Murder in 1975 (Gay - Romantic Thriller)

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight 

Philips was aware only that he was going to be sick. Waves of nausea racked his stomach but nothing happened. Perhaps he had already coughed up all there was. He was deaf and blind and dumb, there was only a green grey haze and throbbing pain from his hair to his soles. He slid into unconsciousness again. 

A policeman seated by the door glanced at him briefly, then turned the page of his magazine and continued reading. The night light glowed softly from the ceiling. 

He opened his eyes cautiously, half expecting a flood of pain which didn't come. White ceiling, white walls, white door with a clear glass pane in the top half of it. His nose wrinkled. Antiseptic. Was he in a hospital? He looked at the door again, now aware of the occasional nurse bustling past, pushing a tinkling trolley or carrying a mute bedpan. Yes, a hospital definitely. But why? Accident? Did it really matter? He felt too tired to worry about it. He shut his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but something started nagging him, something important, something he wanted to know. He frowned, what was it? 

Who? Bill ... that's who, Bill had been telling him something important, but he had blacked out before he could hear what it was. He must be around here somewhere; maybe one of the nurses would fetch him if he asked. He tried to call out but there was no sound, he didn't even know if he had opened his mouth. Perhaps he'd wait till later. He felt so tired; he couldn't make another effort. 

"'A sick man is a folder', seven letters," mused Constable George, biting the end of his biro. " 'Manilla' of course, that was an easy one really." He flattened the paper against his knee and wrote in the word. As he finished the downward stroke of the 'a', Harper came quietly into the room. 

"Has he said anything yet?" he asked, low voiced. 

"I'll say he has, sir!" The reply was startlingly vehement. The constable seemed to realize that and explained hastily, "It's not that his actual words have been very surprising sir, but he recognised me. I don't know how, as far as I know I've never met him. Called me by name." He bent down to put down his newspaper and pick up a blue notebook. Harper noticed that the top joint was missing from his middle finger and wondered if that had happened to him on duty. He still wore the now virtually extinct short back and sides hair cut and must have been nearly forty. He opened the note book and quoted from it. 

"At one twenty seven he said 'no Bill' as clearly as that sir and me just sitting here. Then he said 'Come back Bill, it's alright,' and I hadn't made a move except to write down what he was saying. That was in one outburst sir," he glanced up then consulted his note book again. "At three fifty he said, 'I didn't do it Bill! Why are you trying to kill me?' gave me a bit of a shock that did sir because I hadn't even gone near him. I thought he must be delirious, but it was funny his knowing my name wasn't it?" 

"Yes, it was Constable," Harper answered slowly. 'I didn't do it' was clear enough but why had he said 'Come back, Bill'? Would Philips ever tell him now? "Did he say anything else?" 

"No sir, not yet." 

"Well, stay with him and call me if he comes to. I'll have a relief here for you in a couple of hours." 

"Righto, sir." 

Harper paused to look down at the patient before he left. His hand reached out automatically to smooth back the hair from his forehead and he snatched it back. "Hands off Bill," he told himself. The face was undamaged, the lashes still thick and long, framing his closed eyes, the pale lips still firm and curved, his skin like suede asking to be stroked, the line of his cheek ... Harper brought himself up short. His unnatural passion for him had cost Richard too dearly already, he mustn't encourage it.