Sacrifice

24

WHEN I CAME ROUND, MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT I was still in the house and DI Dunn was leaning over me. Then I realized the eyes were more slate-grey than blue- grey and that the hair was dull blond with no hint of ginger.

'What time is it?' I managed.

Gifford looked at his watch. 'Eight twenty,' he replied.

'What did you give me?' I asked.

'Diazepam,' he said. 'You were pretty wired up when they brought you in. Had me worried for a while.' Diazepam is a mild sedative. If he was telling the truth I'd be woozy for a couple of hours but otherwise OK. I decided to put it to the test by sitting up. Harder than expected.

'Easy.' He wound the handle that lifts a hospital bed into a sitting position. Then he took hold of my wrist. I looked down in alarm but it was whole and unmarked. Gifford held it for half a minute while he checked my pulse. Then he took my blood pressure, shone a light into my eyes and held up several fingers for me to count. I waited until he'd finished and pronounced me OK; somewhere near the end of my tether, but basically sound.

'Where is she?' I asked.

He looked confused. 'Well, I imagine she's downstairs. Tora, promise me you won't-'

'I promise,' I said, meaning it. I had no intention of seeking out Dana. Dana had gone; somewhere I wasn't ready to follow.

I'm so sorry,' said Gifford.

I didn't speak.

'I guess we never really know what's going on in someone else's head.'

'I guess not.'

'She was under a lot of stress. Had been unhappy for a long time.'

'I know. I just wish

'There was nothing you could have done. When suicides are determined, nothing will stop them. You know that.'

I nodded. I knew that.

'I spoke to Duncan. He's coming back but he can't get a plane before tomorrow morning.'

I looked at him. 'I might… I think I'll go to my parents for a few days. Will that be OK, do you think?'

Gifford took hold of my hand again. 'I'm sure it will,' he said. 'DI Dunn needs to speak to you. I told him to wait till morning. I'm keeping you here overnight.'

I nodded again. 'Thank you.'

Gifford wound my bed back down and I closed my eyes.

People tend not to warm to me. I don't know why, although heaven knows I've asked myself the question often enough over the years. What is it about me, exactly, that they find so unappealing? I can't work it out and no one's ever told me. All I know is that I've never found it particularly easy to make or keep friends.

I remember one incident from primary school: my class of eight- year-olds were exuberant that day and the teacher, Mrs Williams, was threatening that the worst offender would be moved to an empty single desk, right down at the front of the classroom. I was out of sorts, fed up with the yattering and fidgeting of the five other children on my table, so I stuck my hand in the air and asked to move. I'd meant that I wanted to go to the quiet desk but Mrs Williams misunderstood and thought I was asking to move elsewhere in the room. She asked me where I wanted to go; struck by the new possibilities, I looked around.

Across the classroom, a boy shouted that I should come and join his table. Then, one by one, most of the class took up the same cry. Everywhere I looked children were begging me to come and sit at their table. I guess they all got caught up by a sense of competition; I doubt if it was any genuine liking for me that was spurring them on, but I couldn't know that at the time. For several minutes I basked in the clamour before choosing a new spot and being enthusiastically welcomed by my new table-mates.

The incident sticks in my mind because it is the only occasion I can remember feeling valued by those around me. The only time I ever felt popular.

In secondary school I always seemed to find myself one of a threesome. I'd start out with a best friend and then, somewhere along the way, someone else would appear and our two would become three. Slowly but relentlessly, the interloper would spend more and more time with us until I couldn't ignore the fact that she was seeing more of my best friend than I was. Time and time again this happened, until I didn't know what it was like to have a best friend all of my own.

So I learned not to expect too much from other women. I went through medical school without getting particularly close to anyone. I wasn't a dork, spending every night in studying, and no one would have called me Norma No-Mates. But never that special someone, the one whom you absolutely have to speak to every couple of days, who will feed you chocolate and sympathy when your heart is breaking, whom you know will be maid of honour at your wedding and godmother to your first-born child.

I was startled by voices outside the door and I braced myself to feign sleep.

'At least she's on hand if she's needed,' said a voice, one I recognized as belonging to one of the student midwives.

'Can't see it happening,' said an older woman, whom I thought might be Jenny. 'I've never seen a healthier batch of babies. Must be something in the water this spring.'

The midwives moved on and I sank back into my pit of self- pity.

I'll say one thing for myself: I'm never pushy. I rarely take the initiative with girlfriends, always waiting to be phoned, for the other person to suggest getting together. I never complain when friendships start to cool, never grumble when the message pad is continually empty, when I see girls I know on jaunts to which I haven't been invited. I accept it as the norm, bottle up my loneliness and stick it on the shelf with the rest.

The point behind this self-indulgent rant is that with Dana, the whole process had begun again. Dana had gone from being someone I didn't much like to someone I trusted without question. More than that, I was starting to enjoy being with her. Gradually, over the past ten days, Dana had got a little closer to becoming a friend. Until, some time during the course of the day, while I'd been scurrying down the islands like a panic-stricken rabbit, she had lain down in a bath of her own blood.

I opened my eyes. Thank the Lord for chattering midwives. I knew what had been bothering me since that moment in Richard's study when I'd learned that one of the symbols on Melissa's body meant Harvest. I knew what I had to look for next.

I was in an ancillary private room attached to one of my wards. I found my clothes and dressed quickly. It was a quarter to nine and the hospital would be quietening down for the night. I took a glance at the chart fixed to my bed. No medication had been prescribed for me during the night; with luck, I wouldn't be missed until morning. I opened the door. Three of the beds in the outer ward were occupied. One woman was sitting up, feeding. The other two appeared to be sleeping, their tiny appendages panting softly in transparent cots. Unnoticed, I walked slowly towards the door and out into the corridor.

I needed a computer but couldn't risk going to my office. In a room two doors down from my own I turned on the desk lamp and switched on the desk-top. My password was still valid and after a couple of minutes I was in the system.

Batch was the word Jenny had used that had struck a chord with me while I lay in my room musing about friendship. I was looking for a batch.