The Best of Times (37 page)

“Well … well … yes. Of course. It’d be great. Fantastic. Yeah. Er … tonight’d be better. Well, sooner.”

She laughed again. “I’ve got to go out with some mates tonight, William. A friend’s going to Australia for a year. I’d ask you along, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it too much.”

“OK, then. Tomorrow it is.”

“Good. I thought I’d come over to you, save you the trek. We could meet in the pub you took me to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure. Eightish?”

“Eightish,” he said. “Yes. Great. Well … thanks for calling.”

He rang off and punched the air.

• • •

Patrick felt very tired; it had been a long, wakeful night without his sleeping pills, and a painful one too. The temptation at one point to raid his horde, to take at least one of them, was intense; then he thought he would simply be prolonging the agony—literally. He had calculated that by tonight he would have enough; he would take them
after he had been settled for the night. And then—oblivion. No more remorse, no more pain, no more of being a burden on everyone. He was actually looking forward to it; he knew it was a mortal sin, knew he should have absolution, was afraid in his very darkest moments of going to hell. He had thought of asking for the priest, but it seemed dangerous; he might be tempted to confess, or even to talk of his absolute wretchedness, his sense of being abandoned by God, as well as everyone else, and the hospital priest was a clever, sensitive soul; he might well become aware of Patrick’s despair and the danger of it. So he must do it alone, must say his own prayers, ask for God’s forgiveness himself, and then … leave. He could manage; he was afraid, but not as afraid as he was of continuing to live with this awful, terrifying misery and guilt.

• • •

Georgia hadn’t realised at first that there was anything in the papers about her. It was only when she and Linda were having lunch that Linda passed her the
Mail
, looking rather grim.

“Sorry, darling. But you ought to see this.”

It was only a small item, on an inside page, mostly conjecture: illustrated by yet another picture of the crash and headed, “Mystery Girl of the M
4
.” But it was enough to upset her considerably: to see her behaviour described for the millions of people who bought the
Daily Mail
to read about. And no doubt there would be millions of other people reading it in other papers.

“Try not to worry too much. It’s not that interesting.”

“I can think of lots of people who would think so. If they knew it was me. Like everyone in the new series, for a start. What on earth will they make of me, Linda? They’ll be so shocked to find I’m not the nice little girl they thought, just a rotten, cowardly wimp. And they’ll realise it was all lies about the audition as well, that I wasn’t ill at all, oh, God …”

She started to cry again. And Linda, looking at her, felt very much afraid that she might be right.

As for what the press might make of it, if they knew the mystery girl was an about-to-be-high-profile young actress … well, Linda was rather familiar with the press; she felt this was a story that might run and run.

“Georgia, darling, don’t cry. You’ve been so brave today.”

“Yeah, and so cowardly for all those other days. Linda, I’ve been wondering—do you think I ought to go and see Patrick? Or at least get in touch with his wife? I mean, she might have seen the programme. She must be so worried; she must be wondering who or where the … the girl—well, me—where she is.”

“Well … it would be the right thing to do.”

A silence, then: “Maybe I will. I’m absolutely shit scared, and he’d be within his rights to spit in my face, but I feel he ought to know what I’ve told the police. He might be feeling terrible, with all these stories in the papers about him going to sleep, don’t you think?”

“Pretty terrible, yes. Well, it would be very brave.”

She really thought so; in a way that would take more courage even than going to the police.

“Maybe … maybe tomorrow. I’ll go to the hospital. Linda—would you come with me?”

“Of course I will …”

• • •

“You all right, then, Patrick?” Jo Wales smiled at him. She was just going off duty.

“Yes, I’m fine.” His voice was flat.

“I heard the family came to see you today.”

“They did, yes.”

“And were they pleased to see you?”

She knew he hadn’t seen them, but she felt a chat might help.

“No. No, I sent them away.”

“Patrick, why did you do that? Your wife said they were so excited.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t feel up to it.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, well, maybe tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. His face was oddly expressionless, his eyes blank.

“Are you feeling OK, Patrick?”

“I’m feeling how you’d think I might be feeling,” he said. It was an aggressive statement, delivered in an aggressive tone. It was unlike him.

“Well … I’m sorry. Is the pain very bad?”

“It’s not great.”

“Next week’s surgery should help quite a lot. With your tummy. Is that the worst?”

“It hurts everywhere. Except my legs, and what wouldn’t I give to have some pain there as well.”

Jo smiled at him gently, put her hand on his shoulder.

“You will. You must have faith.”

“Faith I’ve lost, along with everything else.”

“Well, let’s see. In time, I promise you, things will be better.”

He shrugged.

“Is … is there anything you’d like to watch on TV tonight? There’s quite a lot on, a good film—”

“No, I don’t want to watch anything,” he said. “I’m very tired. I just want to be quiet, be left alone.”

“All right. Well, I hope you have a good night, Patrick, at least.”

She walked out of his room, stood in the corridor for a moment, then went to find Sister Green, on duty that night on the ward. An extra sleeping pill would probably not be a bad idea. Just for tonight.

