A tall blond guy stood outside, on the phone. I paused and studied the bandana around his neck. It had the same Union Jack print on it as the one in Cillian’s car.
For a second his blue gaze held mine, then he turned his back to me, obviously deep in conversation.
I rushed through the automatic doors and up to the reception desk. “Mitch Cooper, please. Just out of surgery.”
The receptionist tapped away and then noticed me. “Tom’s ward. To your left here and then use the lift.”
“Thank you.” I whizzed past a waiting room, several empty gurneys and a porter’s office, then stabbed at the lift button.
Soon I was standing outside Tom’s ward. I used the alcohol gel on my hands, as instructed by a big green poster, and then walked in.
It was a hub of activity with nurses and doctors and cleaners all milling about. Beeps and alarms pinged off the bright-white walls, and to my right a nurses’ station held a panel of monitors and was bustling with staff.
One smiled at me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m trying to find Mitch Cooper,” I said. “I’ve been told he’s here.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you a relative?”
“Yes, I’m his next of kin.”
“Oh, okay.” She stood. “This way.” She ducked off to the right, and I rushed to keep up with her.
“How is he doing?” I asked.
“I’m just a receptionist, the nurses will be able to tell you more.” She gestured forward. “He’s down here, in a side room. We take care of our own, and as a cop, on the front line, that makes him one of ours. Figured he’d appreciate some peace at night and an en suite.”
“Oh…yes, thank you. He’ll be glad of that.” I paused at a door that had his name scrawled in the center of it on a white board.
She squeezed my shoulder. “From what I heard he’s been in surgery most of the night. Expect him to be sleeping.”
“Okay.” I pushed into the side room.
For a moment it felt as though my knees might give up on me, and then my eyes filled with tears and my heart squeezed.
He appeared too big for the bed; all tanned wide shoulders and broad chest, the white sheets stark against his flesh and his body hair thick. Drips were attached to his right forearm, kept secure with a bandage, and the right side of his abdomen was taped up, a spot of blood at the midline.
A nurse, blue scrubs, spun from a stack of machinery attached to the drips. “Hi. Are you a relative?”
“Yes. Is he…how is…will he…?” My mouth was so dry the words were grating on my tongue.
“He’s comfortable,” she said. “Plenty of pain meds on board.”
“Good.” I took a step closer, my attention on his abdomen. The sheet sat low, just above his hips, and the dressing to the left seemed so out of place on his usually perfect body. “And…that…?”
“The surgeon will talk to you at some point, but it was a successful surgery. He had a section of bowel removed that had been damaged and then it was reattached. Shouldn’t cause any problems going forward, all being well.”
“So he’ll make a full recovery?”
“Certainly physically.” She frowned. “Though getting mugged at gunpoint, that’s not going to be easy to get over, for anyone, even a big tough guy like him.” She glanced at his face then turned to a monitor.
He was sleeping, his mouth a flat line and his jaw relaxed, though there was a slight frown on his brow.
“Can I stay with him a while?” I asked.
“Sure, pull up a chair.” She gestured to the corner. “But expect him to sleep most of the day. If he does wake up, he can press this button for pain relief. I’ve told him that already, but he might forget. Don’t you press it, though, you’ll overdose him.”
“Okay, I’ll remind him.” A small white button on a lead sat beside his left hand.
