Sentence The Onehundredandfiftyseventh
And as Tammy hurried along in the direction of the Hospital, she pondered – though not normally given to reflection, perhaps as a contrast to her mother, Tabby, who seemed to spend all her time reflecting on just about everything – turning and twisting every little incident or utterance in order to examine it from all angles and even, through her magnifying glass, endeavouring to elicit as much information on it's provenance as could possibly be found; Tammy knew that her mother was not a
'spy' - or at least, believed she did Рbut what was the real difference between a spy and a spy-catcher? for they both occupied the same shadowy world and were learned in the same arcane languages and behaviours; it seemed to Tammy that it was simply that they each sat on opposite sides of a fence Рthe spy, outside, trying to get in, like a fox after the chickens, while the spy-catcher was the last form of protection after the fence had been breached; but what if the spy was one of the chickens, born and raised inside the fenced-off farm, having all the same cultural references as the spy-catcher; how could such a one be identified and outwitted? her head swam with the intricacies of this Chinese Puzzle Рfor, despite her antipathy to too much self-reflection, she could also see, quite plainly, that the spy within might be working Рnot for the fox outside, but for the betterment of her fellow chickens; to save them from the destruction intended by The Farmer; oh, why was life so difficult, she wailed internally, knowing that this conundrum was precisely why she disdained the reflective nature of her mother, had felt set-apart from other children her own age Рnever able to take them home for tea or to meet her Mum and be subjected to a barrage about their parents, their uncles and aunts, their jobs and their political affiliations Рpreferred the mundane, the ordered, the dependable, why she had become a Librarian Рstudied at Strathclyde University, then worked in University Libraries before coming to The Scotsman, where her responsibilities included the Research Section and where she found that some of her mother's blood had destined her to develop an innate knack for developing expos̩s which had led to her work on 'The Stone of Scone Heist' and her rapid promotion, under the rather lascivious eye of Sorcha Macaliskey and why she was right now hurrying as fast as her little legs could carry her, on and on, towards the hospital where her True Love, Bernie Westwater, lay a-bleeding; she caught sight of a figure ahead of her Рheading with an even tread in the same direction and, despite herself, could not help but follow the stranger, for every turn he Рit was a man Рtook, was that which she also would take; Tammy wished she had taken a bus, it would have been much quicker but, despite her eagerness, she had felt that she needed time to compose herself, to prepare for sitting beside Bernie's bed in the ITU, with all it's monitors and tubes and cables - some of which were to maintain Bernie's life with ersatz bodily fluids and matched blood, others to trace or track it; the man was still ahead of her, his pace never seemed to vary but, when Tammy was delayed in crossing a road because the lights had changed after the man, there he was, still the same distance ahead of her; clearly he wasn't following her, so was she beginning to develop some of the paranoia that had always been her mother's companion Рthe glances out of a window, under her car, the care she took in entering or re-entering an empty house Рeven after a five minute walk to get her morning paper; Tammy supposed constant exposure to her mother's behaviour Рeven before she ever knew that Tabby worked for MI5 and certainly before she had known that Uncle Tavish, as she'd always known Dalwhinnie Рshe felt cheated, betrayed by her mother, by the
puckish lothario now revealed as her father, and the only true person in her life clung on by a tenuous thread, she needed to be by Bernie's bedside and she waved down a passing taxi, instructing the driver to hurry to The Royal, just a short distance now by car; she had forgotten about the man who had walked ahead of her and didn't see him hail and board another cab, giving the same destination as Tammy; nor did she notice him disembarking just behind her – though he took a different entrance, for he was familiar with the building and knew shortcuts of which most visitors were oblivious, as a result, by the time Tammy reached ITU, the man – wearing a white coat now, and with a stethoscope around his neck, was almost as invisible as the rest of the staff – doctors, nurses, technicians, mingling with the distraught visitors always found there, so when she entered Bernie's room, with her full name – Bernice Westwater, written on the whiteboard above her bed, with a printed 'Nil By Mouth' notice beneath it, she paid scant attention to the figure in the corner, writing notes and checking various sheets on a clipboard – for it was the bed she looked at, blinked, shook her head,
and looked again: empty; “where is she,” she asked the room, and the man turned, said that she's been taken for a scan and it didn't register with Tammy, that with patients in Bernie's condition, the bed, doubling as a trolley, would have taken her to Radiology, for by this time the man was at her side, one arm solicitously around her shoulders, and saying softly that he would take her along there, and, obediently, she did as he said without demur and went with him – but not to Radiology!