• • •

Alex really didn’t want to go home. That made him feel miserable. And angry. Not only had Sam ended their marriage; she had virtually rendered him homeless. Well, deprived him of a place he wanted to be, where he was welcome.

Their bedroom had long since ceased to be in any way his, and the
small spare room was unwelcoming. Sam and the children occupied the kitchen and the family room in the evening, and if he walked into it, even the children looked awkward, forced to confront his discomfort. He still had his study, of course, but it was very much a study, occupied by his desk and computer and files and books, not somewhere he could sit back and relax.

Anyway, he had no stomach for staking any claims over personal space tonight; he would rather stay at the hospital. He’d brought in his pyjamas and wash things. He had a room there, with a bed; he could get some food at the café and then go to bed, read himself into a stupor and hope no major accidents or traumas might disturb him. He wasn’t on call; if they did want him, he could tell them to get stuffed. In fact, that was precisely what he would do. He could even drink a glass of wine. He would drink a glass of wine. Or two. Or even three …

• • •

Patrick had asked to be settled for the night early. Sue Brown, the young nurse who was looking after him, brought him his hot drink and his drugs, and said if he wanted anything to ring for her.

“But hopefully you’ll have a lovely sleep, Patrick, and feel much better in the morning.”

When she had gone, he made his preparations very carefully. He felt calm, not frightened at all. He wrote a letter to Maeve, telling her how much he loved her and how this way would be much better for both her and the boys. He thanked her for being a wonderful wife and told her that the boys had the best mother in the whole wide world. He signed it, “All my love, my darling Maeve, Patrick.”

He wrote a separate letter to the boys, telling them how much he loved them and how sorry he was to have sent them away that day. “Be good for your mummy; Liam, you will be the man in the family now, so you must look after her. And remember me always as I used to be, not as I am now. Your very loving Daddy.”

Then he wrote another note for “whom it may concern,” asking not to be resuscitated if there was any question of it.

And then he wrote a note to Alex Pritchard, thanking him for all his kindness both to him and to Maeve, and telling him how much he had helped both of them in the first awful, early days. “All doctors should be like you, Dr. Pritchard,” he finished, signing it off, “yours with gratitude, Patrick Connell.”

He propped all the letters up on his bedside unit, and then he lay back on his pillows to rest.

The sun was setting by then; he could see the sky from his window. It was ravishing, a stormy red streaked with black, with great slanting shafts of light pushing through the clouds: a child’s-Bible sky. He lay there quietly, watching it blaze and fade, and then he reached into his bedside cupboard for his rosary and said his prayers. He asked God for his forgiveness for what he was about to do, committing a mortal sin, and he asked Him, too, to forgive him for the dreadful carnage he had wrought on the motorway. He felt that if God was a good and loving God, He would understand his anguish and find it in His heart to forgive him.

He asked Him to comfort and care for Maeve and the boys, and then he recited the twenty-third psalm. He would indeed be walking through the valley of the shadow of death; he would need God’s rod and staff to comfort him. He prayed again that he would not be denied it. And then finally he said a Hail Mary and the Lord’s Prayer and made the sign of the cross.

As he did so he discovered that he was weeping, and discovered, too, that he was not really surprised. The life that had seemed so promising, so happy, so filled with delight and family pleasure and a wife he loved and who loved him, was gone forever, destroyed by his own carelessness and arrogance. He would not see that life again; it was lost to him, and he did not deserve it. He had caused immense misery to many, many people; he had robbed a child of his mother, a mother of her child. He had read the papers, read the interviews, in spite of the efforts of the hospital staff to keep them from him. He had read about the sense of utter loss and desolation and anger felt by the
people whose lives he had destroyed; it seemed absolutely wrong, a reversal of the proper order of things, that he should be still alive. He would die, and it would be a reparation of sorts, would perhaps show some of those poor, unhappy people how sorry he was for what he had done to them. He hoped someone would tell them.

And then he sat for a while longer, his head bowed, holding his rosary, reflecting on what he was about to do, and preparing himself for the moment when it became reality.

CHAPTER 29

He knew he’d never be able to forgive himself. Never. It was so true what they said: Everyone made mistakes, but doctors buried theirs.

He could never remember feeling so remorseful. How could it have happened? How could a man, a desperately ill man, confined to his hospital bed and, moreover, under intensive medical scrutiny, have managed to store up enough drugs to kill himself? And, more important, how could he, Alex Pritchard, have failed so totally to recognise the depths of that man’s despair? He felt shocked at the failure of the hospital and its systems and, perhaps worst of all, ashamed of himself, that he could have been so bloody obsessed with his own problems that he hadn’t noticed what was going on under his own nose.

• • •

He’d met Maeve in reception at three a.m.; she was white and wild eyed.

“Hello, Maeve.”

“Dr. Pritchard! It’s good to see you. How is he?”

“He’s … he’s doing OK, we think. There was concern about his
kidney, his one remaining one, you know, but it seems to be coping, with the help of the drugs. He’s not completely out of the woods yet, but we’re hopeful.”

“Oh … Dr. Pritchard, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“No thanks due to me,” he said, and meant it.

• • •

Nurse Sue Brown, checking on her patients just after ten, had found them all peacefully asleep. Even poor Patrick Connell.