FOUR
Huge, no colossal, green stems are winding around his limbs, their thick, spiny leaves unfurling to sneer at him as they attach themselves to his legs, beginning to feast on the muscle and flesh there. Boyd roars, tries to shake them off, but for every one he manages to dislodge, there are a dozen more sinking their tiny teeth into him. And to make matters worse, some sort of fronded thing with gigantic, long slender stripy leaves is attacking his neck and shoulders. It seems to be doing its level best to interfere with his nostrils and to try to tickle him to death.
It's torture. But when he tells the little man in green and the lady in red what's happening, they just smile and talking soothingly, as if he's imagining it. Is this their doing?
Someone perches by his head, momentarily blocking out the bizarre flashes of blue that are pushing through the gaps in the monstrous plants. He's seen blue light before, hasn't he? "How are you feeling, Peter?" she asks. "How's the pain?"
"It's like the bloody day of the triffids," he bellows, furious. "The plants are trying to finish me off." Gentle laughter meets his ears. Is this green clad woman part of it? Is she encouraging this? Rage fills him, makes him fight back with everything he's got. Rage is exhausting though, and suddenly, from nowhere, exhaustion cripples him.
Heavy fog of some kind takes over. Is this the plants' doing, too, he wonders. People ask him things, but the words have no meaning, no relevance. Dimly, he's aware that the bizarre rocking movement has stopped, that everything is nice and still. That he's finally warm. The tickling plant stays with him, keeps attacking his nostrils. It's a spider plant, he thinks, recognising it from Grace's kitchen windowsill.
Grace.
Where is she? Is she in on this? Is she instructing her bloody plant to kill him?
Fuck. He did not see that coming. How could she?
Someone else is talking to him, their words a blurred, confusing mess. He tries his best to tell them about Grace and her murderous plant. Begs for help, but nothing happens. Instead, he simply fades away, loses track of anything and everything.
An indeterminable time later, thoroughly disorientated, sick to his stomach and hurting like his joints are on fire, Boyd wakes with a start. His eyes snap open and the very first thing he sees is an enormous leafy green plant by his feet. He yells, panic swamping him, blotting everything else out. Thrashes against the bonds holding him in place, screaming for help. Hands grab him, pull him back as he desperately tries to warn their owner of the danger.
"Steady, Peter," says a low, kind voice. "You've had an anaesthetic; you're going to feel a bit weird for a while. How's the pain?"
Pain? His brain scrambles to keep up. "The plants," he says, weakly, "they're trying to kill me. They'll kill all of us."
"Plants, is it?" There's a swooshing sound nearby, and then his world turns startlingly blue. Plain, solid blue. "How's that? Are the plants gone now?"
Boyd swallows, looks around frantically. Takes a steadying breath. What the hell? "Yeah."
"Good. Now, how do you feel?"
It's an interesting question. "Pretty bad," he admits.
"I'm not surprised. It looks like you've been in the wars."
Nurse. Middle-aged, kind eyes. Strong, capable hands. Seems like she might be pretty unflappable. "I have?"
"Oh yes. There's a lot of metal in your leg now."
"My leg?" he mumbles, nonplussed. It's all so confusing. "Did Grace attack me? Her spider plant was running riot."
The nurse chuckles gently. "Nothing like that, no. Do you remember the ambulance?"
He doesn't. Other bits and pieces come back to him. The old house. Pain. Fear. Grace. His blood seems to freeze. "Grace..."
"Your colleague?" she says promptly. "She's doing well. Like you, she's been through the wars, but she's stable, and the chest drain is working."
Chest drain? Boyd frowns, trying to put all the shattered pieces of his recent memories into a pattern that makes sense. He doesn't really succeed, so he settles for echoing, "She's doing well."
"Yes. She's been asking about you."
"She has?" His throat hurts. A lot. "Can I have some water?"
"A sip," the nurse says, moving to oblige. As she pours water into a plastic glass she says over her shoulder, "You were intubated. For the surgery."
"Surgery...?"
"Your leg," she reminds him, handing him the glass that now has barely half an inch of water in it. "It's been plated and pinned. You've been very lucky, Mr Boyd."
