The Hollow Heart Part 4

Chapter Four .

A World Of Difference

Marianne read the publicity blurb with mounting excitement. It was to be the grandest of occasions, combining the very best that London and Los Angeles had to offer; an awards ceremony, entertainment extravaganza and charity fundraiser to beat any that had ever taken place on the planet. It was the event of the decade, the one on everyone's lips, 'The Power 2 The People Awards', and it was to be sponsored by Global Communications Inc., the new parent company of the Chesterford Chronicle.

The event was being hosted by the Baroness of Minesbourg, a minor royal with major pull. Marianne's campaign to reunite families following her 'Stolen Baby Scam' expose had been nominated for a major 'Power 2 The People' Award. She could not quite believe it herself, this was fantastic news. If she won, imagine the publicity it would give her campaign. It would send her career into orbit. This was beyond exciting; this was earth shattering.

As usual, Marianne had the inside take, having interviewed the Baroness on numerous occasions, because the Baroness was, after all, one of Chesterford's favourite daughters. Not quite a tale of rags to riches, hers was a great story nonetheless, episodes of which, Marianne had reported at regular intervals during her time at the newspaper.

Indeed, Baroness Bailey Caulfield, the former international fas.h.i.+on model, was at the zenith of her popularity. The thrice-wed commoner certainly made the most of the t.i.tle her first husband, an adorable old-fas.h.i.+oned aristocrat, had bestowed upon her. When Bailey's Baron suffered a heart attack not long after they married, the glamorous widow wed an up-and-coming rock star who, unbeknown to her, maintained a c.o.ke habit and a couple of mistresses on the side. After divorcing him, Bailey went on to marry a young American politician, who rapidly climbed the ladder to become Senator of one of the USA's most southerly states.

Sadly, this marriage too, was doomed to fail, and not twelve months after the wedding, Bailey was left with little choice but to divorce the Senator, following salacious revelations involving a junior researcher attached to his office. Seemingly undaunted, Bailey's inheritance and two divorce settlements, gave her the wherewithal to fly around the globe devoting her life to all manner of good causes. Never considered a beauty in the conventional sense, the extremely attractive Baroness, still one of the most photographed females of her generation, could certainly add credibility to any event she chose to attend, let alone host.

With the Baroness's name intrinsically linked to what promised to be a show-stopping spectacular, Marianne knew that royals, movie stars, politicians, world leaders and all manner of celebrity would be beating a path to the capital; this would be a fundraiser of monumental proportions; the party to beat all parties, and anyone who was anyone wanted to be there. She read and re-read the email aloud.

"Wow, this could be it Monty, our big break, catapulted from the sleepy backwater of journalism which is the Chesterford Chronicle, to superstardom. I could become an international roving reporter; a world commentator; a global campaigner." Monty ran around the kitchen table in delight, tail wagging. "Of course, I can't go anywhere without you, that would have to be written into the contract. Oh Monty, this could be it, this could really be it!" She picked him up and twirled him round in her arms.

With the Chronicle's parent company, the media conglomerate Global Communications Inc. one of the event's main sponsors, whispers that a handful of employees from the newspaper were going to receive invitations to the 'Power 2 The People Awards' fluttered through the city centre office block like ticker tape. By the time Marianne reached the building, she was feeling pretty smug, with her campaign nominated for an award, she was definitely on the guest list.

The gilt-edged, Royal Crest embossed invitation requesting Marianne Coltrane and Partner to attend the event, was propped against her computer screen. She immediately phoned Paul; he would be thrilled to come as her guest and was always good company, whatever the occasion.

Marianne knew exactly what she was going to wear; she chose an exquisite full-length, swirling red silk gown. One of the most expensive items she had ever bought, a cla.s.sic halter neck with plunging back that skimmed the base of her spine, highlighting her neat waist and bottom. The last time she had worn it was to the National Media Awards. The night George had stepped in and presented the prizes and she had apologised for downgrading his article to a rather insignificant 'Lifestyle' write-up. The night George told her that it could not have mattered less, and the night she won the accolade 'Journalist of the Year', drank litres of champagne and kissed him far too over-enthusiastically for so short an acquaintance.

Even more importantly, it was the night George had asked her out and she had said yes, and that was it, the red dress, the Awards, the champagne, the kiss. He had fallen, hook, line and sinker. She hugged the dress, smiling.

