Chapter 2.01 #2
Rain rattled the window as Roberta blinked herself awake to a far prettier sight than Logan Sodding McRae: Susan.
She couldn’t have noticed that Roberta was conscious yet, because she was click-clacking away with a pair of knitting needles and dark-blue wool, fashioning what looked like a little fluffy Dalek.
Bags darkened her eyes, and there were fresh lines around them too.
Probably been tough on her, all this . .
. Still a decade younger than Roberta, though.
Like a middle-aged Doris Day, in a Breton top, no doubt still beating herself up for not shifting those extra lockdown pounds.
But it just meant there was more of her to grab – a satisfying handful for rampant sexytimes, and something extra to snuggle into afterwards.
Warm and soft and lovelier than she’d ever know.
Susan must’ve felt Roberta’s eyes on her, because she looked up and blushed. Hiding her knitting away, as if caught doing something naughty. ‘Hey, sleepybum.’ She kissed Roberta’s cheek. ‘How’s the head?’
Nothing came out but a croak.
So Susan poured a little water and helped her sip it. ‘You don’t have to say anything, if it hurts.’
‘Just a bit . . . dry is all.’
Susan helped her finish the tumbler, then topped it up again.
The door clunked, but Susan didn’t seem to notice as Dr Blue and Dr Pink slid into the room. Smooth and silent, as if on castors. No sign of Dr Green and her magpie surgeon’s beak.
Doctors Pink and Blue loomed at the side of Roberta’s bed, opposite Susan. Who paid them no attention whatsoever as they whispered to each other and made notes.
‘Your wee loon, Tufty, came past. He got you these . . .’ Susan dipped into the bedside cabinet, coming out with a paperback novel and a weird rubbery thing, about the size of an orange.
Pink, with floppy blond hair on top, and a sleazy grin on its round face.
Familiar, but not immediately placeable.
Susan popped both on the bed.
The novel was some sort of Science Fiction bollocks, with a planet-and-starships cover: The Eternal Fall Of Gravity’s Children by some J.M. Brewster dick – which could sod right off – but what the hell was the wee-rubbery-head thing?
‘Tufty’s been here every day. It’s sweet. You should be nicer to him.’ Pointing at the wall opposite her bed. ‘And look what he made you.’
It was some sort of noticeboard, with the day of the week and the date in big easy-to-read letters, who the prime minister was, and a flip-over-numbers-bit marked ‘THIS IS DAY:’ It was set to ‘16’. As if she was a dementia patient.
Well thank you very sodding much.
‘We weren’t entirely sure if it should be “Day One”, starting today, as you’ve only just woken up, or how long you’ve been here in total.’
Roberta glowered at it, then picked up the severed head, turning its glaikit face over in her hand. ‘Want to go home.’
‘I know you do, Robbie, but the doctors need to make sure your skull’s all in one piece first. Don’t want your brain falling out like a bucket of strawberry Angel Delight.
’ Straightening the itchy blankets and fussing at the pillows.
Taking charge. ‘Anyway, you’ve only been conscious a few hours.
There’s still physio and scans and tests and tubes up your doodah to go before that happens. ’
‘Urgh . . .’ And the stupid head thing just grinned at her. So she crushed it in her fist.
Both of its eyes popped out on stalks with a weird plasticky pkongk noise. She let go and they went back in again: glonk.
Which meant it was either one of those executive stressrelief things, or a really weird sex toy.
She made its eyes pop a few more times: pkongk-glonk, pkongk-glonk, pkongk-glonk . . .
The door clattered open and Dr Green glided in, legs still as fenceposts as she cackled over to Roberta’s bedside, joining her colleagues. ‘Sorry I’m late. Had to see if the mortuary had any nice internal organs going spare.’
Roberta retreated into her pillows, pulling away from the three of them.
‘Robbie? Are you . . .’ The wrinkles around Susan’s eyes deepened as she squinted around the room. ‘Are the animal people here again? The lions and the tigers?’
The Birdheads edged closer. Beaks clacking.
‘No?’
‘Because they’ve got you dosed-up on a lot of morphine, and it takes some people funny.’
Oh, that was bloody typical.
‘Thought morphine was supposed to be groovy?’
Susan plucked the squeezy head from Roberta’s grasp and plonked it on the bedside table. Then took Roberta’s hand. Winding their fingers together. Holding on tight. The lights turned sparkly in Susan’s eyes as she welled up just a little. ‘Oh, Robbie, I thought we’d lost you.’
‘How come everyone else takes drugs, they get a big-whooshy-fun-time trip, and I get a total arse-munch?’
‘No more getting blown-up, understand?’ She wiped at her eyes. ‘As the only breadwinner in the house, I hereby put my foot down: c’est verboten!’
‘It’s not like I wanted to . . .’ Hold on. ‘Wait. No, no, no, no. I win bread too. What about my breadwinning?’
Susan re-straightened the already straight blanket, not looking her in the eye.
‘Well, now that . . . this has happened, and you’re only six weeks away from retiring, and it’s not as if they’re going to discharge you any time soon, then there’s a period of convalescing at home, so you’ll be on medical leave for ages anyway . . .’
Oh God.
‘But—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Susan raised a hand to silence any argument. ‘You can go back in to pick up your gold watch, if you like, but basically, that’s it for you.’ Then a serene smile dimpled her cheeks. ‘“Lay down your truncheon, brave officer, for now your shift is done.”’
Roberta tried to sit up. ‘But I’ve got cases! Murders!’
The silencing hand eased her back down again.
‘Don’t be silly, Robbie. They’ve given your investigations to someone else.
It’s not as if they could just put everything on hold for a fortnight while you were at death’s door, is it?
’ She nodded. Squeezed Roberta’s hand again, much tighter this time.
Going into bulldozer mode – sweeping away all before her: ‘No. This is the best option all round. You’re basically a kept woman now.
’ And the smile was back. ‘It’ll be lovely to always have someone to come home to: a lady of leisure, my very own domestic goddess! ’
Roberta did her best to fake a smile, as if the prospect wasn’t terrifying.
And all the doctors cackled . . .