Chapter 5
Brass slowly made his way towards the help desk.
"Hello..." He looked quickly at her nametag, "Cindy, can you tell me what room Nick Stokes is in?"
"Are you family?" She said, smiling. He wanted to knock the smile of that face, but he quickly collected himself, and flashed his police issued badge.
Her smile faltered for a second. "Through the double doors, room 213."
"Thank you," he growled, not looking at all like he meant it.
Nick lay on his uncomfortable bed, not daring to move in case he ruptured a stitch. That had been extremely painful the first time, and he didn't want to repeat the experience. He stared straight ahead, unseeing, at the ceiling. There were sixty-two rectangular tiles up there, each bordered with a thin green line all the way round. Once or twice his eyes slid out of focus and he noted with some interest that the ceiling jumped down towards him, only to bounce back up again. He would have laughed if he thought it was funny.
A dull knocking pierced the somewhat tranquil atmosphere that he had been beginning to get used to. He tried to turn his head, but found that any movement at all caused him to wince as a shooting pain fired through his upper chest.
"'Ome In," he groaned, hoping that whoever it was behind the door could hear him. He figured it was a visitor, as many nurses came to pump him full of medication, without stopping long enough to ask if it was all right with him. He wondered who it could be. Since Catherine's...death, he had been seen by two nosy police officers that refused to let him rest, Warrick, Brass and Catherine's mother. The last visit had been a painful and uncomfortable encounter, what with the old woman reflecting on nearly every tiny thing that Catherine had ever done, then promptly bursting into floods of tears and exiting the room without a second glance.
Brass' voice broke through his silent reverie, coaxing him back to consciousness.
"Nicky?" He asked quietly. He waited until the younger man's attention was focussed, and then continued. "There's been some more evidence on the case, I need to ask you a few more questions...Nicky?"
As soon as Brass had uttered the word 'questions' Nick had groaned and closed his eyes again. New evidence should have been a good thing, but he was really not in a good mood, and answering questions about the worst night of his life was definitely not favourable.
"G'way, I hate quest'ns." He tried to turn his head away, but cried out in pain as his muscles protested his sudden move.
"Come on, I know it's hard..."
"Y'know nothin'" He insisted, "An' I'm gonna tell y'everythin' so y'can get the bastar'." Any emphasis of the sentence was lost to his weak voice, making the words themselves barely audible.
"Thank you, Nicky, can you tell me again what happened that night..." Nick tried to interrupt, but Brass went right on talking, "I know that you don't want to, I know, I do."
"It was rainin'," He began slowly, as if processing each word in order to be sure what he was saying made sense, "We got to the see..." He cleared his throat, "...scene, and walked round the back of the house."
Brass nodded encouragingly and scribbled something down on his paper. For a moment Nick looked puzzled, before he continued to talk.
"Catherine kept complaining that something din't add up, she kept sayin' somethin' was wrong..." A single tear ran down one side of his face, while he made no effort to wipe it off, "She's got a kid, Jim..."
Brass was struggling to control his own emotions. Warrick had told him to be strong, and he had known Nick an awful lot longer than the older man.
"I know, Nick, Lindsey will be fine, OK? You hear me, we'll make sure she's safe."
Finally, Nick sighed and wiped his face. "I know, it just..." He shook his head hopelessly, "...I just can't help thinking that it should have been me."
Brass slowly made his way towards the help desk.
"Hello..." He looked quickly at her nametag, "Cindy, can you tell me what room Nick Stokes is in?"
"Are you family?" She said, smiling. He wanted to knock the smile of that face, but he quickly collected himself, and flashed his police issued badge.
Her smile faltered for a second. "Through the double doors, room 213."
"Thank you," he growled, not looking at all like he meant it.
Nick lay on his uncomfortable bed, not daring to move in case he ruptured a stitch. That had been extremely painful the first time, and he didn't want to repeat the experience. He stared straight ahead, unseeing, at the ceiling. There were sixty-two rectangular tiles up there, each bordered with a thin green line all the way round. Once or twice his eyes slid out of focus and he noted with some interest that the ceiling jumped down towards him, only to bounce back up again. He would have laughed if he thought it was funny.
A dull knocking pierced the somewhat tranquil atmosphere that he had been beginning to get used to. He tried to turn his head, but found that any movement at all caused him to wince as a shooting pain fired through his upper chest.
"'Ome In," he groaned, hoping that whoever it was behind the door could hear him. He figured it was a visitor, as many nurses came to pump him full of medication, without stopping long enough to ask if it was all right with him. He wondered who it could be. Since Catherine's...death, he had been seen by two nosy police officers that refused to let him rest, Warrick, Brass and Catherine's mother. The last visit had been a painful and uncomfortable encounter, what with the old woman reflecting on nearly every tiny thing that Catherine had ever done, then promptly bursting into floods of tears and exiting the room without a second glance.
Brass' voice broke through his silent reverie, coaxing him back to consciousness.
"Nicky?" He asked quietly. He waited until the younger man's attention was focussed, and then continued. "There's been some more evidence on the case, I need to ask you a few more questions...Nicky?"
As soon as Brass had uttered the word 'questions' Nick had groaned and closed his eyes again. New evidence should have been a good thing, but he was really not in a good mood, and answering questions about the worst night of his life was definitely not favourable.
"G'way, I hate quest'ns." He tried to turn his head away, but cried out in pain as his muscles protested his sudden move.
"Come on, I know it's hard..."
"Y'know nothin'" He insisted, "An' I'm gonna tell y'everythin' so y'can get the bastar'." Any emphasis of the sentence was lost to his weak voice, making the words themselves barely audible.
"Thank you, Nicky, can you tell me again what happened that night..." Nick tried to interrupt, but Brass went right on talking, "I know that you don't want to, I know, I do."
"It was rainin'," He began slowly, as if processing each word in order to be sure what he was saying made sense, "We got to the see..." He cleared his throat, "...scene, and walked round the back of the house."
Brass nodded encouragingly and scribbled something down on his paper. For a moment Nick looked puzzled, before he continued to talk.
"Catherine kept complaining that something din't add up, she kept sayin' somethin' was wrong..." A single tear ran down one side of his face, while he made no effort to wipe it off, "She's got a kid, Jim..."
Brass was struggling to control his own emotions. Warrick had told him to be strong, and he had known Nick an awful lot longer than the older man.
"I know, Nick, Lindsey will be fine, OK? You hear me, we'll make sure she's safe."
Finally, Nick sighed and wiped his face. "I know, it just..." He shook his head hopelessly, "...I just can't help thinking that it should have been me."