cared for Mrs Robbins said "Someone heard."
"What?" He would have preferred not to be made to add "What did they hear?"
"They heard him shout and they heard him fall."
"I don't suppose..." David wished he hadn't said that, because now he had to say "You wouldn't know what he said."
"I didn't ask. How many other gory details would you like?"
"I don't like them at all. I'm just, I'm just concerned I didn't hear."
He had no idea if this made sense. Perhaps she could assume he meant he hadn't been informed about the accident. "Is it flowers," he blurted, "or a charity?"
"Is what? I don't understand you, Mr Botham."
"For the funeral, or have they had it already?"
"I hope nobody's that eager." Her stare might have been convicting David of the offence as she declared "He isn't dead."
"He isn't." In his confusion David almost said too much. "What is he, then?"
"He's in intensive care."
David hardly knew why he was asking "Do you know where?"
"I wasn't told. I expect I can find out if you really want to know."
David wasn't sure if he would like to learn why she was staring so hard at him. "Don't go to any trouble, but if you should hear..."
"I'll come over with the information." She let her gaze linger on him before she said "I don't mind saying you've gone up in my estimation, Mr Botham. I wouldn't have taken you to care so much about your neighbour when he isn't even close."
David felt he was being praised as somebody he wasn't, and retreated into his house. How relieved could he let himself feel over the news about Dent? As soon as he started to ponder it the relief gave way to bewilderment that could easily yield to panic There was far too much he didn't understand or want to understand. The computer screen had turned blank to save energy, but he could imagine it was saving up worse revelations for him, hiding them in the featureless darkness that was the net. He was almost at the computer when he wondered if the worst was to be found elsewhere.
He found he felt oddly resigned as he took out his phone, unless his emotions had grown too remote to grasp. He sank onto the nearest chair and looked up the number, and poked the key to call it before he could change his mind. In fewer seconds than he was prepared for a woman said "Transport police."
"I wonder if I could speak to somebody about an incident I think you'll have dealt with."
"I'll need some details, sir."
"Of course. I know. What it was, a gentleman, he was, he died in your lift at Lime Street Station the other week."
"I mean we need your details."
"I'm not from round here." For a panicky moment David was afraid his phone might betray the opposite, but could she locate him by his mobile? He seemed to have no option but to blunder onwards. "I'm," he said and heard himself improvising desperately. "I'm his nephew."
If he hoped this would gain him some sympathy, he couldn't tell whether it had. "May I have a name, please."
"He was my uncle—" At once David's mind was as blank as the screen of the dozing computer. He was about to shove himself out of the chair and find some way of disguising the reason for the pause while he looked up the name in the news report—perhaps he could feign a coughing fit, though wouldn't she also overhear him at the keyboard?—when he managed to make his mind work. "He was my uncle, obviously," he wished at once he hadn't bothered saying. "Uncle Donny. Uncle Don."
"I was asking for your name, sir."
"Oh, mine." Once again David felt as if his mind had fallen into the same mode as the computer, except that it was close to freezing with panic. He'd no sooner thought of a name than he let it out. "Luke," he said, which at least was nothing like his, not even by a letter. "Luke Sugden."
Silence met this, and he was afraid he'd somehow given himself away. Would a nephew have the dead man's surname? Apparently the woman was recording the information, because she said "And your address."
"Look, do you really need all this? I
"What?" He would have preferred not to be made to add "What did they hear?"
"They heard him shout and they heard him fall."
"I don't suppose..." David wished he hadn't said that, because now he had to say "You wouldn't know what he said."
"I didn't ask. How many other gory details would you like?"
"I don't like them at all. I'm just, I'm just concerned I didn't hear."
He had no idea if this made sense. Perhaps she could assume he meant he hadn't been informed about the accident. "Is it flowers," he blurted, "or a charity?"
"Is what? I don't understand you, Mr Botham."
"For the funeral, or have they had it already?"
"I hope nobody's that eager." Her stare might have been convicting David of the offence as she declared "He isn't dead."
"He isn't." In his confusion David almost said too much. "What is he, then?"
"He's in intensive care."
David hardly knew why he was asking "Do you know where?"
"I wasn't told. I expect I can find out if you really want to know."
David wasn't sure if he would like to learn why she was staring so hard at him. "Don't go to any trouble, but if you should hear..."
"I'll come over with the information." She let her gaze linger on him before she said "I don't mind saying you've gone up in my estimation, Mr Botham. I wouldn't have taken you to care so much about your neighbour when he isn't even close."
David felt he was being praised as somebody he wasn't, and retreated into his house. How relieved could he let himself feel over the news about Dent? As soon as he started to ponder it the relief gave way to bewilderment that could easily yield to panic There was far too much he didn't understand or want to understand. The computer screen had turned blank to save energy, but he could imagine it was saving up worse revelations for him, hiding them in the featureless darkness that was the net. He was almost at the computer when he wondered if the worst was to be found elsewhere.
He found he felt oddly resigned as he took out his phone, unless his emotions had grown too remote to grasp. He sank onto the nearest chair and looked up the number, and poked the key to call it before he could change his mind. In fewer seconds than he was prepared for a woman said "Transport police."
"I wonder if I could speak to somebody about an incident I think you'll have dealt with."
"I'll need some details, sir."
"Of course. I know. What it was, a gentleman, he was, he died in your lift at Lime Street Station the other week."
"I mean we need your details."
"I'm not from round here." For a panicky moment David was afraid his phone might betray the opposite, but could she locate him by his mobile? He seemed to have no option but to blunder onwards. "I'm," he said and heard himself improvising desperately. "I'm his nephew."
If he hoped this would gain him some sympathy, he couldn't tell whether it had. "May I have a name, please."
"He was my uncle—" At once David's mind was as blank as the screen of the dozing computer. He was about to shove himself out of the chair and find some way of disguising the reason for the pause while he looked up the name in the news report—perhaps he could feign a coughing fit, though wouldn't she also overhear him at the keyboard?—when he managed to make his mind work. "He was my uncle, obviously," he wished at once he hadn't bothered saying. "Uncle Donny. Uncle Don."
"I was asking for your name, sir."
"Oh, mine." Once again David felt as if his mind had fallen into the same mode as the computer, except that it was close to freezing with panic. He'd no sooner thought of a name than he let it out. "Luke," he said, which at least was nothing like his, not even by a letter. "Luke Sugden."
Silence met this, and he was afraid he'd somehow given himself away. Would a nephew have the dead man's surname? Apparently the woman was recording the information, because she said "And your address."
"Look, do you really need all this? I
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