Fit For Purpose Julian Parrott (best ebook reader for chromebook TXT) 📖

“What’s that for?” Tom asked one of the paramedics.

“That’s for you mate.”

“Really? I hate those fucking things,” Tom said.

Chapter Twenty-one

Hospital Room, Wrexham

Tom was coming out of the anaesthetic from his surgery. His vision was cloudy and his thinking fuzzy. He began to focus; Nia was sitting next to his bed. He smiled at her. She had been crying and she looked pallid, tired and drawn.

“Nia,” he said. “Thank God you’re here. You look beautiful.”

“Tom,” she said simply. She smiled.

Tom began to focus and noticed a doctor at the foot of the bed and behind her a high-ranking police officer and a middle-aged woman with a severe hairstyle and a well-cut business suit. The deputy director from Thames House. Tom thought he had smelled MI5 even before his eyes opened. The doctor, a young south Asian Muslim woman wearing a hijab, turned and told the visitors that they could now talk to Tom. The police officer asked Nia to leave the room and he nodded towards the doctor who left as well.

The DD sat in the chair that Nia had just vacated.

“How’s my dog?” Tom asked quickly.

“Err…” the DD turned to the police officer.

“At a local vet. Concussion and requiring some stiches I understand,” said the police officer. “But a full recovery expected,” he added.

Tom smiled and relaxed with the news.

“Now then,” the DD began. “Tell me what the hell just went on.”

Outside Tom’s room, Nia sat in the waiting lounge with the doctor who again confirmed that Tom should now make a full and complete recovery from the bullet wounds. Tom had lost a considerable amount of blood, his left lung had collapsed, his scapula had been broken, and there was a fair amount of tissue damage to back, chest, and arm. It would be just a matter of rest and time, the doctor told Nia reassuringly. Nia was relieved but a fear continued to gnaw at her.

For nearly twenty years Nia had shut herself down emotionally, never allowing herself to feel content, denying herself deep and meaningful personal connection. The loss of her almost full-term baby had left her with a void that she had refused to fill in an act of self-flagellation, an act of displaced penance. Once, she had retreated into work, into her empty house, into herself. There, she had avoided hurt and pain but had sacrificed what it meant to feel, what it meant to be whole. Then Tom had blundered and stammered into her life and had brought her joy. He brought a love that she had never experienced. But then, she considered, he’d brought deceit, pain and he had brought death. He had lied to her. She didn’t know how to deal with the maelstrom of conflicted emotions that were spinning in her head. She only knew how to retreat from them. Nia knew how to walk away, it was what she always did.

Nia went into the small bathroom that was adjacent to the lounge. She washed her face and ran her fingers through her hair. She looked at herself in the bathroom’s mirror. She was pale and her dark eyes were red rimmed. She took deep breaths, determined to get into character. It began to feel natural, muscle memory took over, the moments before stepping on stage or in front of a camera she was able to disassociate her thinking and her body from her real self. She watched her face in the mirror change subtly, but enough. Her eyes appeared to darken, as if the light that had so recently burnt there for Tom was extinguished. He lied to her. She shook her hair so it fell in an unfamiliar style, she let curls fall over her face. She straightened her body almost unnaturally and held the position, she smoothed her sweater over her hips. She stepped out of the toilet in character.

Nia waited in the lounge for the MI5 women to leave Tom’s room. She sat, straight backed with her hands folded in her lap. The DD, her assistant and the high-ranking police officer emerged and walked quickly past Nia. The DD slowed momentarily, turned and told Nia that MI5 would contact her soon for an interview back in London at Thames House. Nia nodded but then looked down at her hand and missed the DD’s return nod and slight smile. The police constable on station outside of Tom’s room nodded to Nia as she entered the hospital room. She smiled weakly and took the seat on the left side of Tom’s bed. It was still warm. Tom’s left arm, chest and shoulder were heavily bandaged, and tubes and wires appeared to link him to a number of beeping and flashing machines. He brightened visibly when Nia came in. He was glad to have some alone time with her, to catch up. To move on together.

“Aw fuck, Nia,” he began. “I had no idea all this would happen. I’m so sorry that you had to go through all that. I’m so, so sorry. I should have told you about that bastard Zalkind/Kamenev and about what happened in London. But I thought it was all over and done with. I never expected any of this kind of thing to happen.”

Nia turned to him and with as much steely determination she could muster. Tom watched her face and felt his stomach hollow.

“Yes, Tom,” Nia said through clenched teeth. “You bloody well should have told me. You’ve lied to me. Something you said you would never do. It was the only thing I asked of you Tom, not to lie to me.”

A horrible fear gripped him.

Nia knew she was playing a part and she wanted to transform herself into a character to temporarily divorce herself from the very real emotions, the crushing emptiness that was beginning to envelope her. Nia