to know how to cook beef. I tell you, I
don't know where I failed!" She laughed, a soft tinkling laugh that she
probably reserved for children of her patients, as if their parent's incapacity
were but a trifle.
"I'm
here to see Tommy Powell, Mrs McGowan. I believe he had an intruder."
"So
he says," she replied and I could tell from her expression that Powell was
probably not her favourite patient. "Of course he had someone in his room.
The staff here check on him every two or three hours. It's part of our service.
You're welcome to see him, but it's a waste of time, Ben. Next week someone
will be trying to poison his dinner. Wait and see."
The
door to his room was ajar and I could see Tommy Powell, sitting up in his bed,
being spoon-fed creamed rice by a young nurse in a pink uniform. I watched in
wonder as she fed him, scraping the dribbled food off his chin and chatting to
him about her night out, her future plans, anything to fill the silence and
prevent her listening to his laboured, rasping breath or the soft grunting
noise he made as he ate. Her hair was bunched up under her hat, though I could
see the roots were dark. Her neck was slender, the skin soft and white as lily
petals.
I
knocked softly on the door and, when she became aware of my presence, she
blushed slightly. Something about her seemed very familiar, though I didn't
recognize her. I assumed she thought the same,
because she stood before me as if to speak. "I'm here to s ee Mr Powell," I explained, pointing towards the
bed.
"Oh,
okay," she said, smiling a little, then disappeared out through the
doorway before I could say any more.
Tommy
Powell watched me, moving only his eyes. His head rested against a pillow, his
mouth slightly open. One side of his face was frozen, as though he had just come from the dentist and I noticed a dribble of food just to the left of his mouth. As I considered
his loss of dignity, I saw again the unbidden image of Angela Cashell, lying
naked in a field, decaying leaves cushioning her head as her blood ran cold.
"Mr
Powell, my name is Inspector Devlin. I'm here about the intruder in your room
last Wednesday."
"Deblin",
he said, "who Deblin? Who your fader?"
"Joe
Devlin, sir."
"Furniture
man?"
"That's
right, sir." My father is still known as a French polisher, though he has not practised this in years. Powell's
speech may have been affected, but his memory
certainly had not.
"What...
want?" he said, visibly straining to complete even so short a sentence.
This was going to be a dull conversation unless cut it short, I thought. I
rebuked myself inwardly for my lack of charity and
decided on brevity anyway.
"I'm
here about the intruder on Wednesday night. Do you remember that?"
"Not
stupid son ... sick."
"Of
course, sir. Your son told me what happened. I was wondering if you'd anything
to add. Anything else you remember?"
"Could
... be woman ... boy".
"Excuse
me?"
He
rasped, breathing heavily through the patrician nose; his teeth were clenched
in exasperation and he struggled to straighten himself in the bed. His pyjama
jacket was unbuttoned revealing a chest, matted with wispy grey hairs, which
looked shrunken and collapsed. I could see his pulse vibrating in the wattles
of skin hanging at the sides of his throat. "Might've ... been ... a gir
... girl," he said. "Or a boy. Small."
He
dropped back against his pillow and turned his head towards the wall, not
looking at me again. His jawline flexed momentarily with anger or resentment
that I should see him so weakened. I started to ask a further question, simply
to engage him, but he waved me away with a hand so wizened and bony it could
have belonged to a woman.
On
the way out I did not see again the nurse who had been feeding Powell, nor
could I place where I
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