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The ambulance arrived within ten minutes and it took just a further two minutes for old Mr H’s condition to be diagnosed. Heart attack. We all know the shock of his discovery triggered it. I can’t bear to think how guilty Becker is feeling. Another member of the Hunt family could be lost to that stupid fucking sculpture.
Aspirin was administered, an ECG undertaken, and he was stabilised before being transferred to hospital. The whole time Becker stood like a zombie in the corner of his office, answering the paramedic’s questions with one-word answers while he watched them work on his grandfather. He’s completely shook up.
After a brief stop in A & E to stitch the nasty cut on his forehead and an X-ray to ensure no bones were broken in his fall, Becker’s granddad was transferred to the high-dependency unit.
The old boy, usually so buoyant, if a little immobile, looks deathly pasty atop the white sheets of the bed. Becker has been mute all night, sitting as close to his gramps as the medical machinery will allow, his hand holding his grandfather’s old wrinkled one gently. He’s dozed off now and then, for a few minutes at a time, and has accepted the coffee I’ve kept supplying. All I can do is be here. He might not be able to speak to me, but I’m here, tucked away in the corner in an uncomfortable high-backed chair. The seat feels rubbery. The heat on the ward is stifling. We’re both still dressed from last night, Becker in his trousers and shirt, and me in my dress, though my feet are now graced in flip-flops. Mrs Potts has been here throughout the night, too, which was definitely a good thing. She answered all of the questions from the doctors and seemed perfectly together while Becker remained in a state of shock and grief by his grandfather’s bedside.
After dropping a light kiss on Becker’s forehead and squeezing his shoulder, Mrs Potts came to me and smiled down at my exhausted form. I just about managed to return her smile as she reached for my left hand and homed straight in on my ring, and when she dipped and cuddled me, she spoke to me more with the might of her hug than she ever could have with words. Then she left for The Haven, telling me that Donald’s suite should be cleaned, ready for his return, and Winston would need a walk.
That was around dawn. Now I don’t know what time it is, and though I’m desperate for a shower and some sleep, I don’t plan on going anywhere until Becker is ready. He still hasn’t spoken, and I’m not about to push him.
My heavy eyes give up on me and slowly close, the muscles behind hurting as they fight in vain to keep open.
‘Eleanor.’
I bolt upright in my chair and blink back the blur, finding Becker kneeling in front of me. He looks like death warmed up, his hair in disarray, his eyes pale behind his glasses, his skin sallow. ‘Let’s go stretch our legs.’
I look past him to find Mr H still unconscious, his body in the exact same position as it has been since he was admitted. Nodding, I allow Becker to pull me up from the chair, feeling weak with tiredness. Tucking me into his side, he walks us slowly away, heading for the main corridor. We’re both utterly knackered, holding each other up, my arm wrapped around his waist. ‘You okay?’ I ask, just for the sake of it. Neither of us are okay.
‘Super,’ he croaks, his voice sounding sore and grainy.
I just manage enough energy to constrict him in my hold. ‘He’ll be fine,’ I say, not because I feel like I should try to make him feel better, but because I truly believe the old man will be. ‘This isn’t your fault.’ I look up and see him strain a smile. ‘Was he okay when you checked up on him?’
‘I found him wandering down the corridor towards my office. Said he couldn’t sleep and was fetching his paper. I didn’t think anything of it.’
‘Did he know about that room?’
‘Of course. It was his before it was my dad’s, and before it was mine. But it’s kind of an unwritten rule with the Hunt men. No one ventures into the secret room if they’re not heading up the Corporation.’ He laughs a little. ‘It’s like a crown if you’re the Hunt man in power. A crown no one else can touch.’
‘You weren’t to know he’d break the unwritten rule.’
He sighs as we reach the cafe, and Becker homes straight in on the fruit bowl, rootling through, determined. I watch him scowling as he searches for his favourite fruit, eventually picking out an apple and holding it up. ‘No juice spots,’ he grumbles, casting it aside and taking another one. He inspects it thoroughly and growls his disapproval.
