"Yes, I'm fine." His voice was flat.

"I heard the family came to see you today."

"They did, yes."

"And were they pleased to see you?"

She knew he hadn't seen them, but she felt a chat might help.

"No. No, I sent them away."

"Patrick, why did you do that? Your wife said they were so excited."

"Yes, well, I didn't feel up to it."

"Oh, I see. Yes, well, maybe tomorrow."

"No, I don't think so."

She looked at him thoughtfully. His face was oddly expressionless, his eyes blank.

"Are you feeling OK, Patrick?"

"I'm feeling how you'd think I might be feeling," he said. It was an aggressive statement, delivered in an aggressive tone. It was unlike him.

"Well ... I'm sorry. Is the pain very bad?"

"It's not great."

"Next week's surgery should help quite a lot. With your tummy. Is that the worst?"

"It hurts everywhere. Except my legs, and what wouldn't I give to have some pain there as well."

Jo smiled at him gently, put her hand on his shoulder.

"You will. You must have faith."

"Faith I've lost, along with everything else."

"Well, let's see. In time, I promise you, things will be better."

He shrugged.

"Is ... is there anything you'd like to watch on TV tonight? There's quite a lot on, a good film-"

"No, I don't want to watch anything," he said. "I'm very tired. I just want to be quiet, be left alone."

"All right. Well, I hope you have a good night, Patrick, at least."

She walked out of his room, stood in the corridor for a moment, then went to find Sister Green, on duty that night on the ward. An extra sleeping pill would probably not be a bad idea. Just for tonight.

Alex really didn't want to go home. That made him feel miserable. And angry. Not only had Sam ended their marriage; she had virtually rendered him homeless. Well, deprived him of a place he wanted to be, where he was welcome.

Their bedroom had long since ceased to be in any way his, and the small spare room was unwelcoming. Sam and the children occupied the kitchen and the family room in the evening, and if he walked into it, even the children looked awkward, forced to confront his discomfort. He still had his study, of course, but it was very much a study, occupied by his desk and computer and files and books, not somewhere he could sit back and relax.

Anyway, he had no stomach for staking any claims over personal space tonight; he would rather stay at the hospital. He'd brought in his pyjamas and wash things. He had a room there, with a bed; he could get some food at the cafe and then go to bed, read himself into a stupor and hope no major accidents or traumas might disturb him. He wasn't on call; if they did want him, he could tell them to get stuffed. In fact, that was precisely what he would do. He could even drink a glass of wine. He would drink a glass of wine. Or two. Or even three ...

Patrick had asked to be settled for the night early. Sue Brown, the young nurse who was looking after him, brought him his hot drink and his drugs, and said if he wanted anything to ring for her.

"But hopefully you'll have a lovely sleep, Patrick, and feel much better in the morning."

When she had gone, he made his preparations very carefully. He felt calm, not frightened at all. He wrote a letter to Maeve, telling her how much he loved her and how this way would be much better for both her and the boys. He thanked her for being a wonderful wife and told her that the boys had the best mother in the whole wide world. He signed it, "All my love, my darling Maeve, Patrick."

He wrote a separate letter to the boys, telling them how much he loved them and how sorry he was to have sent them away that day. "Be good for your mummy; Liam, you will be the man in the family now, so you must look after her. And remember me always as I used to be, not as I am now. Your very loving Daddy."

Then he wrote another note for "whom it may concern," asking not to be resuscitated if there was any question of it.

And then he wrote a note to Alex Pritchard, thanking him for all his kindness both to him and to Maeve, and telling him how much he had helped both of them in the first awful, early days. "All doctors should be like you, Dr. Pritchard," he finished, signing it off, "yours with gratitude, Patrick Connell."

He propped all the letters up on his bedside unit, and then he lay back on his pillows to rest.

The sun was setting by then; he could see the sky from his window. It was ravishing, a stormy red streaked with black, with great slanting shafts of light pushing through the clouds: a child's-Bible sky. He lay there quietly, watching it blaze and fade, and then he reached into his bedside cupboard for his rosary and said his prayers. He asked God for his forgiveness for what he was about to do, committing a mortal sin, and he asked Him, too, to forgive him for the dreadful carnage he had wrought on the motorway. He felt that if God was a good and loving God, He would understand his anguish and find it in His heart to forgive him.

He asked Him to comfort and care for Maeve and the boys, and then he recited the twenty-third psalm. He would indeed be walking through the valley of the shadow of death; he would need God's rod and staff to comfort him. He prayed again that he would not be denied it. And then finally he said a Hail Mary and the Lord's Prayer and made the sign of the cross.