He doesn't miss the switch back to the formality of his last name. He assumes it's a good sign, an indication he's not in any imminent danger of meeting the Grim Reaper. The water is cool and soothing. He wishes there was more. "I don't... everything is very hazy."
"That's the medication. Nothing to worry about. You have a lot of stitches in your abdomen, and your leg... well, you know about that."
"Tell me about Grace," he says, handing her back the – now empty – glass.
"She's stable, as I said. She has a concussion, and a CT scan confirmed a haemothorax. A few other more superficial injuries. I have to say, she's far tougher than she looks."
"She is," Boyd agrees with no irony whatsoever.
"There are some police officers waiting to speak to you," the nurse informs him, "but Doctor Barnett has told them they can't see you today. Oh, and there's a very insistent lady waiting in the corridor. Doctor something-or-other. Not one of ours."
"Lockhart?" he hazards. "Long dark hair, forty-ish?"
"That's her," she confirms. "She seems very nice."
"Can I see her?" Boyd asks. If anyone can help him make sense of what's happened, it's bound to be Eve.
"Well..."
He does his best to deploy some of the charm he's occasionally accused of being very capable of. "I'm sure it would be fine with Doctor Barnett, and if it isn't, well, I won't tell him if you don't."
"Her."
"What? Oh." He moves slightly, is startled by how sore and stiff he appears to be. "So...?"
He's not ready for the huge rush of relief that floods through him when Eve slips between the curtains at the foot of his bed. She looks a little unkempt, and very tired, but it just the sight of her is... wonderful.
"You look better," is her opening gambit.
Boyd laughs, then wishes he hadn't. Whatever's happened to his stomach, the skin there pulls horribly. Solemnity returns. "I'm told I've been lucky. Very lucky."
She nods, pulls the visitor's chair round and settles herself so they can see each other. "It's a minor miracle you still have two legs. I've seen your x-rays – they're impressive."
It's a sobering thought, but not one to be considered at length now. "How's Grace?" he asks. "Really?" If Eve notices the trepidation in his tone, she chooses to say nothing about it.
"Doing a lot better than I expected, considering how she was in the ambulance."
It's an honest assessment, he knows. Eve wouldn't lie to him. She looks briefly haunted as she remembers whatever it was she witnessed. He forgets, sometimes, that Grace and Eve are very close. Good friends as well as colleagues.
"I saw her coughing up blood," he says, the sudden memory of it making him feel sick.
Eve nods. "That's stopped. Damage to her lungs and chest from broken ribs. She was hit multiple times, she fell from the gate, and she also crashed your car without wearing a seatbelt, though that appears to have been at relatively low speed. The blood is still draining from her pleural cavity, but it's slowing. That's a good sign. It should heal on its own."
"Christ." Boyd rests a hand over his eyes. He could have lost her...
Eve shifts in her seat, doesn't seem to know what to say. "What else?" he asks.
"She's got pretty bad swelling and bruising to her throat, but she is managing her airway herself with a bit of oxygen. The biggest concern at the moment is pneumonia."
"And?" he prompts, guessing there is more.
"Broken wrist, a cut to the underside of her forearm that we think came from your assailant's weapon in the final fight. Grace has no recollection of it, but when forensics recovered the knife there was blood on it."
His heart is pounding. "He had it when he came back," Boyd recalls.
"They still don't know who he is," Eve tells him. "He was only discharged from A&E a few hours ago. He went straight to a cell because he was too violent to book in at the desk."
"Lovely. Grace?"
"Um... covered in cuts and bruises, and she has a nasal fracture that needs realigning, plus a bit of a nasty fracture here," Eve reaches up and touches her eye socket. "They won't repair it until the swelling around her airway comes down, though, too much risk otherwise. He hit her extremely hard. She's going to be dizzy and sick with the concussion for a while."
He must look horrified, because she straightens. Reaches for his hand. "She's okay, Boyd. She looks awful, but she's alert and she's been talking to me. She won't stop asking about you."
"Can I see her?" he asks, and quickly adds, "I could use a wheelchair, or something?"
"Soon," Eve assures him, letting go of his hand. Strange as the contact was, he immediately misses it. She regards him steadily for a moment, then says, "Boyd..."