It was not long before Marianne found herself smiling again, this time wryly. No such thing as a free lunch, she told herself when she read the email from Jack, commissioning her to write a series of articles about the build-up to the 'Power 2 The People' event. With her usual attention to detail she began her research, making copious notes and interviewing as many of those involved as she could.

At first sight, she could not believe the area chosen to build the main auditorium would ever be ready in time or be large enough to hold the thousands of guests planned to make up the audience. As she watched the plan come together, she was fascinated by every aspect of this fantastic event. Impressed by how hard the team worked, and in awe, because everyone, from the humblest junior to the biggest star, was giving their time free to support charities and good causes across the globe.

The white, stretch limousine slid along Oakwood Avenue to sit purring outside the gate. Paul Osborne ran along the path and then leapt the steps to the front door, launching himself into the hallway, brandis.h.i.+ng a corsage of dark yellow lilies.

"Are you rea-dy?" he sing-songed up the stairwell.

Monty appeared first, woofing softly and wagging his tail so hard his whole body wriggled. He tumbled off the first two steps, regained his balance, then charged downwards leaping into Paul's arms from a safe height. Flowers aloft, Paul nuzzled Monty's ears; a polite cough sent both pairs of eyes upwards.

"Wow!" Paul put Monty down. "You look ravenous!"

"You look rather delirious yourself," laughed Marianne, the misnomers, a tribute to Sharon's calamitous deciphering of messages. Marianne descended slowly, the crimson fish-tail of her gown swis.h.i.+ng behind her. Paul presented the corsage. Their lips touched briefly and, thanking him, she attached the flowers to her dress.

To complete the ensemble, she wore George's engagement ring and his mother's art deco diamond droplet earrings. These perfectly complemented her hair, which was swept upwards into a professionally acquired French pleat. Paul, in a borrowed midnight blue velvet dinner jacket, had managed to smooth his wayward locks, although his navy blue bow tie flopped to one side and the frill of his dress s.h.i.+rt had been singed, due to overzealous ironing. His eyes sparkled and, placing Marianne's golden pashmina around her shoulders, he stood back from the doorway to reveal the waiting car.

She checked Paul's expression to ensure this was a joke.

"Great isn't it? On the company, of course."

They said goodnight to Monty and, pulling the door closed, tangoed, giggling, along the pathway. Marianne laughed even louder when Ted Ca.s.sidy, one of the Chronicle's long-serving photographers, jumped from the car to open the door. Ted apologised for being inappropriately attired for his role as chauffeur but explained he had been commissioned to take some shots to accompany the article, Marianne would no doubt be writing.

"No such thing as a free Awards dinner either then?" She smiled as they posed, gla.s.ses in hand, for Ted and the neighbours, who had gathered to see who was responsible for the white monstrosity filling half the cul-de-sac.

'The Power 2 The People Awards' extravaganza was highly organised; it had to be. Marianne's invitation had come with an allotted time for her party to arrive; ensuring all guests and celebrities could be photographed and interviewed at manageable intervals along the stretch of traditional red carpet.

Paul had another surprise for Marianne. His sister Zara and her husband Mike were also on the guest list; as was Mike's father, the American TV star who had failed to make it to the National Media Awards; his actress girlfriend, and their New York agents, Leeson & Leeson. But just hours before the event, Zara called to say the New York team had to bow out and the American TV Star, a great friend of the Baroness, had arranged for Marianne and her guest to join their table. This meant Marianne and Paul would be seated in the centre of the arena, flanking the huge stage and catwalk that had been designed to bring the live action right into the heart of the auditorium. If Marianne's campaign was to win an award, she would be perfectly placed to be called to the stage to receive it.

Paul and Marianne smiled graciously at the crowds as they stepped from the limousine onto the crimson strip of runway stretched before them. She dug her fingernails into his hand, as various stage whispers of, "Who's that?" "What are they in?" flew about them. Flashbulbs popped, as they sashayed onwards, just fast enough to keep onlookers and photographers guessing, before Paul broke into an undignified canter, waving his arms madly.

"Hey sis, look it's me, we're here!" he called out.

Marianne, now stranded on the carpet, maintained her regal swish until she reached the little group and, then joining in the laughter, shared embraces and kisses all round.

