by James Oswald
‘I’m so, so sorry, Tony.’
Madame Rose’s words finally penetrated his fugue state. McLean blinked dry eyes, then looked around to see the transvestite medium sitting alongside him. Despite the hour she was as well turned out as ever, makeup meticulously applied, hair coiffured to within an inch of its life. Her face betrayed her, though, etched with sadness, eyes shiny.
‘It’s not your fault. Could have happened to anyone.’ The words came out automatically. He wasn’t even sure what they meant.
‘But it happened to you, and to Emma. How is she?’ Madame Rose reached out and enveloped his hand in hers, patted it once then withdrew. The contact brought McLean back to himself.
‘Physically, she’s fine. Lost a lot of blood, but they’ve put her on a drip, keeping her in overnight.’ McLean ran his other hand through his hair, feeling the grit and sweat of a long day between his fingers. ‘Mentally? I really don’t know.’
Madame Rose stood up, groaning in that quiet way old people do. She faced him, so close that looking up at her all McLean could see was a halo of fluorescent ceiling light around her head.
‘Emma’s a survivor. You should know that by now, Tony. My concern is more for the child she carried.’
McLean opened his mouth to reply, but for a while couldn’t find the words to say. He was too tired to take it all in, and Madame Rose’s strangeness wasn’t helping.
‘The child is dead, Rose. What did you think happened here? A premature birth? This was a miscarriage, probably brought on by exposure to too many toxic chemicals or something like that. Christ knows, the two of us have been in contact with enough of the stuff this past week.’ McLean’s voice cracked as he spoke, the full horror flooding into his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. He buried his face in his hands as much to hide the tears as anything, tried to hold back the sobs that wanted to break through. A hand on his shoulder steadied him.
‘Go home, Tony. There’s nothing to be gained from you staying here. Go and get some rest.’
McLean nodded once, although he couldn’t meet Madame Rose’s gaze. He struggled to his feet with almost as much difficulty as the old medium.
‘We’ll speak more of this later,’ Rose said, and he felt like he was being dismissed from a verbal disciplining by his old housemaster. A little boy, he turned and limped up the corridor towards the hospital entrance. And all the while he couldn’t decide whether it was the sadness that was crushing him, or relief.
The tiredness that had disappeared when he had first found Emma in the bath returned now with a vengeance. It was past midnight; he’d been up since before five the morning before and he couldn’t quite remember when last he’d eaten anything. Had there been cake? If so, it was long gone. He had followed the ambulance to the hospital in his Alfa, buzzing with adrenaline. Now the thought of driving back across town filled him with weary dread. Leaving it in the hospital car park wasn’t exactly an option, though.
How he made it home without crashing, McLean couldn’t be sure. He’d get a bollocking if anyone ever found out he’d driven in that state, but he was frankly too tired to care. The crunch of the gravel under his wheels as he turned up the drive woke him from a stupor far too close to actually sleeping at the wheel.
The constables who had arrived at the same time as the ambulance were long gone now, just Mrs McCutcheon’s cat waiting for him in the kitchen, her greeting no more than a muted chirrup and a brush of her head against his hand. In the rush to get to the hospital, nobody had bothered to pick up the chair or right the overturned mug. He could see how the events had played out now. Emma in her dressing gown, having a cup of tea while she waited for him to come home. Whatever triggered the miscarriage it must have come on fast. She’d knocked over her mug and the chair, hurried to the bathroom. Why she’d gone to the nursery he didn’t know. Perhaps he’d ask her some day. Right now he didn’t know how he was ever going to speak to her again.
He wanted to sleep, wanted to sit in the corner and cry, wanted everything to be the way it had been before … when? McLean felt the tears blur his vision, felt the lump in his throat. Fought them both back.
In the laundry, he found a bucket and a mop. Filled the one with warm soapy water and carried them both back to the hall. Starting there was as good a place as any. He dunked the mop in the water, squeezed it out until it was almost dry.
Then he set about the task of cleaning the blood from the floor.
Acknowledgements
It’s my name on the cover, and my words you’ve just read, but a whole team of people are involved in getting those words into the best order possible and presenting them to you in book form. If I try to name everyone, I’ll undoubtedly forget (and thus insult) someone. I owe a debt of gratitude to everyone who’s had anything to do with this book, from my first commissioning editor, all the way through to the legions of booksellers hand-selling my books in shops across the country and on to you readers, without whom I’d have to raise cattle for a living.
I am especially grateful to all the team at Michael Joseph. This is our thirteenth book together and each one has been a joy. A big shout-out to Joel Richardson for his wise editorial input (and breakfast), to Beatrix McIntyre and Mark Handsley for making sure my more idiotic continuity errors and typos never made it to the final product. Thanks too to Laura Nicol, Beth Cockeram and all the other people who have worked to make these books a great success. I’d name you all, but the list is so long.
Huge thanks to Kenneth Stephen. It’s been five years since you first got me on the telly, Kenny, and still you manage to interest the media in my antics. Long may that continue!
A special thank you to the crime writing community. I may be a Fantasy hack at heart, but you all welcomed me in with open arms. Those at the scene of the crime are a special bunch. A nicer bunch you’d never want to drink with.
Of course none of this would have happened without my agent, the indefatigable Juliet Mushens, aided by the supremely organised Nathalie Hallam at Caskie Mushens. I am very lucky indeed to have such talented people at my back.
And last but by no means least, my thanks to Barbara, who keeps the ship from crashing into the rocks while I’m gazing off into the distance.
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
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Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Michael Joseph 2018
Text copyright © James Oswald, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover image © Michael Trevillion / Trevillion Images
ISBN: 978-1-405-92532-7