There's something about her tone. What the hell, he wonders, can possibly be coming now to blindside him? He tilts his head a fraction, an unspoken question.
He sees her take a deep breath. When she speaks, her voice is steady and calm. "There's no easy way of saying this. Your leg... it really was a bad break. You're going to be on crutches for quite a while, and you're looking at a lot of physio. Even then... well, it's going to be a while before you're fit for deployment."
It hadn't occurred to him. Too many other things to think about. There's something in the way Eve is watching him. He clears his throat, winces at the pain it causes. His voice sounds rougher than he intends as he says, "Just tell me, Eve."
"The DAC called Spence in this morning. He's to hold the fort until – "
"I'm considered fit to run a desk."
"It's rather worse than that," she tells him. "The DAC thinks that due to the severity of your injuries and the unique nature of the CCU, Spence isn't senior enough or experienced enough to assume temporary command for the length of time required."
He frowns. "What? Well, that's bloody ridiculous. He steps up every time I take a week's leave, so how is this any different?"
"Boyd." Her voice is quiet, level. "Think about it, your position is pretty unique, isn't it? Most Supers never step outside their offices, let alone take an active role in investigations. The DAC is bringing in someone else. For now."
It hits him hard. So hard that he simply stares at her for several long moments, his mind racing. Eventually he manages a gruff, "Who?"
"DCI Dave Pelham."
"Don't know him." He scowls. "This is bureaucratic bullshit."
"Whatever it is," Eve says, "it's happening. Spence has been told to expect him first thing Monday morning."
"Fuck's sake..." Boyd can't process the news, not properly. "So, what? I lounge around at home until some quack – no offence – decides I can go back to work?"
Eve shakes her head. "Hardly. You'll be working hard on a rehabilitation programme. If you want half a chance of getting your kingdom back."
"What do you mean?"
"It's possible... well, that you may never be fit for deployment."
"No." The refusal is automatic. "Christ, it's not that bad, Eve."
"It is that bad," she contradicts him. "Boyd, I'm sorry, but I wasn't joking; you came this close – " she holds up her hand, thumb and forefinger held half-an-inch apart – "to having that leg amputated. Chances are you will walk again, but recovery... it's going to be slow, and it's going to be tough."
"I've survived worse." It's hyperbole, and part of him knows it. "Come on, Eve..."
"I'm not sugar-coating it," she says, "because you wouldn't want me to. Grace is in a mess, sure, but she'll be back on her feet and back in the office before you will. I'm sorry."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
Silence falls between them. Stretches uncomfortably. It's Eve who speaks first. "HR have contacted your sister. She's coming down from Edinburgh."
"Terrific."
"And Grace's daughter – Dawn? – is on her way."
Dawn. Small and feisty, just like her mother. Not one to suffer fools gladly. Gave him a piece of her mind the first and only time he met her. He rather liked her. More than rather liked her, truth be told. But that was then, before... Oh, this is going to be... complicated.
"Are you all right?" Eve asks. "Stupid question, I know, but..."
Boyd closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Eve is on her feet, looking down at him. There's something so compassionate and so melancholy in her expression that he can't bear it.
"Go," he says. "Just go, Eve."
"Spence is waiting to see you," she says, and slips out through the curtains, leaving him silent and solitary.
Sinking back into his pillows, Boyd closes his eyes. It's emotional overload. So many things to worry about, so many things to try to mentally sort through. That image of Grace though, sliding down the wall, blood dripping from her lips…
Sleep, it seems, is the answer.
He wakes gradually this time, thoroughly aware now of all the places where he aches fiercely. The bed, thankfully, is quite soft, but that doesn't stop the intense discomfort. Shifting a little, he groans involuntarily. Yelps when he notices the curtains are open and there's a giant green plant crawling with ants painted on the wall opposite him. Brightly coloured birds swoop above it.
The same nurse from earlier appears. "This was a children's ward until recently," she explains, chuckling at his expression. She offers him a glass of water and some tablets. He downs both and lies back against his pillows, panting a little. How can leaning forward just a few inches reducing him to such a state, he wonders. Yolanda, as she finally introduces herself, raises the bed a little to make him more comfortable, moves his pillows, and offers ice-cream later if he behaves.
