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Typical bloody Oxford. A murder over a collection of books.
I pace near the entrance to the Lawns at Trinity College and stop for a moment to let my gaze wander over the greens and the long straight path leading to the Parks Road Gate. The Trinity terms haven’t started yet. In a few weeks, when April finally brings warmer temperatures to Oxford, the grass of the Lawns will be filled with students, hanging out in the open, reading, studying, chatting or whatever young people at their ages do. Funny. When did I start to think about them as young and me as old? When I got kids of my own? When I finally made DI? When I teamed up with Hathaway? I can’t remember. It’s been a while though.
There aren’t many students around today, but the college grounds are crawling with police officers, helping to take the evidence out to the waiting squad cars. The evidence in this case consists of books by the boxful. Poor sods. I wouldn’t want to carry those crates.
Books. Nothing unusual in Oxford you might say. But not just a few. Stacks of them and all stolen from the Bodleian and God knows where else. Dr. Jennings was a collector, but his manic compulsion to steal books had a certain scheme to it. Everybody is baffled. How did he do it? Why didn’t anyone notice? Why weren’t the books missed earlier? It probably helped that he worked as a librarian himself in the past. His wife supported him, too. They worked as a couple, him and his other half. Would Val have helped me to commit a crime? I doubt it. She always was the voice of reason when I got carried away with something. I’m not a down-to-earth man for nothing.
Well, stealing is bad enough, but Jennings murdered over it. One of his students found out and made the mistake of trying to blackmail his tutor. Bad idea.
Only in Oxford. I shake my head in disbelief.
I turn around and watch as my sergeant leads a cuffed Jennings to a police car. Poor Hathaway will have to sort through the evidence with an army of librarians later. But that’s what sergeants are for, to do the work, aren’t they? I did it for Morse, back then. I called it the “donkey work”. Sometimes I wonder if Hathaway would have put up with Morse’s grumpy attitudes as long as I did, but then again, the lad is a lot brighter than me.
Morse. I haven’t thought about him for a while. Which is strange, because it’s hard not to constantly stumble over reminders of him. A similar case, a place, even when I stop at certain pubs to drink a pint with my sergeant. “Drink up, Le-wis!” Only Hathaway wouldn’t say that of course.
Morse. Not forgotten, but I guess I’ve moved on.
Hathaway stops and turns around, facing me, smirking as he slowly comes over to join me. We watch as more crates are loaded into the squad cars.
“Well, that gives the term ‘hunter-gatherer’ a whole new dimension, sir,” Hathaway muses.
I can’t help but chuckle over his remark.
Suddenly, there is a commotion behind me. I can see Hathaway looking up to see what the fuss is about - and freeze. His eyes widen with shock, then everything happens in a blur. I try to turn around, wanting to see what has put such an expression on my usually smooth and cocky sergeant, but I only manage to turn half way before I am pushed sideways so violently that I lose my balance and Hathaway is shouting “Get down!”. There is a loud crack. Someone has fired a shot, my brain processes. Large calibre by the sound of it. Chaos ensues as we both tumble to the ground, Hathaway falling down hard on top of me, using his body to protect me from whatever is happening around us.
What the bloody hell?
I’m waiting for another shot, but I can’t hear any other telltale bang. Who fired a gun? What the hell did just happen?
When my brain has finally decided to work again after a few heartbeats and sends the right signals to my synapses (the things you pick up when you work for a crossword nut), I try to move, but I can’t. I’m pinned down by a body. A body that doesn’t move. A dead-weight, a mean little voice in the far recesses of my mind whispers cruelly.
My sergeant, who has been literally throwing himself between me and the shooter, doesn’t move.
No.
More and more things begin to tug at my awareness at once. I smell grass and earth and something coppery. The quad gravel hurts my back through layers of cloth. Then there is a lot of yelling around me. Well, that’s something you’d expect after a shooting. I can hear someone cry out “Anyone hurt? Sir?” Running feet approaching us. So someone must have overwhelmed the shooter then. At least I hope so.
We’re still lying on the ground, a hopeless pile of tangled limbs.
That cruel voice in my mind keeps telling me that something is very, very wrong. Brilliantly deduced, Sherlock, I think, feeling a bit of hysteria creep in. I stifle it mercilessly before it can blossom into something I can’t deal with right now. No time for that, and no use either. You’re a policeman for God’s sake, pull yourself together, man!
