7

After another barrage of tests, most of which involved his reflexes, trying to blind him with a pencil light, taking blood and measuring his blood pressure with a machine that seemed to be designed to deliver a Chinese burn while making the sound of a cheap garage tyre inflator, Doug was signed out of the hospital.

Despite everything, he almost laughed when the nurse told him they would schedule a follow-up appointment to discuss the results of the tests to see if he’d been infected by exposure to Greig’s blood. The thought of Greig doing anything so distasteful or strenuous that it would involve anything more extreme than loosening his tie, let alone his trousers, was, to Doug, like saying the royal family was value for money.

But he had done something distasteful to someone, hadn’t he? Something someone had found extremely distasteful indeed. But what?

Doug closed his eyes in the back of the cab he had called to take him home, seeing again that frozen look of horror in Greig’s eyes. The incomprehension. The terror. The fear.

What? What’s happening? Why? Why?

His eyes snapped open as he fought against the sudden lurch in his stomach and forced his lungs to fill and empty. As he tried to convince them he wasn’t drowning, he fumbled for his phone as a distraction. Flipped open the email and saw a new message from Walter, a reply to the story he’d sent over.

Doug, good copy. We’ll run in the late edition – should be around 6pm now that we’ve managed to set up in the advertising department. They’ve sealed off Greig’s office and the editorial floor, but we’ll get a paper out. I’ll call later, see how you’re doing. But consider yourself on leave as of now. Take some time, Doug, sort this out. I’ve told Mike, Alice and Don to do the same, but I know you’ll take more convincing. I don’t want you near this, or any other story, Doug. Go see your folks, take a holiday, but don’t even think of going near this one. Let the police look into it. Speak later, Walter.

Doug grunted in disgust, fought the urge to throw the phone on the floor. Fidgeted for a moment, trying not to think of the blood or the screams or the sounds…

…the sounds…

The shrill crack of the window shattering. The dull thwump of a bullet burrowing into the wall next to him. Greig’s hacking bark. The…

Doug swallowed back bile.

…The heavy, liquid slap as Greig’s guts and entrails exploded from his torso and hit the table in front of him.

Four sounds. Three shots. Two hits.

He mashed his knuckles into his eyes, crushing back the heat as he felt the prickle of tears. His phone cried for attention. One text message from Rebecca. He stopped, torn. Bit his lip. Fuck it. Opened the message.

Stuck on shift, taking a hell of a lot of calls from journos, big story. Heard you were discharged. Understand you need time, but I’m here, ok? Hope tonight is what you need. Rx

She was already at the hospital when his ambulance arrived, fighting to keep a professional, detached face as he was wheeled in. They had stolen a moment between doctors and assessments, long enough to solidify the lie that he was fine.

He hadn’t told Susie about her visit, though. Why? She had asked him about her, he could have said then. But he hadn’t. No reason not to, after all…

After all.

He lunged forward, as if he could leave the thoughts in the seat. Rapped on the plastic screen dividing him from the taxi driver with a hand that wasn’t steady.

“Hey, mate. There’s an offie at the bottom of my street, drop me there, will you?”

“Nae bother, pal,” the taxi driver said, not bothering to turn around. “No offence, you look like you’ve earned a drink.”

Doug nodded and sunk back into the seat. He wasn’t going to argue.