Chapter 2.10 #2
Because there was nothing like rich folk throwing their weight about. Nice to see the bastards using their privilege for a good cause, though. Bet that didn’t happen often.
Roberta ripped the head off her jelly baby. ‘You remember anything about that morning? Getting . . .’ Miming stabbing someone.
‘I went over all this with . . . DCI Whatshisname.’ Frown. ‘Large, with a beard and—’
‘Beattie.’
She nodded. ‘Beattie. Right.’ A pause. ‘Is he OK? Because he seems a bit . . . challenged? Not that there’s anything wrong with being neurodivergent, I just didn’t expect someone like that would get promoted to Detective Chief Inspector. Suppose Police Scotland are more progressive than I thought.’
Roberta helped herself to a red baby. ‘Oh aye. Sometimes they even let lesbians be DCIs.’ Chewing away. ‘So, given that Beattie is “nae the full shilling” as my old mum used to say, how about you tell me what you remember?’
Billie opened her mouth, frowned, then closed it again.
‘I was . . . I was leading the counter-protest against those ASDG thugs, and they were chanting . . . and Frank called the police.’ She bared her teeth.
‘These bastards turn up every few weeks, shouting and being dicks. Because why try to make the world a better place when you can cheer the oligarchs’ capitalist boot on our throats?
’ Levering herself upright with her elbows.
‘Do you know their boss is a multimillionaire? People are starving, can’t afford to heat their homes, and he’s sitting on more money than you or I could spend in three lifetimes! ’
‘Aye, I’d give it one hell of a go, though.’ Roberta went for a yellow baby, keeping it casual. ‘Your man, Frank . . .?’
‘Oh he’s not my man. No. Frank isn’t into women, literally or figuratively. He works for Emma, though. Emma Dornoch?’
Roberta raised a fist. ‘“Better for Scotland”!’
‘He’s her campaign manager. We were going to put her in parliament . . .’
Not this time.
‘So, Frank calls the cops?’
‘Then it’s all . . . you know? Shoving and pushing and there was a knife.’
Roberta sat forward. ‘Who had the knife, Billie?’
The lines between her eyebrows deepened. ‘It . . . Maybe . . . It was one of the Neanderthals, I know that.’
‘And you can describe him?’
She bit her lip again, squinting into the middle distance, her whole face twisting with the effort. ‘All I can see is the knife . . .’ Her eyes glittered in the overhead light, then her head dipped as tears spilled out. Shoulders trembling. Breath coming in jagged little gasps.
Yeah.
Roberta stood, putting a hand on Billie’s shoulder. Voice soft and kind. ‘It’s OK.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Hey: when someone pulls a blade on you, that chunk of sharpened metal becomes the most important thing in the world. Why wouldn’t you stare at it? It’s not your fault everything else falls away.’ Giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘Seriously: it’s OK.’
Billie wiped a hand across her face, but the tears just flooded back. ‘I’m supposed to be the strong one.’
Yeah . . .
Roberta let loose a long, long sigh. ‘Me too.’
The various multicoloured zones of ARI were stitched together by a long corridor that was sometimes underground, sometimes overground – Wombling free – lined with art and murals designed to fool people into thinking they were somewhere far nicer than a hospital.
Roberta limped along it, leaving the Purple Zone – bolted sideways onto the Green one – and into the Yellow Zone. One hobble closer to escaping. Not going as fast as possible, because it wasn’t easy to text one-handed and limp-along-with-a-cane at the same time.
As predicted:
Doc says I’m a MAGNIFICENT SEXY BEAST OF A WOMAN, but my recovery would be aided by more rampant steamy sessions with a randy blonde.
A porter speedwalked past her, pushing some poor bugger who was almost completely wrapped in bandages. No doubt on their way to wreak revenge on some olde-timey archaeologists for disturbing the wrong tomb.
How do you feel about Marigold gloves?
SEND.
The corridor ended with a wide set of stairs, leading up one flight to Level Two. Urgh . . . Why did everything have to involve stairs?
She lumbered up them, one step at a time. Pausing for breath every ten or twelve, because this was getting to be a bit of a sodding struggle as her legs ached and her back grumbled and every breath whoomphed in her throat.
Should’ve got one of those porter’s chairs. Would be home by now . . .
Finally, she staggered off the top step and back into the hospital’s reception area again, with its collection of saggy visitors and stressed staff.
Just take a quick breather.
Flipping heck.
Pfff . . .
Right.
Swift pitstop at the wee Marks sure he’d love to give you a lift!’
Good idea.
After all, there was nothing like spreading the misery . . .