The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) (48 page)
Read The Book of Souls (The Inspector McLean Mysteries) Online
Authors: James Oswald
Tags: #Crime/Mystery
McLean stood at the door to the intensive care ward, staring through the glass, not daring to go in. He wanted more than anything for this not to be happening.
'Oh, sir. I'm sorry. I didn't realise...'
He turned to see DS Ritchie approaching down the corridor. Unlike him, she wasn't carrying a bunch of cheap petrol-station flowers. Like him, her face looked like she'd been several rounds with Muhammad Ali. The cut on her temple was neatly stitched, the flesh around it a riot of swelling and colour.
'Any change?' Ritchie nodded towards the IC ward.
'I don't know. I only just got here.'
'You going in?' It wasn't as stupid a question as it sounded.
'I guess I should.' McLean took a deep breath and went inside.
It smelled of antiseptic and alcohol hand-wash. The ever-attendant machines beeped and whirred like some nightmare sci-fi computer gone mad. As he approached the bed, McLean noticed that Ritchie hung back, and he was grateful for her sensitivity. This was a terrible kind of torture, seeing Emma lying comatose, surrounded by the same apparatus that had kept his Grandmother's body alive for so long. Some would have seen the technology as a reason for hope, but he'd been down that road already and knew the odds all too well.
There was no bedside table; the monitors took up all the space. The flowers hung heavy in his grasp. He couldn't think of anything to do with them now, and wondered why he'd brought them. It wasn't as if Emma could see them, and they had virtually no scent. But they were a splash of colour, he had to admit that. So he laid them on the blanket at the end of the bed.
'I should go,' Ritchie said from the other side of the room. 'I just wanted to... You know... See if there was any...' She shrugged.
McLean nodded. 'OK. I'll see you tomorrow. And Kirsty? Thanks.'
He didn't feel any more comfortable after she had gone, but he did manage to find a chair. Placing it carefully down amongst the tubes and wires, he sat beside the bed and took Emma's cold hand in his own.
'She could wake up at any time.' He looked around to see a young doctor standing in the doorway through which DS Ritchie had just left. Or had he been sitting there unthinking for hours? It was difficult to tell.
'That's the thing about a blow to the head. They say recovering consciousness quickly is essential, but sometimes its best if the patient doesn't wake up. Gives the brain time to heal itself.' The doctor crossed the room, raised a single eyebrow at the flowers, and then picked up the chart hanging from the end of the bed. McLean knew a prop when he saw one.
'There's a but in there somewhere, isn't there.'
The doctor tried a reassuring smile, too weary to be really effective. 'It's an amazing thing, the brain. There's so much we don't know about it. Sometimes what looks like enormous damage leaves no discernible after-effect. Sometimes the smallest injury can kill. We've done all the scans and tests we can, but until she wakes up, we just don't know. You need to prepare yourself. There's every possibility that she might have suffered irreparable damage.'
Irreparable. McLean tried not to dwell on the word as he stared at Emma's face. Her eyes were sunken, rounded with dark bruising. Her once spiky black hair now hung around her ears in rat-tails. Her skin was sallow, her lips pale. It was hard to think of her as the woman he'd woken up with just three days ago. One more person's life destroyed because he'd let them get too close.
'Erm, technically visiting hours are over for today,' the doctor said. 'But seeing as you're a police officer...'
'It's all right.' McLean released Emma's hand and stood up. She didn't move, didn't protest, didn't do anything to make him stay. 'I'll come back tomorrow.'
And the day after that, he thought as he pushed his way out into the corridor. And the day after that.
~~~~
The ceilidh band was in full swing, the party warming up nicely. On the dance floor Mr and Mrs Jenkins whirled and jigged their way through an eightsome reel to much whooping and cheering. Drink flowed freely, and everyone was filled with fine food. Nobody noticed the best man slip out through the back door of the hotel and climb into his shiny red car.
The speech had gone OK, McLean thought as he pulled slowly out of the car park. It was debatable whether or not Phil would ever talk to him again, but then that was the nature of these things. He should never have confided so drunkenly in his flatmate if he didn't want the world told all on his wedding day. Maybe one day Phil would get to return the favour. Maybe.
Skye in June was sunny, the evenings long. He'd wanted to do this a couple of days earlier, but as was inevitable, wedding preparations had conspired with a particularly unpleasant investigation to mean he'd only arrived at the hotel late last night. At least he had the map that DC MacBride had printed off for him. With luck he might just find the place.
