only in practical channels. ‘I think you should go to the hospital, Paul. You’re in shock.’
Paul gave a short sharp bark that was a long way from laughter. ‘I can’t go to hospital. You think I’m in a state? You just wait. Who’s going to tell Laura? I should do that, I saw him die, I was their friend.’ The shivering started again.
Lindsay gently took the cup from him and placed it on its saucer. She took his hands in hers. ‘You’re not the person to tell her, Paul. Not right now.’
She saw a sudden flash of relief as his eyes met hers. It disappeared as suddenly as it had come. ‘But I should,’ he said guiltily.
Lindsay shook her head. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘I’ll tell her,’ she said softly. She released Paul’s hands and lit another cigarette. ‘I know what it feels like,’ she added distantly.
Though she’d never have admitted it to Paul, it was a secret relief to Lindsay when they returned to the Winter Gardens and discovered that the bad news had travelled with its usual swiftness. The hall was virtually empty. Standing Orders Sub-Committee were in a huddle by the door, discussing whether to move suspension of standing orders; to bring conference to an end; or simply to make a brief announcement from the stage, followed by a minute’s silence.
The delegates stood around in subdued groups, talking softly about what they’d heard had happened. Lindsay couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t a national newspaper reporter in sight. She knew exactly what most of her delegation would be doing now – they’d either be at the hospital or the police station. And she knew that any minute now, her newsdesk would start looking for her to write the definitive piece on the life and death of Ian Ross. Part of her wanted to go on the missing list, but the other, professional part of her wanted to be the one who would give shape to the way Ian would be remembered.
Leaving Paul in the capable hands of the JU’s assistant general secretary, a former colleague from The Watchman, Lindsay systematically worked the fragmented groups to discover where Laura was. It soon became apparent that the police had been led to the conference as a result of the organ donor card Ian carried. The card still gave Laura as his next of kin. Since her business card and a selection of photographs were also in his wallet, it hadn’t taken them long to work out she was likely to be at the JU conference. Once they’d got that far, it had been straightforward. Instead of the tragic news being broken by someone she knew, Laura had heard about Ian’s death from a strange police officer. Lindsay could only imagine what that had felt like. Even in imagination, it made her shudder.
There was no reason to hang about at the Winter Gardens, so Lindsay slowly walked back to the Princess Alice to collect her bag. She wandered through to the bar and checked out their selection of whiskies. She ordered a large Glenfiddich, the only malt on offer, added a dribble of water to the pale liquid and took a small sip. As she took a cigarette from her packet, a hand snapped a flame into life in front of her. She looked up into the dark blue eyes of Shaz Morton, who was noted for managing the seemingly impossible, blending her job as a high profile television company press officer with her role as a campaigning lesbian. Wherever Shaz went, controversy followed. So, usually, did her girlfriend, a polytechnic lecturer in women’s studies. But this week in Blackpool, Shaz was unaccompanied. Probably, Lindsay had decided, because her girlfriend knew how few opportunities Shaz would have to stray at a JU conference.
‘I heard about Ian,’ Shaz said, lighting Lindsay’s cigarette. ‘Not what you needed just now, right?’
‘Right,’ Lindsay agreed.
‘Especially not after Frances.’ Shaz took a deep drag of her own cigarette and ordered a large gin and tonic, and another malt for Lindsay.
‘No thanks,’ Lindsay started to say.
‘You need it. I meant to speak to you earlier before about Frances, but you know how it is. I was really upset to hear about her death. She was very special,’ Shaz said.
Lindsay looked surprised. ‘I didn’t know you knew her.’
Shaz smiled and topped her gin up with tonic. ‘We did some work together on a briefing pack for lesbian mothers involved in custody fights. It was a few years ago, long before she met you. We bumped into each other now and again, at meetings. I don’t know if anybody’s thought to mention this to you, but she was really happy with you.’
Lindsay’s throat closed in the familiar emotional uprising. One step away from tears, she forced a mouthful of whisky down, then sucked in the comfort of nicotine. ‘Thanks,’ she finally managed to say. ‘I was really happy with her.’
Shaz nodded towards Lindsay’s bag. ‘What train are you catching? Fancy some company?’
‘I’d like that. I don’t have a reservation, though. I expected to be going back in the car with Ian.’ An involuntary shudder set her whisky swirling in her glass. She put the glass down with a bang. ‘I keep thinking how bloody awful it must be for Laura. I know they’d split up, and she treated him like shit, but they were together for years. You don’t just switch off your feelings for someone after all that time. No matter what’s happened between you.’
Shaz nodded. ‘She’d have to have a heart of stone not to be upset. She’ll feel guilty too, probably. You know, all that, “if we hadn’t split up, it would never have happened”, business.’
‘Yeah.’ Lindsay sighed. ‘She’s not one of my favourite people, but if she’s feeling a fraction of what I felt about Frances, then my heart goes out to her.’
Before they could say more, there was a disturbance behind them. A familiar voice floated through the door, focusing every drinker’s attention on the speaker. ‘Will you for God’s sake leave me alone, Tom? I’m not a piece of bloody china,’ Laura Craig was shaking off Tom Jack’s protective arm and stalking into the bar.
‘But Laura, you shouldn’t be left alone, you’re in shock.’ For once, thought Lindsay, he actually sounded sincerely concerned.
‘Tom, piss off,’ Laura said slowly and clearly. ‘Watch my lips. I want to be alone.’ She sounded more like Margaret Thatcher than Greta Garbo.
Tom Jack stepped back. There was no mistaking the determination and anger in Laura’s voice. He put his hands up at chest level, palms towards Laura. ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll be through in the lounge if you want me.’
She watched him leave before turning back towards the bar, face set in a hard, expressionless mask. Shaz leaned forward to say softly, ‘Sounds like your sympathy might be a bit misplaced.’
Lindsay shook her head. ‘She’s in shock, like Tom said. Grief does funny things to you.’
When she realised who her companions at the bar were, Laura sighed in exasperation. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Is there no peace in this bloody town?’ Lindsay opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Laura said sharply, ‘Don’t say it. Don’t for God’s sake say you’re sorry. Is anyone serving here?’ she demanded, turning to the barman. ‘Good. Give me a very large vodka and ginger beer. When I say very large, I mean four.’ The barman took one look at her face, decided not to comment and scuttled off towards his optics.
Lindsay moved towards Laura and said, ‘Laura, I know what it’s like. After Frances died, I sometimes felt it was only the anger holding me together.’
Laura shook her head, as if to clear the vision. ‘That’s what comes next, is it? People giving me permission for my emotions?’ Lindsay felt as if she’d been smacked in the face, but tried to subdue her reaction. When Laura’s drink came, she swallowed half of it in one. As the alcohol hit, her shoulders straightened.
A BBC radio producer chose that moment to come over and put his arm round her. ‘Laura, love, we’re all so very, very sorry,’ he said.
Laura pulled herself clear. ‘You’re dripping beer on my suit. I doubt you earn enough to have it cleaned, never mind replaced. Now piss off,’ she hissed.
The