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He lit up, half-expecting a disapproving comment stemmed fresh from his DI’s superiority complex. Anybody would think her body was a temple if they had the pleasure of hearing about her attitudes to smoking. Anyone who hadn’t seen her in Luigi’s on a Friday night, that is. He’d love a smarmy remark about his smoking round about now. At least that’s would mean she was conscious.
He savoured the last few drags, knowing she’d hate him smoking at her bedside. He was there on straight-faced, sturdy-eyed business, or he would be once he’d composed himself. At least she couldn’t bloody interrupt him or confuse him with daft babbling while she was unconscious. He reckoned she’d still find a way.
He’d made sure he turned up way off visiting hours. He couldn’t exactly make conversation with any of CID if he bumped into them at the water cooler. Instead he flashed a warrant card at a stupid hour and made his way to her room. He’d been laying low for a while, long enough to convince himself that the cause of the dull, lingering pinch in his stomach was unidentifiable, or at least down to overindulgence the night before. He’d had to address the persistent prod of unsettlement in his chest today, and the poke from his conscience returned. It was the same one he’d had when she’d keeled in the street, leaving him hapless and implicated in the face of her injuries. It wasn’t particularly the shooting her that did it. It was the last conversation they’d had in the office beforehand.
‘It’s just struck me how truly cold you are, Drake. You once told me you had a daughter. But you never phone her, you never talk about her, you never try and see her.’ She’d all but said ‘how fucking dare you?’ with the look in her eyes, but articulated it with a swift swing at his cheek.
He’d thought about that as she fell, hoping she wasn’t too. Finding out she was to be trusted all along had made everything worse tenfold, in a way. Today he’d apologise, amongst other things. She was always wanging on about her subconscious, maybe he could drill ‘I didn’t shoot you on purpose’ into it. He might attempt some empathy, he had lodged a bullet in her stomach after all, albeit accidentally.
Hospital gown, colour drained. She wasn’t far off the colour of the bedsheets. She’d been given a decent-sized room, and she looked tiny in the middle of it. Usually her voice, her mannerisms, her determination took up space. Now she needed barely any, her entire life confined to a hospital bed. Lifeless.
“Bloody ‘ell, you look rough,” was his opening gambit.
He soon realised there was no seat, making the effort of going out into the corridor to find one. Surely somebody else had been to visit?
He took the small seat, now beside her bed.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, but erm…you’re always banging on about all that subconscious stuff, you never know, it might get through to you somehow.” He knew he sounded hesitant. Probably how he sounded when he’d asked her to dinner, he thought.
“It was an accident. You got in my way. Not for the first time. You’re gonna have to set the record straight. Not now, obviously. I need you awake to clear my name if anything.” He wasn’t usually a rambler. He was just building up to an apology, he needed some kind of run-up. Gaining momentum. “I’ve been all over, Bols. Shouldn’t be here, but I can’t keep running.”
“I don’t think you can hear me, and I hope you won’t remember what it is I’m on about, but erm…well, I’m sorry, I suppose. Mouthing off about your daughter. I probably don’t know the half. And for shooting you, even though I’d didn’t do it. Not on purpose, anyway.”
He only felt slightly different. The kicker was whether she’d accept his apology, and she wasn’t exactly in a place to. He wasn’t sure she would if she could. He still looked at her expectedly, as if he could single-handedly wake her from a coma. Dead silence, of course.
He was right up for a heated argument with her about now. He relaxed into their one-sided conversation, softening slightly at her unresponsive but peaceful state. His tone evened to something more gentle.
“I bet Chris and Shaz’ll be missing you. Ray might spare a thought for you if he’s got one going. I’ve left them in the lurch, I hope Ray can handle it. He’s got big shoes to fill, coppers like me don’t come ‘round often.”
He wouldn’t usually tell her an anecdote about a case from a few years back. He wouldn’t usually tell her about a curious meal he’d had in Spain, or that he reckons tapas is right up her street. There just wasn’t much she could do about it.