I try to move the body that’s still covering me, but that attempt is greeted by a soft and weak groan. I somehow manage to roll Hathaway to the side, carefully, scrambling to a kneeling position once I’m free.
Then I notice the blood. I’m covered with it.
I look down and see Hathaway lying on his back, looking at me with a face that’s drained of all its colour. A shaky hand reaches out for me. “Sir?” He’s barely able to speak. In the past six years I’ve learned to read every nuance of that one little word Sir. He sounds worried of all things. Good God. Hathaway has seen the blood and he thinks that I’m hurt. He doesn’t realise it’s his own blood that has spattered my shirt, jacket and trousers.
“James!” I finally rasp out when I find my voice again.
My hands are moving over his body, searching for the telltale wet spot. I find it by his shoulder, far too close to his heart for my liking. Acting on pure instinct and adrenaline, I remove my jacket and press it on the bullet wound, for whatever good it may do.
I look up and desperately search for another officer who can help us. Anyone. A constable is squatting down next to me at this instant. I give him a brutal shove that nearly topples him over and can hear myself yelling at him. “Get an ambulance, quick!” He jumps up and uses his radio to call for help.
I look down again, still putting pressure on the wound, but I can’t help but thinking that it’s like trying to stop a dam from breaking by putting one’s thumb on the crack. I almost laugh out loud at that mental image. More imminent hysteria, the detached professional part of my mind notes. I need to get a grip on myself, for his sake.
Hathaway’s eyes begin to flutter, he is slowly slipping away, the shock of blood loss.
“Jim! Look at me!”
Hathaway opens his eyes with much effort. I can see that he wants to speak but can’t, a dreadful gurgling sound escaping his mouth instead. He reaches out for my face and I can feel the wetness as his hand leaves a streak of blood. Or am I crying? Not likely. It must be blood then. His eyes shut again and with horror I realise that he also stops breathing.
This can’t be happening.
Thankfully, my long-trained police reflexes still work. It’s been a while since I’ve done CPR, Hathaway usually does it when there is need for it on a case, but my body remembers the motions. I start with the compressions and then press my mouth on his and breathe. Hathaway has soft, full lips, made to be kissed, another part of my brain notes, but I push that thought away. Where did that come from anyway? Time and place, Robbie.
“Don’t you bloody die on me, lad!” I work on him in a steady rhythm, breathing into his mouth and pumping his chest in turns. From the gurgling sound earlier I gather that there is at least some damage to his lung and I hope desperately that the chest compressions don’t cause any more harm. I try not to think about how his lung is probably filling up and he’ll soon drown on his own blood. God, no. Sweat pours down my face but I ignore the stinging as some of it runs into my eyes. I don’t know how long I can keep this up, considering that I’m getting a little short of breath myself here.
I can’t stop now. He needs to breathe. For me. Please.
I’m not sure whether I plead out loud or maybe it’s just happening in my head. I’m past caring. From somewhere I can hear the wail of sirens. I register it, but all I can think of is that I have to keep this up, no matter how exhausted I am. For James.
Some time later (how long? I don’t know), someone grabs my shoulders, trying to pull me away. I want to shoo them off with a swipe of my arm, a bit like swatting an annoying fly. A very persistent fly. If I stop the chest compressions, he’ll die.
“Sir. Sir! You need to let us take over!” The paramedics are here.
It is only then when this realisation sinks in that I let go and turn to the side, somehow sorting my legs out and landing on my buttocks in the process, panting and utterly knackered. I crawl backwards and then pull my knees up to make room for the paramedics. For a moment I see them take over, placing him gently on a stretcher but then I look away when I notice James’ pale and blood-smeared hand slipping off sideways. I can’t watch.
With my arms resting on my knees I look down on my shirt, tie and trousers. That suit is ruined for sure. Val would have had a field day. Not just the grass stains, but all that blood would never come off again.
Hell, I can’t breathe. I pull my tie free with a few jerky movements and crunch it into a ball in my fist. Then I force myself to look again.
James. Is he still alive? Yes, they are still working on him. I feel numb and the commotion seems to have died down, my world has been muffled by a thick layer of cotton.
It’s Hathaway. My sergeant. It’s James. God help me.
Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice, calling my name. “Robbie!” Out of nowhere, Jean Innocent has appeared next to me. “Robbie! Are you all right?” She is touching my arm, looking horrified. I must look like a bloody disaster. I take a long breath, not trusting my voice just yet. Then I hear myself say shakily, “I’m all right. It’s his blood.”
I try to get up, but my wobbly legs almost fold beneath me and I stumble. Innocent catches me and I finally manage to remember how to stand properly. How embarrassing.
We watch silently as they load Hathaway into the ambulance. Before they can close the back doors, I start walking towards it. Innocent, who is still holding my arm, keeps me back and I want to shrug her off. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m going with him!” I wish she’d let go of me.
“No, you won’t!” Innocent waves to another paramedic. I feel a blanket as it is put around my shoulders. The dizziness is back with full force and my legs don’t seem to obey me. I feel hot and cold at the same time, my heart doing cartwheels in my chest. “Shock” someone says.
Shock? Don’t be daft. I’m a policeman, lad. I don’t do shocks. I see people with them. I don’t get them myself.
Or do I? Okay, to be perfectly honest, I was in shock when I heard about Val. I guess I’m not immune after all, then. Also, I’ve seen the most hardened fellow coppers faint like damsels in distress when a family member was treated for a minor injury. Nothing new.
I make a last feeble attempt to get to the ambulance, to Hathaway, but strong arms prevent me. I watch desperately as the doors are closed with a thump. The ambulance pulls away with blaring sirens.
Innocent herds me to a squad car and adamantly instructs the poor sod of a driver to take me to hospital as well. I let myself be manhandled on the passenger seat and once they’ve closed the door behind me, I rest my head on the cool glass surface of the car door, eyes closed.
~oOo~
Innocent later tells me in hospital that it was Jennings’ wife who shot Hathaway. She had taken her husband’s revolver that he had kept in his office. She had aimed for me of course, the “Geordie bastard” who caught them. But Hathaway took that bullet for me, not thinking twice about it.
I’m still wrapped in the blanket, but I’m past fussing with it. I still feel chilled to the bone so I welcome the tiny bit of warmth. After giving me oxygen and a few shots and making sure I wouldn’t collapse they’ve told me to go home and take it easy.
I’m not going anywhere. Innocent has left after being assured by the doctors that I was all right. She has to sort out one hell of a mess.
I sit alone in the waiting room of the emergency ward, feet propped up because I still feel like death warmed over. Must look like it, too, because when Laura appears before me she looks worried. She sits down next to me. Softly, she asks, “Are you okay, Robbie?”
Dear Laura. A simple question. For a moment, I don’t know what to say. Confronted with this display of honest compassion and worry for a friend I choke down a sound and suppress the sudden need to cry. I manage. Barely.
“I’m fine. I’m not the one lying on that operating table, am I?” That came out harsher than I intended, but Laura, bless her, understands. She puts her hand on my arm and says nothing for a while. No ‘he’ll be fine’ or other empty phrases, which is fine by me, they’d have false ring to them anyway. She’s seen enough bullet wounds in her career, especially the lethal ones, to know that nothing is certain at this point. I feel the warmth of her hand seeping through the cloth of my shirt and look down to where her hand rests on my arm. We both notice the blood stains. I had forgotten about them. Well, almost. They are probably the reason why the hospital staff has been eyeing me nervously, that’s also why I kept that blanket wrapped around my shoulders, trying to cover up the mess as best as I can.
“Do you want me to get you some clean clothes from your flat?” she asks and a wave of gratitude washes over me. James picked me up this morning, so my car is still at home. I dig for the bundle of keys in my jacket that somehow, I don’t know how, made it to the hospital with me. I give Laura the keys and with a last pat on my arm, she gets up and leaves.
I must have lost track of time, my mind all over the place, because suddenly she’s back with my overnight bag. I take the bag and go to the gents to clean up. When I’ve finished, I stuff the bloodied clothes back into the bag, wondering for a moment why I bother. They’re ruined anyway. But somehow I can’t bring myself to throw them into the rubbish bin right here at the hospital. It’s Hathaway’s blood, for crying out loud. Too precious to just throw it away, isn’t it? I know I’m not thinking rationally, but I leave the clothes in the bag and take them with me. Rational thinking is for later.
