I was still sore when the hospital released me, just over a fortnight later, the summer sun bright on tired eyes… and it had been turning into another long, hot summer. Concrete planters full of geraniums winked red by the automatic doors, obligatory cigarette stubs screwed into the compost. A black estate car occupied a space near the entrance, just one among many vehicles and a large gaggle of people, which—even though I’d expected to see them—still struck me with bowel-watering terror.
Leon’s arm tightened around my shoulders.
“All right?”
I nodded, then reconsidered. “Wait, no. No, I’m not. Can we—”
“Yeah, you are. C’mon. One, two, three, go.”
“Oh, crap….”
We stepped out. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it when they rounded on me and the cameras started clicking. Overlapping voices called my name.
“Miss Ross! Got a comment?”
“What drew you to the story?”
“BBC News! When did you realise you were investigating a murder?”
“How did getting shot feel, Miss Ross?”
“Will you be releasing a formal statement about last month’s events?”
“Is it true you’re a Jehovah’s Witness?”
I blinked, dislocated and disorientated by all of it, happy to let Leon propel me through the scrum.
“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Ross is very grateful for your concern and appreciates that you’ve been waiting.”
Did I? This was news to me.
“However, there will not be any comment at this time. As I’m sure you understand—get in the car, Ellis—she’s still recovering and will be making a full public statement in due course. No, really. Nobody’s got anything to say ri—excuse me? Uh, no. Nobody’s answering any of those questions at all. Sorry. All right, that’s it, thank you very much! Now. In the damn car.”
He bundled me into the passenger seat and shut the door. Flashes went off through the windows, and I made to shield my eyes with my left hand, forgetting for a moment about the twinges that kind of movement still sent through my ribs. Leon got into the driver’s seat, smile fixed and eyes tight. He leaned over to help me with my seatbelt, fastened his own, then blew out a long breath.
“Shall we get the hell outta here? You feel up to some breakfast?”
“I could be tempted,” I said, staring in vague horror at one photographer, pressed up close to the windscreen with the camera across his face like some gross protuberance, tongue poking out between fleshy, gurning lips.
“All right.”
“Mm.”
Leon kicked the engine into life, and we pulled away in chronically slow motion, journos still dogging us until we got out of the car park. Everything from my neck to my hips throbbed, and I leaned my head back against the seat, eyes drooping shut. The shadows of daylight bounced off the inside of my eyelids, and I relaxed into the thrum of the road.
“So,” Leon said, after a while, “where d’you wanna go?”
It could be anywhere, I supposed. A new life of unimagined potentials and ridiculous possibilities had opened up for me, unasked for and unexpected. And yet, there were still so many questions. They lingered like ripe fruit just in front of my lips, perfumed and tempting.
I took a deep breath and, after a moment, cracked one eye open. A lazy arabesque of cigarette smoke curled past my cheek. And it stunk. Leon sighed and hit the window control, letting in a cross-current of fresh air.
“Do you have to do that in the car, man?”
A throaty chuckle rippled from the back seat. With some considerable effort, I turned as far around as I could.
Damon sat… no, that wasn’t the right word. He sprawled—in an extremely stylish way—across the upholstery, cigarette in his fingers, skinny black fur boa at his neck, wearing ombre-dyed jeans and an extremely paisley shirt with the cuffs rolled back. A massive pair of tortoiseshell Jackie Os shaded his eyes. He pushed the sunglasses down to look at me, wicked grin on his face, and winked.
“I don’t know about you, baby, but I’m dyin’ for a cup of tea.”