‘So how are you feeling? Sorry. Bet you’re sick of people asking you that.’
Phil Brennan smiled at the nurse. ‘Not yet,’ he said.
She smiled back. ‘Good.’
The nurses and the consultant had been in and drips had been checked, monitors studied, tests carried out. Everything from near-forensic scrutiny of charts to fingers before his eyes and gauging reactions. The consultant eventually declared herself satisfied and left him alone. Phil had asked questions, but the only answer he had been given was to rest.
He had never been good at resting or at doing what he was told.
‘Need to … get up … ’ He tried to sit up, put the weight of his body on his arms, pull himself upright. Pain tracked his every move. He slumped slowly back.
The nurse was checking his notes. ‘I wouldn’t try to move if I were you. Not yet.’
‘Can’t … lie here … ’ he said, trying again.
She turned her attention to him. ‘No. You need to rest.’
He shook his head. It felt like his brain was in sloshing about in a bowl of water. ‘Can’t … I … What happened? Will somebody tell me … what happened?’
DCI Gary Franks was standing in the doorway. The nurse turned to him. ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Brennan isn’t allowed visitors until—’
He held up his warrant card. ‘It’s all right, love. It’s work.’
The nurse reluctantly didn’t argue any more. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ She left the room.
Franks took a seat next to the bed, pulled it up close to Phil. ‘How you feeling?’
Phil tried to shrug. ‘Felt better … I suppose. Just … hurt all over.’
‘They giving you enough drugs?’
Phil managed the ghost of a smile. ‘Can’t … complain there.’
‘Good.’ Franks looked around, as though checking they were alone. His voice dropped. ‘What have they told you? About what happened?’
‘Nothing. No one says … anything. Where’s … Marina?’
‘We’ll come to that in a minute. Just got to talk to you first.’
Phil frowned, trying to process Franks’s words through his drug- and pain-fogged brain. ‘What … ?’
‘First of all, they say you’re going to be OK. No brain damage. Well, no more than you had already.’ Franks laughed at his own joke.
‘Ha ha … ’ Phil moved his hand up to the side of his head, felt bandages. He noticed his hands were bandaged too. He felt his skin, found ridges, painful and swollen to the touch. ‘What do I look like?’
‘An oil painting,’ said Franks. ‘Something by Picasso.’
‘You’re full of them today.’
‘Or Frankenstein.’
‘How … long have I been asleep?’
‘Just a day or so. Not too long.’
‘A day or so … not too bad. Thought you were going to say … years. What happened?’
‘What can you remember?’
‘Nothing.’
‘The cottage? Aldeburgh?’
Phil frowned. At Franks’s words, he felt a part of his memory detach itself from the huge expanse of blackness in his subconscious and float slowly towards his conscious mind. ‘Yes, the cottage … we went to Aldeburgh for the … the weekend.’
‘That’s right. Well … ’ All traces of humour fell away from Franks’s face.
Phil scrutinised him. He recognised that look. All professional sympathy. It was the one police officers gave that transformed anxious relatives into grieving ones. ‘What … what’s happened … ?’
‘The cottage … there was an explosion.’
Phil waited.
‘Don was … ’ Franks sighed. ‘Don died in it.’
Phil pulled the bedclothes back and tried to swing his legs round to the floor. The effort cost him, and he was soon out of breath.
‘What you doing?’
‘Getting … up … ’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Can’t … can’t lie here like … this … ’ He put one hand on the bedside cabinet, tried to pull himself out of bed. ‘Got to … to … ’
Franks placed a restraining hand, gentle but firm, on Phil’s chest. ‘You’ve got to stay where you are. Get well again.’
Phil shook his head, ignoring the swimming sensation. ‘No. Don’s dead … Got to—’
‘No, Phil.’ Franks used his most authoritative voice. ‘You need to stay where you are.’
Phil, exhausted and riddled with pain, flopped back on the bed. He stared at Franks. ‘Where’s … Marina? I want to see … Marina … ’
Franks paused. This was the bit he had been dreading.