As he did so he discovered that he was weeping, and discovered, too, that he was not really surprised. The life that had seemed so promising, so happy, so filled with delight and family pleasure and a wife he loved and who loved him, was gone forever, destroyed by his own carelessness and arrogance. He would not see that life again; it was lost to him, and he did not deserve it. He had caused immense misery to many, many people; he had robbed a child of his mother, a mother of her child. He had read the papers, read the interviews, in spite of the efforts of the hospital staff to keep them from him. He had read about the sense of utter loss and desolation and anger felt by the people whose lives he had destroyed; it seemed absolutely wrong, a reversal of the proper order of things, that he should be still alive. He would die, and it would be a reparation of sorts, would perhaps show some of those poor, unhappy people how sorry he was for what he had done to them. He hoped someone would tell them.

And then he sat for a while longer, his head bowed, holding his rosary, reflecting on what he was about to do, and preparing himself for the moment when it became reality.

CHAPTER 29

He knew he'd never be able to forgive himself. Never. It was so true what they said: Everyone made mistakes, but doctors buried theirs.

He could never remember feeling so remorseful. How could it have happened? How could a man, a desperately ill man, confined to his hospital bed and, moreover, under intensive medical scrutiny, have managed to store up enough drugs to kill himself? And, more important, how could he, Alex Pritchard, have failed so totally to recognise the depths of that man's despair? He felt shocked at the failure of the hospital and its systems and, perhaps worst of all, ashamed of himself, that he could have been so bloody obsessed with his own problems that he hadn't noticed what was going on under his own nose.

He'd met Maeve in reception at three a.m.; she was white and wild eyed.

"Hello, Maeve."

"Dr. Pritchard! It's good to see you. How is he?"

"He's ... he's doing OK, we think. There was concern about his kidney, his one remaining one, you know, but it seems to be coping, with the help of the drugs. He's not completely out of the woods yet, but we're hopeful."

"Oh ... Dr. Pritchard, thank you. Thank you so much."

"No thanks due to me," he said, and meant it.

Nurse Sue Brown, checking on her patients just after ten, had found them all peacefully asleep. Even poor Patrick Connell.

The other nurse was not at the desk; Sue had settled down to do the reports-and then remembered she'd been instructed by the sister to give Mr. Connell an extra sleeping pill that night. Which she had, of course; she'd counted them out very carefully, and had then fetched him some extra water, as he'd asked, and when she got back, he'd taken them all. But she wasn't sure what that brought his total dosage to. She'd need his notes to do that, and they were in his room. Just for a moment she was tempted to leave it and fill it in in the morning. But no, it was too important.

She opened the door very cautiously. Thunderous snores greeted her. He seemed very firmly asleep. Good Good. She fished the notes out of the pocket at the bottom of his bed, and was just leaving the room again when she realised he was lying rather oddly, slumped onto his right side. She moved over to the bed, to see if she could ease him into a more comfortable position without disturbing him too much, and saw the neat pile of notes on his bedside unit.

The top one was addressed to "my boys." That was good. He'd sent them away today, she'd heard; he was probably telling them how sorry he was and how much he'd like to see them soon. As she leaned over him, starting to ease his pillows into a more supportive position, she knocked the pile of letters onto the floor. She bent down to pick them up and saw that there was one addressed to Dr. Pritchard. That was ... well, it was odd. Why write to one of the doctors? And then she saw another-"To whom it may concern"-and her heart began to beat uncomfortably hard.

She looked at Patrick again, and then reached out for his hand to take his pulse. It was cold, and the pulse was very slow. Very slow indeed ...

Sue Brown half ran from the room and set off the alarm. It was the early hours before it could be pronounced with any certainty that Patrick was going, probably, to be all right.

Alex, in ICU, had realised for the first time perhaps how wretched and impotent it felt to be on the sidelines there. But at least he was able to comfort Maeve; he had sat with her in the relatives' room, fetching her tea, which she didn't drink, talking in platitudes, even holding her hand while she wept and berated herself for not being more understanding and sensitive to Patrick's depression.

"How could I have got cross with him, Dr. Pritchard?" she said, wiping her eyes, "yesterday and on Friday, telling him to pull himself together, not to be so selfish. How could I have done that?"

"You've been under a dreadful strain, Maeve," he said, "and been so brave and loyal. How many people would have done that awful journey every day, uncomplaining?"

What he would have given for a wife like Maeve. Even a bit like Maeve ...

The journalist from the Daily Sketch Daily Sketch was woken by his mobile ringing at seven a.m. It was Maria, the hospital cleaner. She was talking very quietly and very fast. He had to ask her to repeat herself twice before he worked out what she was saying. was woken by his mobile ringing at seven a.m. It was Maria, the hospital cleaner. She was talking very quietly and very fast. He had to ask her to repeat herself twice before he worked out what she was saying.

"Mr. Connell, he try to kill self. Last night. He all right now. You meet me dinnertime. And for last time. And bring my money, OK?"

Maureen Hall, the receptionist at the main entrance of St. Marks, took an immediate dislike to Linda. She was so bloody sure of herself, standing there as if she owned the place, in the middle of a busy Sunday afternoon, not an auburn hair out of place, demanding to see Mr. Patrick Connell ...

