North Sea Requiem (37 page)

DI Dunne took Mal Forbes into the house. It was Ann McPherson who asked where Maureen was, and found the girl. By then Maureen was mute.

“She needs a doctor too,” the policewoman said, knowing she would need more than that. Her mother was dead. Her father under arrest. She was stupefied with shock.

Rob came into the house. He was trying to speak coherently, trying to give a statement through the stench of imprisonment and the metallic taste of blood, and the terror invading his nostrils, clinging to his hair. The damp trousers, the jumper wet through, even though it was not raining, he had not noticed. Not yet.

He had stepped in the blood of Moira Forbes. A footprint from his right boot left three full prints across the kitchen floor. WPC McPherson saw him looking, trying to work out the source and, taking his arm, she moved them into the sitting room, not caring what happened to Moira's immaculate carpet.

Without her superior's approval, Ann McPherson called Margaret McLean, saying little except the address and “Rob needs you.”

Next the policewoman rang Don McLeod. It was he who had summoned help; the fire brigade first, as he knew there would be no arguments if he said there was a blaze. The ambulance next. They didn't ask either. The third and last time Don had dialed 999, he'd asked for the police, saying he was a neighbor. “There's burglars in the house next door,” he said, and hung up after giving the address but not his name.

When WPC McPherson rang McAllister's house and spoke to Don, the conversation was brief. But Annie had heard the ring.

“Your mum's alive and in the hospital, but she's weak.” Don told her. “They found Mae Bell with her.” He knew how serious it
was. As did she. He did not lie. He did not say her mother would be fine. And she was glad Mr. McLeod did not pretend.

“We'll visit in the morning,” Annie said. “So we'd better get some sleep. Night-night, Mr. McLeod.”

He reached out and lightly touched her head. “Night-night, sleep tight.”

She smiled. It was what her mum always said.

And the wise wee girl, in her stripy pajamas, her hair mussed up, dark rings under her eyes, climbed the stairs to the room she usually shared with her sister and went to bed, by herself, leaving the sofa to Mr. McLeod, who was finding it hard not to weep.

Margaret McLean told DI Dunne he could speak to her son in the morning. He dared not object. She took Rob home. She ran a bath for him, made him a hot toddy, put him to bed like he was still her wee boy, which he still was, even at twenty-three. She sat in the chair of his room saying nothing very much, watching and waiting until he fell asleep. She watched and waited some more, holding his hand when he called out, smoothing his hair as he cried. She watched the night turn to day and did not leave him, her boy, her son, her only child.

Only as the rooks in the trees outside began their early-morning bickering and she saw Rob turn over and this time sleep, truly sleep, did she leave him. But she left his door open, in case he should need his mother.

M
cAllister stayed at the hospital all night and most of the next day. It was forbidden for visitors to sleep in the corridors, the waiting rooms, anywhere in the hospital. So he paced. Like Banquo's ghost he haunted the place, scaring at least one junior nurse with his chalk-white face, dark unshaven chin, and hair askew from constantly tugging at it.

A surgeon flew up from Edinburgh, arriving late next morning. During the five hours it took to perform the operation, McAllister answered questions put to him by DI Dunne, by the Reverend Macdonald, by Don McLeod, and all the other friends and relatives who called by. He chain-smoked all the while. He remembered none of what he was asked, what he said. He took the tea given to him. He took the flask Don put in his pocket. He waited.

He was alone when the theater doors opened and the nursing sisters came out.

“How is she?”

“Are you a relative?” one of the sisters asked.

“No, she's my . . .” He didn't have a word for his role in Joanne's life.

“Sorry, relatives only.”

“For Christ's sake, woman . . .”

The sister stepped backwards as though the profanity had physically struck her. “I will not tolerate such language. Please leave.”

The junior staff was standing well away from the confrontation. A surgeon still in his operating gown came out. Oblivious to the standoff, he disappeared through another swing door.

“Just tell me how she is.” He stepped towards the nurse, his voice that of a man in despair. Even in daylight he couldn't see what she could see; his clothes had traces of blood and mud; the smell of unwashed body and cigarettes was rank.

She shrank back from him and would not budge. “Relatives only. Those are the rules.” She was the sister in charge; she would not break the rules for anyone.

“Mr. McAllister, sir, I thought I told you to go home hours ago.” The lumbering juggernaut of Sergeant Patience was coming down the corridor bearing tea. In his big hams of hands the cup and saucer looked like it came from a child's tea set.

“Do you know this person?” the sister asked.

“Aye. Mr. McAllister, editor of the
Gazette
. He's Mrs. Ross's fiancé. I think we can bend the rules a wee bit since they're as good as married.”

As good as married
—Sister knew what that meant. She was minded to ban him from the hospital for that sin alone, never mind his blaspheming. But the policeman saw in her eyes the way her mind was thinking.

“I'll call the Reverend Macdonald,” the sergeant said. “That's the patient's brother-in-law”—this part he addressed to the nurse—“he's family, and I'm sure the minister'll get permission from Matron for you to be with Mrs. Ross, sir.” Then his voice changed from gentle giant to fearsome Sergeant Patience. “In the meanwhile, Sister, I'll take full responsibility for the breach of hospital rules. So please let Mr. McAllister . . .”

McAllister spotted the surgeon, now in immaculate grey-striped trousers and dark coat, come out of a room. He moved fast. Sergeant Patience stepped to the side, impeding the nurse,
who was determined to stop any information being given to a blaspheming sinner, no matter he was as good as married.

“How is she?” McAllister asked.

