Page 82 of Savage Justice

“Second floor.” She points to the lift tucked away in the corner.

I march over and plonk the holdall containing Nico’s things on the floor, then stab at button number two with my index finger. Seconds later, the metal doors slide apart. I grab the bag and dart inside.

I emerge onto a wide, clinical corridor. Unlike the NHS version, there are no trolley beds parked down the side, no huddle of utilitarian wheelchairs abandoned by the stairs, no harried-looking staff rushing about with clipboards. Instead, it’s calm, quiet, a shrine to well-heeled medical efficiency.

I check the closest door to me. Number twelve. Next to it, number fourteen. I spin around and dash the other way, halting outside number eight. I can hear voices from within.

I knock and enter.

Three pairs of eyes turn in my direction.

Ethan is lounging in the bedside plastic armchair, while Tony perches awkwardly on a low stool. Aaron leans on the windowsill.

I ignore them all and rush to the side of the bed.

Nico’s eyes are closed. A mask covers the lower half of his face, and he’s attached to a variety of devices by a spaghetti junction of lines. Lights flash, and there’s the occasional beep accompanied by low, repetitive whirring.

“Nico?” I grasp his fingers, then think better of it in case I dislodge the canula sprouting from the back of his hand. “Is he..? Can he hear me?”

Ethan stands up and offers me his seat. “Maybe. He’s still sedated.”

I accept the seat. “What happened? Do you know…?”

“It was an arsewipe called Mulligan,” Tony growls. “We searched the place, but he must have been hiding…”

“Hiding? Why? What…?” Who the fuck is Mulligan?

“None of that matters right now,” Ethan tries to assure me. “The main thing is, Tony was there and he was able to get Nico here in time.”

My head is spinning. None of this makes any sense. “I don’t understand. Where were you? Why would anyone…?”

“We were working,” Tony answers, as though that explains everything. “These things happen.”

“No, they don’t. Not to normal people. No one ever stabbed me just in a day’s work.”

He narrows his eyes. “No, I can see that. A spot of waterboarding, though…”

I bite back my next remark and settle for, “That was different.”

Ethan interrupts the exchange. “No vital organs punctured. He was lucky. Lost a lot of blood, but it could have been worse.”

I grab on to that snippet and heave a relieved sigh. “Is that what they said? The doctors?”

“Yes. They’ve patched him up as best they can. Now, we wait.”

“But he’s going to be okay, surely? If it’s just—”

I’m interrupted by the door opening. Megan joins us.

I leap to my feet. “Thank Goodness. How is he? What can you tell me?”

She switches on her best, super-efficient bedside manner. “I’ll be able to tell you more in a moment. Can I just check him?”

I bite my tongue while she faffs about with her stethoscope, then shines her little torch in his eyes. She scans the various machines, consults the chart at the foot of the bed, before turning back to regard me.

“His blood pressure is still very low, despite the surgery having stopped the internal bleeding. That’s a concern, and we need to monitor it. He’s poorly but stable.”

“Will he…?”

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