Was there a fucking problem? “Yeah, guy in the bed, where is he?”
She threw a glance towards the knot of blankets. “He left. I assumed you were aware.”
“You discharged him? I thought you were monitoring overni—”
“He discharged himself against medical advice.”
“What and you just let him walk out?”
“This is a hospital, not a prison. We can’t hold people against their will. It was made plain to the patient that he required rest, and it was in his best interests to stay, but—”
Her tone made it sound as if it was his fault Spook had bolted. He wasn’t the one who’d let a clearly addled patient stroll out without so much as informing anyone. “How long ago?” How long had he been absent? More than the five minutes he’d promised Spook, but no more than ten.
The sister’s narrow mouth wrinkled into a pout. “A few minutes.”
Bile welled in Xane’s throat. If it was minutes, and Spook sure as hell wasn’t doing more than shambling, maybe he could catch him.
“Gary took him down, you could ask him,” one of the health care workers informed him, pointing toward a porter who had just wheeled an empty chair back onto the ward.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Xane planted himself right in the guy’s way. “Did he say where he was going?”
The porter was thin, all wiry and wrinkled, with short-cropped greying hair. He looked the type who weighed every word before he spoke.
“The guy you took down to the taxi,” Xane elaborated. “Leather jacket, long blond hair. Been beaten to a pulp.”
“No. He didn’t say a whole lot of anything. You here to collect him? Sorry, mate, you’ve just missed each other. Here, he left his wound care leaflet behind.” He pressed a sheet of paper into Xane’s hand. A couple of healthcare workers wheeled a trolley past them and started stripping Spook’s bed. He noticed the younger of them casting him surreptitious glances. “Are you—?” she began.
Time he left.
It was worse in the main corridor. “Xane Geist!” some girl blurted as he trudged along, before trying to wrap her arms around him. He neatly side-stepped that one and darted into the thankfully empty lift. The whispers reached the ground floor before he did. “Oh my God, that’s Xane Geist. It is, right? Did you see him?” He turned a corner, put his head down and his shades on before ploughing across the bustle of the main foyer.
Once outside, Xane headed over to the little quadrangle of grass and perched on one of the oversized concrete marbles someone had thought were a good idea. He dialled Spook.
Pick up. Pick up. Come on, what the hell are you doing?
Unsurprisingly, he got pinged over to voicemail.
Messages were hitting his inbox in a constant stream. Three from Luthor, followed by one from Rock Giant, and another from Ash. Then a series from their PR bod and five from their manager. Shit was getting way too real, and they could all go screw themselves. His screen lit due to an incoming call. Xane answered.
“Spook.”
“It’s Ash. You’re talking him down from this resignation nonsense, right? Hang on, why’d you think I was—”
“He’s fucked off. I don’t know where the bloody hell he’s gone.”
“Come again?”
“I stepped out and he’s sent this shitty nonsense to everyone, fucking discharged himself and got in a cab to hell knows where. He’s taken my jacket, my wallet… Fuck!” He bellowed the last part loud enough to scatter a troop of pigeons and turn the heads of numerous people heading in and out—a gaggle of pensioners, a mum with three kids—who all glared at him. He wasn’t in the mood for apologies. “Ash, he shouldn’t be out of bed. He has three fractured ribs and a line of staples in his scalp.”
There was a moment of silence, while Ash took stock.
“Is it possible he’s heading here? It could be he just wanted out of the hospital.”
“If that’s all it was, then why the fuck didn’t he wait for me? No. He’s gone, Ash. He’s gone. He’s fucking gone.”
“Xane!”
A car screeched to a halt alongside him, and a tall red-haired woman leapt from the passenger seat.
