garden, but hadn’t bothered to add nutrients to the soil, deciding sand was good enough.
What other corners had they cut?
She imagined Merrick’s team unrolling cheap turf, tamping it down. Had they found anything, before they laid the lawn? Would they have cared if they had?
She didn’t see how they could have missed the bunker. It was only underneath three feet of soil. But if they were up against a schedule and a budget, perhaps they were told to ignore anything which got in the way of that. Sand instead of soil, the wrong sound under their boots when they walked across the hollow foot of the garden . . .
She was towelling herself dry from the shower when her phone buzzed: the station.
‘DI Rome.’
‘Boss?’ Ron Carling’s voice was ripe with disgust. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’
12
University Hospital, Durham
They’re all in the dark, each and every one of them.
The man sitting two seats down from us, he’s in the dark. The police who brought him here: in the dark. The man’s nose is broken and there’s blood down the front of his shirt, black under the lights. He’s holding a cardboard bowl. He’s been sick into it twice. The vomit is ninety per cent proof, its paint-stripper stink making our eyes water.
Esther’s sitting very still. I’m usually the fidgety one, but tonight I’m copying Esther and keeping like a statue, not wanting to be spotted. Too much is new, tonight.
It’s generally a lot quieter than this, which isn’t how I remember city life. Last time I looked, the city got lively after dark, dancing and dodging the night away before spilling its guts come morning. Things have changed. It’s been years since I saw a city after dark.
We’ve been away a long time, Esther and me. That’s why they think they can play games like this in a public place, somewhere we have no right being, even if we are keeping quiet, pretending to be statues sitting here.
It is nearly 2 a.m. and all’s quiet, except the man puking in the cardboard bowl. How long before the bowl soaks through and he’s sitting with a lapful of sick? Once upon a time they gave you a stainless-steel dish. Now it’s all cardboard, disposable, recycled. He’s probably puking into last year’s bedpan.
Clock’s chiming somewhere: 2 a.m.
I think I hear Esther murmur, ‘Bring out your dead,’ but I can’t be sure.
It wouldn’t be like her to say anything at all in a place where we might be heard, or seen. Sometimes she sits so still and quiet, I swear I’m the only one who knows she’s here.
The man ignores us, groaning self-pity through his broken nose. I wonder, briefly, who he is and why he’s here, but the train of thought requires too much energy and runs the risk that I’ll start thinking beyond this place and out into there .
Far safer to stick with these four walls, although counting them I see there are seven walls and one is made of glass. Safety glass, I bet. If I ran into it, or threw something – this plastic chair, for instance, which is crucifying my spine – it wouldn’t break easily, or usefully. No shards, or dangerous edges. Even so, it’s a hell of a lot less safe than the place we’ve come from, where they’ll return us before dawn and the arrival of the hospital cleaning crew. This experiment is risky enough. It makes me wonder what other risks they are willing to take. Do they really imagine we are ready for this, just because we’ve been good for so long?
Do they think it means we’re mended, that the bad we did is back in its box?
I don’t see how they can think that, not of me, certainly not of Esther.
The man with the broken nose is breathing thickly. I don’tlike the sound of it, phlegmy, and wonder whether Esther is hearing what I am, if memory’s playing the same trick on her. It’s like the sound of a puppy whining, deep in the pit of its throat.
This is a waste of time, a criminal waste of time. Sitting us here, to see who sees us and what
What other corners had they cut?
She imagined Merrick’s team unrolling cheap turf, tamping it down. Had they found anything, before they laid the lawn? Would they have cared if they had?
She didn’t see how they could have missed the bunker. It was only underneath three feet of soil. But if they were up against a schedule and a budget, perhaps they were told to ignore anything which got in the way of that. Sand instead of soil, the wrong sound under their boots when they walked across the hollow foot of the garden . . .
She was towelling herself dry from the shower when her phone buzzed: the station.
‘DI Rome.’
‘Boss?’ Ron Carling’s voice was ripe with disgust. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’
12
University Hospital, Durham
They’re all in the dark, each and every one of them.
The man sitting two seats down from us, he’s in the dark. The police who brought him here: in the dark. The man’s nose is broken and there’s blood down the front of his shirt, black under the lights. He’s holding a cardboard bowl. He’s been sick into it twice. The vomit is ninety per cent proof, its paint-stripper stink making our eyes water.
Esther’s sitting very still. I’m usually the fidgety one, but tonight I’m copying Esther and keeping like a statue, not wanting to be spotted. Too much is new, tonight.
It’s generally a lot quieter than this, which isn’t how I remember city life. Last time I looked, the city got lively after dark, dancing and dodging the night away before spilling its guts come morning. Things have changed. It’s been years since I saw a city after dark.
We’ve been away a long time, Esther and me. That’s why they think they can play games like this in a public place, somewhere we have no right being, even if we are keeping quiet, pretending to be statues sitting here.
It is nearly 2 a.m. and all’s quiet, except the man puking in the cardboard bowl. How long before the bowl soaks through and he’s sitting with a lapful of sick? Once upon a time they gave you a stainless-steel dish. Now it’s all cardboard, disposable, recycled. He’s probably puking into last year’s bedpan.
Clock’s chiming somewhere: 2 a.m.
I think I hear Esther murmur, ‘Bring out your dead,’ but I can’t be sure.
It wouldn’t be like her to say anything at all in a place where we might be heard, or seen. Sometimes she sits so still and quiet, I swear I’m the only one who knows she’s here.
The man ignores us, groaning self-pity through his broken nose. I wonder, briefly, who he is and why he’s here, but the train of thought requires too much energy and runs the risk that I’ll start thinking beyond this place and out into there .
Far safer to stick with these four walls, although counting them I see there are seven walls and one is made of glass. Safety glass, I bet. If I ran into it, or threw something – this plastic chair, for instance, which is crucifying my spine – it wouldn’t break easily, or usefully. No shards, or dangerous edges. Even so, it’s a hell of a lot less safe than the place we’ve come from, where they’ll return us before dawn and the arrival of the hospital cleaning crew. This experiment is risky enough. It makes me wonder what other risks they are willing to take. Do they really imagine we are ready for this, just because we’ve been good for so long?
Do they think it means we’re mended, that the bad we did is back in its box?
I don’t see how they can think that, not of me, certainly not of Esther.
The man with the broken nose is breathing thickly. I don’tlike the sound of it, phlegmy, and wonder whether Esther is hearing what I am, if memory’s playing the same trick on her. It’s like the sound of a puppy whining, deep in the pit of its throat.
This is a waste of time, a criminal waste of time. Sitting us here, to see who sees us and what
Similar Books
