The Hiding Place(26)

I take in the thin blue curtain half pulled around the narrow bed; the harried-looking nurses hurrying past the end; the nearby cries and moans…and take a wild stab: “Hospital?”

“Good.” She walks forward and shines a light into my eyes. I squint and try to move away as a fresh bud of pain blooms in one corner of my sore brain.

“Ooo-kay.” I can smell her breath. Coffee and mints. She cradles my head, moves it from side to side. “And can you tell me your name?”

“Joe Thorne.”

“And the date, Joe?”

“Erm…the sixth of September, 2017.”

“Good…and your date of birth?”

“The thirteenth of April, 1977.”

“Good.”

She draws back again. Smiles. It obviously doesn’t come naturally. She looks like someone who spends a lot of time being efficient and the rest of it sleeping. But not enough.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I—” My brain still feels fuzzy and tender around the edges. If I think too hard, it hurts. “I was walking home from the pub and…”

The car. Hurst’s thugs. And there was something else. I pause. “I don’t really remember.”

“Had you been drinking?”

“A couple of pints.” The truth, for once. “It all happened pretty quickly.”

“Okay. Well, you’ve obviously been assaulted, so the police will want to speak to you.”

Great.

“Am I okay?”

“You’ve sustained severely bruised ribs and some more deep bruising to your lower torso.”

“Right.”

“You have some nasty abrasions and two impressive lumps on your head but, miraculously, no fractures, and you don’t seem to be showing any signs of concussion, but we’d like to keep you in overnight, just for observation.”

She is still talking, but I’m not listening. Suddenly it comes back to me. The figure looming over me.

“How did I get here?”

“A good Samaritan found you. A woman, driving past. She saw you on the pavement, stopped and brought you here. You were very lucky.”

“What did she look like?”

“Petite, blond. Why?”

“Is she still here?”

“Yes. In the waiting area.”

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I have to get out of here.”

“Mr. Thorne, I really don’t think it would be wise—”

“I don’t give a shit whether you think it’s wise or not.”

A small flush on her pale, drawn cheeks. Then a nod. She flicks the curtain open and stands to one side. “Very well.”

“I’m sorry…I…”

“No. Your call.”

“You’re not going to stop me?”

A tired smile. “If you’re well enough to walk out of here, there’s not much I can do.”

“I promise I’ll try not to drop dead.”

She shrugs. “Between you and me, we’ve got more beds in the morgue anyway.”


—



I use the bathroom, splash some water on my face. It doesn’t do much to wash away the dried blood, but it does make me feel a tiny bit more human. Then I limp slowly back out into the corridor. It’s a big hospital. Lots of ways in and out. I turn away from the signs directing me to the Main Exit and head inward, into the maze of bluey-gray corridors. Eventually, I see another sign, for North Exit. It will do.

It takes me a while. My bruised ribs protest at just about every breath. My back feels like someone has inserted a hot spike at the base of my spine and there is a constant dull ache in my skull. Still, it could be worse. She could have found me.

I reach the North Exit and push open the doors. The night air greets me with an icy slap around the face. After the suffocating warmth of the hospital it sends my body into a paroxysm of shivers. I stand for a moment, trying to contain them, gulping in the freezing air. Then I take out my mobile phone with trembling hands. I need to call a taxi. Need to get back to the cottage before…and that’s when the truth strikes me with a dull, hollow thud.

If she is here. If she was driving along Arnhill Lane this evening, then she already knows where I live.

I lower the phone, just as I hear the rumble of an engine. And I know it’s her, even before the sleek silver Mercedes pulls up in front of me and the window slides down.

Gloria smiles at me from the driver’s seat. “Joe, sweetheart. You look terrible. Hop in. I’ll drive you home.”


—



There’s a moment. Most addicts know. When you realize that your vice—whether it be alcohol, drugs or, in my case, gambling—has become a real problem.

My moment of enlightenment came when I met Gloria. In fact, you might say that Gloria saved me from myself.

Up until then I think I had just about been able to pretend that it was all still a hobby, a game, a distraction. Despite losing my job, my friends, my savings, my car and pretty much every night to the lure of the green baize and the crisp shuffle and flip of the cards, I had it under control.

Funny how the biggest bluffs are the ones you pull on yourself.

My grandparents taught me to play cards. Gin rummy, Pontoon, Newmarket, Sevens and, finally, poker. We played for pennies, which they kept in a big glass jar. Even at age eight, I found it fascinating, and addictive. I loved the faded swirly red pattern on the backs of the cards, the different suits, the two-faced ace (now I’m high, now I’m low), the imperious kings and queens and the slightly sinister, caddish-looking jacks.