Marianne liked Paul's older sister, Zara, she was warm and friendly, if a little protective of her idealistic younger brother. When they first met, Zara often hinted, despite the age difference, and the fact that Marianne was technically Paul's boss, that she hoped their relations.h.i.+p would develop beyond friends.h.i.+p. When Marianne became engaged to George, Zara graciously put that ambition aside and had telephoned Marianne personally to congratulate her. She had also been genuinely upset when George died. In fact the last time Marianne had seen Zara, was at George's funeral, although she could barely remember if they had spoken.

Zara wrapped her arms around her.

"You look fabulous, you look amazing. How are you, really?" She took Marianne's hands and looked into her eyes.

"I'm alright," Marianne held her gaze, "honestly, I'm doing okay." Zara beamed. She could not deny she was again hopeful, that once a certain amount of time had pa.s.sed, Paul and Marianne might become an item. They seemed so good together.

But to Marianne, Paul was, well, just Paul. The young, cub reporter, she laughed and joked with. The typical younger brother she never had, who still got smashed, went on disastrous dates and seemed to maintain a wide-eyed wonder on the world, no matter how hideous the a.s.signments Jack Buchannon managed to fling at him. She was his mentor. He was part of her job. It would never even cross her mind that he might be someone she would have a proper, grown up relations.h.i.+p with, and anyway, Marianne knew her last chance of 'happy ever after' had died with George. She had her career, she had Monty, she had a lot to be grateful for.

Unlike the effervescent Osborne siblings, Mike was a quiet, thoughtful soul; the type Marianne considered saw everything and commented on very little. On the occasions they had met, Marianne felt a connection through their shared Irishness and they would gently tease each other for becoming 'Englified', a word she recalled her Head Nun used for anything she found too Anglican for her taste.

Mike hugged Marianne in welcome. As he released her, she caught her heel, losing her balance, to topple backwards into the arms of the man standing behind her. It was Mike's father, the surprisingly youthful American TV star. He grasped her elbow swiftly and propped her back on her heels. She caught his scent, a delicious blend of wood and amber. It was Zara who took her arm, turning her fully to face him.

"Marianne, this is Ryan..." Marianne beamed upwards. Flinty eyes glinted down at her. He was tall, tanned and smiling. Marianne caught her breath, only just managing to prevent herself wobbling off her heels again. The fabulous creature beside him was equally statuesque. Marianne's gaze swept upwards. The couple were stunning, luminous and just beautiful.

"The pleasure is mine." He smiled, eyes crinkling. "But I think we should have met before. I was scheduled to present the National Media Awards and couldn't make it. I'm sorry I let you down and I'm sorry I didn't show, because I heard it was a great night."

Marianne was taken aback. She looked across at Paul, delighted but surprised he had briefed her fellow guests so thoroughly. Paul was oblivious, totally awestruck as a gaggle of soap stars hoved into view.

"It was indeed a great night." Marianne smiled, glancing at Mike. "You two look more like brothers. I can't believe you're Mike's father."

"I was a child bride." Ryan laughed and then turned to introduce the G.o.ddess at his side. "Angelique, this is Marianne Coltrane."

"Delighted, you're a journalist; award-winning too I'm told," the actress said in a sultry, Texan drawl. Marianne beamed back at them both, all apprehension dispersed, she was looking forward to a truly memorable evening. They took their seats in the middle of the auditorium, right in front of the stage.

Marianne checked the place names, Paul to her left and Ryan on her right. Ryan held out her chair, doing the same for Angelique. He took his seat when the ladies were settled. He poured wine and water, handing her a menu, pa.s.sing her the order of events. He was attentive, he was easy. Marianne felt her heart miss a beat, for half a millisecond, he reminded her of...

"George said you were a very special lady and he wasn't wrong. Brains and beauty." Ryan was reading the list of nominations. He raised his gla.s.s, "Here's to him, G.o.d bless him, a great bloke."

Marianne left her gla.s.s untouched.

"You knew George?"

Ryan was immediately apologetic; he had taken her by surprise.

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew. George and I go way back. We were in a band together in the early days, just after he left University and I landed here from Ireland. We both thought we'd be rock stars one day, as you do."

"No, he never said. Well if he did, I didn't register. You seem an unlikely alliance." She smiled and so did he.

"Not at all, he was the suave English gent and I was the wild Irish rogue, a fatal combination when it came to pulling girls back in the day, I can tell you."