When I return to the waiting room, I see Laura talking to a doctor. My heart skips a beat as I approach them. They look so bloody serious. Can’t be good news then.
“Mr. Lewis?” He approaches me and holds out his hand. I shake it.
“I’m Dr. Richardson. We were able to remove the bullet, but to be quite frank, he’s sustained extensive damage to his lung and he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s in an induced coma.”
So Laura obviously told him Hathaway’s my partner, otherwise he wouldn’t give me that kind of information. Bless her.
I want to say something, but nothing comes out. My throat is dry and I find it hard to swallow. From somewhere, Laura produces a tiny cup of water. My throat makes a clicking sound as I drink the cold liquid. It helps.
“Can I see him?” I barely recognise my own voice.
The doctor shakes his head. “They’re still getting him settled in, best to leave him to the nurses for a few hours. There is nothing you can do for him right now. But you can come back in the morning, if you like. I’ll let the staff know who you are. Besides, you should take care of yourself, Inspector.”
I nod at this, even when I don’t like it very much.
Dr. Richardson hesitates and I know there is more he needs to say. Here’s another compassionate doctor, for Dr. Richardson looks at me full of sympathy.
“I won’t mince words, Mr. Lewis. Chances he’ll survive are 50:50. The next 48 hours will be crucial. His next of kin should be notified.” He stops and then adds after a moment, “They should prepare for the worst.”
Even though I should have expected this, his words hit me like a blow. Prepare for the worst. Notify the next of kin. How often have I heard these words before? Even said them myself when we had to tell family members about tragic incidents or accidents. It doesn’t get easier. And this is James Hathaway we’re talking about. My sergeant. My partner.
The doctor interrupts my bleak thoughts. “Nurse Harrison will help you with the formalities. I need to get back to work. Goodbye, Mr. Lewis. Laura.” He shakes both our hands and leaves. I’m stunned. I can’t move. An instant later I realise in horror that I have no idea who Hathaway’s “next of kin” are. If anyone should know this, it’s me. What a bloody fine guv’nor you are, Lewis. You don’t even know who to call when your sergeant bites the dust.
Laura tugs at my sleeve and it breaks the spell. “Come on, Robbie. Let’s get it over with and then I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t know,” comes out of my mouth.
Laura turns around. “What? What is it you don’t know?”
I look at her. “I don’t know who his next of kin are. He never told me! Did he ever tell you?”
Laura shakes her head. “Maybe it’s in his file?” she asks hopefully.
We approach the desk where a middle-aged nurse is sorting files into a cabinet. Laura addresses her. “Hi Angela. Can you help us? We need the file of one of Dr. Richardson’s patients. James Hathaway. He should be in your system, he’s been treated here before.”
“The shooting victim? Yes, of course.” She checks the computer and after hitting a few keys she nods. “Right, last time he was treated for some minor burns and cuts.” She re-checks the entry. “Oh, and that drug problem.”
That careless remark makes me angry on my sergeant’s behalf. Hathaway didn’t have a ‘drug problem’, he had almost been killed that day. I open my mouth, but Laura steps in before anything comes out.
“That’s him.”
Angela the nurse looks up and straight at me. “Are you family?”
“No, I’m his governor. His partner.” When she looks at me strangely I add “We’re police officers.”
Raising her eyebrows she asks “What do you want his file for then?”
I can’t say it, so Laura answers for me again. “His condition is critical, we need to inform his next of kin.”
“I see.” She looks through the file. “There is just one contact named here.”
“Who is it?” I ask, curious and afraid at the same time. I’m curious to know what person he might care enough about to be contacted when something happens to him, but also strangely afraid of who he or she might be. I’m not sure where that fear comes from.
“A Mr. Robert Lewis here in Oxford.”
I must have misheard. “That can’t be right. I’m Robert Lewis. What about his family?”
“No one else is listed here. I thought he was your partner, shouldn’t you know then?”
“He never mentioned anyone to me,” I say with a hint of anger in my voice, an anger that partly comes from the shame that I should know indeed.
“Well, if you don’t know anyone else then I can’t help you, I’m afraid,” she replies testily.
I catch myself staring blankly at her, so I quickly mutter something like “Never mind,” and turn away, before I might say - or give away for that matter - something that I regret later. I approach the chairs of the waiting room and drop down heavily on the nearest one.
