Free Blood Symmetry by Kate Rhodes Page B

and that could have been my mistake. I made up my mind to call Burns when I got home. If Will could form a relationship after watching our parents’ marriage implode, it must be possible, even if it would be an uphill journey. I walked faster as I passed a pub on Tower Bridge Road, two drunks catcalling from across the street, begging me to take them home. Taking men home had never been my problem; it was letting them stay that provided the challenge – unlike for Burns, whose marriage had lasted fifteen years. By the time I reached Providence Square, the brisk stroll had blunted my fear. I listened to his Scottish burr on his answering service but hung up without leaving a message. Telling him how I felt would need to be done face to face. My thoughts switched back to work as I prepared for bed, turning Mikey’s words over in my mind: ‘almost there,not far now.’ The phrase seemed hopelessly over-optimistic while no sign of his mother had been found.

9
    T he man drives through the city’s empty streets, peering into the darkness. The woman sits beside him, a package balanced on her lap.
    â€˜Are you okay, sweetheart?’ she asks, her tone irritating him.
    â€˜Better than yesterday.’
    â€˜Less pain?’
    â€˜For God’s sake, stop nursing me. It’s not your job.’
    He rarely complains when his symptoms are bad; there would be no point. Most days it feels like ice water’s coursing through his veins. The side effects are growing harder to ignore, weight falling from him, his skin paler than before.
    â€˜What are we going to do about the boy?’ he asks.
    â€˜Leave him for now. It won’t be hard to track him down; the child protection service is pretty lax. I phoned to ask where toys for Mikey Riordan should be sent, pretending to be a delivery company. They told me to ring the psychiatric care team in Southwark.’
    â€˜That’s a start.’
    â€˜The borough’s got forty community psychiatric nurses. Any of them could be looking after him.’
    He studies her while they wait at a red light, feeling a mixture of love and fear. Her excitement fills the car like cigarette smoke, their mission keeping her rage in check.
    â€˜Park here,’ she says. ‘If I’m not back in ten minutes, don’t wait.’
    â€˜Let me do it. I’ve got nothing to lose.’
    The man lifts the package from her hands, kissing her to silence any protest. He drops the car keys in her lap then sets off down Newcomen Street, raising the hood of his coat. It doesn’t take long to cross the hospital’s quadrangle. He stands in the shadows to open the plasma bag, splashing its contents across a locked door. Blood spatters the paintwork, releasing its sour metallic smell – a reminder of the thousands of human guinea pigs killed by medical ignorance. He drops the empty pack on the step outside the pathology department: an appropriate tribute for the experts in white coats who care nothing for their patients. The dark history of the place crowds him as he hurries back to the car. His only comfort is that the murders begun here will soon be wiped clean.

10
Thursday 16 October
    T he consultants’ conversations drifted through my office wall at 8.30 a.m. on Thursday. I made a point of greeting the early arrivals, connecting faces to names. Their replies were pleasant but wary, as if they had made a group decision to withhold judgement. It was a relief to bump into Mike Donnelly in the corridor.
    â€˜How are you settling in among us freaks and psychos?’ he asked, winking at me.
    â€˜I’m finding my feet slowly.’
    â€˜Anything I can do?’
    â€˜Keep smiling, it helps no end. Can I run some ideas by you in the fullness of time?’
    â€˜My expertise is yours. All you have to do is buy me lunch.’
    The grin buried inside his white beard stretched wider as I said goodbye. Once I got back to my office I studied the