‘It wasn’t,’ she said, not meeting his eyes. His legs were stiff from all that running, and there was still a residual burning sensation in his lungs. Every few minutes he seemed to relive part of it, but to everyone who asked him how he was, he gave the same answer: ‘I’m fine.’
He had so far avoided seeing any TV coverage. There had been phone messages from Evelyn Mills, Fiona McFadzean, and Charles Mangold. He had listened to them but not replied. The same went for texts – what was he supposed to say to any of them? He felt bad about ignoring Evelyn Mills in particular, but didn’t know what else to do. Too many relationships had gone sour around him; he didn’t want to add any more fuel to the general misery.
Jude made him tea while he sat on the sofa, watching his father. The chest rose and fell. The mouth was slightly open. Mitch’s hair needed washing, and the room smelled faintly of talcum powder.
‘Anything been happening?’ he asked Jude as she handed him his mug.
‘A lot of phone calls, but that’s about it. And one of the neighbours came to the door to ask after you. Some old boy from across the street.’
‘Mr Anderson,’ Fox informed her.
She nodded, without really taking the information in. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you’re here, because I need to nip out for some ciggies.’
‘Ten a day still?’
‘Am I about to get a lecture?’
Fox shook his head. ‘On you go,’ he told her.
She wasted no time fetching her coat, then asked him if he wanted anything. He shook his head again. When she hesitated, he knew she needed money, so dug a twenty out of his pocket.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Sure you don’t want tomato juice or something?’
‘No.’
The door closed after her, leaving Fox alone with his father. He cleared some odds and ends from the chair next to the bed and sat down, taking Mitch’s hand in his. The eyelids fluttered and the breathing changed, but he didn’t wake up. Fox removed the photo from his pocket, the one showing Chris as he cheered on Francis Vernal. He wrote both their names on the back and added it to the shoebox. He spotted a half-bottle of whisky on the mantelpiece, and another half-bottle of vodka next to it. The vodka – Jude’s drink of choice – was almost empty, the whisky almost full. Fox stared at both bottles, then got up and walked towards them. He unscrewed the cap from the whisky and put his nose to the open neck, inhaling and exhaling. He knew it would be so easy to tip a measure into his mouth, savouring before swallowing. But instead he walked back to the bed and dipped a finger into the liquid, dabbing his father’s lips with it. The eyelids fluttered again.
‘That’s some bedside manner you’ve got,’ Mitch Fox said, opening his eyes and smiling at his son. ‘Now pour me a proper one, will you?’
Fox didn’t argue. He fetched a couple of clean glasses, filling one with tap water for himself.
‘None of that for me, mind,’ his father cautioned.
Fox poured an inch of whisky into the tumbler and handed it over. His father managed to sit up unaided and raised the drink in a toast.
‘Here’s tae us,’ he said, ‘wha’s like us?’
‘Gey few,’ Fox recited, lifting his own glass. ‘And they’re a’ deid…’
He watched as his father sipped the whisky. ‘I can be a detective when I want to be,’ he said quietly. ‘Just so you know.’
‘Can’t be that good at it or you wouldn’t have a bullet hole in you.’ Mitch held out the empty glass, his eyes demanding a refill.
‘Jude’ll kill me if I get you drunk.’
‘Then you won’t have died in vain.’
‘True enough, I suppose.’ So Fox twisted the cap from the whisky bottle and poured again.