The road turned to track, and then finally ended at a rickety wooden gate in a dry stone wall. McLean stopped the engine and stared through the windscreen out to sea for a while. It was certainly a beautiful place, a perfect retreat.
But bleak. Outside the car, the wind whipped at his kilt and tugged his hair. Now it was warm, but in the winter it wouldn't be half so accommodating. He clambered over the gate and followed the slight indentation in the grass that suggested where once the track had continued, heading towards the cliff edge where the gulls soared and screamed.
A pair of gnarled and ancient Rowans marked the edge of the old monastery compound. It had taken nature very little time indeed to reclaim the place after it had burned down. A few sheep eyed him suspiciously as he peered into the rubble-remains of old buildings, finally ending up at the hulk of the church.
Its roof was long gone, along with the east wall and most of the south. The north and west walls still stood against the battering weather of the Atlantic Ocean, but they probably wouldn't last long. McLean tried to imagine the place still intact, with a dozen elderly monks going about their daily worship. There were times, he felt, particularly in the last six months, when the idea of giving it all up and coming somewhere like this was very tempting. There was something about having a simple routine to fill each day, unchanging and reliable. But he knew that he would only get bored after a month or so. Itchy feet would drive him away. And there was the whole God thing, too.
Leaving the ruined church, he walked through the graveyard. Headstones tilted this way and that, as if the monks buried beneath them were struggling to rise up and take back what had once been theirs. Some were old, their inscriptions worn away to illegibility; others still bore the names of those they commemorated. They were simple inscriptions, no flowery sentiment here. Just a name, a date, a prayer. A few told of what part the dead had played in the tiny community – beekeeper, fisherman, herbsman. The last one caught McLean's attention, though not in surprise. More it was as if everything finally made sense.
Fr Noam Anton
1897 – 1979
Librarian
He stood in front of the grave for long minutes, just staring as the breeze whistled past. Then he turned and walked away. He could be back at the wedding reception in half an hour.
With luck, nobody would notice he'd been gone.
~~~~
Detective Inspector McLean will return soon in:
The Hangman's Song
In all the excitement of getting Natural Causes ready for publication, I completely forgot to include an acknowledgements section. Hopefully this will make amends.
Any self-publisher who wants to be taken seriously needs an army of beta readers to screen their work for the most obvious errors. I am indebted to Heather Bain and Keir Allen for making sure both books are at least relatively typo free. The mistakes are mine; their lack entirely due to the keen eyes of others.
Observant readers may have noticed a certain Detective Constable Stuart MacBride gracing these stories. This is no coincidence; Stuart has put me in several of his books, and this seemed the best way to return the compliment. His in-depth critique of early drafts of both books played no small part in them being short-listed for the CWA Debut Dagger, I am sure. If you haven't read Stuart's book, then you must. No, right now.
I would like to thank the CWA itself, for short-listing my books two years in a row. A pity I didn't win either time, but there was some pretty stiff competition.
Other people have helped me perhaps more indirectly. Philip Patterson of Marjacq isn't my agent, but he's given me a lot of good advice and support over the years, as has Allan Guthrie, also not my agent. Sarah Hodgson isn't my editor, and Jane Johnson isn't my publisher, but both have fed me and given me moral support. I'm grateful for the detailed feedback I received from Carolyn Caughey at Hodder and Staughton, even though she couldn't get The Book of Souls past their buying committee. A shout-out too to the splendidly-named Saxon Bullock, whose reader report for Natural Causes was the kick in the backside I needed to get the whole self-publishing ball rolling.
There are innumerable others who've given me support and deserve a thank you. The Harrogate crew and my Twitter and Facebook friends in particular. I know if I list them individually I'll forget someone, so best to avoid that embarrassment and give you all a collective hug.
And finally, because you should always keep the best for last, there's Barbara, whose surname I stole for my hero, and who has put up with me for too many years to admit.
~~~~
James began writing comic scripts because he couldn't think of anything better to do. He has written Science Fiction, Fantasy, Thrillers and Crime novels, as well as a travel book about bicycling and innumerable short stories. Down the years he has held a bewildering number of jobs to support his writing habit, from building courses for international carriage driving competitions to creating web applications for agricultural research. Currently he farms 350 acres of North-East Fife, raising Highland Cattle and Romney Sheep. Writing now happens in the evenings. Or when it's raining old ladies and sticks.
http://www.facebook.com/jamesdjoswald
Also by James Oswald
The Inspector McLean Novels
Natural Causes
Head
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The Ballad of Sir Benfro
Dreamwalker
The Rose Cord
The Golden Cage
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Other Novels
Running Away