truth.”
“The truth?” He hesitated with one hand on the door handle. Please, Kit , he begged silently, help me . But for once the voice in his head remained silent.
He inhaled slowly, headed off his panic attack and finally, when he had some measure of control, he raised his head and looked at her.
“The truth about what?”
“The truth about you.”
Chapter Eleven
By the time he reached the lift he was sweating. He knew he needed to get as far away from Nell as he could but had no real idea why. Dennis had said that there was something strange about her, and although McNeil agreed, he reckoned Dennis was merely sounding off, providing excuses to cloak his frustration. If Nell had tried it on with Dennis as she had with him, McNeil knew that Dennis would have had her transferred to a psyche ward or doubled the guard outside her room. She was crazy - there was no getting away from it. He wondered why she’d decided to lavish him with her psychosis.
He pressed for the ground floor and waited impatiently, pacing back and forth like a prize fighter limbering up for the starting bell. When it passed his floor and continued up, he cursed, slammed a flat hand at the brushed steel doors and made for the stairwell instead. He descended the stairs two at a time, stumbling, heavy-footed, hanging onto the handrail to prevent going headfirst.
He paused in the lobby to get his bearings, remembered that he’d arrived in Dennis’ car and pulled out his phone to call a taxi. His heart pounded and he tried to slow it. Someone called at him to switch off his phone, drawing his attention to the many signs which indicated the same rule, and he muttered an apology and headed for the main door.
Head down, he was oblivious to the throng of people attempting to enter the building as he made to exit, until he was pushed to one side by the mêlée. Football fans and uniformed police jostled for position. The rival supporters shouted threats at each other across the expanse of the lobby, while harassed police tried to keep order.
Of course, it was Sunday - match day. McNeil recalled his time in uniform, standing in the cold, back to the pitch, scanning the crowds for known troublemakers. He had no desire to relive that segment of his career, so he kept his head down and forced a path through them. More than capable, and certainly willing, to deliver a well-aimed elbow as required, he was however substantially outnumbered, and as the majority had come via the pub, he received a few blows himself before being jostled out of the throng and into the path of a well-dressed man. The man reached out and steadied him with a hand at his shoulder. McNeil pulled back, muttered an apology and the man stood a moment blocking his way. His lips parted in a curious half-smile.
“Bad day?”
“You could say.” McNeil attempted to sidestep him, but the man stepped the same way and more liveried fans spilled into the lobby. He closed his eyes briefly to avert a wave of dizziness. When he reopened them the man was still watching.
“Do you need help?”
Oh, sure, he needed help but there was only one person who could give it, and she was long gone.
“No,” he replied bluntly, and the man merely nodded, studying him with narrowed eyes as if he could see beneath the outward mess, the wrinkled suit and the two day shadow, to the even bigger tangle below. McNeil felt his hackles rise, inordinately irritated not only by the man’s scrutiny but at the fact he still blocked his path.
He cocked his head insolently and stared straight at him. “Excuse me,” he said, suddenly and inexplicably spoiling for a fight. The man merely smiled benignly in return and stepped aside, parting the red sea of supporters with a raised hand.
McNeil hurried past and forced his way through the revolving doors, relieved to finally get outside. He stood a moment, hands on his knees, head bowed, and breathed in all the exhaust-laced oxygen he could. He
“The truth?” He hesitated with one hand on the door handle. Please, Kit , he begged silently, help me . But for once the voice in his head remained silent.
He inhaled slowly, headed off his panic attack and finally, when he had some measure of control, he raised his head and looked at her.
“The truth about what?”
“The truth about you.”
Chapter Eleven
By the time he reached the lift he was sweating. He knew he needed to get as far away from Nell as he could but had no real idea why. Dennis had said that there was something strange about her, and although McNeil agreed, he reckoned Dennis was merely sounding off, providing excuses to cloak his frustration. If Nell had tried it on with Dennis as she had with him, McNeil knew that Dennis would have had her transferred to a psyche ward or doubled the guard outside her room. She was crazy - there was no getting away from it. He wondered why she’d decided to lavish him with her psychosis.
He pressed for the ground floor and waited impatiently, pacing back and forth like a prize fighter limbering up for the starting bell. When it passed his floor and continued up, he cursed, slammed a flat hand at the brushed steel doors and made for the stairwell instead. He descended the stairs two at a time, stumbling, heavy-footed, hanging onto the handrail to prevent going headfirst.
He paused in the lobby to get his bearings, remembered that he’d arrived in Dennis’ car and pulled out his phone to call a taxi. His heart pounded and he tried to slow it. Someone called at him to switch off his phone, drawing his attention to the many signs which indicated the same rule, and he muttered an apology and headed for the main door.
Head down, he was oblivious to the throng of people attempting to enter the building as he made to exit, until he was pushed to one side by the mêlée. Football fans and uniformed police jostled for position. The rival supporters shouted threats at each other across the expanse of the lobby, while harassed police tried to keep order.
Of course, it was Sunday - match day. McNeil recalled his time in uniform, standing in the cold, back to the pitch, scanning the crowds for known troublemakers. He had no desire to relive that segment of his career, so he kept his head down and forced a path through them. More than capable, and certainly willing, to deliver a well-aimed elbow as required, he was however substantially outnumbered, and as the majority had come via the pub, he received a few blows himself before being jostled out of the throng and into the path of a well-dressed man. The man reached out and steadied him with a hand at his shoulder. McNeil pulled back, muttered an apology and the man stood a moment blocking his way. His lips parted in a curious half-smile.
“Bad day?”
“You could say.” McNeil attempted to sidestep him, but the man stepped the same way and more liveried fans spilled into the lobby. He closed his eyes briefly to avert a wave of dizziness. When he reopened them the man was still watching.
“Do you need help?”
Oh, sure, he needed help but there was only one person who could give it, and she was long gone.
“No,” he replied bluntly, and the man merely nodded, studying him with narrowed eyes as if he could see beneath the outward mess, the wrinkled suit and the two day shadow, to the even bigger tangle below. McNeil felt his hackles rise, inordinately irritated not only by the man’s scrutiny but at the fact he still blocked his path.
He cocked his head insolently and stared straight at him. “Excuse me,” he said, suddenly and inexplicably spoiling for a fight. The man merely smiled benignly in return and stepped aside, parting the red sea of supporters with a raised hand.
McNeil hurried past and forced his way through the revolving doors, relieved to finally get outside. He stood a moment, hands on his knees, head bowed, and breathed in all the exhaust-laced oxygen he could. He
Similar Books
