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red once again and the traffic was still
stationary. She looked to her left to see if the man with the
piercing blue eyes was still there. As she turned her head to him,
he reciprocated. Alarmed, Wendy shot her head back to dead centre
and concentrated hard on the red light ahead.
    Why is he
looking at me? What does he know? He knows, doesn’t he? He can see
the guilt. He knows what I’ve done to Michael. Oh shit, oh shit.
Come on, fucking lights. Turn green, you bastard!
    As though
Wendy’s power of concentration had worked, the lights turned green.
But the traffic stayed still.
     
     
     

CHAPTER
EIGHT
     
    As Wendy
meandered round the hospital car park looking for a space, her head
was filled with thoughts of what she might find inside.
    Would Michael
be conscious? Would he have tubes and lines sticking out of every
orifice, just like last time? Surely not – he couldn’t be as bad as
he was last time. He wouldn’t do that again. Three weeks in
intensive care; his stomach pumped, his kidneys flushed; his face
as grey as stone. Despite this, Michael showed no remorse and had
made no attempt to turn his life around. This is what irritated
Wendy the most; this was why she had seen her brother only a
handful of times over the past few years. Wendy knew deep down that
each time could well be the last.
    As she traipsed
up the unnecessarily long and winding disabled access ramp, last
night’s words rang in Wendy’s ears.
    I’m through
with you, Michael. I don’t want anything to do with you.
    It was the only
way I knew how to cope.
    I’m through
with you, Michael.
    I’m trying! I
swear to God I’m trying!
    I’m through
with you, Michael. I don’t want anything to do with you.
    I don’t want
anything to do with you.
    The stench hit
Wendy as soon as the automatic doors opened. It smelt of death and
antiseptic. Wendy hated hospitals. The woman at the reception desk
reminded her of a schoolteacher from a budget porn film – her
dark-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose; her suit
blouse exposing far too much breast tissue for medically unstable
patients to cope with. Tart. That might even be a health and safety
issue.
    The tart looked
down her oh-so-perfect spectacle stand and informed Wendy that
Michael was in bed number seven on the Egret ward. The tart’s blunt
manner led Wendy to believe that she knew exactly why Michael was
in the ward. Look at her, coming in here to visit her worthless
drug addict brother.
    As Wendy
entered the Egret ward, she scanned the walls for a laminated
placard displaying the number seven. Two elderly gentlemen in beds
one and two were comparing their abdominal scars whilst a Jamaican
lady snored loudly from bed five. Two beds closer to Wendy, in bed
number seven, lay Michael.
    Michael was
awake and looking at Wendy like a small child who knew he had done
something terribly wrong. The helpless look on his face shook her
to the core. She cantered over to bed seven and hugged Michael.
    “Careful, sis.
I’ve had all sorts of bloody lines and pumps hanging out of me. I’m
a bit sore.”
    “Oh, Michael.
Why did you do this? Why?”
    “Because I’m a
fucking idiot, Wend. Because I couldn’t cope with you leaving me
again and I hated myself. I fucking hated myself.”
    “How could you
be so selfish, Michael?”
    “Selfish? You
want to talk to me about selfish? How many times have you come to
visit me over the past few years, Wend? You’re just as bad as dad
was – devoting your entire life to the sodding police force and
making everyone else take a back seat.”
    Wendy bit her
tongue. “Michael, I have to work to live. My job is very important
to me and it involves a lot of hard work. You've not exactly made
much effort with me, either,”
    “Is that the
best you can do? You’ve seen me twice in eighteen months because
your job involves a lot of work? Even dad used to be home to see us
one or two nights a week.”
    “Stop comparing
me to dad, Michael!”
    “Why the