Gallery Whispers

  hated it: which in fact, he did. 'If he did that, and whether or not the

  Prof is involved .. .', he pointed a finger at Mackie,'... you must not

  necessarily assume one from the other. There could have been an

  entirely separate relationship between Gaynor and Gopal for all you

  know . . . the likelihood is that he's taken himself off for a while just

  to ensure that there's no aftermath.

  'If that's the case, when he hears that an FAI's been scheduled, he'll

  assume that no one's connected him.'

  The big man beamed at his colleagues. 'You came to me for counsel

  and advice, gentlemen. You might think I'm the last person who

  should be telling you this, but: be patient.

  'For what it's worth, I don't believe that Professor Weston played

  any part in his wife's death. He's been interviewed twice by senior

  policemen - Brian, you've seen him both times - and from what I've

  heard, his story hasn't wavered. You guys are used to dealing with

  professional liars; this man's an amateur, yet you haven't seen a chink

  in him.

  'As far as Gopal is concerned, who knows about him? If I wasn't

  still tied to this office, I might have a go at finding out myself. But

  since I am...

  'Let this investigation simmer for a bit lads. It's a mystery now, but

  it won't be for ever.'

  'Okay, boss,' Martin sighed, wearily. 'How much longer will you

  be on this side of the corridor, d'you think?'

  'A few weeks yet, probably,' Skinner replied. 'I had some good

  news from Jimmy yesterday though. The Spanish consultant was

  131

  a

  pleased with the results of the tests they did last Tuesday. He's given

  him the all clear to drive, so he and Chrissie will be starting home on

  Monday.

  'Once he's back home, we'll see what his own doctor, and our own

  ME, have to say about coming back to work.'

  'What'll you do when he comes back, boss?' asked Mackie, with

  one of his rare smiles.

  'Brian,' said the DCC earnestly, 'I think I'll spend a week just

  cruising the streets.'

  132

  41

  Neil Mcllhenney sat in the waiting area of the Department of Clinical

  Oncology becoming acquainted with a new companion. He had never

  known Fear before, not until Sarah had made the introduction after

  bringing Olive home from her first visit to the Western General.

  Of course there had been the odd scary moment in his life, the

  occasional anxiety. He remembered ... he must have been seven or

  eight at the time .. . waiting for his father to come home, having

  upset his mother, and suspecting that he might be in for a real

  leathering. Then there was the hour he had spent in the corridor of the

  Maternity Unit, waiting for Lauren to be born. On another night early

  in his police career he had found himself in a cul-de-sac, in uniform,

  with his back to the wall and four large, threatening youths blocking

  the exits.

  Those had just been minor crises, mere butterflies in his expansive

  stomach, and each one had had a happy outcome. His father had

  decided that the wait had been punishment enough, and had lashed

  him with his tongue rather than his belt. There had been the

  indescribable miracle of Lauren's birth, the moment of holding his

  first child, for the first time. And on that third occasion. Constable

  Mario McGuire had appeared behind the four young thugs, a Satanic

  smile on his face as he contemplated the mess that he and Mcllhenney

  would leave behind them in the alley.

  This was different though; this was something which threatened to

  consume him, yet which he knew had to be conquered and contained

  within him, never allowed to show on the outside, least of all to Olive.

  Since the illness had been diagnosed, he had experienced a succession

  of horrors. Now, waiting for his wife to come down from the ward, he

  sat contemplating apprehensively the weekend to come.

  They had been warned about the treatment, about the sickness that

  was the most common side-effect of the drugs. 'These are very

  powerful and toxic chemicals. Olive,' their supervising nurse had

  warned as she had talked them through what would happen. 'Their

  job is to seek out and kill the cancer cells, but they will have a hell of

  an effect on your entire system. We'll give you steroids to control it,

  133

  but the chances are that you'll be very sick for a couple of days after

  your first treatment.'

  At that moment, he was fearful of that imminent crisis more than

  anything else. His mind had simply locked away the long-term

  possibilities, refusing to contemplate them, but right there and then

  he dreaded the very thought of watching his wife's distress.

  'Mr Mcllhenney?' The calm voice broke into his fearful anticipation.

  'How are you getting on?' He looked up from his chair to see

  Derek Simmers standing over him.

  'Okay,' he replied, trying to smile. 'Just waiting for Olive, as

  instructed.'

  'I've just left her,' said the consultant. 'She'll be another twenty

  minutes or so. Don't wait here; come on through to my office. I'll tell

  reception where you are, so she can find you when she comes down.'

  Neil nodded. He stood, picked up his coffee and followed the tall,

  fair-haired Simmers to the desk at the entrance, where he paused, then

  round a corner and into a small office opposite the room where their

  initial consultation had taken place. There was no desk, only a few

  chairs and a low coffee table.

  'Sit, down, sit down,' the physician insisted. And then unexpectedly,

  he sighed. 'You know,' he began, 'I've lost count of the number of

  patients I've treated in this place. I've lost count of the number of

  husbands and wives that I've seen in your shoes; but still I can't really

  imagine how it must feel for either the patient or her partner.

