by Wes Markin
‘Emma.’ His voice shook.
‘Robert, is everything okay?’
‘I’m in Leeds … I found him.’
Gardner steadied herself against the work surface. ‘Sorry, Robert, did you—’
‘I found Mark.’
Topham.
After the phone call ended, she went to the bathroom and stared into the mirror.
Ex-detective Emma Gardner didn’t need Michael Yorke to travel into the heart of darkness, she was more than capable of doing that all by herself.
Christmas with the Conduit
A DCI Michael Yorke Thriller
For Gill and Derek
1
CHRISTMAS DAY
THE TURKEY WAS wheeled out. It was an absolute monster of a bird. The residents of Rose Hill were delighted.
Everyone apart from Bernard Driggs.
He was too busy staring into the eyes of the woman he loved. And, to be honest, he didn’t really have much of an appetite these days. He’d lost it when he’d turned seventy-three, and it’d never really come back.
Still, he showed some respect, broke his sacred eye-contact with Louisa and glanced at the mutant bird, which was probably experiencing great relief in being dead, and not having to drag its gigantic body around the farmyard. If it’d indeed been bred in a farmyard rather than a laboratory.
The male carer wheeling in the avian centrepiece for the Christmas lunch looked as if he’d inherited this turkey’s steroid supply. Bernard didn’t like that he didn’t recognise the man, but it was a common occurrence. Rose Hill was a nursing care home, not a residential home, which meant most of the people around the hall, currently bobbing their weary heads to Wizzard’s ‘I wish it could be Christmas everyday’, were as self-sufficient as this turkey on the platter, and so that required a lot of staff; qualified nurses included. And today, being Christmas Day, meant that there would be agency workers.
The popping of a cracker jerked his attention to an adjacent circular table. Ronnie was looking pleased with himself. He’d taken on Deirdre and won. Surprising really. Until today, Ronnie hadn’t been out of bed in over a week. The good old Christmas spirit, eh?
The grating sound of metal on metal jolted his attention back to the large carer. Carving knives.
For as long as he could remember, sudden noise had been a problem for Bernard. He’d been affectionately known as Flincher on the golf course a few years back, before the arthritis had twisted up his hands. The truth, though he never liked to talk about it, was that the flinching had worsened since his ten weeks on the Falkland Islands back in 1982—
‘Bernard?’ Louisa said.
This was a far more welcome pull on his attention, and he accepted it without a flinch. He met her stare again. Her eyes, which although framed by wrinkles, an inevitable weapon of age, were the most youthful eyes in the place. Looking into those eyes, he just couldn’t believe that she would be dead by next Christmas.
‘You reckon its free-range?’ she said. ‘You know how Maisie feels.’
Maisie was Louisa’s granddaughter. She’d married an ethical farmer. Their animals were raised on grass and were apparently “very happy”. Bernard wondered if they were still happy when they got the chop, but he obviously never asked that question.
‘Well, you could have gone and had Christmas there?’ Bernard said.
‘But I wanted to spend it with you. So, the turkey? Free range?’
‘I’d like to hope so. Especially since I’m now paying almost a grand a week to live in the luxurious, although rather sleepy, Rose Hill.’
She squeezed his hand and smiled. Creases wrapped around her eyes, but the vitality still shone through them. ‘Always about the money with you.’
‘Let me guess …’ Bernard smiled too. ‘You can’t take it with you?’
She held up a cracker. ‘We live for now.’
‘Always,’ Bernard said, pulling the cracker. She won. Again.
Lunch was slow, and the Christmas hits playlist was on its third spin. Bernard managed a few mouthfuls of mutant bird, and his taste buds did come alive momentarily under the tang of cranberry sauce, but eventually everything turned to sawdust again. Louisa didn’t manage a great deal either. As the cancer took greater hold, the medicine regime intensified, and her appetite was the sacrifice. She often joked that she was getting enough calories from the pills anyway.
