Only a cat could climb them and one
had, the stripy devil that had raked its claws across his fingers.
From among the thorny leaves it stared malevolently at Lance,
unblinking and perfectly still. Never mind. He wasn't going to
climb any walls. Some awareness of danger kept him from going
boldly up to the french windows. It was as well for him it did, for
as he crept up to a small sash window to take a look inside, a roar,
a crescendo of sound, held him frozen there on the paving. A
vacuum cleaner. It was a Hoover starting up. Without going any
closer, he could see a woman plying this machine up and down a
carpet, like someone mowing a lawn.
This woman must have arrived while he was walking round the
block looking for a way in. She had her back to him now but was
about to turn round. He ducked down and went back on all fours
the way he had come. How long would she be in there? Hours?
There were no ground-floor windows on this side of the house so
no possibility of her seeing him unless she came out into the
garden. He undid the bolts on the side gate and turned the key,
listening all the time to the rise and fall of the Hoover's bray. What
to do with the steps? If he took them with him, where could
he dump them? By this time he had moved them out into the
front garden and locked the gate behind him. He was scared to
take them back to where he had found them. In the end he
slipped the key into his pocket and left the steps behind, leaning
up against the house wall.
He'd go back again next day. After 8.45 when the old guy went
out and before 9.30 when that woman came in. The chances were
no one would notice the gate was unbolted or that the key was
missing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The private wing was newly built but that part of the hospital
Ella had come from had changed very little from the old
workhouse it had once been. Her patient had been in a
mixed ward, shared by old men and old women, and hated by both.
That at any rate would not have been allowed in Victorian England
when this place was built. She went up to the streamlined green
glass desk to ask for Joel Roseman, fulminating inwardly against
the government (or maybe the Primary Care Trust) and its promises
to put an end to this state of affairs, and was told he was in
Room Five. She found him not in bed but asleep in an armchair.
Ella saw a man in his thirties, dark-haired, rather good-looking,
dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a blanket over his knees. The
room was very warm and the windows were shut.
Ella sat down in the other chair, the one on the opposite side
of the bed. He woke, as she knew he would, but instead of taking
her for yet another therapist come to manipulate him, he started
and then he stared.
Ella got up and held out her hand. 'How do you do? I'm Ella
Cotswold, Dr Cotswold, but I'm not here professionally. I've brought
you a cheque for the money you lost.'
He blinked and, seeming to shrink away from the brightness of
the window, put out his hand and took the envelope. 'That's very
kind of you. I thought for a moment you were – well, someone
else.'
'How are you?'
'I'm sort of OK,' said Joel Roseman. 'Only it's too bright in here
for me. Just a moment.' He reached for the drawer in a bedside
cabinet and took out a pair of large black sunglasses. They obscured
a good deal of his face. 'I'm supposed to be going home soon.'
'You must be looking forward to that.'
He was silent, opening the envelope, contemplating the cheque.
'This signature, that's the man I spoke to on the phone? Is he a
friend of yours?'
Ella nodded. She wished she could say Eugene was her fiancé
but she couldn't. Not yet. 'You've someone to look after you when
you get home?' she asked in doctor mode.
'My mother will come over sometimes.' He moistened his lips,
leant towards her across the bed. The black glasses turned his
face into a mask. 'My father doesn't have anything to do with me.
We don't speak. Well, he doesn't speak to me.' The voice changed
and became a child's,
had, the stripy devil that had raked its claws across his fingers.
From among the thorny leaves it stared malevolently at Lance,
unblinking and perfectly still. Never mind. He wasn't going to
climb any walls. Some awareness of danger kept him from going
boldly up to the french windows. It was as well for him it did, for
as he crept up to a small sash window to take a look inside, a roar,
a crescendo of sound, held him frozen there on the paving. A
vacuum cleaner. It was a Hoover starting up. Without going any
closer, he could see a woman plying this machine up and down a
carpet, like someone mowing a lawn.
This woman must have arrived while he was walking round the
block looking for a way in. She had her back to him now but was
about to turn round. He ducked down and went back on all fours
the way he had come. How long would she be in there? Hours?
There were no ground-floor windows on this side of the house so
no possibility of her seeing him unless she came out into the
garden. He undid the bolts on the side gate and turned the key,
listening all the time to the rise and fall of the Hoover's bray. What
to do with the steps? If he took them with him, where could
he dump them? By this time he had moved them out into the
front garden and locked the gate behind him. He was scared to
take them back to where he had found them. In the end he
slipped the key into his pocket and left the steps behind, leaning
up against the house wall.
He'd go back again next day. After 8.45 when the old guy went
out and before 9.30 when that woman came in. The chances were
no one would notice the gate was unbolted or that the key was
missing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The private wing was newly built but that part of the hospital
Ella had come from had changed very little from the old
workhouse it had once been. Her patient had been in a
mixed ward, shared by old men and old women, and hated by both.
That at any rate would not have been allowed in Victorian England
when this place was built. She went up to the streamlined green
glass desk to ask for Joel Roseman, fulminating inwardly against
the government (or maybe the Primary Care Trust) and its promises
to put an end to this state of affairs, and was told he was in
Room Five. She found him not in bed but asleep in an armchair.
Ella saw a man in his thirties, dark-haired, rather good-looking,
dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a blanket over his knees. The
room was very warm and the windows were shut.
Ella sat down in the other chair, the one on the opposite side
of the bed. He woke, as she knew he would, but instead of taking
her for yet another therapist come to manipulate him, he started
and then he stared.
Ella got up and held out her hand. 'How do you do? I'm Ella
Cotswold, Dr Cotswold, but I'm not here professionally. I've brought
you a cheque for the money you lost.'
He blinked and, seeming to shrink away from the brightness of
the window, put out his hand and took the envelope. 'That's very
kind of you. I thought for a moment you were – well, someone
else.'
'How are you?'
'I'm sort of OK,' said Joel Roseman. 'Only it's too bright in here
for me. Just a moment.' He reached for the drawer in a bedside
cabinet and took out a pair of large black sunglasses. They obscured
a good deal of his face. 'I'm supposed to be going home soon.'
'You must be looking forward to that.'
He was silent, opening the envelope, contemplating the cheque.
'This signature, that's the man I spoke to on the phone? Is he a
friend of yours?'
Ella nodded. She wished she could say Eugene was her fiancé
but she couldn't. Not yet. 'You've someone to look after you when
you get home?' she asked in doctor mode.
'My mother will come over sometimes.' He moistened his lips,
leant towards her across the bed. The black glasses turned his
face into a mask. 'My father doesn't have anything to do with me.
We don't speak. Well, he doesn't speak to me.' The voice changed
and became a child's,
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