The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Armed with a Bottle of Lucozade

They set out the next day, Tony pleased to find himself in a position where he could offer practical help. Luckily for Katrina, she'd got to know him pretty well in the months of living in the Walkers' home. The thought of hours in a confined space with him didn't faze her.

Tony told her they could both take turns on the radio in his Volvo Estate. She could listen to Capital until they got out of London, then he'd re-tune to Radio 4 for an hour or so before letting her pick Radio 1.

"How did the call with Louisa go?" he asked as they pulled out of the Walkers' street and headed north. Katrina hadn't been able to face calling her until this morning.

"Oh, okay. I think she had an 'Ah, that explains it' moment the way I did when I found out. She was more worried about his injuries of course. And I had to tell her a few times he'd had nothing to do with the drug dealing Jordan was doing."

That was Scottish parents for you—they tended to assume their kid was in the wrong. She thought she'd done the job well enough, though.

Tony began to talk about his book-keeping business. As Katrina had guessed, there were plenty of small companies who needed someone who could do the books for them, and who knew the system well enough to work out where they could save a bit of money here and there.

Strictly speaking, Tony was telling them how to work it. But then large big businesses employed tax lawyers, and whole teams of accountants who specialised in advice on how to hide money, hundreds of thousands of pounds worth. What was the odd hundred or thousand here and there?

His new career suited him too, Katrina could tell. He got to breath fresh life into small, struggling organisations and watch them grow as a result of his help. No wonder he was thriving once more. All he needed to do was find another fish and chip shop. He could work the same magic on it, the way he'd done in Kirkcudbright.

"Have you found a fish and chip business?" she asked, her eyes catching his in the mirrors.

His eyes sparkled at that. "Not yet, but there's one in Harrow I reckon could do with a little help. Their mushy peas and onions rings are out of this world. A little work and they could well be..."

She joined in and they both chorused, "the best fish and chips in London!" laughing, as they finished it.

They got to Glasgow in time to catch the last half-hour of the Victoria's afternoon visiting hours. Tony told her he would wait in the car. He wasn't a relative after all.

The hospital was vast and Victorian, its walls and décor sad and tatty, and its staff hurried and harassed. People pushing drips made their way past her to the allocated smoking room, while others pushed in front of her, trying to find relatives in the building's maze of floors and rooms. The whole place smelled depressing—disinfectant overlaid with bad cooking, stew and overdone vegetables. It lingered, miasma-like.

Kippy was still in the Accident & Emergency ward, though Lillian had told her he would be moved the next day as he was no longer seen as a high-risk. Tony had stopped at a small service station and she'd bought a bottle of Lucozade as that was what you gave people who were sick, didn't you?

A&E felt shut off from the rest of the hospital. You went through double doors and suddenly the sound of the rest of the building, and the sirens of ambulances doing their best to cut through Glasgow traffic to deliver the dying and the seriously ill, were muted.

A nurse stood at the station at the front. "Name?" she snapped out, not bothering to look up.

"Katrina Burnett. Ma cousin's in here. Ki – ah mean, Alan Kirkpatrick." It didn't take much for the softer, London-friendly accent to disappear. Puff, up it went in smoke as she stood up to hard-faced receptionists (wo)manning desks where you saw all sorts.