She burst out laughing. She could just imagine them, so different, so charming, so incorrigible.

"What happened to the band?"

"Oh, a huge success, did you never hear of us? Gave some of the big names a few sleepless nights I reckon." He was teasing, his State-side tw.a.n.g becoming less obvious as he talked. "We did a sell-out tour of two village halls in South Devon, then fell out with our manager when the drummer was recalled to London to join the family firm, taking most of the equipment with him. George and I b.u.mmed around for the summer until we ran out of money and had to find a proper job." He grinned at the memory. "With me working in the States I hadn't seen him for ages, so when I found out he was an MP and in Chesterford, which is where my son and his wife live, it made sense to visit and do a gig while I was there. Sadly I couldn't make the Awards Ceremony in the end and asked him to stand in for me. I hope George was a good enough subst.i.tute?"

"Oh, he was! It was how we met really, but I wasn't aware of the connection." Marianne gulped back a huge slurp of wine.

"I did make it to the funeral, there were so many people there, people I hadn't seen for years," He looked into her eyes, the flintiness softened. "You were very brave that day. I'm sure you and George were great together."

"Thank you," she said quietly, then brightly, "I never knew George was in a band."

"Hey, come on you two, it's about to start," Paul interrupted.

Ryan nodded at Paul and, touching Marianne's hand briefly, laughed.

"We were rubbish. Thank goodness we both changed careers." He turned and placed his arm lightly across Angelique's shoulders. "You okay?" he asked.

"Sure," she replied, "why shouldn't I be?"

Marianne noticed Angelique refill her empty wine gla.s.s abruptly.

The beginning of the attack was almost silent. A faint eerie hiss complemented the band's opening riff, followed by a vague rumble, gently vibrating the stage. It tripped along the catwalk, as a floor-to-ceiling streak of light lit the auditorium. The audience gasped; the effect was obviously pyrotechnic, a flash of firework genius. The lead singer turned to check the musicians were still with him and as he nodded back to the orchestra pit the explosion erupted; a loud crack, followed by an enormous boom. Then stillness, as the sound hung in the air; a malevolent hum, like a swarm of locusts. Flames burst from the stage, followed by immediate, intense heat, then swirling smoke and screaming.

Someone turned the sound off as Marianne, watching in slow motion, saw the stage implode and the Royal Box and its contents slide, arms flailing, to the floor. Instantly people were cras.h.i.+ng against her, charging for exits as clouds of smoke mushroomed around them and the fumes intensified growing into a dense, black, suffocating smog. Someone grabbed her hand, she was spun round harshly.

It was Ryan. He put Angelique's hand in hers, squeezing them together. Paul had been pushed to the floor. Ryan hauled him up and put his hand in Zara's, who was holding onto Mike. Ryan signalled them to hang onto each other, demonstrating by clamping his arms together. He tied a napkin over his mouth and nose, urgently indicating they all do the same. He pinched his nose and put a finger to his mouth, shaking his head, signalling them not to breathe. No point speaking, people and alarms were shrieking and they were all bomb-deaf anyway.

He did all this in mere seconds. Then taking the lead, he began to move swiftly towards the exit. People were panicking and pus.h.i.+ng, some were shouting, trying to barge through the crowd, others had fallen to the floor and were being trampled. The smoke kept building, blacker and thicker, people were coughing and spluttering, some were collapsing as others pushed them aside.

The area around the main entrance was a ma.s.s of bodies pressed together, the crowd banked back into the auditorium. Violent struggles were breaking out; teams of security guards in oxygen masks were trying to maintain order. A man with a camera s.n.a.t.c.hed a mask off one of the guards. A colleague hit him with a truncheon, he fell to the floor. The guard tugged his mask back on.

Ryan led his crocodile of survivors towards the main entrance and then turned, pus.h.i.+ng against the crowd. Marianne was struggling to hold onto Paul, they were being buffeted and bashed as they battled through. Paul's hand fell away and as she turned to find him, she could just make out his head as a black patent shoe crushed into his face. She yanked Angelique's hand. Angelique tugged Ryan. He slipped back and helped Mike drag Paul to his feet. Paul's left arm swung uselessly away from his body, his elbow smashed, his nose flattened in a pulp of blood. Ryan indicated to Zara to hold onto Paul's shoulder and they pushed on.

