The Dead Beat Read Online Free PDF Page A

accent reading it out. At least I don’t have to do that.’
    Martha sized him up. He was a few years older than her, mid-twenties, and there was a tiredness about his eyes, like he’d seen more of the world than he wanted to, than any twenty-five-year-old should. He was cute, though. Pretty, even. She thought about the scars, the limp, the sadness in his face. It was so like her, to fancy a hopeless case. Drawn to the damage. Didn’t take Freud to work that shit out.
    ‘How did you manage to land such an illustrious position?’ she said. It came out more sarcastic than she meant, and she felt bad.
    He laughed. ‘I wasn’t always such a high-flyer, you know, I used to . . .’
    ‘What?’
    His head was down. ‘I’ll tell you another time.’ He looked up and held her eye. ‘When I get to know you better.’
    The paramedic stood up. ‘If you two lovebirds are quite finished, we’re here.’

8
    Martha and Billy hung around while he went into surgery, unsure what to do with themselves. Medical staff didn’t know how long they’d be working on him.
    ‘Depends on the mess we find in there,’ a Dr Khan said.
    They waited outside the double doors that led to surgery, flicking through magazines, shuffling on cheap fabric chairs in a small waiting alcove. Billy disappeared to track down some coffees, promising that he would call the office to let them know what had happened and why they weren’t at their desks. Martha tried to imagine V’s face when she heard. She wondered if the Walkman was still recording, or if it had run out of tape. She wondered which of her dad’s albums she’d taped over with Gordon’s obit. She realised that she didn’t have her bag with her, had left it at the desk in the office. It already seemed like weeks ago that she’d sat down there and begun reading obituaries.
    A woman came bustling down the corridor towards the nurse at reception. She was dowdy and dumpy, mousy hair in a ponytail, frayed business suit. She had a frantic look.
    ‘Where’s my husband?’ she said.
    The nurse was calm, used to all sorts of craziness here. ‘Who is your husband?’
    ‘Gordon Harris. The police called to say there had been an incident, that he was in hospital. I asked at A & E, they said to come here. Where is he, can I see him?’
    The nurse scanned a computer screen, clicked the mouse. She was early twenties, false lashes, cerise nails clacking on the keyboard.
    ‘Your husband is in surgery at the moment, Mrs Harris.’
    ‘Surgery? What happened?’
    The nurse pointed at the computer screen. ‘That’s all I have. If you take a seat, I’ll go and see what I can find out through in the surgery unit.’
    Samantha Harris was fidgeting, fingers thrumming on her handbag. ‘Can’t I come with you?’
    A shake of the head. ‘Restricted.’
    The nurse came out from behind the reception desk. Her uniform had been taken in at the waist and the hem was shortened. More than halfway to tarty, a perv’s wet dream. She swiped a security card at the lock and disappeared.
    Martha got up and walked towards Samantha. She wasn’t sure why, didn’t know what she was going to say, but something compelled her to move her feet all the same.
    ‘Mrs Harris?’
    The woman turned. Confusion in her eyes. ‘Yes? Who are you?’
    ‘My name’s Martha Fluke.’
    ‘I don’t know you.’
    ‘No, I’m on work experience at the Standard .’
    ‘Gordon hasn’t mentioned you.’
    ‘I just started today. I was covering for him because he was off sick.’
    ‘He wasn’t sick, why do you say that? I don’t understand why you’re here. What happened to Gordon?’
    Martha felt a gravitational pull towards the other woman, an irresistible attraction. The police obviously hadn’t told her.
    ‘Maybe we’d better sit down,’ she said. She tried to take Samantha’s elbow, but the other woman pulled away.
    ‘I don’t want to sit down. Why would I need to sit down?’
    ‘Samantha . . .’
    ‘Don’t use my