  'I can try. I do, of course; but, not having experienced it for myself,

  not having sat on your side of the desk at the consultation, seeing with

  your eyes, listening with your ears; not even having sat out there

  being ministered to by the WRVS ladies in their canteen, I don't

  suppose I even get close to the reality.'

  'No,' Mcllhenney answered quietly. 'I don't suppose you do.'

  'Maybe that's a good thing, though. Because it ensures that I remain

  objective, and as long as I do I have something to offer my patients

  beyond the mechanics of the treatment.' The gentle blue eyes settled

  on the policeman, and he felt the same wave of inexplicable relief

  which had swept over him at his first meeting with Simmers.

  'I will never lie to Olive, or to you,' he said, earnestly. 'I will

  always tell it to you like it is; to a great extent the success or failure of

  her treatment will depend on the interpretation which both of you

  place on my words. I am dedicated to the preservation of life, Neil, for

  as long as that can be. I will prescribe and administer the most

  appropriate treatment for Olive's physical condition.

  'But once I've done that, your job begins; you have to remain

  positi
ve and you have to remain mentally strong. From what I've

  134

  seen of you both, you will be able to do that.

  'The next couple of days will be tough, for both of you; make no

  mistake about that. But in the course of this treatment, which will last

  for up to six months, they will probably be the worst you'll experience.

  'My best advice to you is to set yourselves targets. For example, in

  a couple of weeks, maybe even next weekend, you might be able to

  contemplate an evening at the theatre. After two months' treatment,

  you might want to go on holiday. If you do, I'll make a gap in the

  schedule for you. Working towards and achieving objectives like these

  will be a tremendous psychological help to you both and will improve

  Olive's chances of keeping this thing at bay'

  Simmers paused, and Mcllhenney saw pain written in his soft eyes.

  'The hardest thing for me,' he continued, 'is to tell devoted partners

  like you and Olive that one of you has an incurable disease. I don't

  discuss survival rates or make prognoses; anyone can pick all that

  stuff off the Internet if they have a mind. I can tell you this though,

  from long experience: the people who believe from day one, without

  doubt, that they will wind up on the positive side of the ratio, whatever

  that might be, are the people who do best.

  'You do believe that, Neil, don't you?'

  The policeman felt his jaw tighten as he returned the consultant's

  gaze. 'Absolutely,' he said.

  'That's good. Hold fast to that belief; it's the best advice I have for

  you.'

  The physician rose to his feet. 'We'd better go back out there. Olive

  should be down from the ward any minute.'

  Mcllenney nodded. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you very much,

  Mr Simmers.'

  The man laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Listen Neil, over the coming

  months you and Olive and I are going to have to maintain a close,

  trusting relationship. So please, drop the Mr Simmers stuff. Don't

  call me Derek either; I've never cared much for that name. Call me by

  the name my friends use. Call me Deacey.'

  135

  42

  She found the apartment without difficulty: a short taxi trip across the

  Bridges from her own small flat offNicolson Street, down Broughton

  Street, through the traffic lights at Rodney Street and there it was,

  facing her as Wayne had described it.

  He was ready to leave when he opened the door, tall and handsome

  in jeans and a red LaCoste waterproof. His beard looked as if it had

  been newly trimmed.

  'Am I late?' she asked, untypically concerned that he might think

  she was evening the score for Giuliano's.

  'Not at all,' he drawled. 'I saw your taxi arrive, that's all. Say,

  before we leave, come on in and say hello to Dennis. He's ready for

  bed but he's decent.'

  Karen was not entirely certain that she wanted to meet Wayne's

  friend again, remembering his sourness when she had checked him in

  at the conference centre, but she followed him inside. The paraplegic

  was in his wheelchair, dressed in pyjamas and a silk dressing gown.

  His hair was damp at the edges, and his skin slightly pink, as if he had

  just come from a bath. He seemed to be concentrating hard on the Scotsman crossword.

  'Say hello to Karen, mate,' the tall Australian commanded.

  Dennis Crombie looked up, peered at her through his spectacles,

  and barked a quick, 'Hello.'

  She grinned back at him, and pointed towards the newspaper on his

  lap. 'Friday's usually the hardest,' she said. 'That's what I find, anyway.'

  'Eh?'

  'The crossword.'

  'Oh. Yes, it's tougher than yesterday's.' The faintest smile seemed

  to cross the economist's face, and a gold filling in one of his upper

  canines caught the light for an instant. 'Too many Scottish words,

  that's the problem for me.'

  'Don't worry, if you're staying on for a few weeks you'll learn the

  language.'

  The smile vanished. 'As long as I can stay warm, I don't give a

  136

  stuff about the language. I never thought Scotland would be so cold.'

  'Hey, it's not that bad,' she protested.

  'It is when you can't move about.'

