The Nurse by J. Corrigan (list of ebook readers txt) 📕

experimenting with faction, but may well change his mind. He’ll see how he feels when the first draft is written, if ever he finishes the first draft. Over the past days he’s lost all enthusiasm, not in finding out the answer to the puzzle, but writing the book for possible publication.

Checking his mobile, he decides he has time for a shower and a quick bite before going to see Miles. In the kitchen, he pulls out an M&S salad from the fridge, wolfs it down and heads to the bathroom, taking off his clothes on the way. He lets the water run, waiting for it to heat up, and leans forward onto the sink, holding its edge. The image of Rose – either then or now, he isn’t sure which – is powerful.

Half an hour later, he is standing by the door of his flat, ready to go. The drive from Manchester to Derbyshire, although not long, will be gruelling today, and the bad weather is translating into early dark evenings; he wants to be there and back before nightfall. Rose asked him not to bother Miles, but she wasn’t so vehement in this request as she was in her warning not to contact Daniel Deane. Her husband will probably tell him to sod off, and it won’t be the first time he’s been turned away by someone who doesn’t want to talk to him.

He picks up his car keys.

Rose and Miles have lived in a place called Old Whittington for the last eighteen years. When they first got married, they lived in London for a while, during which time Miles was working for a private clinic in Harley Street. Rose called it his wilderness years, but she didn’t expand.

Theo arrives in Derbyshire in record time, but the maze of streets around Old Whittington catches him off guard, and without the aid of his stolen sat nav or Google Maps (there’s no signal), he gets lost. He pulls up on the kerb and attempts to find his elusive sense of direction. Catching sight of the River Whitting in the distance, he knows he has to be close, and after quickly checking the street map spread on the passenger seat, he decides he should be heading west. Pissing off the driver behind, he does a six-point turn and five minutes later finds himself where he needs to be.

The house is a double-fronted Victorian. Theo turns off the ignition and sits back in the uncomfortable car seat. Now that he’s here, he isn’t so sure. He opens the car door, pushes out stiff legs and surveys the front door. Solid and reliable, like the man inside. More guilt pours through him.

A dead plant sits in a scarlet pot on the porch’s Victorian tiles. He pulls the iron rod on the right-hand side, which sets off a loud and deep ringing inside the house. No movement. Maybe Miles is out, but a sky-blue BMW is evident in the cramped off-road parking space. Finally Theo senses activity, and the door opens.

Rose’s husband. A tall man with a mild lantern jaw. Older than Rose, as she said. Perhaps nearing sixty, although it’s difficult to give an exact age. Slate-grey eyes, even emptier than in the newspaper images. This man’s life has imploded. Theo shouldn’t have come here unannounced, and feels uncomfortable and devious.

‘Can I help you?’ Miles’s voice is low and level. He peers over his shoulder towards Theo’s parked car. ‘You’re not a journalist, are you?’ Before Theo has time to answer, Miles carries on. ‘Because if you are, you can sod off.’

Theo wants to smile at that. The phrase is so out of keeping with the man’s appearance. ‘I’m not a journalist, no, Mr Marlowe… not now, haven’t been for years. My name’s Theo Hazel.’

‘I recognise that name.’

‘I’m a writer, an author.’

Miles stares at him. ‘Thought it rang a bell. Unusual name. Why are you here?’

‘I’ve been visiting your wife… in prison.’ Where else would he be visiting Rose? Inane thing to say.

Miles doesn’t appear too perturbed at Theo’s revelation, or that surprised; in fact Theo sees what looks like an expression of relief pass over his face. He doesn’t move away from the front door, though, and despite now thinking this really wasn’t his best idea, Theo’s neck elongates and he peers into the hallway. A staircase on the left, carpeted in a mustard-yellow pile. Victorian green and blue ceramic tiles cover the hallway floor, a coat stand to the right with one solitary jacket hanging from its metal curves. Utterly organised, and utterly empty. No sign of life. Rose hasn’t said much about her life with Miles, but what has come through to him loud and clear is their grief at not being able to have children.

No, Miles doesn’t look angry about Theo’s unexpected appearance on his doorstep, only unoccupied, like his hallway.

‘Could I come in?’ He might as well ask. The man can only tell him to piss off, although he suspects Miles wouldn’t ramp up to that vocabulary.

‘I’m about to go out.’

Miles retired soon after Rose’s hearing and imprisonment, so Theo knows he isn’t going to work. It’s the one thing Rose has mentioned about him – that she wishes he’d found a job in another hospital, because clearly (and this is Theo’s thought) he couldn’t have stayed at the one he was working at; the hospital where Abe died. Theo wonders what Miles does with himself apart from going to see Rose, which he does every week.

‘I’d really appreciate half an hour of your time,’ he says.

‘I like your non-fiction. Read all of those. Not so keen on your novels.’ Still Miles hasn’t moved from the door.

‘Nice to know someone reads my work.’ Rose mentioned that Miles might well have read one of his books, and her quick comment pleased him more than it should have done.

‘I thought your last one was the best,’ Miles carries on. ‘Come in.’

Theo’s whole body lapses into mild euphoria, a reaction