That was both unexpected and more than I can handle right now.
“Why would he do that? Why list me as next of kin?” I say quietly to Laura, who has followed me. I look up to her and catch her glancing at me knowingly.
“Because you are his family, Robbie,” she answers softly.
How can that be? Truth is, Hathaway barely mentioned his family in the past and if he did he had nothing positive to say, mostly. I’m no fool. I’m perfectly aware of who is usually listed under “next of kin”. It doesn’t have to be family. It’s those people that mean most to you. I am that person to James. The only person it seems. The implications of that simple piece of information blow my mind, and suddenly things fall into place.
That is one hell of a way to drop a bombshell, Sergeant.
Laura nudges me. “Come on. I’ll take you home. You look terrible.”
“Thanks.” That’s all I can manage to acknowledge the slightly teasing tone, her effort to cheer me up a little. I don’t want to leave. I know Laura is right. There isn’t anything I can do for him right now. I’m done in and God knows I feel every weary bone in my body. But I can’t leave him, can I? Not him. It’s such an irrational fear that grips me at the thought of leaving him, but I remember. Morse died when I left him alone. Val died in London when I let her go on that shopping trip on her own.
Will he die, too, when I leave him?
As if reading my thoughts, Laura says, “He’s in good hands, Robbie. If you want I can get back here and stay with him. Playing my doctor card, you know?”
Our glances meet and I take her hand, giving it a slight squeeze. “Thanks, lass. I’d really appreciate that. I don’t want him to be... alone. Just in case he’s...” It’s her turn to squeeze my hand. No need to say it out loud, make it real with words.
“All right.” I rub my hand over my eyes and realise again how exhausted I truly am. “Let’s go.”
~oOo~
I wake up with a jerk when my mobile rings. It takes me a second or two to remember where I am. Oh, right. I’m in my flat and obviously I’ve fallen asleep on the couch. Which I really shouldn’t do because my back will give me hell for it. Then in an instant it all comes back, crashing down like a ton of bricks.
This is it. They’re calling to tell me that James....
Stop it!
I reach for the phone but stop myself at the last moment, afraid to pick it up. After two more rings I take a deep breath and hit the green button, bracing for the worst. “Lewis.”
It’s Jean Innocent. “Robbie. I just wanted to check you’re all right.”
I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Fine. Thanks, Ma’am.” I check my watch. 7.03 a.m. Christ! I jump up, almost falling over the coffee table in the process and start hunting for a pair of clean jeans and a jumper. “Listen, I’m on my way to the hospital, is there... did you...?”
“No news. I called a few minutes ago, no change.” Innocent hesitates. “Robbie, I wanted to let you know that you’re on leave for the time being. With Hathaway in hospital and things being as they are... well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be much use here. If that’s what you want.”
“Thanks, Ma’am. It is.” A moment of silence since there is nothing I could add to that.
“Right. I don’t want to keep you. Keep me informed about his condition.”
“I will.” I end the call and manage to find me some casual clothes to wear. More appropriate for uncomfortable hospital chairs than suits.
~oOo~
Ignoring pretty much every single speed limit, I rush back to the hospital. Not there is any need to hurry. Innocent said there was no change and Laura would have called me if he... well, if anything had happened during the night. Still, I feel guilty for leaving him alone for so long. Won’t happen again any time soon.
I’m greeted by the familiar hospital smell, a mixture of disinfectant, sickness, fear and grief. I hate hospitals.
When I enter the intensive care unit, I quickly spot Laura sitting beside a bed. She’s holding the hand of a very pale and still figure covered with tubes and wires. As I approach the bed slowly, I take in the sight of James lying there, unconscious, kept alive by machines. He looks so terribly young. So pale and fragile. Pale and fair even in his best health, Hathaway’s skin seems to have turned even more translucent. Death warmed over, as Val would have said.
Laura gets up and as a greeting she places a kiss on my cheek. “Did you catch some sleep?”
“Some,” I reply, not able to drag my eyes away from him. “How is he?”
“No change. Still too early to say.” She places a hand on my arm. I don’t pull away.
“Right then,” she says eventually. “I’ll get some sleep. Call me if you need me?”
I nod. “Thank you, Laura. For... you know. Staying with him.”
She smiles sadly. “I’ll come back in a few hours. Make sure you take care of yourself, too, Robbie.” Then she leaves.
