Closer Still (4 page)

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Authors: Jo Bannister

BOOK: Closer Still
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As quickly as Deacon had grabbed him he let Loomis go, spilling him carelessly onto the table. He put the cue back in the rack. ‘So, like I say,' he said conversationally, ‘no misunderstanding. You didn't threaten Brodie, and I haven't been here. It must have been three other people.' And with that he walked out of The Rose and into the dark.
Events moved quickly, which suited Brodie fine. The less time she had to think about this the better. She trusted the advice she was getting, it accorded with her own best instincts, and if Deacon felt otherwise he hadn't said so. Now all she wanted was to have the operation over and Jonathan safely home again, and to start enjoying him free of the worries that had beset her since the day of his birth.
Even so, the summons came quicker than she was expecting. She'd had a bag packed for days. A favourite toy, a favourite blanket – things that would feel and smell the same when the baby woke up unable to see them. She'd also prepared a few necessities for herself, though she was determined not to do the whole anxious-mother-hovering-over-cot thing. Right now Jonathan needed Anne Millership more than he needed his parents.
‘I might go into the office for a couple of hours,' she said to Deacon in the car.
He started so violently he almost ran into the back of a bus. ‘
Now?
'
‘Not now,' said Brodie, in what she thought was a reasonable manner. ‘After he goes down to theatre. It's
going to take a while, and if we sit staring at one another it'll feel even longer. Let's do shifts. I'll stick around while you go to work for a couple of hours, and you can stay while I do.'
It was getting dangerous, driving in one direction while staring in the other. Deacon stopped the car on a double yellow line. ‘I'm not going to work,' he said with a kind of forcible restraint. ‘I'm waiting until my son's operation is over and he's recovering. However long that takes.'
‘OK,' said Brodie negligently. ‘Then you take the first shift. You've got my number, I'm five minutes away if anything happens. I'll be back before he's out of theatre.'
Deacon couldn't believe what he was hearing. ‘Brodie – your baby is having an operation to remove his eyes. And you want to work on your VAT returns?'
She shrugged irritably. ‘There's nothing I can do at the hospital except worry. In the office I can take my mind off it, at least for a while. Don't look at me like that, Jack. You deal with this your way, let me deal with it mine.'
He shook his head and steered back into the traffic. His voice was thick. ‘I will never understand you as long as I live.'
‘I know,' she said tartly. ‘Isn't it a good job we aren't married?'
That shut him up. It always did.
In fact it was harder to leave than she'd expected. She carried Jonathan down to the theatre and held him in her arms while the anaesthetic took effect, only parting with him after he was asleep. She'd been afraid, thinking about it before, that she'd break down at that point. It was half
the reason she'd wanted to be on her own, striding swiftly towards the busy anonymity of the car park where no one would see her cry. For some reason this mattered to her.
But when the moment came, the ties that bound them – not much longer than the umbilicus that had bound them for nine months – kept her close to the door that had shut between them. She wasn't crying. But all her muscles were clenched tight, because all her instincts were to do the one thing she mustn't do: barge through that door, grab her child and run.
In the end it was Deacon who steered her gently and firmly away. He sat her down in the waiting area, and sat beside her saying nothing until he saw the defensive rigidity of her long body begin to soften. Then he stood up. ‘I'll bring some coffee. Stay here.' He caught her eye and said it again. ‘
Stay
here.'
He knew where every coffee machine in Dimmock General was located. He headed for the one under the stairs that was known only to staff and the occasional Munchausen's patient, and was back inside two minutes. Still he was mildly surprised to find she'd waited.
They drank the coffee in silence. When it was done Deacon looked at his watch, and was astonished to find a scant fifteen minutes had passed since he'd given up his son to the surgeon.
Brodie said quietly, ‘He'll be all right, you know.'
‘Yes. Of course he will.' Deacon looked at his watch again. Sixteen minutes.
For two hours this was what they did: look at their watches, get coffee, watch it go cold, look at their watches
again. Brodie never found herself in tears. But nor, in the event, did she feel the urge to leave. There was nothing she could do here, but she could be here. She did that.
After two hours they stopped checking their watches – and, in Deacon's case, tapping it impatiently – and started watching the corridor that led to the theatres. That was the way news would come. Every time someone in theatre scrubs appeared, both of them tensed. But a lot of people wear scrubs in a big general hospital, and none of them had news of Jonathan.
Until finally one had. It was Anne Millership: Brodie recognised her immediately despite the anonymous outfit. She was on her feet, Deacon right behind her.
Millership's smile was reassuring. ‘He's in recovery. It went fine – copybook, no complications. He's a sturdy little lad. He'll sleep the rest of today, and tomorrow he'll wake up.'
‘Can we see him?' asked Deacon – in the tone of voice he used when he was investigating a spate of muggings and the suspect's mother was standing between him and a bedroom door. Brodie made a note to be amused later.
Dr Millership shook her head. ‘There's not a lot of point. Between dressings and monitors, there's not much baby showing. You'll only upset yourselves, and there's no need. He's doing well. Tomorrow morning you'll be able to see how well he's doing.'
‘How did the operation go? Did you get all of the …?' Brodie looked at him in surprise as Deacon struggled with the word
cancer.
‘The operation went well,' said Millership confidently.
‘Both tumours came away cleanly. We'll keep monitoring, of course, but I'm well pleased. One thing you should know. It was absolutely the right decision. If we'd left them, six months from now he'd have been in trouble.'
Brodie felt chill fingers stroke her spine. But that, she reminded herself, was good news. The doctor's advice, and her own instincts, had been right. In all probability today's work had saved a little life.
They walked out to Deacon's car. ‘The office?' he asked. His voice was low.
She shook her head wearily. ‘Home.'
She asked him in but was glad he declined. They were both too shattered by the day's events to want to chat.
