The Righteous Men. Sam Bourne

see in New York, but downing it in big, hearty chunks.

      ‘Anyway, it was pretty obvious he was going to get the inside track and I wasn't. So I was thinking. Maybe I should start developing some serious police contacts.’

      ‘What, drinking with Lieutenant O'Rourke until you fall under the table? Somehow I don't see it. Besides, you're not going to be on this beat long. When Carl whateverhisnameis is still doing traffic snarl-ups in Staten Island, you're going to be covering the, I don't know, the White House or Paris or something really important.’

      Will smiled. ‘Your faith in me is touching.’

      ‘I'm not kidding, Will. I know it looks like I am because I have a face full of cake. But I mean it. I believe in you.’ Will took her hand. ‘You know what song I heard today, at work? It's weird because you never hear songs like that on the radio, but it was so beautiful.’

      ‘What was it?’

      ‘It's a John Lennon song, I can't remember the title. But he's going through all the things that people believe in, and he says, “I don't believe in Jesus, I don't believe in Bible, I don't believe in Buddha”, and all these other things, you know, Hitler and Elvis and whatever, and then he says, “I don't believe in Beatles. I just believe in me, Yoko and me.” And it made me stop, right in the waiting area at the hospital. Because – you're going to think this is so sappy – but I think it was because that's what I believe in.’

      ‘In Yoko Ono?’

      ‘No, Will. Not Yoko Ono. I believe in us, in you and me. That's what I believe in.’

      Will's instinct was to deflate moments like this. He was too English for such overt statements of feeling. He had so little experience of expressed love, he hardly knew what to do with it when it was handed to him. But now, in this moment, he resisted the urge to crack a joke or change the subject.

      ‘I love you quite a lot, you know.’

      ‘I know.’ They paused, listening to the sound of Beth scraping her cheesecake fork against the plate.

      ‘Did something happen at work today to get you—’

      ‘You know that kid I've been treating?’

      ‘Child X?’ Will was teasing. Beth stuck diligently to the rules on doctor-patient confidentiality and only rarely, and in the most coded terms, discussed her cases outside the hospital. He understood that, of course, respected it even. But it made it tricky to be as supportive of Beth as she was of him, to back her career with equal energy. When the office politics at the hospital had turned nasty, he had become familiar with all the key personalities, offering advice on which colleagues were to be cultivated as allies, which were to be avoided. In their first months together, he had imagined long evenings spent talking over tough cases, Beth seeking his advice on an enigmatic ‘client’ who refused to open up or a dream that refused to be interpreted. He saw himself massaging his wife's shoulders, modestly coming up with the breakthrough idea which finally persuaded a silent child to speak.

      But Beth was not quite like that. For one thing, she seemed to need it less than Will. For him, an event had not happened until he had talked about it with Beth. She appeared able to motor on all by herself, drawing on her own tank.

      ‘Yes, OK. Child X. You know why I'm seeing him, don't you? He's accused of – actually, he's very definitely guilty of – a series of arson attacks. On his school. On his neighbour's house. He burned down an adventure playground.

      ‘I've been talking to him for months now and I don't think he's shown a hint of remorse. Not even a flicker. I've had to go right down to basics, trying to get him to recognize even the very idea of right and wrong. Then you know what he does today?’

      Beth was looking away now, towards a table where two waiters were having their own late-shift supper. 'Remember Marie, the receptionist? She lost her husband last month; she's been distraught, we've all been talking about it. Somehow this kid – Child X – must have picked something up, because guess what he does today? He comes in with a flower and hands it to Marie. A gorgeous, long-stemmed pink rose. He can't have just pulled it off some bush; he must have bought it. Even if he did just take it, it doesn't matter. He hands Marie this rose and says, “This is for you, to remember your husband”.

      ‘Well, Marie is just overwhelmed. She takes the rose and croaks a thank you and then has to just run to the bathroom, to cry her eyes out. And everyone who sees this thing, the nurses, the staff, they're all just tearing up. I come out and find the whole team kind of, having this moment. And there, in the middle of it, is this little boy – and suddenly that's what he looks like, a little boy – who doesn't quite know what he's done. And that's what convinces me it's real. He doesn't look pleased with himself, like someone who calculated that “Hey, this will be a way to get some extra credit”. He just looks a little bewildered.

      ‘Until that moment, I had seen this boy as a hoodlum. I know, I know – I of all people am meant to get past “labels” and all that.’ She mimed the quote marks around ‘labels’, leaving no doubt that she was parodying the kind of people who made that gesture. ‘But, if I'm honest, I had seen him as a nasty little punk. I didn't like him at all. And then he does this little thing which is just so good. You know what I mean? Just a simple, good act.’

      She fell quiet. Will did not want to say anything, just in case there was more. Eventually Beth broke the silence. ‘I don't know,’ she said, in an ‘anyway’ voice, as if to signal that the episode was over.

      They talked some more, their conversation noodling between his day and hers. He leaned over several times to kiss her, on each occasion hoping for a repeat of the open-mouthed treat he'd had before. She was denying him. As she stretched forward, he could see the bottom of her back and just a hint of her underwear, visible in the gap between her skin and her jeans. He loved seeing Beth naked, but the sight of her in her underwear always drove him wild.

      ‘Check please!’ he said, eager to get her home. As they walked out, he slid his hand under her T-shirt, over the smooth skin of her back and headed south into her trousers. She was not stopping him. He did not know that he would replay that sensation in his hands and in his head a thousand times before the week was out.

       CHAPTER FOUR

       Brooklyn, Saturday, 8am

       This is Weekend Edition. The headlines this morning. There could be help for homeowners after the Fed's quarter point rise in interest rates; the governor of Florida declares parts of the panhandle a disaster area thanks to Tropical Storm Alfred; and scandal, British style. First, this news …

      It was eight am and Will was barely conscious. They had not fallen asleep till well past three. Eyes still shut, he now stretched an arm to where his wife should be. As he expected, no Beth. She was already off: one Saturday in four she held a weekend clinic and this was that Saturday. The woman's stamina astounded him. And, he knew, the children and their parents would have no idea the psychiatrist treating them was operating on a quarter cylinder. When she was with them, she was at full strength.

      Will hauled himself out of bed and headed for the breakfast table. He did not want to eat; he wanted to see the paper. Beth had left a note – Well done, honey. Big day today, let's have a good night tonight – and also the Metro section folded open at the right page. B3. Could be worse, thought Will. ‘Brownsville slaying linked to prostitution’, ran the headline over less than a dozen paragraphs. And, in between, was his by-line. He had had to make a decision when he first got into journalism; in fact, he had made it back at Oxford, writing for Cherwell, the student paper. Should he be William Monroe Jr or plain Will Monroe? Pride told him he should be his own man, and that meant having his own name: Will Monroe.

      He glanced at the front page of the Metro section and then the main paper to see who among his new colleagues – and therefore rivals – was prospering. He clocked the names and made for the shower.