I take the last remaining steps towards the hospital bed, just standing here, hands in my pockets. Suddenly, I feel silly for not knowing what to do with myself, with my hands. Should I say something? Tell him that I’m here? Sit down? Remain standing?
My back makes the decision for me, hurting from the fall I took in Trinity College and a few hours of fitful sleep on my couch. I pull up the chair, still warm from where Laura has sat only minutes before. I sit down and wait in silence.
~oOo~
As time passes, I keep checking my watch. The hands seem to have slowed down to a painful crawl. After a while, my stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything for God knows how long. I’m hungry but I have no appetite and certainly no inclination to leave James’ bedside for even just one minute. From time to time, a nurse stops by to check on James, but they leave me alone, not asking any questions. Laura probably made sure of that before she left.
I must have nodded off at some point. The next thing I consciously see is Laura’s face. I sit up straight in the chair and regret it at once, moving too quickly. Bloody hell.
“God, your back must be killing you,” she asks sympathetically, patting my shoulder.
“What time is it?” I ask, not even trying to stifle a huge yawn. Stretching very, very carefully, I feel at least 80 years old.
“Half past 12. Come on, I brought you something to eat, but I can’t bring it in here.” I follow her outside to the waiting area. The smell of coffee and something edible wrapped in a paper bag attacks my senses. My stomach grumbles enthusiastically, very much appreciating that at least someone thinks of its needs.
“Thanks.” I gratefully take the paper bag and coffee mug from her.
“Might as well stretch my legs a little, be right back.”
I go outside to eat the sandwiches Laura has brought me. I sit down on a bench and sip the coffee. It’s a fine, sunny day and the air is still crisp with the last remnants of winter. It helps to clear the cobwebs from my head. For a while I just sit on the bench and listen to the birdsong, breathing the cold, fresh air outside the hospital. I finish my coffee and the last sandwich and decide to go back.
Something is wrong. I’m greeted by the sound of urgently beeping machines and a horde of doctors and nurses running towards me. Laura bumps into me, clearly distressed. I try to enter the room despite the fact that the world has turned crazy around me, with words like “fibrillation” and “shock” floating about.
A nurse stops me. “Sir? Sir! You can’t come in right now. Please. You have to leave!”
Laura drags me back and leads me towards the waiting room.
“What happened? I was only away for a few minutes!” I ask aloud.
“Robbie, it’s just... it can happen...”
I stop her with the wave of my hand. I don’t want to hear it. Laura falls silent.
Then something utterly unexpected happens. Surprising myself, I turn to Laura and hear myself ask, “Do you know where the hospital chapel is?”
I walk to the hospital chapel in a daze. When I reach it, I sit down on one of the benches - and for the first time since I’ve lost my wife I find myself praying. Throwing silent, but furious accusations at Him first. I end up begging. As James once said. He won’t mind.
When Laura finds me in the chapel later, I’m afraid to ask, but she just says, “They got him back. For now.” So I return to my silent vigil beside the bed. Only this time I take his hand into mine and refuse to let go.
~oOo~
The next day, I start talking to him, encouraged by one of the night shift nurses. I hold his hand, stroking it, even when that feels a little awkward. The hand remains limp in my grip. I talk and talk, whatever comes to my mind. I tell him about how another hapless DS has to sort through the stacks of books now and how things are down at the station in general. Innocent keeps me up to date. How people send their love, including my Lyn. Telling him how she’s invited us over once James is better. Telling him that he has to get better. Who’d I get to do the donkey work when he croaks? I won’t have it. Not interested in breaking in another sergeant.
Things like that.
In those other moments, the ones where I remain silent, the wheels in my mind keep turning.
At one point I get angry with him. Why did he have to take that bullet, stupid git? He’s got his whole life ahead of him. Bright future and all. Unlike me who’s pretty much seen it all.
For a time I wanted to die. At that time I would have welcomed that bullet. Val waiting for me on the other side and all that rubbish I was telling myself. I had nothing to live for. I was just existing. Not anymore, I’ve got things that keep me here again. People who love me, care about me. However, I’d gladly take his place in a heartbeat.
What if James dies? What will I do? Retire probably. But what then? Move up to Manchester, like Lyn wants me to? Be a good dad and granddad? I can’t really see it. I ask myself why. Then, in one of those quieter moments, half asleep in the uncomfortable chair, it kind of hits me.
