First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) (25 page)

After she’d sat down on the bedside chair and crossed her bare legs, Tommy finally spoke.

‘So you’re allowed to see me in public now?’ Tommy said.

Jenny smiled.

‘You’re the lone wolf now, media fucking loves you. So yeah.’ She said.

‘And what does Fionbar think of this?’ Tommy said.

‘Fionbar and I are getting a divorce.’ She said.

‘Oh? And what does your party’s leader think of that?’ Tommy said.

‘Well, I’ll know after he finds out.’ She said.

Tommy smiled at that.

‘I’d like us to move in together.’ She said.

Tommy looked at her.

‘I think I’d like that too.’ He said.

She smiled, he tried to smile.

‘I brought along some of the tabloid headlines by the way. From the day after you had that, fight.’ Jenny giggled as she took the papers out of the bag.

‘Please. Please don’t. Anne’s already been in, she’s framed some for our office and all.’ Tommy said, grimacing.

Tommy’s finding and wrestling with the Ripper had made the front pages for a number of days, knocked back only when Gary Clancy pleaded guilty to assault and was sentenced to two years in jail with an additional two years suspended.

‘And are you going back to the job?’ Jenny asked.

‘Yes. It is me. But I’m definitely going to take full advantage of the sick leave I’ve generously been given.’

‘Ooooh, where will you go?’ Jenny asked.

‘Nowhere, I’m going to stay put in this dirty old town. I’ve to learn to shoot again with these artificial tendons. Plus, I think I’m going to go back to painting, like I used to do as a kid.’ Tommy said.

‘Well maybe you can paint me like-’

‘Do not even think of making that reference.’ Tommy said.

‘-one of your French girls.’ She finished.

Tommy grimaced as he tried to pull himself from the bed – thirty four stitches in his side was quite enough to be getting on with.

‘Where you going?’ Jenny asked.

‘The coffee machine at the end of the hall, cmon and walk with me.’ Tommy said.

‘Ok, DI Bishop, let’s go. Oh, are you going to go on the Late Late Show now that you’ve been invited?’

‘Never.’ Tommy said.

‘Maybe a career in politics for the hero cop?’

‘Never.’ Tommy said. ‘You guys are all fucking parasites.’

She stood behind him, ready to stop him stumbling, but three weeks of walking practice meant he was feeling sound on his feet.

Behind him, as he stepped out into the hospital’s hall, he left an organised room, unadorned by any personal affections bar one. Beside the bed a simple black frame stood, and fading to yellow behind the glass was a picture that was easily more than eleven years old. In it, a freckled woman with long brown hair was blowing out the candle of a cake, keeping her eyes on the camera that was making her so self-conscious.

Beyond the small frame, the window was fogged, as the rain outside poured heavily upon the streets, turning the mud into the brown tears that caked the roads of Dublin.

THE END