The minutes tick by and gradually Boyd feels his body settle, feels the pain abate. His view has improved, at least; there's a window to his right. Slowly, he eases the blankets back, the hospital gown aside. What he sees is daunting. A large rectangular white dressing covers his abdomen, from belly button to somewhere around his side. Gingerly, he lets his fingers trace over it, flinching at the soreness beneath.
"That should heal quite nicely," says a crisp voice as the curtains part enough to allow entry. Tall, strawberry blonde and brown-eyed, the woman is imposing. That's the first word that comes to Boyd's mind as she points at the dressing. "Mostly just skin damage in the end, and a bit of torn muscle, though we did fish a few wooden splinters out of it."
Neither slim nor fat, she's solid. Muscular, he realises, startled. Very muscular. Rugby, perhaps? Still as direct, she continues to speak even as she examines him, fingers probing the area. "There will be some scarring, but no lasting problems."
Boyd nods. Isn't sure what else to say. Is seized by the desire to yank the sheets back into place, to cover himself. "And my leg?" he forces himself to ask.
"A different story," she says bluntly, moving to the end of the bed. "I'm Doctor Barnett, by the way. Consultant orthopaedic surgeon. You have a long road ahead of you."
"So I've been told," he mumbles gloomily.
She's inspecting the plaster enclosing his lower leg. "Close your eyes," she orders.
Boyd does as he's told, and then growls when she tickles his exposed toes.
Unsmiling as he glares, the doctor nods. Jots something down on his notes. "That's a good sign. You feel sensation, I feel warmth and a pulse."
"What happens now?" Whether it's tiredness, the drugs, or her, Boyd isn't sure, but he feels utterly wrongfooted.
"Now you rest. You'll be here a few days, no negotiation."
Boyd opens, then closes his mouth, sensing argument is futile.
Doctor Barnett studies him, is not unkind as she explains further. "This was a significant, limb-threatening injury, and you have a relatively high risk of infection, Mr Boyd. I don't want to see my hard work fixing that ankle go to waste, and I'm sure you want to be walking again in future."
"I do," he confirms, subdued.
Briskly, she continues. "For your age, you have a good standard of fitness. That will help you. What you need now is patience."
For your age? Nettled, he scowls to himself. If Grace were here, he thinks darkly, she'd be in fits of laughter at his expense.
Grace isn't here.
"Now, rest. Drink plenty of water. Listen to the nurses. In a few days, we'll reassess your progress, and I'll show you the x-rays. We'll get you a rehab programme drawn up. Something to work towards."
And then she's gone, leaving Boyd to glower at the ants.
He's still glowering when his next visitor arrives not many minutes later. Stocky build, grumpy expression. Spencer.
"Sir." As opening gambits go, it's uninspired.
"Spence," he returns, equally laconic. They eye each other warily for a moment. Unable to take advantage of his superior height, Boyd raises his chin a fraction instead. "Have you seen Grace?"
"Yeah. She's doing better." The grumpy expression doesn't get any sunnier. "What the fuck happened?"
"Long story, Spence. Have you identified the – "
"Out of my hands," his subordinate interrupts. "The whole thing's gone to Carter's lot for now. There will be an inquiry."
"Of course there bloody will. There always is. How is she really?"
"Grace? Breathing's improved. Chest drain will come out tomorrow or the day after, all being well. She looks like she's gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, though."
"I need to see her."
Dark eyes regard him with no particular emotion. "You're not going anywhere, buddy. Strictly bed rest for you."
He growls at the news. "Fuck's sake, Spence. Can't you find a wheelchair, or something?"
"Nope."
Boyd narrows his eyes. "Just do it, man."
Spencer doesn't give ground. "My orders come straight from the top."
"The DAC?"
A shake of the head. "Grace. She wants to see you, but they've told her you need to rest just as much as she does. No heroics allowed."
"Spence..."
"Not happening," is the firm reply. "You want to ignore what the doctors say, that's down to you." A brief pause. "Look, Eve's had an idea. Grace is in a side room on a mixed ward, so she – Eve, I mean – is going to talk to the powers that be and see if the two of you can be corralled together. Me, I think it's a terrible idea, but there you go."
