Beneath the Bleeding. Val McDermid

only place where people like her could be safe. There were gays in Temple Fields long before the gay village became a cool destination.’

      It was a gentle rebuke, but one that reminded Carol she couldn’t lay her reactions over Paula’s and expect an exact fit. ‘You’re right,’ she admitted. Before she could say more, a nurse knocked and walked in.

      ‘What can I do for you?’ she said.

      ‘He needs pain relief but he won’t admit it,’ Carol said, standing up and gathering her things together.

      ‘Is that right?’

      Tony nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

      The nurse consulted his chart and said, ‘I told you, there’s no medals for martyrs here. I’ll bring you something.’

      Carol followed her to the door. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back from London, but I’ll try and come by tomorrow.’

      ‘Good luck,’ Tony said. He wasn’t sorry to see her go; her visit had reminded him how little energy he had. It was a relief to know there would be no other visitors that evening. There were advantages to keeping the world at arm’s length.

      For a long time, he had mistrusted those few overtures of friendship that had come his way. He’d believed they were based on the misconception that the face he presented to the world had anything to do with what was going on inside him. He was aware how slender was the connection between the two. And that his own history placed him closer to those he hunted than those on whose behalf he hunted. He knew the extent of his damage and understood that its gift of empathy had to be paid for somehow. By the time he’d plucked up the emotional courage to lay some of the blame on his mother, he’d also acquired enough knowledge to understand that was too easy an option. He had spent years feeling like a child with its face pressed to the window behind which the happy family were celebrating the perfect Dickensian Christmas. It had taken him that long to understand that most of those apparently happy families hid as many dark places as his own. That he was not the only one doing what he called ‘passing for human’. But by then he had built himself a life that willingly embraced solitude and spectatorship.

      And then Carol Jordan had arrived. None of his psychology textbooks nor his thousands of hours of clinical practice had prepared him for someone who could walk straight through his defences as if they did not exist. It was both too simple and too complicated. If either of them had been different, they might have been able to fall in love and get it over with. But there had been too many snags and hitches at the start and now it seemed that every time they tentatively considered surrender, the world threw up mountains in their path.

      Mostly, he wished it could be different. But sometimes, like now, he recognized that perhaps it was enough for each of them to know there was at least one relationship in their lives that was never going to be hamstrung by them acting out their needs. Whatever they did for each other meant itself alone. When she negotiated wireless access from a hospital bed for him, there was no ulterior motive. And now, he would trawl the world of information online and in his head to help her, just because he could.

      When the nurse returned, he dutifully swallowed his medication and lay back, letting his mind wander free. Where there was no obvious motive, it was his talent to tease out meaning. What could Robbie Bishop’s murderer have gained from the act of killing? To understand that would be a giant step on the journey to giving this stranger face and form. It was, thankfully, the sort of giant step he didn’t need two functioning knees for. Just a brain that could possibly be helped on its way by the lovely, soothing chemicals infiltrating his bloodstream.

      A twenty-four-hour news agenda is always hungry for headlines. Now that Robbie Bishop had died, the circus had moved from outside the hospital to the Bradfield Victoria stadium. The story had moved so fast that most of the media were there ahead of the fans, having quicker access to their vehicles. To begin with, there were more journalists and camera crew than there were mourners. They milled around in the chilly evening air, cracking black jokes and waiting for the action they knew would arrive soon enough.

      Within an hour, they got what they wanted. Hundreds of people drifted around in the shadow of the cantilevered Grayson Street stand, breath puffing in clouds around their heads. Already the iron railings that marked the boundary had become the literal props for bunches of supermarket flowers, beribboned teddies, mourning messages, sympathy cards and photos of Robbie himself. Distraught women wept, men in canary yellow home strips looked as gutted as if they’d just witnessed a five–nil home defeat. Children looked bewildered, youths betrayed. Reporters moved among them, mikes and tape recorders thrust towards the banalities of manufactured emotion. A discreet police presence patrolled the mourners, a precaution against any kind of excess.

      Yousef and Raj were among the first to arrive. Yousef felt conspicuous and awkward. He thought he was probably the only person apart from cops and media not wearing a Vics shirt or scarf. He politely declined when a couple of TV reporters asked for his comments and dragged a protesting Raj away from their mikes and cameras. ‘Why can’t I say summat?’ Raj said.

      ‘You’re supposed to be here because you’re in mourning, not to get your gob all over the TV,’ Yousef said. ‘This isn’t about you, remember?’

      ‘It’s not fair. I really loved Robbie. I love the Vics. Half the people that’ll end up on the telly or the radio couldn’t give a toss about the team from one week to the next. They just want to get in on the act.’ Raj trailed behind his brother, scuffing his heels on the ground.

      ‘So let them.’

      Another reporter thrust a tape recorder at them. ‘Some people are linking Robbie Bishop’s death to Muslim terrorist production of ricin,’ he gabbled. ‘What’s your view on that?’

      ‘It’s bollocks,’ Yousef said, finally goaded into speech. ‘Didn’t you hear what that cop said earlier? No reason to link this to terrorism. You’re just trying to stir up trouble. It’s people like you that provoke race riots. My brother here, the only thing he’s fanatical about is Bradfield Vics.’ He spat on the ground. ‘You’ve got no respect. Come on, Raj.’ He grabbed his brother’s sleeve and pulled him away.

      ‘Great,’ said Raj. ‘I don’t get to talk about Robbie, but you get to shout your mouth off, make us look like troublemakers.’

      ‘Yeah, I know. It’s not fair.’ Yousef steered Raj away from the media and towards the tributes at the railings. ‘But I’m so sick of that sort of shit. Why would terrorists kill Robbie Bishop, for fuck’s sake?’

      ‘’Cos he’s a symbol of the decadence of the West, dummy,’ Raj said, imitating the stupid parrot tones of the big mouths he’d heard sounding off in the kebab shops and the mosque car park.

      ‘That’s true, actually. But not a good enough reason to kill him. Killing Robbie doesn’t create terror, just outrage. For terrorism to work, you need to strike at ordinary people. But that’s too sophisticated an argument for the likes of that wanker with the microphone,’ Yousef said bitterly.