‘Not that I know of. You look awful.’
She clasps Fly’s hand, palm to palm as if for an arm wrestle. Her lips to his skin.
‘He’s only asleep,’ Mark says. ‘He really is going to be all right.’
‘I’m not sure he’ll ever be all right.’
‘Actually, I think we can get him out. Read this.’ Mark has opened his briefcase and hands her a wad of A4 paper stapled at one corner.
She gathers herself, wiping her face on her sleeve and reads.
Expert Medical Report: Michael Fairbrother
Professor of Trauma Sciences
Consultant trauma and vascular surgeon, UCH
She scans the first page of Fairbrother’s curriculum vitae. ‘I have a particular academic interest in severe bleeding after injury.’
Next page, Jon-Oliver’s injuries: ‘A single stab wound to the right chest at the 8th intercostal space (between the 8th and 9th ribs). The wound penetrated the lower lobe of the right lung, right diaphragm and right lobe of the liver. The wound then penetrated the pericardium and then entered the right atrium of the heart. Mr Oliver died from profound cardiovascular shock due to the combination of severe blood loss and cardiac tamponade (collection of blood around the heart). I am of the opinion that blood loss is the most dominant factor leading to shock and death.’
‘So he’s written this based on Derry’s postmortem and seeing the CCTV from the station buffet?’ she asks Mark.
‘That’s right.’
The next line springs out at her as if pulsating. ‘It is possible for people not to realise immediately that they have been stabbed. Mr Ross displays laboured breathing while in the station buffet which could be the result of ongoing blood loss at this time. Mr Ross went into traumatic arrest in Hinchingbrooke Park at 4.27 p.m. If he had been stabbed prior to going into the station buffet, he would have been bleeding internally for at least fourteen minutes. This scenario is consistent with his injuries.’
‘How can you not realise you’ve been stabbed?’ she asks Mark.
‘Well, there are a number of possible reasons. If you’ve been beaten up, for example, you might be distracted by other injuries. There was bruising on Ross’s legs. Maybe he was kicked. Also, if you’re drunk—’
‘He wasn’t drunk.’
‘No, but there was cocaine in his system. Keep reading.’
She returns to the report. ‘At the counter of the station buffet, he appears to have increased depth and rate of breathing. His respiratory rate is approximately forty breaths per minute while buying a Twix. Otherwise he does not appear particularly distressed. He walks across the station car park, mounting the steps up to Brampton Road. He is not hurried and does not appear distressed although his gait becomes unsteady. There is no sign of blood on his clothes.
‘The amount of time a person can function normally after a stab wound such as this depends on the rate of blood loss (or collection around the heart) induced by the injury. It is possible and even common for victims to bleed at a slow or moderate rate so that they are able to talk normally and maintain their blood pressure.
‘As blood is lost from the circulation, there are compensatory responses in the cardiovascular and respiratory system to maintain as much blood supply to the vital organs as possible. One of these responses is to increase ventilation, seen by an increased rate and depth of respiration. In the station buffet, Mr Ross does appear to have a markedly increased rate and depth of breathing. This is one of the earliest clinical signs of internal bleeding. It is consistent with his body going into haemorrhagic shock.’
Manon sits back. You can die two ways, it turns out – just like you can fall in love or go broke: gradually, or all of a sudden. Jon-Oliver was stabbed on the train. He was panting in the station buffet, buying his Twix. He was bleeding to death all the way across the car park, up the steps, along Brampton Road, turning right into Hinchingbrooke Park Road, and then he fell, into the arms of Judith Cole, by which point he was bleeding profusely, panicked by the realisation that he’d been stabbed, and soaking her clothes with his blood.
‘What do we do with this pathology report then? As it stands, it’s just one pathologist contradicting the rest.’
‘I want to show it to Derry Mackeith. I think if he reads it and watches the CCTV, he’ll be persuaded it’s right and will change his position.’
‘Er, have you ever met Derry Mackeith?’
‘Only in passing.’
‘Just, he’s not really a change position kind of guy.’
‘There’s a lot of evidence backing this pathology report. Firstly there’s the CCTV showing him panting. Then there’s the blood drips on the station steps, and car park footage that shows him weaving. And then there’s the blood drips at the scene itself, which they claim came from Fly’s weapon, but which patently – I’d argue at least – come from the victim himself. Hence the drip which doesn’t fit their hypothesis.’
She leans back in her surprisingly comfortable chair, the kind relatives have to sleep in. She considers nodding off – the undertow dragging deep within her as if her brain is longing to go into shutdown mode, to evade the situation. She can remember this sleepiness from other high-stress situations – her Cambridge exams or key police interviews. The totally inappropriate desire to take a nap. Head back, she closes her eyes. The undertow is too much and she is being dragged under, her head lolling against the padded backrest of the oh-so-comfortable chair.
She has re-taken Fly’s hand in hers. She and Fly, sleeping side by side, together like in the old days and not at war.
When she comes round, preparations are being made to move him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We need the room,’ says a nurse. ‘He’s out of danger so he can go onto a ward.’
‘You should go home and get some proper rest.’ It is Harriet, one hand on Manon’s shoulder. Manon’s eyelids are so dried out, they are slow to unstick.
‘We’re going to have to transfer him back to Arlidge House once he’s discharged,’ Harriet says.
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Manon says.
The room is full of people doing things; unclipping monitors, pushing down metal sides on the bed, un-hoisting tubes from around Fly.
‘He’ll be under close observation,’ Harriet says.
‘Like he was before, you mean? Have you seen the cuts on him? Who’ll be watching out for him? Neil? Neil doesn’t watch over anything except his own back. Have you been in there? It’s not fit for purpose. I will never forgive you for this, Harriet. Never.’
Davy
The sun sets, lurid peach bleeding up through pale yellow to light blue then dark beyond the window of Stanton’s office. An electronic chord chimes out of Mark Talbot’s laptop.
‘Manon all right?’ Davy asks.
‘Not really,’ Mark says.