‘That’s OK. I like talking about him. It keeps him alive. He was a good kid. It’s been a tough two years, but I’m getting there.’

They sit in silence for a moment before Klara breaks it with small talk. After the second round they are in full flow and Quinn makes them laugh with stories about working with the team. In particular, Hicks and Felton.

It’s getting late.

‘I have to go. Got a hospital appointment with Grandad early tomorrow morning.’

‘How’s he doing?’ asks Klara.

‘Much better, thanks.’ Archer pulls on her coat.

‘I might have one for the road. Klara?’

‘Why not.’

Archer smiles. ‘See you both tomorrow.’

Chapter 55

55

THE WALLS ARE A BLEACHED white under the brilliant fluorescent light, the ceiling a landscape of textured ivory tiles. Sixteen in total. He counts them. Every day. Familiar smells are all around him: latex gloves, hand sanitiser and sheets that have been boiled clean. If he closes his eyes he can imagine being back in his studio. But he doesn’t. He will save those dreams for another time. A pale curtain surrounds the right side of his bed shielding him from curious eyes that pass in the corridor outside his room. He hears the squeaking sound of small wheels and the soft tread of slippered feet. Through a crack in the curtain he sees a faded hospital gown float past like a ghost wheeling an IV stand.

He is tired and wants to sleep but the mumble of tinny chatter draws his attention to the television on the wall opposite where a news channel is running a discussion panel on him, of all people. He sees pictures of his work: ‘The Forsaken’, ‘The Marshland Martyrs’, ‘Father, Son and Ghost’. The faces of his muses have been pixelated, so as not to distress the daytime viewers. The panel comprises artists and curators from the Tate and Saatchi galleries. He is pleased there are no police, no criminologists, no shrinks. He places his elbows on either side and tries to shift himself to an upright position but an icy pain jabs his stomach and for a brief second, he sees her unforgiving eyes burning like different-coloured opals. His mouth dries and he falls back, clutching the controller. The pain has awakened a sweat over his skin. He trembles, clicks the button to increase the morphine dose from the drip feeding into his body and closes his eyes as the drugs wash away the pain. His eyes cloud over and within moments he is sleeping.

The sweep of plastic rings on a metal rod wakens him from his slumber sometime later. He blinks the sleep from his eyes and he hears the snapping of rubber gloves. A slender figure is looming over him, a lady in white with shoulder-length dark hair.

‘How are you feeling?’ asks Doctor Sarah Jones.

‘Hello, Sarah. Nice to see you again. I’m doing very well, thank you.’

‘Good.’