When Last Christmas by Wham did the rounds again, Bernard had to wipe a tear from his eye. Louisa took his hand again and leaned over. ‘Don’t.’
‘But next year—’ He stopped himself. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this. Not today.
‘Now. We live for now.’
Bernard nodded.
He looked around the hall again. There must have been eight tables, each with three or four diners. Many of the residents of Rose Hill had been taken home by their loved ones to see their grandchildren. Those who remained were the unlucky ones. The ones with no family, or those with a family unwilling to blemish their fairy-tale Christmas Day. Bernard had no family, but he had Louisa and, today, she had him. That made them very lucky.
Also lucky was the fact that they could feed themselves. Over ten residents were being spoon-fed by carers. Some residents were already asleep in their chairs. Being in full control of their faculties, Bernard realised, was an absolute blessing.
And he wanted to use that to their advantage.
He leaned over the table. ‘I have some mistletoe in my room.’
‘Bernard Driggs!’ Louisa said. Her face reddened slightly. He liked it. She’d been looking rather pale of late and that had worried him.
Bernard gestured over his shoulder at Kate, the nearest carer. She had a heart of gold but was an absolute stickler for the rules. ‘I’ll go first. If I get past the Gestapo, you follow.’
She bit her bottom lip. Bernard felt a rush of adrenaline. He liked it. Christmas Day was now putting a spring in his step too!
‘Now, now, Mr Driggs, not eating your vegetables?’ Kate said, smiling.
‘Please, Ms, can I go to the toilet?’
Kate laughed. ‘Knock it off. Are you having fun?’ She winked. ‘Louisa is quite the catch.’
‘Now, you knock it off!’
‘Why are you asking me anyway? Communal toilets are that way.’ She pointed in the direction he had come from.
‘Just going to my room, Kate, if that’s alright. I left my mobile phone in there, and I just want to check if Bryan has written. You know Bryan? My brother who lives overseas. I’m going to ring him.’
‘Okay, I’ll come with you.’
‘I could be a while.’
Kate thought about it for a moment and sighed. ‘Okay … I really want to hear Slade for the third time, and it’s up next, so go on then. Hit the buzzer if you need anything while you’re in there.’
Bernard smiled back at Louisa. As he approached the exit to the hall, the carer who’d dismantled the turkey cut him off. He didn’t smile. Bernard didn’t like patronising carers of which, fortunately, there were few, but he really didn’t like miserable carers who behaved like they were prison guards.
‘Excuse me,’ Bernard said.
‘Where’re you going?’
‘No offence, but I’ve had this conversation already … add to that the fact that I’m not a prisoner.’
He heard someone approaching from behind him. ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Driggs, Roy, thanks.’
Bernard smiled. ‘Yes, Roy, she has spoken to me … like an adult.’
As Bernard slipped past, he said to the scowling carer, ‘Good work on the turkey, Roy, but try to remember that human beings aren’t turkeys.’
On his journey down the corridor, he wondered how on earth Louisa was going to get to his room alone. They were ever so vigilant, and although they only joked about them being like the Gestapo, sometimes it felt like they were giving them a good run for their money.
She’d make it though. Despite the cancer, Louisa was still str
ong on her feet. She’d pass off a similar excuse. A soul-soothing family phone call needed to keep the Christmas blues away.
When he got into his room, he organised as quickly as he could. He pulled his reading table into the centre of the room, placed a candle on it, and then took some contraband from the bottom of his wardrobe. A lighter. He smiled up at the fire alarm. Although it was highly unlikely that a candle would set it off, he wasn’t taking any chances. Following some savvy Google research, he’d pried it open prior to the Christmas festivities and deactivated it. The carers would surely have been alerted to its sudden inactivity, but Bernard had banked on them being too busy with the Christmas preparations to deal with it right away. It seems banking on their incompetence had been a sure bet. And one worth taking now the candle-lit moment with his beloved neared.
After lighting the candle, he glanced at his mobile phone and saw that there was, in fact, a message; not from his fictional brother overseas, but rather a friend he often walked with.
