leaves the room. Mr McLucky, you assume, is part of the hospital bureaucracy and you settle back for a long wait while he is summoned from his palatial office. But after only a few seconds, the door opens and a tall, lean man in tight jeans and a grey sweat-shirt comes in. About thirty, with a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth in a long lugubrious face, he doesn’t look like your idea of a hospital administrator.
You say, ‘Mr McLucky?’
He says, ‘Detective Constable McLucky.’
You stare at him. You feel you’ve seen him before, not like Medler, much more briefly…across a crowded room? Later you’ll work out this was the out-of-place drinker in the Black Widow who alerted you to the fact that the police were waiting for you.
You say, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
He says, ‘My job.’
You say, ‘And what is your job, Detective Constable McLucky?’
He says, ‘Making sure you don’t bugger off again, Sir Wilfred.’
You would have laughed if you knew which muscles to use.
You say, ‘You mean you’re sitting outside the door, guarding me? How long have you been there?’
‘Since you decided to wake,’ he says. ‘The nurse said you wanted to talk to me.’
He has a rough Glasgow accent and a manner to go with it.
You say, ‘I wanted to know if there’s been any messages for me. Or any visitors. But I’m not clear why this information should come through you.’
He says, ‘Maybe it’s something to do with you being in police custody, facing serious charges.’
It comes as a shock to hear confirmed what Medler’s visit has made you suspect, that nothing has changed in the time you’ve spent out of things.
You are wrong there, of course. A hell of a lot of things have changed.
You feel mad but you’re not in a position to lose your rag, so you say, ‘Messages?’
He shrugs and says, ‘Sorry, none.’
That’s enough excitement for one day. Or one week. Or whatever period of time it is that elapses before you feel strong enough to make a decision.
You get Nurse Duggan to summon DC McLucky again.
You say, ‘I’d like to make a phone call. Several phone calls.’
He purses his lips doubtfully, an expression his friends must find very irritating. You want to respond with some kind of legalistic threat, but a man not yet able to wipe his own arse is not in a position to be threatening. The best you can manage is, ‘Go ask DI Medler if you must. That will give him time to make sure all his bugs are working.’
He says laconically, ‘Medler? No use asking him. Early retirement back in January. Bad health.’
That confirms what you suspected. You were hallucinating. Funny thing, the subconscious. Can’t have been much of an effort for it to have conjured up Imo in all her naked glory, but instead it opted for that little shit.
You squint up at McLucky, difficult as that is with one eye. He still looks real.
You say, ‘Please,’ resenting sounding so childish. But it does the trick.
McLucky leaves the room. You hear his voice distantly. You presume he is ringing for instructions.
Then a silence so long that you slip back into no-man’s land. As you come out of it again, you wouldn’t be surprised to find you’d imagined DC McLucky too.
But there he is, sitting at the bedside. Has he been there for a minute or for an hour? Seeing your eye open, he picks up a phone from the floor and places it on the bed.
‘Can you manage?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ you say. It might be a lie.
He goes out of the room.
You pick up the phone with difficulty, then realize you can’t recall a single number. Except, thank God, Directory Enquiries. Asking for your own home number seems a sad admission of failure, so you say, ‘Estover, Mast and Turbery. Solicitors in Holborn.’
They get the number and put you through. You give your name and ask for Toby. After a delay a woman’s voice says, ‘Hello, Sir Wilfred. It’s Leila. How can I help you?’
Leila. The name conjures up a picture of a big blonde girl with a lovely bum. Rumour has it that when Toby enters his office in the morning, his mail and Leila are both lying open on his desk. You’ve always got on well with Leila.
‘Hi, Leila,’ you say. ‘Could you put me through to Toby.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir Wilfred, but I can’t do that,’ she says.
‘Why not, for God’s sake? Isn’t he there?’ you say.
‘I mean I’ve consulted Mr Estover and he does not think it would be appropriate to talk with you,’ she says, sounding very formal, as if she’s quoting verbatim.
‘Not appropriate?’ You can’t raise a bellow yet, but you manage a menacing croak. ‘So when did sodding lawyers start thinking it wasn’t appropriate to talk to their clients?’
She says, still formal, ‘I’m sorry, Sir Wilfred, I assumed it had been made clear to you that you are no longer Mr Estover’s client.’
Then her voice changes and she reverts to her usual chatty tone, this time tinged with a certain worrying sympathy.
‘In the circumstances, it wouldn’t really be appropriate, you must see that.’
You get very close to a bellow now.
‘What circumstances, for fuck’s sake?’
‘Oh hell. Look, I’m sorry,’ she says, now sounding really concerned. ‘I just assumed you’d know. It shouldn’t be me who’s telling you this, but the thing is, Toby’s acting for your wife in the divorce.’
i
Now this really was interesting, thought Alva Ozigbo.
He’d moved from the first person past to the second person present.
Did this bring him closer or move him further away?
Closer in a sense. The first instalment had been a pretty straightforward piece of storytelling. The detail he recalled, the emotional colouring he injected, all suggested this was a version of that distant morning frequently rehearsed in his mind. In
