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At 6:30pm, Fred Thursday stops at home for supper. He knows that Morse, agonizing over the lunatic’s puzzle, wouldn’t understand. Morse is a born detective, and his need to solve cases burns hot and unforgiving. He’ll need to learn to bank that fire soon, or burn out bright but brief as phosphorus; he already has the file of a man who’s scorched his way through his short career and burnt himself at the edges in the process. Right now, though, Thursday knows there’s no point in pushing him. Not on this case.
Thursday learned to control his own drive a long time ago, learned to turn it down far enough to eat, sleep, love his wife, raise his children. It will never be comfortable, not when lives are at stake, but he can do it. He can put himself before work.
Joan’s out tonight at a work do and Sam’s got a maths test on the brain, saving Thursday from enforcing the house rules with a heavy hand. Win serves him a generous helping of stewed mutton with a sympathetic smile, but also a look that says she’ll be wanting to hear from him later. He accepts both, and digs in gratefully to the savoury warmth. Here, wrapped up in the homely scent of mutton and potatoes, worried only by Win’s suspicions of rats in the shed and Sam’s sleeve in his plate, he can forget his work enough to keep it from searing him.
Win gets up just as he’s finishing to make him some cheese and crackers, wrapped up in a neat package of butcher’s paper as always. Thursday takes it with more than usual appreciation. “You’re one in a million, Win.”
She pushes him towards the door, but smiles. “Get on with you, then. Come home safe.”
“Always.”
The front door sticks a bit in the wet weather; it’s as good as any barometer. Thursday knows even before it swings open that it’s raining outside, a light but steady drizzle. He hurries out to the car with his collar turned up against it; it comes down like flecks of gold under the streetlamp.
The roads are quiet as usual for supper-time, and the return to Cowley station passes almost without Thursday’s notice – No alibi err badly and Nearby libra idol consume the majority of his conscious thought. Whatever their interpretation he’s sure it isn’t Jakes’, but that hardly gets him much further forward.
Back at the nick, Thursday doesn’t actually make it back into his office, doesn’t even make it into the CID. He’s met just outside the door by a heavy-set PC holding a piece of paper who stops with a jolt upon seeing him, blanching. Thursday raises his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Sir – a call came through five minutes ago from the Bodleian – DC Morse telephoned for immediate support.” The PC, a young and unfamiliar member of the nightshift, licks his lips and crumples the edge of the paper in his hand.
“The Bodleian?” Thursday shifts his weight preparatory to turning back the way he came. The constable stops him before he can, clearing his throat anxiously.
“A second call came through, just now, from the Bodleian.” The constable pauses for a moment, his nervous apprehension spreading infectiously to Thursday. “Man down, sir. It’s Morse. They’ve called for an ambulance. We’ve already got eight men on scene, and more arriving,” he adds, words pouring out fast and fluid as if in an attempt to drown out the bad news.
For a moment Thursday freezes, the civilian autopilot which guides him through most of his life these days struggling suddenly in unexpected turbulence. Then he unfreezes into the sharper, harder man the war forged, one used to men living and dying by his actions. With a metallic taste in his mouth and three corpses in his mind’s eye he snaps: “What’s his condition?”
The man stares back at him in what some hind part of Thursday’s brain recognizes as fear; his uppermost thoughts recognize only that they are wasting seconds while the constable searches for words.
“I – I’m not sure, sir. They didn’t give any details, other than that he collapsed on the steps of Hertford College.”
“They’ll take him to the Radcliff,” says Thursday, more to himself than the PC. Released from Thursday’s attention the man edges away gratefully, and after waiting for only a second to see if he’s needed, hurries away down the corridor.
It takes Thursday less than five seconds to form his entire roadmap in his head from the CID to the Radcliff, and then he’s moving. He cuts down the back stairs and through the canteen kitchen, at this time of night smelling mainly of grease and the station’s thick black coffee. He slams out through the emergency exit into the back car park between the bins and the hose and brush used for cleaning the cars, keys already in hand.
Thursday commits several traffic violations on the short drive to the Radcliff Infirmary, little slipshod risks to shave seconds off the trip – things he’d bawl out Sam or Joan for. He drives grim-faced and white-knuckled, arms held so stiff they begin to ache.
The car park, when he arrives at the Infirmary, appears full from the street. He doesn’t bother to turn in and hunt for a spot, instead passes right by and pulls up beside the kerb opposite to the main entrance to Casualty, shutting the engine off and abandoning the Jag without a backward glance. He hurries out and across the dark street through the light drizzle through the entrance to Casualty.
