Knots and Crosses by Ian Rankin

Author:Ian Rankin [Rankin, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9781409107712
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 1987-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

16

He awoke in a white room. It reminded him very much of the hospital room in which he had awoken after his nervous breakdown all those years ago. There were muffled noises from outside. He sat up, his head throbbing. What had happened? Christ, that woman, that poor woman. He had tried to kill her! Drunk, way too drunk. Merciful God, he had tried to strangle her, hadn’t he? Why in God’s name had he done that? Why?

A doctor pushed open his door.

‘Ah, Mister Rebus. Good, you’re awake. We’re about to move you into one of the wards. How do you feel?’

His pulse was taken.

‘Simple exhaustion, we think. Simple nervous exhaustion. Your friend who called for the ambulance—’

‘My friend?’

‘Yes, she said that you just collapsed. And from what we can gather from your employers, you’ve been working pretty hard on this dreadful murder hunt. Simple exhaustion. What you need is a break.’

‘Where’s my … my friend?’

‘No idea. At home, I expect.’

‘And according to her, I just collapsed?’

‘That’s right.’

Rebus felt immediate relief flooding through him. She had not told them. She had not told them. Then his head began to pulse again. The doctor’s wrists were hairy and scrubbed clean. He slipped a thermometer into Rebus’s mouth, smiling. Did he know what Rebus had been doing prior to the blackout? Or had his friend dressed him before calling the ambulance? He had to contact the woman. He didn’t know where she stayed, not exactly, but the ambulancemen would know, and he could check.

Exhaustion. Rebus did not feel exhausted. He was beginning to feel rested and, though slightly unnerved, quite unworried about life. Had they given him anything while he was asleep?

‘Can I see a newspaper?’ he muttered past the thermometer.

‘I’ll get an orderly to fetch you one. Is there anyone you wish us to contact? Any close relative or friend?’

Rebus thought of Michael.

‘No,’ he said, ‘there’s nobody to contact. All I want is a newspaper.’

‘Fair enough.’ The thermometer was removed, the details noted.

‘How long do you want to keep me in here?’

‘Two or three days. I may want you to see an analyst.’

‘Forget the analyst. I’ll need some books to read.’

‘We’ll see what we can do.’

Rebus settled back then, having decided to let things take their course. He would lie here, resting though he needed no rest, and would let the rest of them worry about the murder case. Sod them all. Sod Anderson. Sod Wallace. Sod Gill Templer.

But then he remembered his hands slipping around that ageing throat, and he shivered. It was as though his mind were not his own. Had he been about to kill that woman? Should he see the analyst after all? The questions made his headache worse. He tried not to think about anything at all, but three figures kept coming back to him: his old friend Gordon Reeve, his new lover Gill Templer, and the woman he had betrayed her for, and nearly strangled. They danced in his head until the dance became blurred. Then he fell asleep.

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