The Tied Man

‘They have those bloody lines painted for a reason, you know!’ the driver yelled out of his window.

‘Piss off!’ I hollered back, before I could stop myself.  The irate husband parked on a double yellow line and opened the door for his wife, the pair of them glaring at me all the while.

I lowered myself onto the pavement and felt my knees buckle.  I had just straightened up as Ed caught up with me.  ‘Nice driving, pet.  Bet you would’ve enjoyed that in different circumstances, eh?’

I had just run seven red lights and even briefly managed to push the dilapidated heap up to a hundred on the straight.  ‘Any other time.’

Ed placed huge hands on my shoulders, suddenly serious.  ‘Look, I hate to have to do this, but I’m going to have to nip off for a while.   Call just came through about some nonsense on one of the estates.  Too much loopy juice and hot weather, no doubt.  Bloody typical – I crawl out from behind my nice, cosy night-desk to cover for a mate with a case of Delhi belly and it all goes off.  Anyhow, I can’t see your young man going anywhere for a while, so what say you if I pop back later for that chat?  Just you and me, like I said.’

‘Is that a promise?’ I asked.

‘What, that I’ll be back, or it’ll be me that talks to you?’

‘Both.’

Ed surveyed my face.  ‘I do my very best to be a man of my word.  And most times, I manage.’  Before I could respond, he gave me a spontaneous hug that made me think even more of bears.  ‘You take care of yourself, Lili.  You and young Finn there.’  With that he gave me a rueful smile and went off to confront his rioters, and we were alone against the world once more.

*****

Finn had not spoken since Ed had stopped us.  I left him in the car and tried to appear as calm as possible as I walked into the deserted reception of Castlerigg Hospital.  It was a small, genteel Victorian building, a throwback to when monied gentlefolk would pay a small fortune to attend the sanatorium, and the poor just had to suffer and find a quiet corner to drop dead.  I had forgotten just how much I hated hospitals, and I did my best to breathe through my mouth; anything to avoid the universal smell of disinfectant and disease.

The minute I saw the receptionist, I knew she must have come with the fixtures and fittings.  Where Ed had been the answer to my non-believer’s prayers, this woman looked like a twin-set-wearing guard dog at the gates of hell.  I stepped up to the counter.

‘There is a system.’  The woman, identified as Marjorie Blandford on her neat little name badge, stapled a sheaf of papers together and didn’t look up.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, there’s a system.  It’s called a queue and you’ll find that that is the start of it.’  She used her stapler to indicate a roped-off area that bore the sign, Please Queue Here.

‘You’re kidding.  It’s six o’clock in the effing morning.  There’s no-one else here.  Does it even class as a queue if there’s only one of you?’  In fact, there was a bored-looking young security guard standing by a flickering drinks machine, listening to something loud and unpleasant on his MP3 whilst he picked at the acne on his chin, but he definitely didn’t count.

‘And I am busy, and once I’ve finished, I’ll be available to help you.’  She finally glanced up and I found myself appraised by marble-hard, disapproving eyes. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t swear.’

‘What?  I said ‘effing,’ for f… for heaven’s sake!  And it’s not for me – it’s for my friend.  He’s waiting outside.’

Marjorie glared at me.  ‘Well it’s obviously not serious enough to warrant a trip to a proper casualty department.  If your ‘friend’ requires private treatment he’ll have to come in here and give me his details himself.  And I must inform you, if he’s been drinking, we have the right to refuse -’

‘James Maxwell.  I was told to bring him to see Doctor James Maxwell,’ I interrupted, finally remembering the man’s bloody name.

‘Young lady, you can’t walk in here and simply demand to see the Senior Consultant. Certainly not on a bank holiday.’  Marjorie, with her neat, salt-and-pepper bun and Stalinist’s blouse, had taken in my unkempt appearance and acted as judge and jury:  I was trash, to be dealt with at arm’s length.  She delivered her coup de grace.  ‘And anyway, Mr Maxwell isn’t in attendance.  He’s golfing all day.’