Free Angel of Death by Ben Cheetham Page A

get yourself a cuppa.’
    When he was alone, Jim sat down and expelled a breath that seemed to come from his shoes. Somewhere nearby, someone let out an agonised wail. The sound gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach. How many times , he mused, have you sat in this place, surrounded by pain and death? But of course the answer was obvious – too many. He just didn’t have the stomach for it any more.
    Jim found himself wondering whether it would have been better for Mark Baxley if he hadn’t survived. After all, what sort of life did he have to look forward to? A life without trust, that’s what. A nightmare of loneliness and paranoia. Jim had seen it many times before in people who’d survived an attempt on their life by friends, spouses and the like. He’d watched as they withdrew from the world and locked themselves in the worst kind of prison – a prison of their own minds. Over the years, he’d built barriers of a different kind around himself – barriers to keep his emotions at bay so that he could view cases dispassionately and from every angle. In the past some people – people who didn’t understand him – had called him cold and cynical. Margaret understood him better than anyone, but that hadn’t lessened her need for a love that at some point he’d lost the capacity to give. He knew that was why she’d left him, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. The job had ripped out his heart. Losing Margaret had taken everything else.
    Suddenly, Jim knew he had to leave, not just the hospital, but the city, the job, everything. He had to get away before it was too late, before the last vital spark in him was extinguished. His head spinning with a confused mixture of excitement and anxiety, he stood and took a few hesitant steps towards the exit. He paused at the sound of a moan from Mark Baxley’s room.
    The nurse moved from behind her desk and entered Mark’s room. Pinching the fingers of Mark’s left hand, she called his name. He moaned again, feebly trying to pull his hand away. His eyelids flickered open. First the whites, then the pupils rolled into view. A hoarse voice slurred, ‘Cha… Charl… Charlotte.’
    ‘Your sister’s in a coma, Mark, but she’s alive.’
    Mark gave out a whimper and a light that seemed to hold both relief and triumph came into his heavy-lidded eyes.
    ‘Have you got any pain anywhere?’ asked the nurse.
    Mark slowly shook his head. ‘I’m thir… thirsty.’
    The nurse poured water from a jug into a cup and held it to Mark’s lips. He took a sip, dribbling most of it down his chin. The nurse dabbed him dry with a paper towel. ‘That’s all for now. I don’t want you to choke.’
    The nurse checked Mark’s vital signs, compared them to readings on the heart monitor, then made a notation on his chart. ‘I know it’s hard, Mark, but try to relax. A doctor will be by to see you soon.’
    As the nurse left the room, Jim asked, ‘Is that true about his sister?’
    The nurse nodded. ‘The doctors say it’s a miracle. There was about a one in a hundred chance she’d survive the operation.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Mind you, there’s still a long way to go before she’s out of the woods.’
    The word miracle sparked a little fire of contempt inside Jim. As far as he was concerned, there were no such things as miracles. There were only things that happened. Some of those things were beyond human control, but that didn’t mean God had anything to do with them. ‘Can I speak to Mark?’ The question came automatically, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
    ‘Yes, but only for a few minutes. And don’t press him too hard. He’s very weak.’
    Jim drew a chair up to Mark’s bedside. As Mark’s head lolled towards him, Jim resisted the urge to turn away from the mute pain shining out of his eyes. ‘Hello, Mark, I’m Detective Inspector Jim Monahan of the South Yorkshire Police Homicide and Major Incident Team,’ he began, his tone