"I'm sorry," she said to Linda, "you can't see him. He's in ICU-the high dependency unit-and can't have any visitors."

"In that case, I wonder if I could see the doctor in charge of his case, please."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," said Maureen Hall disdainfully. "Our doctors are all very busy, not available for consultation in that way."

"I see. Well, it is very important that I-this young lady and I-see someone who is caring for him."

Maureen Hall looked at the young lady; she was very young indeed, and looked terrified, standing behind the woman, chewing her nails.

"Well, the only thing I can suggest is that you talk to Patient Liaison. They may be able to help you. What name shall I say?"

"Di-Marcello, Linda Di-Marcello."

"Right." Maureen tapped on her computer keyboard with her long nails; a silence ensued; then she said, "I've got a Miss de Marshall here; she wants to see someone about Mr. Patrick Connell. Yes. No, I know that, but she's very insistent. Can she come up; maybe you can explain? Thanks, Chris."

She turned to Linda.

"You can go and see the patient liaison people if you like. Second floor. The lift's over there. It's signposted when you get up there. Sorry, madam," she said with exaggerated politeness to the woman standing behind Linda and Georgia in the queue. "Sorry to have kept you so long."

"Cow," hissed Linda to Georgia. Even that didn't make poor Georgia smile.

"I can't tell you how important it is that we see the doctor or doctors responsible for Mr. Connell," Linda said. They were now in Patient Liaison. "This young lady was with him on the day of the crash-you do know about the crash, don't you. Miss ...?"

"Mrs. Patel. Yes, of course I do. But Mr. Connell is extremely ill. As I explained to you. It would be quite impossible for you to see him."

"Yes, but-" Linda stopped. She felt so exasperated, words temporarily deserted her. She looked at Georgia. Who had suddenly stopped looking frightened. And was leaning on the desk, half shouting at Mrs. Patel.

"If he's extremely ill, he needs to know what I can tell him. It's really, really important. It could make him feel much better. Now, we're not going to go away. We're going to stay here as long as it takes, making a nuisance of ourselves. So you really might just as well be helpful, instead of obstructive. I mean, what about his wife? Is she here? Could we see her? Or could you tell us where she lives, so that we could talk to her ...? Just do something, for God's sake."

Linda felt like clapping.

"Just a moment, please-I will go and make some enquiries." Mrs. Patel got up and walked out of the room.

Alex had showered and changed his shirt and was on his way back to Maeve. Patrick was increasingly alert and increasingly angry, apparently, demanding to know why his instructions had been ignored, refusing to see anyone, even Maeve. She would need his support.

He picked up his beeper, informing the staff on reception that he would be back shortly, and made his way to the lifts. There were two people waiting there: a rather glamorous red-haired woman, exactly the type he most disliked, and a very pretty black girl who looked as if she might be about to run away. As they got in, the woman took the girl's hand and held it. The girl half smiled at her, then resumed her petrified expression, staring at her feet. Presumably someone up there they were worried about. He managed to smile at them. The woman smiled rather briefly back.

There was one other person in the lift with them: a tall young man with curly brown hair dressed in jeans and a denim shirt. He wore a very anxious expression and didn't look at any of them.

As the lift stopped, Alex stood back and allowed the two women off first; the redhead gave him a slightly cool nod. The young man followed, then stood studying a file he was holding, scribbling notes on various pieces of paper and peering out of the window that faced the lift. Obviously something to do with the planning department, Alex thought. Bloody nuisance, all of them.

The two women stood there, clearly puzzled as to where they should go; slightly to Alex's surprise, Maeve Connell appeared, hurried towards them.

"Hello," she said to them, "I'm Mrs. Connell. It's so good of you to come. Oh, Dr. Pritchard, hello. Have you come to see Patrick?"

"No, I've come to see you. I hear good news now-to a degree-of Patrick ..."

"You could call it that, I suppose. But he ... Oh, dear ... I don't know what do. Anyway, these two ladies may be able to help."

She looked anxiously first at Alex, then at them; Linda smiled encouragingly at her.

"Do please go ahead; talk to the doctor. We'll wait."

She had a nice voice, Alex thought; the only thing he could find to like about her. It was very low and husky.

"No, no, Maeve, you talk to the ladies. If you want me, you can get any of the nurses to page me."

"All right, Dr. Pritchard. Thank you so much. He is the kindest man on God's earth," she said, ushering Linda and Georgia along the corridor. "I don't know what I'd have done without him these past two weeks."

"Is he in charge of your husband?" said Linda.

"No, he's the A and E consultant. But he did admit Patrick, and kept a very close eye for a few days, until ... well ..."

"So ... Mrs. Connell ..." Georgia's voice was tentative as they sat down in the relatives' room. "How actually is Patrick?"

"Maeve, please. Well ... he was getting better. But of course he has a very long way to go. He's paralysed from the waist down-"

"Paralysed!" Georgia's great dark eyes filled with horror. "Oh, no, no-"