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tight. A hospital band was visible on his wrist. The only clue to his relative youth was his brown hair.
His face hung from his bones and his skin was grey apart from high red spots on his cheekbones, from
fever, or morphine. He was hooked up to a pump. An oxygen mask was attached to his face, the
elastic digging into his cheeks, and a bag of dark orange urine hung from the side of the bed.
Beside the bed was an armchair, and a table, with books on it, along with a laptop computer, a
remote control for the TV that sat on the chest of drawers in a corner, and a cardboard tray for
collecting vomit. Beside the door was a wheelchair.
The nurse was beside me now. ‘He’s dying,’ she said. She had tribal scars on her face, two rough,
raised lines on each cheek, and eyes that told me that she’d seen death before.
I turned to my man. ‘Search the garage,’ I said, but I already knew that there’d be no sign of Ben
Finch.