Death on the Lake by Jo Allen (early reader books TXT) 📗

The stone floor of the cottage was cold and hard under her knees. In the kitchen Ashleigh clattered about. Becca’s heart beat heavy and hard and painfully in her chest and George wheezed again, each breath more of a struggle than the last. ‘Uncle George, it’s okay. There’ll be plenty of time to talk later.’

‘Okay, Becca.’ Ashleigh was back, and the chink of china on china suggested she’d tried and failed to find a mug. ‘Here’s a cup of tea.’ She set cup and saucer down on the floor.

It was too quickly made, no doubt, and would taste disgusting, but Becca had done that herself in an emergency. She hated being treated like a layperson when she was the health professional. ‘Thank you.’ Gently, she stroked George’s hand. ‘It’ll be okay. We’ll get you to hospital.’

‘I think he’s trying to tell you something.’

‘What?’ Becca sat back on her knees, still holding his hand. ‘He shouldn’t talk. Uncle George, it’s okay.’

‘He’s trying to tell you something,’ Ashleigh repeated, a frown of perplexity on her face. ‘Look. Poor man. Can you see? He’s distressed.’

‘He can hear us,’ Becca hissed at her. Hearing was the last sense to go. For God’s sake, please let neither Ashleigh nor Jude say anything stupid and let George know how little time he had left. But then it dawned on her. If, as she was so sure was the case, George was dying this was the last chance he’d have to tell anyone anything at all. ‘I love you so much,’ she said to him, and that was the cat out of the bag. If he had any comprehension left, he’d know, because he never encouraged any kind of emotional input, but this was all about last chances. Yes, he should stay calm. But he was dying and there shouldn’t be things you never said. She wouldn’t let him go without love. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

His hand twitched, his mouth convulsed and a pulse quivered in the edge of his mouth. Spittle trickled down his cheek and Becca, unable to reach into her pocket for a tissue, dabbed it away with the corner of the blanket. A strangled groan was all he could manage.

‘Uncle George,’ she pleaded. ‘What is it? Did something happen?’

Jude’s feet joined the scene. His boots, unlike Ashleigh’s, were worn and well-fitted. ‘That’s the ambulance on the way. They say to keep him warm, but you’ll know that.’

George twitched. Tears rose in Becca’s eyes. ‘Uncle George. Speak to me. Tell me what you want to say.’ Even if it was only goodbye.

A last, convulsive gasp. George was gone. She knew it. She touched a finger to his still-warm skin and the pulse was absent. ‘It’s too late.’ She lifted a hand to dab at her eyes as the walls of the cottage seemed to close in around her.

‘Jude, Becca’s not okay.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ll wait here for the ambulance. I think you should take her home.’

They were talking over her, as if she wasn’t there. ‘I’ll wait with him,’ she snarled up at them, but her voice let her down, breaking as she spoke. The edge of the blanket did duty as a hanky for her, too, wiping away the tears she couldn’t stop and shouldn’t shed. Falling apart wouldn’t help George. But nothing could help George now.

‘No.’ Jude bent down and placed a cool and impersonal hand under her elbow. ‘Ashleigh’s right. This is about you, now. You’re upset. I’ll call your mum and tell her I’m bringing you home and she can get back to look after you. You’ve done what you can for George and you should be proud of it.’

‘Don’t you dare patronise me. I’m only doing my job.’

‘Yes, I know that. But it’s harder this time, because I know how much you care about him. So let’s make this about you, and make sure you’re all right.’

To her shame, she gave in, allowing Ashleigh O’Halloran to take her place at George’s side and letting Jude tow her out of the cottage and guide her into her car, sitting in the driving seat until he’d phoned her mum.

‘I’l drive,’ he said, in that neutral policeman’s voice. ‘I’ll take you home and wait until someone gets there to sit with you, and then I’ll leave. Ashleigh’s going to bring my car and pick me up from my mum’s. Okay?’

That was so typical of Jude, doing everything by the book as if she was a victim of crime. They were friends, or they were supposed to be. But she didn’t have the energy to resist, sitting in the car with her hands folded in her lap and staring out of the window, seeing but not paying attention. Even the ambulance they gave way to on the narrow road to Pooley Bridge didn’t merit more than a glance.

‘Okay.’ They’d reached Wasby as if through some strange time-slip, the journey taking forever and yet no time at all. She sat in her seat until he came to open the door for her, reached for her handbag, rifled through it for her keys, opened the cottage door and then came to help her up the path. ‘I’ve left the door on the latch for when your mum comes. You go and sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘I don’t need you to make me tea. I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.’

‘Of course you are. But I want to help. Just to make it a bit easier for you.’

His phone pinged and he looked down at it. Jude had the knack that she envied, of keeping his expression inscrutable, but she’d always been able to sense what kind of emotion he was trying to hide. ‘Is that Ashleigh? Is there news?’

‘Yes.’ He replaced the phone in his pocket and stared at her, thoughtfully, before bending down to offer Holmes the briefest of acknowledgements as the cat rubbed round his legs. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ As if she hadn’t