For some reason tonight the ward is buzzing with activity, men and women dressed in white hurrying past the narrow entrance behind the admitting clerk’s desk. The waiting area in the entranceway is full, most of the 20 or so chairs taken up. Those waiting have the strained, clawed faces of anxious people, or those disguising discomfort.
The clerk is a young man with thin, drooping shoulders and a slouched back. He straightens up tiredly as Thursday marches over, eyes darting to the full waiting area and back with poorly-disguised dread.
“DI Thursday,” says Thursday, showing his warrant card. The young man perks up, dismay disappearing from his face to be replaced by a look of relieved enthusiasm.
“You must be here about the bloke your boys brought in,” he says, Oxfordshire accent heavy. “The stabbing vic. They took him straight down to pathology. Dr DeBryn was free – said he had time to see him right away.”
The words echo in Thursday’s ears like the lingering report of artillery, drowning out all other sound. He stares mutely at the clerk, unable to find words, unable to find even thoughts.
“It’s downstairs,” prompts the clerk after a moment, “in the basement. Room 011. There’s an elevator at the end of the hall,” he adds, motioning. Thursday follows the movement of his hand with his head, and then slowly turns and moves himself in that direction.
It’s the movement that starts him thinking again, turning his mind over like a crank.
DC Morse is dead. Thursday is here to see Miller’s fourth victim, a Cowley Station ‘tec. A young man who, an hour ago, was still in the office mussing his hair up with the end of a pencil.
Thursday reaches the elevator and thumbs the button. He feels himself growing colder, grimmer as he steps in and presses the bottom-most button. He can sense the vast grief and despair waiting for him on the other side of a thin wall of ice, the last remains of the shock that’s already wearing off. When it’s gone he’ll understand, rather than just know, that Morse is dead – and the lad who is still breathing in his memories won’t be, anymore.
Muscle memory carries him out of the elevator and down the hall; it’s the morgue doors that stop him. They’re solid metal, heavy and unwieldy, meant to keep the cold in.
Dead men need no heat.
Once he steps through these doors, he can’t go back. Here, now, he doesn’t know. Not yet, not completely. Once he opens the doors Endeavour Morse will be dead, and he will never be able to change it. Will never be able to forget it, and sure as hell not forgive himself for it. Not when he left the lad alone to chase a maniac.
Thursday leans his forehead on the cold metal, eyes closed. In the end it’s not acceptance or readiness that drives him forward, but duty. It carried him to North Africa, and across the Mediterranean to Italy, and through the mean streets of London. Brought him right up to Carter’s casket, albeit nearly on his knees. He thinks it may not bring him much further before it breaks him.
Thursday steps through the heavy door, pushing it open soundlessly ahead of him on well-greased hinges. The mortuary beyond is an open, tiled room smelling of bleach and carbolic soap. Various free-standing cabinets and shelves act as the room’s storage space, surfaces holding neatly-arranged books and laboratory equipment. Other than that, it’s been provided with two powerful lights, an industrial metal sink, and a drain in the floor. And, in its centre, a metal gurney.
Behind Thursday the heavy door slips silently shut, fanning a soft breath of cold air over the nape of his neck.
On the gurney, stretched out on his back, is Morse. He’s heaped on it as though someone just dropped him there and left him, right arm draped haphazardly over his face, the other dangling over the side of the stretcher. His dark jacket has fallen open to expose the white shirt underneath, the bright red stain over his left side standing out starkly. It’s smeared at the edges, where someone has tried to staunch the bleeding with their hands.
Thursday feels a flame of anger flickering inside of him, and latches on to it in the face of the overwhelming wave of despair roaring just above him. The bastards have dumped his bagman here like garbage, haven’t even bothered to straighten him up, much less stay with him. He strides forwards slowly, hands fisted at his sides, until he’s standing at the side of the gurney. Morse’s shirt has been untucked, hitched up to lie in crooked folds over his chest and stomach. The top button has been undone, tie loosened crookedly to expose his pale neck, the raised collar hiding the base of his throat.
His left side is stained bright, unrelenting red, still wet in patches. The stain isn’t that large, isn’t the dripping, viscous mess gut wounds usually leave. In a way, Thursday’s glad. He couldn’t see that, couldn’t see the lad lying here with his insides – Thursday swallows and shuts his eyes, derails that thought violently.