"Together?" Boyd echoes. The idea hadn't occurred to him. He doesn't know how to feel about it.
"Weirdly, Grace seems okay with it."
"But... I mean..." He stops. Changes tack. "When?"
Spencer still doesn't seem impressed. "Tomorrow, maybe, if Eve can swing it. Seems she knows someone who knows someone. Medical school together."
That doesn't altogether surprise Boyd. Eve has always had a number of extremely useful contacts. He moves slightly, wishes he hadn't. Wincing, he closes his eyes. When he opens them, Spencer is still regarding him with stolid impassivity.
He may as well get it over with. "What?"
"You could have been killed." Blunt. Pissed off.
"I'm aware of that, thanks."
Spencer's eyes harden. "Worse, though, you could have got Grace killed. Now, she's in a hospital bed in a horrendous state."
"I'm also aware of that, thank you very much," he grinds out through clenched teeth.
"Well?" Antagonistic. Brusque.
Boyd is in no mood to dance this particular dance. "Well, what?"
"What have you got to say for yourself?"
"Are you fucking joking?" retorts Boyd. "Do you seriously think that I would have gone there, much less taken Grace there, if I'd had any inkling Benson and McDonald were using the place? We thought, just like everyone did, that the house had been empty for years. There hasn't been any relevant intel on the place for at least a decade, and McDonald has been in bloody Leeds for the last eighteen months."
Spence looks torn. Like he wants to back down and accept logical argument, but his pride won't let him. He glowers in response. "And Benson?"
Boyd grits his teeth. "You know as well as I do that he was in HMP Norwich until very recently. He's not supposed to be anywhere near the south east."
"That changes nothing," barks Spencer, a mulish expression on his face. "Grace is hurt. Again. And it's your fault. Again."
The conversation deteriorates from there. So much so that Yolanda yanks the curtain back and glares at Spencer. "You, out," she orders sharply. "Now!"
Spence straightens, looks as if he's going to protest. Yolanda plants her hands on her hips. Leans forward very slightly as her eyebrows gather together in a spectacularly ominous fashion. Her foe stalks out, furious but defeated.
Boyd studies her, tickled. "I'm impressed," he tells her. "Normally I have to shout for a fair bit longer to get him to listen."
"You can pipe down as well," she informs him bluntly. "I'll not have any shouting on my ward, from visitors, or patients."
"Sorry," he apologises. He means it, too. "Spence and I have always butted heads. It's just…"
"Grown men acting like children?"
He sighs. "You sound like Grace." God, he misses her. Has never wanted, or needed, to see her more.
"A woman of sense, eh?" Having handed him yet another cup of water, Yolanda watches him drink it down.
Nodding as he returns the cup, Boyd says, "Very much so."
For just a moment, he can see something in her eyes. As if, maybe, she understands. "I'll call her ward, see if I can get another update for you."
She's gone before he can thank her. Head resting back against the pillow, Boyd sighs. Closes his eyes for what feels like five minutes. Opens them to significantly lower light levels and the stiff posture of a woman he recognises far too well standing looking down at him.
Shit.
Boyd swallows. Grimaces at how paper dry his mouth suddenly feels.
"Susan," he says, voice filled with caution.
"Peter," is the inevitable response. Eyes exactly the same colour and shade as his own regard him with long-suffering irritation. "You're still alive, then."
"And still bipedal."
"Hm." It's a sound of disapproval. Still, she steps closer to the bed, leans down and places a dutiful kiss on his forehead. "Alasdair sends his regards."
As she straightens up again, Boyd asks, "And Clara?"
"Our mother," Susan says, tone and expression both haughty, "is so far blissfully unaware of your latest calamity. We thought it was for the best."
Best for whom? Boyd wonders, but he holds his tongue. She may be two years his junior, but for the last forty years at least, Susan has consciously and consistently tried to appropriate the role of older sibling. Mostly, he he's always found it more amusing than irritating.
"How did this happen?" she demands, glaring at him.
"I'm not feeling too bad," he says, "thanks for asking."
"Peter." It's her answer to many things, tried and tested over the years.