The message said: Merry Christmas, Bernard. Go easy on that turkey, big man. Make sure you open your present. Take care of your lovely lady, and never, ever, ever forget 1982.
Bernard slipped the phone into his front shirt pocket, and his heart began to thump.
1982.
He heard the gun shot and flinched. He saw Gavin collapse, clutching his ruined throat. Another gunshot. He flinched again. This time, Bradley took the bullet. His friend scraped at the hole in his chest and fell backwards. They were coming now. It was surely all over for him too—
There was a knock at his door.
‘Why are you shaking?’ Louisa said, reaching over and taking one of Bernard’s hands.
He looked up at her, struggling to focus, still unable to believe what was actually happening. It was unthinkable … his beautiful Louisa … really?
He played along with the liar’s game. ‘You know … just nervous.’
‘Nervous? Aren’t we both a bit long in the tooth to be shaky about this?’
He looked up at her. Her face blurred because his eyelids twitched so hard. So real. She seemed so real. ‘I’ll be fine after a glass. Did you bring it?’
She smiled. Those eyes again. Such youth and vitality. Such deceit. ‘Of course.’
She reached down into her bag. More contraband. A bottle. It read Rivesaltes on the label, and underneath: 1960. ‘It’s from Maisie. We have to go easy though. 17%. That’s what keeps it going to a ripe old age, but it will play havoc with our medication. And we want to keep control of ourselves, don’t we?’ She winked.
Bernard tried to wink back, desperate to maintain the ruse. Her perfection was starting to anger him now.
From her bag, she pulled the two paper crowns that’d fallen from the crackers only minutes earlier. ‘And these …’ She put her crown on and handed his over.
He put his on. ‘Merry Christmas, Louisa.’
‘Merry Christmas, lover.’ She leaned across the table, carefully avoiding the candle, and kissed him.
It felt so perfect … so right … so arousing. Their belief in his ignorance, and his stupidity, was infuriating. When she pulled away, a tear ran down his face.
‘Are you okay?’ She stroked his face.
‘Yes …’ he said. ‘I just never thought I could be this happy again.’ Oh God, I wish so much that you were really her. He leaned to his side and picked up his present. He placed it on the table.
‘You really didn’t have to,’ Louisa said.
‘It’s not for you. It’s for me.’
Louisa flinched. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ Bernard said, realising that his sharp tone would break his cover. ‘It’s just that … what’s in here,’ he shook the present, ‘is very important.’
‘You shouldn’t even know what’s in there! It’s supposed to be a present.’ She raised an eyebrow, showing more of her eye. He suddenly felt as if he could see all the way inside of her. It was distressing. Even her inner self seemed wrapped in a disguise. For a second, he wondered if he could be wrong, that the fear and despair that crawled around his entire being was somehow a misunderstanding.
But he’d come too far in this life to deny the obvious. Those bastards from Argentina, who’d executed Bradley and Gavin and plugged Bernard’s stomach with two rounds from a FAL battle rifle, were here. They’d finally found him.
‘I don’t know what’s in it,’ he lied as he began to unwrap the present. ‘It’s just the friend who gave it to me is very special indeed so I know it will be important. It was this friend that showed me the truth, Louisa.’
‘You’re making little sense, Bernie. Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe we should lie down for a bit—’
‘After.’ He pulled a shoe box from the Christmas wrapping. We’ll all need a lie down after this. A long lie down.
He took the lid off the shoe box and looked inside.
Yes, you found me. It may be all over, but don’t count your chickens before they hatch Argentinian pigs. Your success comes with a cost. A very high one …
‘Shoes?’ Louisa said.
Bernard’s hand settled on a tin; he popped the cap and lifted it out.
‘Not shoes, I’m afraid.’ Bernard said.
‘Lighter fluid?’ Louisa said. ‘You don’t smoke—’
He sprayed her. Aiming for the part that had captured his heart. The true source of this whole charade. Her eyes.