Slowly, after a minute, he opens his eyes again and reaches out towards Morse’s dangling arm. Someone needs to see to the lad, get him fixed up. Even if the pathologist will only – is about to –
To Thursday’s left the second door into the mortuary swings open, and a voice says pleasantly, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Morse, they’re full to – oh, hello, inspector –”
The flame of Thursday’s rage billows into a blinding inferno in the face of the pathologist’s good humour, scorching him from the inside out. “How dare you,” he growls, turning on the man, heavy violence in his movement. “How dare you be pleased, be keen to slice him open, to have him stretched out on your tray.”
The colour drains from DeBryn’s face as he freezes, eyes moving from Thursday to the gurney beside him. There’s a tray of glassware and metal implements in his hand; it rattles softly as he comes to his abrupt halt. “Inspector, I don’t think –”
“Sir?” says a low voice, beside him, accompanied by a rustle of cloth.
Thursday’s heart constricts painfully in his chest, feels like it’s closing on shards of glass, as his head swivels to the side following the sound.
On the metal gurney beside him, Morse is lying with his right arm now raised above his head, staring at him with open, living eyes.
Thursday’s heart leaps in his chest like a jackrabbit, so hard he feels the stab of pressure in his temples. He stumbles sideways a step, catching himself on the gurney as the world sways alarmingly. Looks from Morse to DeBryn, and then back to Morse. “What – what in God’s name,” he manages, heart finding its rhythm and the pain in his chest receding slightly.
DeByn strides over, the contents of the tray clinking quietly in his hands. “You seem to be operating under a misconception,” he says, carefully.
“They told me – told me he had been brought down to pathology,” Thursday says, slowing, as he plays the clerk’s words back. “That you were free, and could take him right away,” he finishes, closing his eyes and raising his hand to cover them. “I’ve made a bloody fool of myself,” he mutters, somewhere between relieved and mortified.
“No, I believe it was the admitting clerk who did that,” says DeBryn reassuringly. “Casualty is jammed up with a nasty automobile accident. I was on my way home when I saw the constables bring Morse in, so I offered to lend a hand, knowing he might appreciate a quick patch-up regardless of my lack of hospital privileges.”
“Patch-up,” queries Thursday sharply, latching on to the significant word. DeBryn nods.
“It’s a deep cut with not insignificant blood loss, but all the same not a major injury. He’ll be on his feet again shortly.”
“I’ll be fine,” agrees Morse, words slightly slurred. Now that Thursday looks closely at him, he can see that his eyes are slightly unfocused, and that the look of concern he’s giving Thursday also has a somewhat concussed aspect.
“And once the barbiturates the somewhat over-zealous paramedics gave him have worn off,” concludes DeBryn, rather tartly. “His memories of the past forty minutes or so may be somewhat… fluid, shall we say. You can have him back in about an hour.”
Thursday sighs deeply, looking down at his still-living DC. He reaches down and fishes Morse’s hand up from where it’s dangling to lie more neatly by his side. Morse gives him a confused look, but doesn’t protest. “Thank you, doctor. I need to get back to the station; he can come in a cab.”
“I can drop him; I’ll be heading home once I’m done here in any event.”
Thursday nods. His hand is still resting on the side of the gurney; he taps it several times, then reaches out to clasp Morse’s warm wrist. “Mind you take better care of yourself,” he says, gripping tightly for an instant before releasing it.
“Yes, sir,” says Morse, sounding rather dazed. Thursday represses the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose; behind his eyes, a headache is beginning to form. When this night is over, they will most definitely be having a conversation about the distinction between work and life.
“Alright. I’ll see you back at the nick, if you feel up to it. If not, you’re to go home. Understood?”
Morse nods; lying on the gurney, it looks much more like a roll of his head.
Thursday turns to make his exit, and is stopped by a hand on his elbow. DeBryn steps over to stand beside him, a couple of feet from the gurney. “I don’t believe you meant what you said just now, inspector” says DeBryn quietly, looking up at Thursday earnestly. “But you should still know that I value both yourself and Morse as colleagues. I sincerely hope never to see either of you here in a professional capacity – but should that day come, I doubt that I would take the task on at all, and certainly not with pleasure.”
Thursday flushes, embarrassed and ashamed. “I can’t begin to apologize –”
“Then don’t.” DeBryn pats his arm amicably. “No need to say any more.”
Thursday nods fervently. “Good. Let’s… let’s just never bring this up again, shall we? And if Morse doesn’t remember either, well…”
“No need to remind him,” finishes DeBryn. “Precisely. Good evening, inspector. I wish you luck with the case.”
Thursday makes a wordless noise of agreement, and stalks out of the mortuary.