Lockdown

Nine

‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’

The doctor was back at the foot of Lock’s bed, busy looking over his chart as he lay back watching the tube. Even this early on in his convalescence he’d made a number of interesting discoveries, the most surprising being that with a sufficiently high dose of morphine daytime soap operas were damn engrossing.

‘Wouldn’t have had you pegged as a big daytime soap fan,’ she mused as Lock flicked the TV to mute, leaving a cleft-chinned Clooney wannabe to slap around an actress whose Botox-blank face ran the gamut of human emotions from A to B and back again.

‘I was waiting for the news to come on.’

‘Sure you were.’ That killer smile again.

‘Are you flirting with me, doc?’

She ignored the question, jotting down an additional note on his chart instead.

‘What are you writing?’ he asked, doing his best to peek.

She angled the chart so he couldn’t see. ‘Do not resuscitate.’

Lock laughed. It hurt.

She edged a smile herself. ‘Sorry, but I get hit on a lot, and I haven’t been home in two days.’

‘Who said I was hitting on you?’

‘You weren’t? OK, now I feel insulted. Anyway, isn’t this all a pointless discussion? You have a girlfriend.’

‘Do I?’

‘Well there’s certainly been a woman putting in a lot of calls since you were admitted. Carrie Delaney ring any bells?’

‘Lots, but unfortunately we’re just good friends.’

‘Unfortunate for you or her?’

‘Probably both.’

‘I see.’

Lock pushed himself up into a sitting position. ‘Y’know, I’d never really thought about it until now, but our jobs have quite a few things in common.’

‘Saving people’s lives?’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of unsociable hours and only getting any real attention when you screw up.’

‘What did you screw up?’ she asked him. ‘Janice Stokes wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done what you did.’

‘And neither would I.’

She was staring at him now. ‘So why did you?’

‘This is going to sound like a line from a bad movie.’

‘I get lots of those too.’

‘I did it because it’s what I’m trained to do.’

‘So you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?’

Lock shook his head. ‘No, just a habit of walking through doors I shouldn’t. Listen, I didn’t even catch your name.’

‘Dr Robbins.’

‘I meant your first name.’

‘I know you did.’

Over her shoulder, Lock caught a glimpse of Carrie fronting the headline report on the TV. Seeing her hurt worse than getting shot. She was standing outside a green-canopied apartment building, a white-gloved doorman flitting in and out of frame behind her, apparently undecided between discretion and getting his mug on the tube.

‘That your lady friend?’ Dr Robbins asked, following Lock’s gaze to the TV and reading the bottom of the screen.

‘She was. For a time anyway.’

‘Looks too classy for you.’

‘I get that a lot. Would you mind if I. .?’

‘Go right ahead,’ said Dr Robbins, stepping out of his way.

Lock turned up the volume, catching Carrie mid-sentence.

‘. . the FBI remaining tight-lipped about this latest twist in the Meditech massacre story which has gripped America. But so far only one fact remains clear: three days after his disappearance, seven-year-old Josh Hulme remains missing.’

The screen cut to a picture of a young white boy with thick brown hair and blue eyes, smiling self-consciously for a family portrait.

Lock moved away from Dr Robbins as she attempted to get a fresh look at the back of his head. ‘What’s this got to do with Meditech?’

‘His father works for them or something.’

Lock felt a jolt of adrenalin. He started to get out of bed, earning a reproachful look from Dr Robbins.

‘I need to make a call.’

‘Fine, but do everyone a favour.’

‘What’s that, doc?’

‘Put on a robe first. Your butt’s hanging out.’