The lights in her flat were on. Brodie had arranged with her upstairs neighbour to collect Paddy from school, but when she got inside it wasn't Marta babysitting, it was Daniel.
‘I hope you don't mind,' he said, shamefaced. ‘I couldn't settle to anything. I shut the office and came over here to wait. How is he?'
Brodie dropped into a chair. ‘OK. Everything went well. He's sleeping it off, so I thought I'd come home.' She stretched out her arms and Paddy, quiet for once, slipped into them, creeping onto her knee. ‘Be with my big kid.'
Daniel stood up. ‘OK. Well, I'll leave you to it …'
She didn't let him finish. ‘Oh, sit down again, you're not going anywhere. If we're all going to sit around moping all evening we might as well do it together. Let me get my breath back and I'll make some supper.' But she didn't. She fell asleep in the chair, her daughter cradled in her lap.
It was after nine when she woke. Paddy was gone, and someone had spread a duvet over her. ‘Daniel?'
He was in the kitchen. He'd fed Paddy and got her off to bed while her mother slept; now he was doing the washing-up. ‘I'm here. Everything's fine.'
She thought for a moment. ‘I'm going to call the hospital.'
There was nothing new. Jonathan was sleeping soundly, all his readings optimal. When she relayed the information to Daniel he looked as relieved as she felt.
Which reminded her that Jonathan had another parent, and it wasn't Daniel, and Deacon was undoubtedly as anxious as she was. Brodie picked up the phone again. ‘I'm going to call Jack.'
Before she'd even dialled she thought better of it. ‘No, I'm not. I've spent all day indoors: I need some fresh air. I think I'll drive over there. I'll be back in an hour. Will you stay with Paddy?'
‘Of course,' said Daniel.
Though the evening was cold she drove with the window down, the chill breeze reviving her. She found herself feeling more positive about the day's events, even buoyant. Her son had his operation behind him: from now on he'd be a little better every day instead of a little worse.
The first reaction of people who didn't know him well was surprise at where Deacon lived. He didn't seem to have the imagination, or the time, to have converted a utilitarian building into a home. But as they thought about it, these people, they realised it was a match made in estate-agency heaven. Where else
would
Jack Deacon live
except Dimmock's old jail? A low Georgian building, it squatted under the looming mass of the Firestone Cliffs, and still had bars at the windows.
In fact, not much conversion had been attempted. An earlier owner had installed plumbing and electricity, and at intervals Deacon slapped on another coat of limewash. Otherwise he lived in it much as its original inhabitants had, except that nobody locked him in at night.
There was a yard and outbuildings round the back – the jail was also the town's pound – but Deacon invariably parked his car at the front door, ready for a quick departure if news came of a juicy crime. It wasn't there now. Sometimes he called in at The Belted Galloway on his way home, leaving the car there and walking the last quarter of a mile. So Brodie went to the door and knocked.
She had a key, and Deacon would have expected her to use it. She tended not to because that wasn't the kind of relationship they had. If she'd asked he'd have moved in with her tomorrow, or sold this grim little house that could have been made for him and bought something bland and child-friendly and suitable for a family of four. But until she was ready to make that kind of commitment she felt she had no right to let herself into his home. The time might come, but it hadn't come yet.
He didn't answer her knock. Perhaps he was still at work, making up the hours lost at the hospital. Brodie breathed heavily, her breath momentarily visible as a white cloud on the night air. But in fact it pleased her to know that kind of thing mattered to him. He was a good man. He wasn't always a nice man, but she could forgive a lot of
his mistakes because she knew that he was fundamentally a good, brave, honest, decent man. A man who did the job he was paid for even when no one expected him to.
She thought about phoning him – but then he'd feel obliged to leave what he was doing to come and cheer her up. And there was no need. She glanced at her watch. Nine-thirty-five. Shack Lane was two minutes away. An unworthy thought occurred to her. She could go into the office for half an hour in the absolute confidence that Daniel wouldn't catch her checking up on him.
She knew it was childish. She knew that if she asked to go over the last month's business with him – the approaches he'd received, how many had turned into commissions, how he'd carried them out and with what degree of success – he'd do it, and if he felt hurt that she didn't trust him he'd keep it to himself.
But she was conscious that Daniel was doing her much more of a favour by working for her than she was by employing him. And she didn't want to seem ungrateful. Her business would have folded if he hadn't stepped into the breach when she found she was pregnant; and stayed there, holding the fort, when it became evident that Jonathan's problems would make it hard to find him a childminder. She'd expected to be back to work before now. Instead of which that day seemed remoter now than it had a year ago. So she couldn't afford to offend Daniel. But also, she didn't want to offend him. She owed him.
But if he didn't
know
she was rooting around in his in tray …
She put the kettle on. But it boiled unnoticed as she
studied the evidence for the prosecution.
He was a tidy worker. That didn't surprise her, and it did make it easier for her to follow the paper trail. Some of his commissions were well advanced, others in the early stages. More cranberry glass for Mrs Campbell-Wheeler; a Reliant Robin for a television company; photographs from the early years of a local boatyard to illustrate a commemorative volume for its forthcoming centenary. Brodie noted with approval the small stack of invoices ready to post. She'd have to find a way of praising his diligence that didn't make it patently obvious she'd been spying on him.
Shack Lane wasn't a major thoroughfare even in Dimmock. And in Dimmock, even major thoroughfares were growing quiet by ten in the evening. So when she heard a footstep on the pavement outside she knew it was someone looking for her. Guilt sent her first thought shooting to Daniel. But she'd left him looking after Paddy: wild horses wouldn't have brought him out. More likely it was Deacon, on his way home now, who'd spotted the light in her window and guessed what it meant. She went to the door to meet him.

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