Free David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good by Andrew Grant

What did they die for? To build a safe
haven for thieves and drug addicts? Or for vandals, like the idiots we just let
walk away? Degenerates who rot the place away from the
inside, little piece by little piece. It makes me wonder, why do we even
bother?”
            She didn’t answer.
            “Don’t you ever feel
that way?” I said. “It must be worse for you, having to live here with them all
the time.”
            “It doesn’t strike me
that way at all,” she said. “Where there’s freedom, there’ll always be crime.
That’s how societies work. The big problems, we deal with. Other than that,
it’s about finding a balance, and most of the time we do that pretty well.
You’ve got to keep things in perspective. And guys like them? They’re not
threatening anything fundamental. They’re not smart enough. They’re morons. Who
cares?”
            “So, freedom and crime,
two sides of the same coin. Don’t you find that depressing?”
            “No. I don’t. It’s a
glass half full, as I see things. It gives me hope.”
            I caught some movement
to our left. The door had opened again. A doctor and a nurse were looking
through, but when they saw the garden wasn’t vacant they turned and disappeared
back down the corridor.
            “You know, my stomach’s
telling me it’s nearly lunchtime,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
            “Maybe, a little,”
Melissa said, after a moment.
            “Fancy helping me hunt
down a sandwich?”
            “That might be nice,”
she said, hesitantly. “But I need to make a couple of calls first. Check up on
a couple of things. I’d do it later, only it can’t wait. You can come with me,
if you like.”
            I thought her offer over
for second, but decided to decline. There was no point looking over her
shoulder. Not when she was expecting me to, anyway.
            “No thanks,” I said.
“Why don’t we meet somewhere when you’re done?”
            “Deal,” she said. “How
about the hospital canteen? Half an hour?”

 
 
 
    Chapter Eight

 
    I found the hospital canteen on the top floor of the wing that
contained the offices. Outside, a plaque said it had been
opened eighteen months earlier by some junior minister from the Department of
Health . Inside, it looked like it had been transplanted from a mid-scale
department store. Circular tables, each large enough for four people, were
scattered seemingly at random throughout half of the space. A sweeping, curved
counter provided shelter for the people serving the food, and behind them were
three parallel rows of shiny stainless steel kitchen units. It all looked good
- very sleek and industrial - though there was no sign of anyone doing any
actual cooking.
            Around half the tables
were occupied. I could see little knots of nurses. Physiotherapists. Doctors.
Clerical workers. Each group was set apart by their clothes and separated by
where they sat, as if they were divided into hostile clans. The only exception
was the occasional huddle of patients or visitors who had managed to find their
way into the place. Several of them scrutinised me as
I bought a mug of coffee, presumably categorising me
by my hospital pyjamas . But I belonged to none of the
groups, so I just collected my drink, retreated to an empty seat in the corner
furthest from the door, and settled down to wait.
              A quick inspection the other customers’
footwear revealed no sign of my boots, so I turned my attention to the garden.
It was deserted. I wondered if that was because no one wanted to be there, or
whether people were put off by the kind of yobs we
had encountered earlier. I was still feeling surprised by Melissa’s attitude to
the situation. I hadn’t expected her to accept the hooligans so readily. I
thought back to the other MI5 people I’d crossed paths with over the years,