There was a large group of people at a doorway, they seemed to be pa.s.sing through, not quickly but steadily when another explosion erupted deep in the bowels of the structure. Directly above them, the walls and ceiling of the marquee burst into flames, melting away to expose the night sky. The influx of air exacerbated the inferno, the smoke intensified, Marianne could hold her breath no longer, her throat was burning, eyes stinging and streaming water. She started to cough. Angelique's fingers were oily, they were slipping away. They pushed on. She cracked her knee against what appeared to be a large metal object, she was sliding as she groped ahead, sliding on water, or was it foam? She could see metal shapes around her; they were in the catering area.

Ryan must have guessed there would be exits here to the outside world. It was becoming brighter. The crush of bodies was easing; they seemed to be peeling away. She looked down at her right hand, Paul's fingers were no longer there. When had she let go of Paul? She felt a wave of panic rising in her chest and then a rush of air, fresh, clean air flooded her nostrils, gus.h.i.+ng into her face. She blinked against the light.

Marianne realised she was outside. Through blurred eyes, she saw a woman in uniform, who put her face close to Marianne, feeling down her arms, touching her head. Smiling grimly, she urged Marianne into a vehicle. Marianne could make out Angelique ahead. They were wearing the same s.h.i.+ny, silver blankets. The vehicle lurched. Through the window of the ambulance, she saw Ryan helping Paul onto a stretcher.

Her skin hurt. No-one even tried to talk. She and Angelique b.u.mped along beside each other in silence. Marianne's shoulders throbbed where the roof structure had caught her as it fell to the floor. She could see Angelique's blackened legs, burned where her evening gown had melted onto her skin. They rattled through the streets in a daze, deposited with the rest of the ambulance's bloodied pa.s.sengers at a hospital on the outskirts of the city.

Once inside the building, bursting with trolleys and wheelchairs, Marianne and Angelique were separated and Marianne found herself sitting alone in a makes.h.i.+ft emergency bay for what seemed like hours. She remembered a smiling, yellow-skinned man in a pale blue s.h.i.+rt, asking her to count to ten beneath her oxygen mask, before she faded into the luxuriant blackness of anaesthesia.

Luckily, her collarbone was only dislocated, but the gashes to her shoulders and back were dangerously deep and needed surgery to remove pieces of metal and debris from her wounds. Once cleaned, patches of skin were grafted onto the largest wounds, the remainder pulled together with a variety of st.i.tches and small metal clamps.

When she came too, she felt fantastic for about thirty seconds and then waves of nausea caused her stomach to tighten and she vomited copiously into the dressing on her left shoulder. Struggling to sit up, she began to panic as the nausea returned, terrified she would choke and die where she lay. She was just losing consciousness again when a woman's face appeared, hovering over her. She was wearing white. She looked like an angel, a beautiful, black angel.

"Up ya come me darlin'. Dere ya go. Dearie me, ya makin' a mess. Not to worry, we'll soon have you cleaned up and resting nicely." The nurse set to work. Marianne was cleaned, drugged and as comfortable as possible in less than ten minutes. Marianne stretched out her blistered fingers to touch the nurse's hand.

"It was bad, wasn't it?" she hissed through a cracked mouth.

"De worst it could be." The nurse's eyes filled, and she blinked. "Dere's evil in de world. But dere's good people too. We need more good people." She patted the coverlet and bustled away. Marianne was vaguely aware of another wave of activity across the corridor; the noise was dull but constant. She drifted in and out of sleep.

Three weeks had pa.s.sed since the worst terrorist attack London had ever encountered had blown the 'Power 2 The People' extravaganza apart. Marianne had witnessed and escaped the main explosion at the every epicentre of the event. Forensics discovered the device had been secreted in a drum kit, centre stage, the kit had had been checked by sniffer dogs and cleared, it had to have been an inside job. The explosion triggered ten more incendiary devices to simultaneously ignite across the city; the bombs were placed in abandoned vehicles, shop doorways and churchyards.

As the numbers of the dead continued to rise, the five fatalities in the church were among the most shocking; so too were the disturbing details of the death of the Baroness, who had masterminded the whole evening. It was reported she had been found in what remained of her dressing room, without a mark on her, in the arms of her loyal aide, whose handsome face had been blown away. She had never even made it onto the stage that fatal night.