She reached up to them, moaning; he could only imagine the burning sensation. He wondered briefly what the pigs had done with the real Louisa. He thought about asking, but decided against it. She’d probably never existed in the first place.
She slipped from the chair onto her knees. He tilted the tin, and poured some more over her head. The fluid dampened her paper crown, her white hair and streamed down over her hands and face.
‘This is for the real Louisa, if she ever even existed.’
There was a box of matches in the box, but they were unnecessary. He plucked the candle from the holder and set fire to her head.
He stood and watched the paper crown burn, and then her eyes.
Bernard closed the door to his room behind him, knowing he didn’t have a great deal of time left. He’d just set fire to his bedsheets, and although he’d deactivated the alarm for the candlelit dinner, it would be hardly any time before the smoke crept under the door and sent sleepy Rose Hill into pandemonium.
The nerves he was feeling before when Louisa had come to his room were now under control, and he felt steady as a rock. In moments like these, which were few and far between, he couldn’t believe that they’d once called him Flincher. He marched, rather than walked, something that surprised him considering his seventy-five years. Gaining the upper hand always did that for you. He remembered this all too well from his army days. When you were winning, you were winning. Adrenaline worked with you instead of against you.
Despite the surge in confidence, there’d been a moment of hesitation back in the room. Watching Louisa’s eyes burn had almost derailed him. Whenever he’d looked into those eyes, he’d seen a land, a forbidden land almost, in which only the truly blessed could be allowed to roam. And, even before, less than fifteen minutes ago in fact, around that table in the hall, he’d felt that same feeling of being blessed.
All part of the ploy.
It hadn’t been real. None of it.
These people were just here to finish what they’d started all those years ago. He looked down at his other Christmas present – the handgun. He bet the bastards hadn’t factored this into the equation.
Did they think it would be that easy? That I would just roll over?
Bernard knew his guns.
This was a Smith and Wesson Shield EZ designed for people with arthritis. It chambered for the .380 round rather than traditional 9mm, so it produced less recoil. The slide was a doddle for him to rack back even with his twisted claws.
His friend had been kind to him.
When he reached th
e hall again, he kept his hands behind his back to hide the weapon from view. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone was distracted by the projector screen.
Rose Hill often used this hall to welcome in potential residents and their families. The projector allowed the hard sell. Bernard remembered watching the heavily produced, almost fictionalised, account of euphoric residents living out their final days in nirvana.
Today, the projector displayed the queen who Bernard had fought, and almost died for, back in 1982. She was delivering her annual Christmas speech. She was spouting on about the unique British spirit that brought everyone together in times of crisis.
But no one in this room was British. They were Argentinian.
When Roy, the temp carer who was skilful with a carving knife but not so great with people skills, wandered towards him, Bernard decided that this was the perfect opportunity to unmask the first charlatan.
‘If you could take a—’
Bernard shot him in the forehead. His head snapped back, his paper crown slipped off and he crumpled to the floor.
Bernard stared at the twitching carer, waiting for his disguise to melt away and reveal an Argentinian soldier hidden beneath. It didn’t. He hadn’t expected it to happen with Louisa because her skin had blackened and melted, but he was disappointed not to expose Roy. It seemed that, even in death, these Argentinian soldiers were very adept at concealing their identities.
The fire alarm kicked in.
He looked up. No one was charging him down, but neither were they watching Her Maj anymore either. Several screaming residents and carers were already up and running for the far side of the hall where the fire exit was. Bernard hadn’t expected them to run from him. He’d expected a battle. Maybe it was a test? Maybe this was still part of the ruse, and they were leading him into a false sense of security?
He wouldn’t follow them into a trap. He lifted his gun, and shot Patrick, a rather pleasant young nurse, in the back. His Santa hat flew off and he slammed into a seven-foot Christmas tree. Bernard was surprised the tree didn’t come crashing down. Instead, Patrick was held upright with his arms open. He looked like he was embracing the tree, rather than dying in its branches.