"Susie," he responds gravely, just because it will annoy her.
"Don't 'Susie' me. Look at the state of you."
Despite everything, he can't help grinning at her. It's been the same throughout their entire life. He, the impetuous, adventurous one, she the sensible, responsible one. They might just as well still be ten and eight years old. "I'm okay," he tells her, serious now. "Just a bit bruised and battered."
She leans down again, but this time she gives him a clumsy hug, quick and fierce. It makes him wince, but he hides the discomfort and awkwardly hugs her back. Their relationship is fractious on the surface, but below the sniping and the bickering...
"Idiot," she says, but it's a moment longer before she pulls back. "Peter..."
"Don't," he says, but not unkindly. "It's over and done with. I'll be back on my feet before you know it."
"It's always a big joke to you, isn't it?"
"No," he says, with complete honesty. "Not at all. Very far from it, in fact. Susie, I need a favour."
She glares, but doesn't dissemble. "What?"
Boyd hitches himself into a more upright sitting position. "See if you can find a porter, will you? I need to go and see someone, and to do that I need a wheelchair."
It takes a good deal of persuasion, and more than a little trickery and good timing, but eventually said wheelchair arrives. Only then does Boyd realise that his efforts thus far have been the easy bit.
Getting himself out of bed and into his chariot, on the other hand…
In the end, it's sheer determination that overcomes the pain and the exhaustion and the incredibly frightening lack of any sort of physical strength.
Wrung out isn't exactly the phrase he would use, but it's pretty close to how he feels as young Louis, the bespectacled and spotty youth who is aiding and abetting him, finally wheels him, quietly and unobtrusively, into Grace's room.
It's dark, that's the first thing that registers with him. Though night hasn't quite arrived yet, her room is dark.
"I'll wait outside," whispers Louis, who seems more than game to keep pace with the subterfuge. Boyd thanks him, and then slowly, awkwardly, eases himself forwards.
She's sleeping, he thinks, as he carefully manoeuvres himself around to the side of the bed. She's sleeping and therefore has no idea he's there.
Dear God.
The bottom drops out of his stomach and his heart seems to lurch heavily in his chest as his eyes finally adjust to the gloom. Grace's face is swollen almost beyond recognition, the skin mottled dark blue, purple and red. Her broken nose is obvious, and her right eye is swollen shut, the cheek so puffy that the corner of her mouth is pulled askew. Even her chin and jaw are bruised, the dark colouring extending down to her neck where hardly any of her normal pale skin is on show.
He's kissed her there, he thinks, absurdly. Run his nose over the remnants of her perfume late one evening, before they reluctantly parted for the night. He wishes fervently now that they hadn't.
The arm closest to him is resting on a pillow, splinted and cocooned in heavy bandaging, just the ends of her fingers on show; her other arm is more relaxed, but there's a long strip of the same dressing covering his ribs from wrist to elbow. Every bit of skin he can see is peppered with the same vivid bruising.
"She looks like she's gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson." Spencer's words echo in his mind as rage so startingly powerful it scares him floods his brain. Rage, followed by a sadness he can't explain.
Queasy, and ignoring the oxygen mask and the IVs, the tube snaking out from under the bed covers near her ribs, Boyd reaches for Grace's fingers, tangles them softly with his own. It seems like the only bit of her that is safe to touch, that won't cause her further, unnecessary pain.
"You're supposed to be in bed!" The whisper, raw and raspy, is nothing like it should be. Not even close.
Honesty wins over any sort of flippancy. "I had to see you."
Tears well in her good eye. "I thought you were going to die," she admits, turning her head carefully towards him.
Boyd shrugs. "Too stubborn." He leans towards her. "Besides, I've got a lot to live for. I haven't seen you naked yet."
Grace chuckles and immediately tenses. Her fingers clench onto his, her skin, where it isn't bruised, goes ashen. Her low moan of pain rattles right through him, fills him with alarm.
"Grace? Jesus…"
Panic flares when she doesn't respond. It takes a few seconds, but then her nails deliberately bite into his palm. It's enough, enough to help him take a calming breath and wait.
"Don't," she wheezes slowly, painfully, "make… me… laugh. Just don't."
cont...