25.

He scavenged a limp tea bag and sugar sachets from the motel’s meagre stocks and made Frankie tea. They were only a few blocks from the hospital, but neither of them had had the energy to go any further. The only room left in the place, a one-bed unit with bare brick walls and overhead lights that shimmered when he turned his head. Why hadn’t Hollywood killed them? Would have been the work of seconds. Hadn’t been squeamishness, that was for sure.

He carried the tea to the couch, pain netting his skull. Not concussed, but not far off it. He sat next to Frankie, handed her the tea. ‘You ring the hospital?’

‘What?’

‘The hospital.’ He pointed to the wall-mounted phone by the kitchen.

‘Oh. Yeah. Wasn’t them.’

‘Maggie’s not awake?’

‘No. Maybe tomorrow. Depends on the –’ She touched her head. ‘There’s still swelling.’ She raised the tea to her mouth, lowered it. ‘He hasn’t got Turnip. I don’t understand. How can it not be him?’

No way of breaking the news gently. ‘I think someone took her because of the video. Maggie’s talking about her, calling her Turnip.’

Frankie’s eyes went blank. ‘What?’

He went through it slowly, told her about testing the names aloud, the kidnapper listening in. ‘I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.’

‘It was Turnip? Maggie was saying –’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘They wanted Turnip, not the docs?’

‘It’s good,’ he said quickly. ‘They just want information from her, or maybe to keep it from someone else. If they wanted her dead, they would have done it already.’ Aware he was trying to reassure himself as much as her, that he hadn’t voiced the other, greater horror.

Frankie was shaking her head. ‘There’s a chance the kidnappers won’t kill her, but that guy, whoever he’s working for – they will. They’ll find her and kill her.’

‘Haven’t found her yet.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ll get her first.’ The words were dry husks in his mouth.

Frankie stood abruptly and went to the bedroom, turning her face as she closed the door. Her backpack was in there. She’d be getting out her kit and unrolling it, reaching for the needle and oblivion. He’d always judged her for that. But to forget everything. To forget the long and bloodied history of his mistakes; that, he could understand.

A hint of sound, a raw wail that ripped through him. He went to turn off his aids, then lowered his hand and stood.

Frankie was sitting against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. No booze or needles, nothing but naked grief on her face as she wept. Choosing to feel the unbearable without dulling the pain. A memory: eighteen years old, a few weeks after his mother died. His father bowed over the kitchen sink, shoulders heaving. He’d never seen his father cry before, hadn’t known what to do with such unfamiliar grief. Still didn’t.

He sat beside Frankie and laid a tentative hand on her arm. She buried her face in his shoulder. Arms around her, holding her tight, his body shuddering with her sobs.