I’d be missing a piece. And that missing piece is James.
When did I become so dependent on him? If I’m completely honest with myself it’s not just the unbearable thought of another loss. Morse. Val. Now Hathaway? Can I take another death of someone so close to me?
No, that’s not the whole story. It’s more than that. I’d not just miss him. I’d feel lost without him, so help me God.
The pieces fall together and form a clear picture. All those longing glances. People mistaking us for a couple. We do spend a lot of time together and as I once jokingly said about Morse and me - a partnership is like a marriage. We’re really like the Odd Couple aren’t we?
As time progresses and making sure nobody is around to hear, I take his hand again and say, “It’s all right, James. I understand now. I’m waiting for you. Come back to me, lad.” Then I lift up his hand to my mouth, carefully, for I don’t want to tangle or rip any of the wiring or tubes, and kiss it softly.
~oOo~
Days later, when the doctors finally tell me he’s out of the woods and even take him off the respirator, I run out of things to say. Grateful as I am, I’m also grumpy and very very tired. James still hasn’t woken up. Laura reminds me to be patient and give him time.
Then I remember Dr. Gansa. Reading to his wife although everybody had lost hope. I can’t think of anything to read to him. What would he like? I don’t even own many books. I try to imagine what Morse would have picked. Then I remember. Morse has given me that book, a collection of poems. I need to get back to my flat anyway, it’s safe to leave him now, isn’t it. So I drive back, deciding to clean up properly and get some sleep. A few hours later I grab The Best Poems of the English Language. From Chaucer Through Robert Frost, (edited by Harold Bloom) off my shelf and return to the hospital.
Poems are much more fun when you read them out loud I realise. I read him all kinds of things. The Sonnets, Donne, Milton, Dryden, Blake, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Housman (Morse loved that one). Even some Lewis Carroll.
When he still doesn’t wake up, I’m starting to lose my patience.
I put the poetry book on the bed stand, biting my lip. My rumbling stomach reminds me that I need to eat something so I decide to pick up some things from the hospital shop. Browsing through the book section I suddenly have an idea. I walk over to the shop keeper.
“Can I help you, sir?” the friendly lady asks me.
“Maybe. What’s the worst and most awful book you have for sale?” The lady looks at me as if I have suddenly grown another head. She thinks for a moment and walking to the book shelf with me, she gives me two choices. The first is a rather saucy novel (or rather a pornographic piece of rubbish, judging from the cover), and the second is Dan Brown’s The Lost Symbol. I pick the Dan Brown paperback, because no one will ever catch me reading out saucy prose to my sergeant. Well, in private maybe, not in hospital when people are around to listen. Also, set in Washington D.C.? With Masons? Perfect. I can’t quite suppress a chuckle when I pay for the book. If that doesn’t annoy the hell out of his darned intellectual brain and wake him, I don’t know what will.
So I start reading him Dan Brown. Page after page. After a while, I start nodding off. It is really badly written, isn’t it? Well, just closing my eyes for a few seconds then. Can’t hurt.
~oOo~
I’m startled awake by a strange sensation. Fingers softly touching my hair. I raise my head and realise that I’ve fallen asleep with my head on Hathaway’s bed. Heart beating, I turn to find James watching me. It’s still something of a thousand yard stare, as if he isn’t quite here yet. Or maybe he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. His guv has fallen asleep right there, drooling on the sheets and making an exhibition of himself. I can feel myself blush, but I don’t care. I want to grab his goddamn face and kiss him right there and then. Probably not a good idea though. I don’t want him to fall right back into a coma.
“You’re awake!” I know I’m stating the obvious, but what the heck.
He tries to speak but then looks around, clearly searching for something. In a lightbulb moment, I understand what he is looking for.
“You want something to drink?” He nods. I pour some water into a plastic cup and put one of the straws in that the nurse left with the water. My hands are shaking a little when I hold out the cup to him, helping him to take a few sips through the straw.
His voice still not working properly, he croaks out with an effort, “I heard you, you know.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I just beam at him with pure joy.
“Sir?” James beckons me to come closer, so I lean towards him.
“What?”
“No more flipping Dan Brown.” Then he kisses me and all is right in the world again.
FIN