Die With Me Read Free Page A

rest of her life.
    ‘Any progress?’ Tartaglia asked, walking over to the foot of the bed. He’d already heard from Clarke’s nurse that there was none but he didn’t know what else to say. The longer Clarke stayed in a coma, the worse the likely outcome.
    Sally-Anne shook her head, stroking the top of Clarke’s hand with her long pink nails, gazing fixedly at what could be seen of his face as if she were willing him to open his eyes or speak. Tartaglia wondered how long she had been there and what was going through her mind. Conversation seemed pointless and he stood behind her, feeling awkward, the silence punctuated by the bleeping of the monitors around the bed and the episodic shushing of the ventilator.
    After a moment, Sally-Anne muttered something to Clarke that sounded like ‘see you later’, carefully placed his hand back on top of the sheet, patted it and stood up. Straightening her short skirt, she picked up her handbag and turned to Tartaglia, tears in her eyes.
    ‘I hate hospitals. I hate the smell. It reminds me of having my appendix out when I was a kid and I feel so bloody useless. What’s the point of coming? What good can I do? I mean, he doesn’t even know I’m here.’
    Avoiding her gaze, Tartaglia shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was there because he cared about Clarke, because he wanted to see him, poor bastard. Of course it wouldn’t do Clarke any good, in the state he was in. But that wasn’t the point. Even if it was a pretty empty gesture, it was a mark of their friendship, of respect.
    She took a tissue out of her bag and blew her nose. Her eyes fastened onto the motorbike helmet under Tartaglia’s arm. ‘Stupid prat. Why did Trevor have to go and buy that wretched bike? He hasn’t ridden one in years.’
    Her tone was bitter and Tartaglia wondered if somehow she held him personally to blame, as he was close to Clarke and the only other member of the murder team to ride a motorbike. For a moment he thought of the gleaming red Ducati 999 in the hospital car park and felt almost guilty. But if Sally-Anne thought he’d led Clarke astray, she was wrong. Mid-life crisis was the phrase that came to mind. At least, that was the joke around the office. Six months, almost to the day, after Clarke’s wife left him for her yoga teacher, he’d started WeightWatchers and joined the local gym. Next came the motorbike, the contact lenses, the garish shirts and the leather jacket. What with the seventies-style moustache he refused to shave off, he was starting to look like one of the Village People. Just when they were all wondering if Clarke was going to come out of the closet, along came Sally-Anne, almost young enough to be his daughter, and his brief second stint as a single man was over. Clarke was well aware of what his work mates thought but he didn’t seem to mind. He was just happy and at peace with the world. That should have been all that mattered but Tartaglia couldn’t help worrying that Clarke would end up getting hurt.
    Sally-Anne was still staring at Tartaglia, arms clasped tightly around her handbag. ‘You know, I just keep hoping he’s going to open his eyes. That’s all I want. Just to know that he’s still all there, up top, I mean. Anything else, we can learn to cope with together.’
    The way she spoke sounded genuine and he felt a little surprised. Had he been wrong about her? Did she really love Clarke after all?
    ‘Have you thought about playing him some music?’ he said, feeling embarrassed, wanting to appear helpful if nothing else. ‘You know, something he’ll recognise. They say it sometimes works.’
    ‘That’s not a bad idea. I suppose anything’s worth a try, given the state he’s in. But a Walkman’s definitely out.’ Gulping, she gave a wry smile in Clarke’s direction. ‘I mean, where would you put the headphones?’
    She had a point. You could barely make out Clarke’s eyes, let alone his ears. ‘What about one of those