Death of a Murderer

29

On his way to the snack bar, images from that day by the lake in Italy still lingered. He couldn’t remember what had happened after he walked into the roadside pizzeria. Had Raymond spent the night with that waitress? Billy had a vague memory of sleeping in a stuffy back room with all the cleaning equipment, and Raymond not being there, Raymond being somewhere else…

As Billy passed a toilet, the door opened and Phil Shaw appeared. His face looked chapped and blotchy. Probably he had been dowsing it in cold water, trying to keep himself awake.

“On your break, Billy?”

“I’m going to get a cup of soup,” Billy said. “I think I saw some in one of the machines.”

“Mind if I come with you?”

“Course not.”

At that moment, a nurse darted round them and into a nearby ward. On reaching the doorway, which was open, they both paused, curious as to the reason for her haste. Illuminated by a single lamp, an old man was sitting up in bed and vomiting stringy yellow fluid down the front of his pyjamas. “Oh God,” he gasped between oddly effortless bouts of retching. “God, bugger. Fuck.” One of the nurses attending to him held a grey cardboard container below his chin. He vomited again. “Disgusting,” he said. “This is bloody disgusting.” Another nurse arrived with a fresh pair of pyjamas. Phil touched Billy on the shoulder, and the two men moved on.

They covered fifty yards without speaking, then Phil gave Billy a sideways look. “Still want that soup?”