The nurse stood at the garden door, cigarette dangling from her fingers, mouth opening and closing like a drowning goldfish.
“I thought he was hallucinating,” she whispered. “A big white dug he said it was. I didnae believe him.”
I took the cigarette from her before she burned her fingers.
“His pal, Peter Clarke. Does he live round here?”
She couldn’t take her eyes from the dried out thing on the bed.
‘I thought he was addled,” she said softly. She was on the verge of going into shock, but I didn’t have time to play nice. I slapped her cheek until I got her attention. It took a while.
Finally her eyes fixed on mine.
“Clarke,” I said. “Does he live round here?”
“Acacia Avenue,” she said. “Two lefts then a right, number 45.”
I was on my way out of the door before she remembered to be outraged.
“Hey. You hit me. I’ve a good mind to…”
I didn’t hear any more. I ran along the suburban streets, hoping like hell I would make it on time.