The Magpies A Psychological Thriller - By Mark Edwards Page 0,40
had to really listen hard. What were you doing?’
‘I was running up and down the room. I jumped a couple of times, like this.’ She jumped and landed heavily. ‘And I put the TV on and turned it up loud. Like this.’ She flicked the TV on and boosted the volume. ‘Are you saying you couldn’t hear that?’
‘Hardly.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. It can’t be that the floorboards in our flat are extra thin. Lucy and Chris must have really sensitive hearing.’
‘Yeah. Like dogs.’
Kirsty was right. It didn’t make sense.
Eleven
Jamie couldn’t stand the smell of hospitals. The cloying stink of disinfectant; the vapour trails of anguish and pain and disease. He was glad that Kirsty showered and changed when she got home from work – he would hate it if that smell clung to her all evening instead of the clean, warm natural smells of her body. He sometimes felt that he had a more finely-tuned sense of smell than most people – a sensitivity that made it impossible for him to stay in certain malodorous places. When he drove past a crematorium, he could smell ashes and fumes. Public toilets contained many horrors. The stink of body odour on the Tube made him want to be sick. But the worst smell of all was the smell of hospitals.
He sat beside Paul’s bed, sucking a mint, exhaling in sharp breaths so its smell replaced that of the hospital. Walking up the corridor this afternoon he had seen a porter hurriedly pushing a trolley on which there lay a dead body, covered from head to toe with a green sheet. Now Jamie looked at Paul, his chest rising and falling, the steady pulse of his heartbeat amplified electronically by the machines that monitored his condition, and felt a rush of gratitude and relief: Paul was still alive, and whatever else happened, that was a blessing to cling to. Every morning, a nurse came to give Paul a wash and a shave. Periodically, hospital staff trimmed his nails and cut his hair. In fact, Heather had asked if she could cut his hair herself and, having done so, she carried a lock with her in her bag. Jamie thought that was pretty morbid himself, but he understood Heather’s motivation. Paul’s body was still functioning – growing, aging, shedding, replenishing; all the things that bodies do. These things were a tangible reminder that Paul was still with them.
Jamie sat silently as usual. He had spoken to Dr Meer earlier, who said there had been no change in Paul’s condition. Jamie wondered how far beneath the surface Paul was, if he was making any progress that they couldn’t see. He wondered if, in his comatose state, Paul dreamed – and, if so, what he dreamed of. Women, probably. Megan Fox mud-wrestling with Rihanna.
He stood up. It was six o’clock – time to meet Kirsty and take her home. As he was about to leave the room he turned round and looked down at his friend. He could have sworn he had moved. He bent over him, holding his breath, searching for signs of movement or change. There were none.
‘Must have imagined it,’ he murmured to himself. He touched Paul’s cheek. It was warm.
He walked back down the corridor and up a long flight of stairs. A pair of nurses passed him as he headed towards the children’s ward. They recognised him, and smiled. After they’d passed by he heard them laugh, and he felt a stab of paranoia, convinced they were laughing at him. He hurried on, suddenly desperate to be out of here, away from the smell and the people and the bright, sterile lighting. He wanted to be at home.
But when he thought of home, he felt anxious too.
All day he had been haunted by a creeping sense of unease. Last night, they had written and delivered the letter to Lucy and Chris. Writing the letter had made him feel better, but after he’d got to work this morning he’d started to worry about what their response would be. Mike, the guy who sat opposite him at work, had asked him if he was alright, commenting that he seemed really spaced out, and Jamie had snapped at him, told him to mind his own business, feeling immediately remorseful. It was so rare for him to feel like this – he was usually so relaxed and easy-going. But he wanted today over with. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.