  She felt a mixture of guilt and sympathy. 'I'm sorry, Dennis, I

  didn't think.'

  'No,' said Crombie. 'People don't. They can't imagine what it's like to look at the world from this angle.' He smiled again, but it

  looked forced. 'Hey, don't mind me. I'm just an embittered old cripple.

  You two get going. Wheel me though to bed first though, mate.'

  Wayne nodded and took the guide handles of the chair. As Karen

  stepped back into the entrance hall she heard Dennis call out. 'Have a

  nice night now. Don't do anything I can't.'

  Her escort joined her in a couple of minutes, breathing a heavy

  sigh as he closed the door behind him. 'You sound tired,' she said.

  'Relieved, more like it. It was bath night for Dennis. That's always

  a performance.'

  'Never mind,' Karen chuckled, 'the best is yet to come. Where are

  we going?'

  'Well,' he answered slowly. 'I thought we might have a couple of

  pints in the pub on the next corner, the Northern Bar, and then go for

  a Chinese in the place a few doors down, the Loon Fung.'

  'Absolutely,' she agreed. 'You couldn't have chosen better. That

  place does lemon chicken to die for.'

  Three hours later, he had to agree with her. 'That was just magic,'

  he murmured, as the last forkful disappeared. An extra couple of pints

  and half a bottle of red wine had taken the rough edge from his accent

  in the course of the evening, most of which Wayne had spent talking

  about Australia, aboriginal rights, and life on board an oil rig. 'Do

  you know any more places like this?' he asked.

  She nodded. 'A few. Maybe we'll get round to them, all in good

  time.'

  'Maybe.'

  'You're all right you know, Wayne,' she whispered, feeling as relaxed

  as she had in years. She smiled, broadly. 'For a poofter, that is.

  'It's a pity,' she went on, 'that male-female relationships are usually

  so hopeless. Most of them just start and finish with that sticky

  business, all that pushing and shoving and sweating and shouting. It's

  nice to be able to enjoy an evening with a man, just as two sensible

  people.'

  'Couldn't agree more.'

  'What sort of a bloke are you, back home?' she asked. 'I mean are

  you an action man? D'you play rugby? Are you a Wallaby, or is it a

  Kiwi?'

  137

  He frowned. 'I ain't a Kiwi, that's for sure. I hate nicking Kiwis.'

  She reached forward and tapped the back of his right hand lightly

  with one of her long finger-nails. 'So don't fuck any,' she said straight-

  faced.

  The Chinese waiters looked across at them as they collapsed in

  laughter, heads touching across their table. Then they looked away:

  they were used to Friday night customers fresh from the local bars.

  'Coffee?' she asked, eventually.

  'Not here. My place. I've got some really fine Colombian grounds,

  and some decent Spanish bran
dy.'

  'Sounds good.'

  Karen insisted on taking her turn to pay for the meal. 'You come

  again,' the head waiter called as she stepped out into the night, which

  had gone from chilly to frosty.

  'Christ,' she said. 'Dennis will be freezing his balls off.'

  'Nah. That apartment's like an oven, plus, he's got an electric

  blanket.' He paused and she could see his smile under the street lights.

  'They've been numb for years, anyway.'

  They stumbled through the door of the flat, almost comic in their

  efforts to be quiet. She followed him into the dining kitchen and

  watched him as he made the coffee, admiring the care with which he

  measured the grounds into the filter and tamped them down. 'The

  brandy's in the cupboard behind you,' he told her, without turning

  from his task as he poured water into the cone-shaped filter.

  In that moment, Karen realised that more alcohol was the last thing

  she wanted. Yet what she did have in mind was not, it seemed, on

  offer. 'I won't thanks, Wayne. I've had well enough.'

  'I won't either then. I don't really need a bad head in the morning.'

  He waited until he judged the coffee to be perfect, then poured two

  medium sized mugs.

  'Let's sit through there,' he said, nodding toward the living room.

  He placed the mugs on a glass-topped table and sat beside her on

  the comfortable sofa. 'How big is this place?' she asked, quietly.

  'You've seen most of it. There's this, the kitchen diner, bathroom,

  toilet and one bedroom. Why d'you ask?'

  'I just wondered,' she said. 'Like whether you have a room of your

  own.'

  'This sofa is a convertible. I sleep on it.'

  'Mmmm.'

  She looked at him suddenly, catching him off-guard, catching him

  in a glance which told her all she needed to know. He told her,

  anyway. 'I'm not really gay, you know. I only said that to make you

  feel more comfortable.'

  138

  'I know,' she murmured. 'Neither am I. I only said it because I

  wanted to keep you at a distance for a while, until I could work out if

  I really fancied you as much as I thought at first.'

  'And do you?'

  'Oh yes.'

  He leaned across kissed her, hearing her soft moan as she responded,

  feeling her tongue searching for his. His touch was light; even his

  beard felt smooth against her cheek.

  As they embraced, his hand slipped under her sweater, fingers