said, ‘I’m calling to find out if a girl was brought in last night.’
‘What’s her name?’ asked the receptionist.
‘I don’t know. She’s about sixteen or seventeen years old, skinny, blonde. She was wearing a short white skirt and a black vest.’
‘Can I ask who you are?’
‘I’m a friend. I just want to find out if she’s OK.’
‘Hold the line please.’
The receptionist hurried from behind the desk. A minute or so later she returned accompanied by a policeman. She came on the line again. ‘A girl fitting that description was admitted last night. She’s on ward sixteen.’
The girl was alive! To Angel’s surprise, hot tears of joy pushed up behind her eyes. She hadn’t cried those kinds of tears in more years than she could remember. ‘How is she?’
The receptionist glanced enquiringly at the policeman, placing her hand over the receiver. They exchanged a few words, then she said to Angel, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give that information out over the phone. You’re welcome to visit her. Normal visiting hours finished at 8 p.m., but in special circumstances such as this we try to be as flexible as possible.’
Angel thanked the receptionist and hung up. The policeman jotted something down on his notepad – Angel’s mobile phone number, no doubt. That didn’t matter. No calls made on it could be traced back to her. It was one of Deano’s cloned phones, which he changed every few weeks. She knew she should turn around and head back to the bedsit. The receptionist’s invitation was obviously a trap. But still she hesitated to leave. She felt a strong desire – almost a compulsion – to see the girl. It wasn’t enough simply to know she was alive – people with brain damage that left them unable to talk, walk, or even move, were technically alive. No, she had to know exactly how she was doing. And then there was Castle’s money. She’d promised herself that she would get it to the girl, and it was a promise she intended to keep.
Angel skirted along the building until she came to another door. She headed through it, pulling up her sweatshirt’s hood. A sign listed the locations of the various clinics and wards. Ward sixteen was on the ground floor. An arrow pointed her in its direction. More arrows led her along a series of quiet, antiseptic-smelling corridors to a pair of double doors with windows at head height. She peered through the windows. Just inside the doors a nurse was sitting at the nurses’ station doing paperwork. Doorless rooms, each of them containing eight beds, branched off from one side of a corridor. A whiteboard on the wall outside each room listed bed numbers and the names of their occupants. There was no sign of any police.
Angel lingered by the doors, pretending to fiddle with her phone in case anyone came along. After a few minutes, a red light lit up on the wall opposite the desk. The nurse extinguished it, then made her way to a room near the far end of the corridor.
Her pulse beating hard in her throat, Angel entered the ward. The beds in the first room were occupied by women reading or sleeping. The girl wasn’t among them. She moved on to the next room. The girl was in the bed by the outer wall, staring blankly at the ceiling, her face a patchwork of bruises and bandages. A low moan escaped Angel’s lips as the thought came to her. The bastard’s turned her into a vegetable. The girl’s head turned towards the sound, and recognition flickered in her features.
Relief lifting the corners of her mouth, Angel started forward. Her step faltered as the girl darted her eyes warningly at a curtain surrounding the opposite bed. Dropping silently to her haunches, Angel saw a pair of regulation police boots behind the curtain. She straightened, her gaze returning to the girl. A flicker of some kind of understanding passed between them. It seemed to Angel that the girl was trying to thank her with her eyes. She could feel the warmth of the girl’s gaze
‘What’s her name?’ asked the receptionist.
‘I don’t know. She’s about sixteen or seventeen years old, skinny, blonde. She was wearing a short white skirt and a black vest.’
‘Can I ask who you are?’
‘I’m a friend. I just want to find out if she’s OK.’
‘Hold the line please.’
The receptionist hurried from behind the desk. A minute or so later she returned accompanied by a policeman. She came on the line again. ‘A girl fitting that description was admitted last night. She’s on ward sixteen.’
The girl was alive! To Angel’s surprise, hot tears of joy pushed up behind her eyes. She hadn’t cried those kinds of tears in more years than she could remember. ‘How is she?’
The receptionist glanced enquiringly at the policeman, placing her hand over the receiver. They exchanged a few words, then she said to Angel, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t give that information out over the phone. You’re welcome to visit her. Normal visiting hours finished at 8 p.m., but in special circumstances such as this we try to be as flexible as possible.’
Angel thanked the receptionist and hung up. The policeman jotted something down on his notepad – Angel’s mobile phone number, no doubt. That didn’t matter. No calls made on it could be traced back to her. It was one of Deano’s cloned phones, which he changed every few weeks. She knew she should turn around and head back to the bedsit. The receptionist’s invitation was obviously a trap. But still she hesitated to leave. She felt a strong desire – almost a compulsion – to see the girl. It wasn’t enough simply to know she was alive – people with brain damage that left them unable to talk, walk, or even move, were technically alive. No, she had to know exactly how she was doing. And then there was Castle’s money. She’d promised herself that she would get it to the girl, and it was a promise she intended to keep.
Angel skirted along the building until she came to another door. She headed through it, pulling up her sweatshirt’s hood. A sign listed the locations of the various clinics and wards. Ward sixteen was on the ground floor. An arrow pointed her in its direction. More arrows led her along a series of quiet, antiseptic-smelling corridors to a pair of double doors with windows at head height. She peered through the windows. Just inside the doors a nurse was sitting at the nurses’ station doing paperwork. Doorless rooms, each of them containing eight beds, branched off from one side of a corridor. A whiteboard on the wall outside each room listed bed numbers and the names of their occupants. There was no sign of any police.
Angel lingered by the doors, pretending to fiddle with her phone in case anyone came along. After a few minutes, a red light lit up on the wall opposite the desk. The nurse extinguished it, then made her way to a room near the far end of the corridor.
Her pulse beating hard in her throat, Angel entered the ward. The beds in the first room were occupied by women reading or sleeping. The girl wasn’t among them. She moved on to the next room. The girl was in the bed by the outer wall, staring blankly at the ceiling, her face a patchwork of bruises and bandages. A low moan escaped Angel’s lips as the thought came to her. The bastard’s turned her into a vegetable. The girl’s head turned towards the sound, and recognition flickered in her features.
Relief lifting the corners of her mouth, Angel started forward. Her step faltered as the girl darted her eyes warningly at a curtain surrounding the opposite bed. Dropping silently to her haunches, Angel saw a pair of regulation police boots behind the curtain. She straightened, her gaze returning to the girl. A flicker of some kind of understanding passed between them. It seemed to Angel that the girl was trying to thank her with her eyes. She could feel the warmth of the girl’s gaze
Similar Books
