Finlay took pity on him. ‘You don’t have to stay, you know. Don’t you have a job to go to?’
Murray seemed to consider this. ‘Not immediately, no.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You should eat something,’ Murray said, ignoring the question, and picking up a chart the doctor had left for him. ‘Every four hours.’
‘Like a baby.’ Finlay harrumphed.
‘I draw the line at night feeds.’
Murray, it turned out, made a pretty decent nurse. He’d helped change the bandages on Finlay’s fingers and over his scraped ribcage the day before, bathing the scratches in antiseptic before applying clean gauze and the big sticking plasters, all with Alice showing him how.
Now Murray was making his way down through hatch doors in the floor in the corner of the cruive and rummaging around in the sunken coldstore that passed for Finlay’s refrigerator, accessed by a few steps. Finlay called it his ‘scullery’.
Murray’s head popped out from the room, the glow from the scullery lamp lighting his face from beneath like a ghost in a play coming through a trapdoor. Finlay determined not to laugh at the sight of him.
‘There’s bacon, sausages, and a tonne of new potatoes,’ Murray relayed. ‘Dropped off from Laura at the deli. No charge, she said, not for herfavouritecustomer.’ Murray’s eyes gleamed with delight. So the man still enjoyed taunting him, even now?
‘Pass,’ Finlay grumped, unable to prevent his own smile forming.
‘Let’s see. What else? Chutneys, cheddar and some nice crackers from the library staff.’
Now that was a surprise. Finlay really hadn’t expected them to care in the slightest.
‘Didn’t know you had so many fans,’ Murray said, as though in agreement, his head disappearing once more.
‘Makes two of us,’ Finlay said, unsure if Murray could hear him.
In fact, he’d been astonished at the response to the news of his rescue. There’d been a flower delivery from the garden project people. Not project-grown stuff, of course (there’d still be nothing to show for the season’s growth down there), but a big blousy bunch of early daffodils and tulips, probably sent in an aeroplane all the way from Holland, but he’d forgive them the emissions just this once, since they looked so bright in the sink and they scented the place with springtime.
There’d been a hundredweight of sugared almonds, gummy bears, chocolate bars and lollipops. Kids’ stuff, brought by Jemmy and his team. Murray had been trying to ration them out to him, but he was easy to get around, if Finlay complained hard enough.
Murray had already let him have all the tablet Senga had made the postman drop off no sooner than the fog had cleared.
‘Oh, and there was this from Gracie at the doctor’s surgery,’ said Murray, still peeping out from the scullery hatch, giving the misshapen ceramic vase he was holding a dubious look.
‘Looks handmade,’ said Finlay, not knowing what else to say about it.
‘Looks rubbish,’ said Murray.
Nevertheless, he quickly escaped the hatch, filled it up from the tap and, confident it wasn’t leaky, plonked the spring flowers in it and set it on the mantel.
‘That’s no’ half bad,’ Finlay had to admit, prepared to forgive Gracie perhaps a small amount for all her prying and gossiping.
Back down the steps he went once more. ‘The police station sent this,’ Murray was saying, emerging after a moment holding a big colourful box.
‘What is it?’ Finlay asked, craning his neck to get a look.
‘Chocolate cake.’
‘That’s dinner sorted, then,’ concluded Finlay, another wave of lightness passing through him, an increasingly regular occurrence since the rescue.
Murray dropped the scullery hatch closed behind him and Finlay’s heart sank when he saw he was bringing with himnotthe double chocolate gateau he’d hankered after, but a big cellophane-wrapped fruit basket with a Brazilian pineapple peeping out of the top.
‘Before you start grumbling about air miles,’ Murray stopped him, ‘you need some vitamins before you can stuff yourself with any more cakes. Let’s start with a tropical fruit salad.’
Finlay conceded with a big sigh. ‘Who sent the fruit basket?’ he asked, letting Murray drop it in his lap so he could pull at the red ribbon ties with his free arm – his other arm was still wrapped in its sling.