“The operation went well,” the silver-haired gentleman surgeon said. He was a man married to a woman he adored. He knew how
he
would feel. “But her condition is serious. Mr. . . .?”

“McAllister. Mrs. Ross is soon to be my wife.”

“Mr. McAllister, your fiancée suffered a hemorrhage from the blow to her temple. Although the operation went well, it is too early to be certain of a full recovery.” He looked into McAllister's eyes, saw the despair, and the intelligence. He held out his hand. “I won't lie to you, there is a strong possibility of brain damage. She was left too long before being operated upon. All we can do is wait and hope for the best.”

McAllister took the hand, held it that moment longer than customary, and the man, not the surgeon, kept hold, saying, “She is young. She is healthy. You and your future wife have my best wishes.”

Thank God he didn't tell me to pray,
McAllister thought as he watched the man leave; the editor was a man who had left faith behind on a hillside in Spain.

When McAllister was alone, Sergeant Patience came over.

“One o' the constables will drive you home.” It was an order. “Get some sleep 'cos DI Dunne is wanting to talk to you. Then you can come back to see how Mrs. Ross is doing.”

As he turned to leave, the sergeant said, “Congratulations on your future marriage, sir.” He smiled. Then winked.

McAllister knew that hugging the man would not be appropriate. He shook his hand instead.

•   •   •

The first time Joanne opened her eyes, it was dark, which terrified her, and she immediately closed them. She felt sheets
under her, she felt her toes, could wiggle her fingers, but not much else. She could smell laundry detergent from the pillow. The scent of cleanliness reassured her. She opened her eyes again and the dim night-light the nurses kept on threw shadows on white walls, on a metal-framed bed. She went back to sleep for another half day.

The next time she woke she knew someone was in the room. “McAllister?” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

“It's me, dear, your mother.”

That made no sense to her, so she went back to sleep.

The third time she knew it was him. He was sitting so close she could feel his breath. She lifted her eyelids as much as she was able, saw him, closed them, the corners of her mouth attempting a smile. Failing. She felt his hand, stroking the back of hers, touching so lightly it was like the brush of a feather.

Five minutes passed. She looked for him. He was there. The light hurt. Again she closed her eyes. But she could listen. She could hear as the dam of emotion and love and fear broke. In the dim light, in the privacy of the room, with Joanne barely conscious, he told her everything he could never say when her eyes were upon his.

He told her of her girls, of Mae Bell, of his love, of the moon and stars and the river, and the friends and the relatives and the cheers from the printers when told she was safe.

He told her of his terror, of his absolute awareness that he could not live without her. He stripped himself bare of his fears, his manliness, his Scottishness, his past, his present. He told her how his life was worth nothing without her.

“McAllister . . .” she murmured, and went back to sleep.

A nurse would come in every hour, always asking her the same questions.

“What is your name?”

“What's the date?”

“Who's the prime minister?”

She could answer her name. She became frustrated. “I told you! My name is Joanne Innes. No, that's not right. Joanne . . . Mrs. Joanne Ross.”

When told the date, she could not remember the next time she was asked.

As for the prime minister, she said, “That stuck-up toff whatshisname.” Or, “Macdonald is it?” Or, “Go away with your bloody questions.” No one took offense at swearing in Intensive Care; they knew even the most mild of ladies could swear like troopers after a long period under anesthetic.

On the days that followed Joanne learned to squeeze McAllister's hand. He had to concentrate hard to feel the pressure, but day by day she became stronger.

Sometimes, trying to move her arms, which were tied down to keep her from tearing out the drips, she called out,
I'm sorry, Father. I won't do it again.
Once she said, to no one in particular,
I'm sorry, I never get anything right.

She asked for her girls, frequently: in between waking and unconsciousness; when she opened her eyes; in between sentences; she would say, “Annie, Jean, is that you? Or, “Annie, Jean, come inside, supper is ready.” Or simply, “Annie. Jean. McAllister. Wee Jean.”

One time she lay back staring at the ceiling. “See yon, McAllister? See the wee fish? Coming out of the light fitting? They're lost. Can't find the sea.”

He wanted to hold her but was told he shouldn't allow her to lift her head. Six days after the operation, she asked, “Annie, Jean, where are they?”

“You'll see them soon.”

“I'll not live in your house, McAllister. It's
your
house.”

“I'll buy a new house for us all.”

“An old house. In the country.”

“Anywhere you want.” But she was asleep again.

Next day when he visited he said, “Your mother would like to visit.”

“No.”

“The girls are desperate to see you,” he said, “but they're not allowed in. So . . .” He slowly wound up the bed so she could see out the window.

The room was on the ground floor, but all Joanne could see was the top of someone's head. “Rob.” She smiled. Then the head disappeared.

The shrieks and giggles were distant but unmistakable, “Annie, Jean.” She tried to sit up.

“Wait.” McAllister opened the window.

Annie appeared first. Rob gave her a lift up, her foot in his clasped hands. She sat on the window ledge. “You look terrible,” she told her mother.

Joanne had to smile. “I know. But I'm getting better.”

Annie thought she looked so ill she might never recover, but said, “Mum, when are you coming home?”

Jean appeared next, on Rob's shoulders.

“Hi, Mum. You look really weird,” she said.

McAllister laughed. “Hi indeed. You've been spending too much time wi' your uncle Rob.”

Joanne could barely speak. But she could smile. Smile so much her head hurt and the stitches pulled. Tears came unbidden, streaming down her face, and it frightened her children.

“Are you having a baby, Mum?” Jean asked because she'd heard that hurt.