Die With Me Read Free

trembling as she gazed at him. ‘I don’t want to…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. Die. Die with me. Be mine forever. That’s what he had said.
    He rose, went over to her and sat down on the step beside her. Wrapping his arm tightly around her, he pulled her into him, cradling her head against his shoulder.
    ‘Nor do I, my darling, nor do I.’ Stroking her soft hair, he kissed the top of her head. ‘Not now I’ve met you, anyway. Do you feel that too?’
    She nodded, pressing her head hard into his coat sleeve.
    ‘You’ve saved me, you know. You’re so very special. My little Gemma. Shall we do the ceremony anyway? I have everything ready. Shall we exchange rings as we planned?’ She gave a squeak of assent, burying deep into him, nuzzling his shoulder like a kitten. ‘Very special,’ he said, still stroking her hair, trying to soothe her. ‘So very special.’
    She started as if stung by something, her hand flying to her mouth as she looked up at him.
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘The note. I left a note like you told me. What happens when Mum finds it?’
    Was that all? He smiled with relief. ‘Don’t worry. We can either get it back or…’ he let the sentence hang before continuing, ‘you can come and stay with me. Then it won’t matter. You don’t have to go home, if you don’t want to. There’s no way they’ll find us. No way at all.’
    She blushed, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as she returned the smile. For a moment, in spite of her swollen eyes and blotchy face, she looked almost pretty.
    ‘Come on then. I think you’ll like the gallery. It’s very private, a really special place. Nobody will bother us there.’
    He stood up and helped her to her feet, patting down the folds of her coat and brushing away the dust and fluff from the floor. Barely able to contain himself, he took her by the hand and kissed it one last time, closing his eyes briefly as he pictured again what was to come. She was his. All his. He was sure.

2
    There was no justice in life. DI Mark Tartaglia gazed through the glass porthole of the door to the intensive care room where his boss, DCI Trevor Clarke, was stretched out in bed, at the centre of a spaghetti junction of wires and tubes. Apart from the dark strip of moustache visible beneath the oxygen mask, Clarke was unrecognisable. He’d been in a coma ever since the accident, his head held fast in a clamp to protect his injured spine, with his shattered pelvis and legs surrounded by a metal cage. Thank God he’d been wearing a helmet and proper clothing when he came off his motorbike. But the prognosis wasn’t good.
    Sally-Anne, Clarke’s fiancée, sat by the bed, head bowed, one of Clarke’s huge hands cupped in hers. She was dressed in a bright pink and white checked suit, her long, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail tied with a gold ribbon. Tartaglia had just missed her the day before when he had called by and he didn’t relish seeing her now. For a moment he thought about coming back later. But sod it, Clarke was one of his best mates; he had every right to be there too. He rapped on the glass panel, opened the door and went in.
    Sally-Anne looked round briefly. Her eyes were red, rimmed with mascara. He wasn’t sure if she was crying for Clarke or for herself. Any woman who could up sticks and leave two small kids and a husband for another man, even if it was someone as nice as Clarke, had to be selfish beyond belief. And it had all happened so fast. Impulsive as always, Clarke never did things by halves. One minute she was just the new bit of squeeze, brought along for the occasional drink or bite to eat. Next thing, she was living in his flat in Clapham, he’d put her name on his mortgage and bank account and now that her divorce had come through, they were talking about getting hitched. But that was before the accident. Maybe Tartaglia was being harsh, but he couldn’t imagine Sally-Anne looking after a paraplegic for the