With the emergency services stretched to breaking point, teams of volunteers, hurriedly trained in rescue and recovery by experienced disaster workers, had been flown in from all over the world. It took some time to confirm the final death toll, but the impact of the catastrophe was made all the more startling by the revelation that 2,996 people had perished in the attack, exactly the same number as had died in the 9/11 atrocity in the USA.

The tales of carnage, heroism and sheer b.l.o.o.d.y mindedness were endless, the media coverage relentless. Pages of reports, photographs, interviews, facts and figures combined with hours of TV coverage. The aftermath was both despairing and inspiring. Thousands had lost their lives pointlessly and a handful had lost their lives rescuing others. The bitter irony being the whole point of the event had been to save people, not ma.s.sacre them. And every day a different story, another faction to blame, hero to applaud. Yet still the recurring question, why? Still the same answer. No answer.

The impact of the painkillers meant that, to begin with, Marianne felt as if the whole thing had happened to someone else. She was distant and removed, as if she had seen it on a screen somewhere. It was not until, aimlessly sorting through a pile of magazines and newspapers beside her hospital bed, she came across a photograph of a young Asian female police officer lying beside a large chestnut horse, the conker coloured mane mixed with the ebony gloss of the woman's ponytail. The headline read 'Beauty and the Beast; slain in the line of duty'. So the final death toll was 2,996 people and one horse; she had read somewhere a dog had died in 9/11. Grief flooded through her, seeping up from her toes as if she were blotting paper, absorbing her whole body in one continuous sweep.

She had never felt so lost, so desolate. It was visiting time, the ward was full of people, friends and relatives coming to see how their loved ones were doing, willing them to get better, showing them they were loved, letting them know it was all going to be alright. Who was coming to see her? Where was her loved one? Where was George? She climbed back into bed and burrowing into the pillows, pulled the covers over her head.

She must have sobbed for hours until she finally slept; the picture of the policewoman and the horse clamped tightly in her raw-skinned fist.

It was around midnight and the ward was uncommonly quiet, when the nurse whom Marianne had come to know as Sister Jackson, made a rare appearance.

"Dere you are Marianne, how are ya doin? Ya lookin' a bit peaky to me. Soon be time for you to go home. Dis place is not good for your health."

Marianne managed a half-smile. Sister Jackson propped her up, plumped her pillows and straightened the sheets.

"I'll go and get you a nice cup of hot chocolate for your nightcap. Did you eat any supper at all dis evening?" Nurse Jackson eyed the congealing bowl of stew. She whisked it away, disturbing the pile of magazines and papers on Marianne's bedside table. "You not botherin' wit' your personal correspondence either?" She handed Marianne an envelope. "It could be good news, Marianne, a well-wisher. Lord knows, we all need wishes and dreams these dark days, a light at de end of the tunnel." She flicked on Marianne's beside lamp as she trundled away.

Marianne did not recognise the handwriting. She half-heartedly opened the envelope, the same handwriting filled the page; it was on notepaper from a well-known Knightsbridge hotel. It read...

Dear Marianne, Just a brief note to send you best wishes for a speedy recovery. I'm sorry I've not had a chance to visit, but schedules rule and we are filming the end of the TV series, so I am going back to the States tomorrow. Angelique has made a good recovery and will be flying back with me and I hear, although Paul is still undergoing surgery, he will hopefully make a full recovery too. Both Zara and Mike are fine, thank goodness, but still sh.e.l.l-shocked as we all are. Don't credit me with any heroics once you recover enough to write your report, I had a friend who made no secret of his a.s.sociation with an illegal organisation and told me what to do if I ever found myself in a particularly explosive situation. Advice I thought I would only ever need for a role, not real life! Ha!

Take care of yourself and you never know, one day our paths may cross again and I can recount more wondrous tales of the reckless rogues, the lovely George and I once were. With every good wish, Ryan.

PS: I'm sorry those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds blew apart your dreams for your campaign, I feel sure when things settle down you'll get the show back on the road. R Marianne stared at the missive for some time. Well, what a surprise, how thoughtful, what a nice thing for him to do. She felt quite moved by Ryan's kindness and smiled again at how little she knew of him and how, what bit she did know, reminded her of George, protective, considerate and rather heroic. She drifted off to sleep, not sure if she consciously thought or dreamed that George had sent Ryan to take care of her, in that lovely, gently controlling way he had.