Will rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore the pervading aromas of disinfectant, sweat, and fear that permeated the corridor. He shifted on the chair, its metal back support cool against his shirt.
He felt a bead of sweat pool between his shoulder blades and pushed back into the chair to stop it from running down his spine, then leaned forward and put his head in his hands, his mind racing.
What the hell happened?
Last night, as they’d sat at the small dining table in the apartment, their plates pushed to one side, Amy had asked him to collect her laptop from their computer expert on his way home from work the next day.
‘Has he finished the upgrade?’
‘Yes, said it was good to go. Faster processor, the works. Shame I haven’t got it for the morning – I’ll have to hot-desk when I get into work to type up my interview.’
‘Did you pick up spare batteries for your voice recorder?’
‘Yeah.’
She’d collected the plates together and walked the few paces into the open plan kitchen. After shoving the dirty dishes in the sink of hot water, she’d returned to the dining table.
‘So, when are you going to tell me who you’re interviewing in the morning?’
She’d sat down and pinched the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. ‘I wasn’t planning on telling you until afterwards.’ Her eyes met his. ‘I know what you can be like.’
‘What do you mean?’
She’d exhaled and leaned back in her chair, before taking a sip of her wine.
‘Stop stalling, and tell me.’
Amy had put the glass down, and then told him.
‘Ian Rossiter? Are you out of your mind?’ Will had pushed back his chair and paced the living area. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘It’s the story of my life, Will. This could be such a career boost for me.’
He’d spun around, his hands on his hips. ‘And what has Kirby said about this?’
‘I guess he reckons it’s time I got a break,’ she’d said. ‘After all, I’ve been there two years. I’ve proved myself to him. And,’ she said, as Will had snatched his own wine glass from the table, ‘it was my idea.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘And you’re just pissed off I’m doing this my way, not yours.’
He’d stormed off then, slammed the door to the bedroom to lie in the darkness, alone, fuming, eventually falling asleep.
When he’d woken up, Amy had already left for work.
Will raised his head at the sound of footsteps. A man in his late fifties with a shock of white hair hurried towards him.
‘Will Fletcher?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Mr Hathaway – the surgeon who will be operating on Amy.’ Hathaway shifted his grip on a clipboard and extended his hand. ‘Let’s talk in the privacy of my office.’
‘Isn’t she in surgery? Why aren’t you there?’
‘They’re prepping her now. As you can appreciate, it’s a very delicate balancing act, so we need to be careful.’
Hathaway led Will down the corridor, then abruptly turned left, pushed open a door and ushered Will inside. He pulled out a chair for Will at a paper-littered desk, and then sat.
‘Are there any relatives nearby we can contact to be with you?’
Will shook his head. ‘No.’
The surgeon nodded. ‘All right.’ He flipped over the pages on the clipboard, and appeared to be lost in thought.
Will’s foot tapped against the worn carpet, until he could bear the silence no more. He leaned forward.
‘How bad is she?’
Hathaway sighed. ‘The bullet is lodged in the outer part of her skull. It’s going to be a long procedure – hours – with a very specialised team. After that, we’ll be keeping her in an induced coma to give her body time to heal.’
‘What happened to Rossiter?’
‘I’m sorry, Will. Patient confidentiality…’ The surgeon leaned forward. ‘I’ll need you to sign the paperwork,’ he said, pushing the clipboard towards Will and lifting the pages until a consent form became visible. He pulled out a black soft tip pen from his overcoat and passed it to Will.
As he leaned over the desk, the pen slipped from Will’s grip and rolled across the desk.
The surgeon stopped its movement with a slap of his hand, and then glanced up. ‘I promise I’ll do my best, Will, but I won’t know how bad it is until I start.’
Will nodded, took the pen from Hathaway, forced his hand to stop shaking, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the form.
‘You’re not going to want to hear this,’ said Hathaway, ‘but go home and wait for me to call you. It’d be better than sitting in one of the waiting areas here – that’s not going to do you any good.’
Will closed his eyes. ‘Can I see her now?’ His voice shook, and he felt tears pricking his eyelids. ‘Would that be possible?’
‘She’s in a very sterile environment while we’re prepping for surgery, but you can see her through a window.’
Will nodded, opened his eyes, sniffled, and then looked at Hathaway. ‘Just do everything you can for her, okay?’ he croaked.
The older man nodded. ‘We will. Come on.’
He stood and led Will through a network of corridors until they were side by side at a window, its curtains closed. Hathaway peered between a crack in the material, then partially opened them.
Will put his hand over his mouth.
Amy lay on a hospital gurney, swathed in blue sheets, her fair hair shaved on one side, her left cheek purple and bruised, congealed blood covering her face. Tubes and machines surrounded her while nurses worked, inserting needles, checking displays on screens and quietly talking, sharing information.
He groaned. She looked so helpless, so utterly vulnerable, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He jumped as Hathaway gently put a hand on his shoulder. ‘She’s not in pain. She’s medicated at the moment.’
Will nodded, unable to speak.
Hathaway turned to look down the corridor. ‘The police will probably want to talk to you in a bit.’ He lowered his voice. ‘They’re going to put an armed guard outside the operating area and on the room we’ll put Amy in for her recovery.’
Will’s brow creased. ‘Armed guard? Why?’
Hathaway shrugged and let the curtain fall back into place, and gestured towards the waiting area. ‘I don’t know. They haven’t told me. Sorry, Will – I have to get ready for her surgery.’ He pointed towards a row of chairs placed under a television set, its volume a low hum under the noise of the ward. ‘You can wait here for the police. They’ve set up a room elsewhere in the hospital. I’ll phone you as soon as I’m out of surgery to let you know how it went.’
Will nodded dumbly, shook the surgeon’s hand, and traipsed towards the row of chairs. As he sat facing the television placed on the opposite wall, the twenty-four hour news channel replayed the footage he and Russell had seen earlier that morning.
The reporter’s conjecture became increasingly excitable as he reiterated the scant facts the news channel been able to glean from the police and various experts in counter-terrorism.
Will pushed the palms of his hands down on to his thighs to stop them from shaking. The man’s retelling of the events seemed oddly cold, with little humanity entering the man’s voice as he described the situation as if it were mere entertainment.
‘Mr Fletcher?’
He jerked his head in the direction of the female voice.
A young female police officer stood at the end of the row of chairs, a look of genuine concern on her face.
‘Yes?’
‘Please come with me, sir. The detective in charge of the investigation would be grateful if you could speak with him now.’
Will followed the policewoman as she led the way to an elevator. At the third floor, she waited until Will joined her in the corridor, and then led him through a series of offices and into a conference room. Knocking twice, she opened the door, stood to one side, and gestured to Will.
‘Inspector Lake, this is Will Fletcher.’