And as Tammy hurried along in the direction of the Hospital, she pondered – though not normally given to reflection, perhaps as a contrast to her mother, Tabby, who seemed to spend all her time reflecting on just about everything – turning and twisting every little incident or utterance in order to examine it from all angles and even, through her magnifying glass, endeavouring to elicit as much information on it's provenance as could possibly be found; Tammy knew that her mother was not a
'spy' - or at least, believed she did Рbut what was the real difference between a spy and a spy-catcher? for they both occupied the same shadowy world and were learned in the same arcane languages and behaviours; it seemed to Tammy that it was simply that they each sat on opposite sides of a fence Рthe spy, outside, trying to get in, like a fox after the chickens, while the spy-catcher was the last form of protection after the fence had been breached; but what if the spy was one of the chickens, born and raised inside the fenced-off farm, having all the same cultural references as the spy-catcher; how could such a one be identified and outwitted? her head swam with the intricacies of this Chinese Puzzle Рfor, despite her antipathy to too much self-reflection, she could also see, quite plainly, that the spy within might be working Рnot for the fox outside, but for the betterment of her fellow chickens; to save them from the destruction intended by The Farmer; oh, why was life so difficult, she wailed internally, knowing that this conundrum was precisely why she disdained the reflective nature of her mother, had felt set-apart from other children her own age Рnever able to take them home for tea or to meet her Mum and be subjected to a barrage about their parents, their uncles and aunts, their jobs and their political affiliations Рpreferred the mundane, the ordered, the dependable, why she had become a Librarian Рstudied at Strathclyde University, then worked in University Libraries before coming to The Scotsman, where her responsibilities included the Research Section and where she found that some of her mother's blood had destined her to develop an innate knack for developing expos̩s which had led to her work on 'The Stone of Scone Heist' and her rapid promotion, under the rather lascivious eye of Sorcha Macaliskey and why she was right now hurrying as fast as her little legs could carry her, on and on, towards the hospital where her True Love, Bernie Westwater, lay a-bleeding; she caught sight of a figure ahead of her Рheading with an even tread in the same direction and, despite herself, could not help but follow the stranger, for every turn he Рit was a man Рtook, was that which she also would take; Tammy wished she had taken a bus, it would have been much quicker but, despite her eagerness, she had felt that she needed time to compose herself, to prepare for sitting beside Bernie's bed in the ITU, with all it's monitors and tubes and cables - some of which were to maintain Bernie's life with ersatz bodily fluids and matched blood, others to trace or track it; the man was still ahead of her, his pace never seemed to vary but, when Tammy was delayed in crossing a road because the lights had changed after the man, there he was, still the same distance ahead of her; clearly he wasn't following her, so was she beginning to develop some of the paranoia that had always been her mother's companion Рthe glances out of a window, under her car, the care she took in entering or re-entering an empty house Рeven after a five minute walk to get her morning paper; Tammy supposed constant exposure to her mother's behaviour Рeven before she ever knew that Tabby worked for MI5 and certainly before she had known that Uncle Tavish, as she'd always known Dalwhinnie Рshe felt cheated, betrayed by her mother, by the
puckish lothario now revealed as her father, and the only true person in her life clung on by a tenuous thread, she needed to be by Bernie's bedside and she waved down a passing taxi, instructing the driver to hurry to The Royal, just a short distance now by car; she had forgotten about the man who had walked ahead of her and didn't see him hail and board another cab, giving the same destination as Tammy; nor did she notice him disembarking just behind her – though he took a different entrance, for he was familiar with the building and knew shortcuts of which most visitors were oblivious, as a result, by the time Tammy reached ITU, the man – wearing a white coat now, and with a stethoscope around his neck, was almost as invisible as the rest of the staff – doctors, nurses, technicians, mingling with the distraught visitors always found there, so when she entered Bernie's room, with her full name – Bernice Westwater, written on the whiteboard above her bed, with a printed 'Nil By Mouth' notice beneath it, she paid scant attention to the figure in the corner, writing notes and checking various sheets on a clipboard – for it was the bed she looked at, blinked, shook her head,
and looked again: empty; “where is she,” she asked the room, and the man turned, said that she's been taken for a scan and it didn't register with Tammy, that with patients in Bernie's condition, the bed, doubling as a trolley, would have taken her to Radiology, for by this time the man was at her side, one arm solicitously around her shoulders, and saying softly that he would take her along there, and, obediently, she did as he said without demur and went with him – but not to Radiology!
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