I lifted my chin.
‘I’m not sorry I did it. I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way, but I’m not sorry I did it. However, I am sorry to have disappointed you, sir.’
‘I will not tolerate such behaviour in my unit.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘I suggest, Dr Maxwell, that you review your financial resources. The events of yesterday are going to cost you dearly.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dismissed.’
I fled, and by a devious route, avoiding people wherever possible, made my way back to my room where Peterson was waiting with a mug of tea and a packet of tissues. Twenty minutes later, I blew my nose and was ready, although with no great enthusiasm, to face the world.
The next day, I was in the dining-room, nose down in my lunch and wondering why personal catastrophe never affected my appetite, when a ripple ran around the room and everyone suddenly stampeded out the door.
I knew what this was. Chief Farrell was back.
Peterson and I continued a somewhat dogged conversation concerning upcoming assignments. Through the window, I saw the taxi drive away. Chief Farrell walked up the drive, looked over to the lake, paused for a moment, and then started off across the grass.
I knew Dieter had winched his car out of the lake, because David had persisted with a blow-by-blow account, despite my loudly expressed lack of interest.
The Chief disappeared from view and Peterson and I continued to eat. People slowly filtered back again. I hoped their gravy had congealed.
Neither of us attempted to seek out the other. We communicated by email, our com links, or by proxy. I was, therefore, quite surprised when he paused by my table one lunchtime and handed me a piece of paper.
I took it without looking at him. Around the room, everyone fell silent, presumably waiting for me to fall senseless to the ground, which I nearly did when I saw the total. I could have bought a house for the same amount. Or two houses. Or possibly a small village. How could it cost so much to repair just one car?
I took it between two fingers and handed it back to him.
‘Please give that to my assistant.’
He handed it back.
‘Please do not use St Mary’s resources for personal matters.’
‘Mr Sands will deliver it to my in-tray for my attention later on. The matter will be attended to when I have a moment.’
I pushed it back to him.
He left without a word.
That night, I fired up my laptop and emptied every bank account I had. I still had the compensation from my unfair dismissal and, having been alerted the hard way to the stupidity of not having any savings, I had been putting a bit by. If I added everything together, I could just cover it.
Just.
The remaining balance was in double figures and followed the decimal point. I had barely pennies to my name.
I shunted the whole lot into his bank account, told myself I regretted nothing, and settled down to watch the latest Bond movie with Peterson and Helen.
The next day, the whole lot pinged back into my account again.
I thought it was some electronic cock-up and whizzed it back to whence it came. Barely an hour later, it came back again.
What the hell did he think he was playing at?
I stormed back to my office and David.
‘Knock-knock.’
‘Shut up.’
I sat, seething, at my desk and then spent twenty minutes rummaging in unexplored drawers for my rarely-used chequebook.
‘What are you doing?’ said David, as I banged another drawer shut.
‘Chequebook.’
‘Bottom left-hand drawer in an envelope marked ‘STD clinic – test results’.’
It was, too.
I scribbled out a cheque, shoved it in an envelope, and gave it to David with instructions to put it in Farrell’s pigeonhole.
The next morning there was an envelope addressed to me in familiar jagged handwriting. I opened it up and a hundred tiny pieces of cheque fell out.
I drew out the money in cash and spent the evening pulling the bank wrappers off the bundles, shoving it all in a carrier bag, and mixing it up. The next day I entered the dining room, marched up to the table he was sharing with Dieter and Polly and upended the bag. Loose banknotes floated everywhere. They fell into his lap, his gravy, his water glass, on the floor, in Dieter’s custard, and Polly’s coffee.
I dropped the bag on the top and left the room.
When I returned to my office an hour later, my desk was heaped high with dirty, sticky banknotes. They were stuck to each other and my desk. Many had fallen on the floor and had dirty footprints. I identified gravy, custard, ketchup, mayonnaise, coffee, butter, and what smelled like motor oil.
‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘What the hell is he playing at?’
‘Don’t you know?’ said David.
‘Apparently not. If he doesn’t want the bloody money then why stick me with the bill?’