Tight Lies

by Ted Denton

  I stopped in my tracks and fixed the good Samaritan with a steely glare, eyes narrowed to slits. I pointed directly at him. ‘The crash killed him. You saw nothing’. The man dropped his eyes to the ground, nodded and said nothing.

  I returned to the vehicle and motioned for the do-gooder, who was now leaning inside the car, to move aside. He looked relieved to be given permission to stand clear of a possible impending explosion from the wreckage. The Target had survived the crash. He was clearly fucked, but somehow managing to cling weakly on to life. Daniel was proving to be quite a fighter. I respected his stubborn refusal to submit to the welcome seduction of death after everything that he had gone through. I unbuckled the seatbelts, his bloodied form perversely resembling an oversized sausage cooking on the grill. Reached in and pulled him out of the car. Cradling the limp body, draped across both of my outstretched arms, we turned away from the contorted metal and walked solemnly towards the motorway intersection.

  A blur of vehicles raced past us as we stood, steadfast, on the edge of the road. There’s no doubt that we would have made an unusual and alarming sight and one that many of the drivers rubbernecking clearly felt best to avoid. But it wasn’t too long before a huge juggernaut pulled to a halt on the hard shoulder just in front of us. The driver wound down the window and in a strong Dutch accent shouted down at us. ‘Are you guys all right? Is he injured? Can I help you?’

  ‘He’s in a bad way. We need to get to the hospital in Barcelona. Are you headed that way mate?’

  ‘Sure. I can take you. There’s a turning off the motorway which heads straight there. It’s not far from my route. But don’t you think you should get an ambulance to take you there? I have a phone if you need one.’

  ‘There’s no time to waste. Thank you though. Can I bring him up to the cab?’

  ‘Sure. Come on up. There’s a little day cot back here where he can rest.’ The driver swung open the heavy door to his cab and scampered down a couple of short metal steps. He helped me to carry Daniel’s limp body up into the cab of the huge eighteen-wheeler, carefully protecting his head as we manoeuvred him through the door and into the back.

  ‘What happened to him? He looks in a pretty bad way no?’ he said and then, after running his eye over my blood-stained face and shirt, ‘Come to mention it, so do you. You guys been in an accident or something? You look like you’ve been in the wars.’

  ‘If I told you mate, you wouldn’t believe me. Just put it down to a car accident.’

  ‘That car also fire bullets does it?’ he said cautiously as he stared at the sorry wound in my shoulder.

  ‘Best you don’t ask. Seriously. I’m sorry but we need to get going.’ And then glancing down at the Target, ‘He’s fading fast.’

  The driver, whose name I established was Joost, generously handed me a large bottle of water which I tried to get Daniel to drink from in vain. I left him alone to rest.

  We drove in silence for the next thirty or so minutes, eating up miles of tarmac. With Ratchet secured in the back cot and as safe as he could be for now I was able to relax for the first time in days. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, briefly seeking some much needed respite, having been running on a high octane mix of anger and pure adrenaline since as far as I could remembe. I fell into a deep sleep, instantly enveloped by a comforting velvety shroud knitted of urgent images and dreamy fragments shooting into and through my unconsciousness. And time leapt forward before I was shaken groggily awake.

  ‘Hey, buddy. We’re getting pretty close. It’s the turn off at the next junction.’

  I shook my head to clear it. ‘Thanks. You’ve really helped us out here mate. Things were looking pretty dicey before you turned up.’

  The juggernaut swung off the motorway at the signs for the city of Barcelona. We followed a snug series of recently laid one-way roads connected by a complex pattern of roundabouts until we finally arrived at the highly modern and frighteningly clean building on the outskirts of the city. Why they didn’t just make buildings to look like buildings any more was beyond me. I wouldn’t have recognised it as a hospital, it was so modern in design. We wheeled into a sparsely occupied car park and pulled to a halt. ‘Well. This is it. I hope your friend will be all right.’

  ‘Thank you. He might be now—on account of you.’ I offered my hand in a gesture of friendship. We both carried Daniel off the truck and, because our injuries might be in need of some serious explanation, I suggested that I carried him alone into the hospital. The trucker slapped me on the back and I cradled the Target in my arms through the electric doors and into the air conditioned cool of a starkly modern post-apocalyptic reception area.

  Somewhere behind us a huge engine roared and then a Klaxon blasted sounding a final farewell.

  Chapter 46

  ENGLAND. LONDON. ST JAMES’S SQUARE. THE EAST INDIA CLUB.

  The early morning sun reflected brilliantly on the windows of The East India Club, glinting out mercurially through a patchwork of cloud over St. James’s Square. Two of London’s ubiquitous overfed pigeons squabbled on the pavement over the grubby remains of a hotdog bun ignoring, with practiced nonchalance, the blacked-out Mercedes Benz as it pulled up outside. The Minister stepped calmly out onto the pavement. Leant backward slightly and rocked his shoulders from side to side, audibly cracking several vertebrae into place.

  Derek Hemmings piled out of the back seats behind him, nervously smoothing his suit. Decisions needed to be taken on the way forward. Late last evening they had been summoned to a breakfast meeting with the Prime Minister. It was a curious thing given the battle lines had very much been drawn. No clear reasoning had been provided but, with curiosities peaked by a number of cryptic clues, there had been little doubt that attendance was mandatory. Given the unpleasant altercation at the public unveiling of the huge jobs and investment deal, leading to the PM being taken in for police questioning, the two of them were not exactly looking forward to the engagement. Derek’s stomach was in fact a bubbling, twisting testimony to this very fact. So much so that he hadn’t managed an attempt at breakfast, nor swallowed so much as a mouthful of hot coffee. The truth was that he had not yet recovered from the stark reality of what had occurred inside his own home. The horrific danger that Alice had been placed in on his account. A point that was not lost on her either. She was requiring an inordinate amount of attention and fussing to keep frayed nerves at a settled peak. This was the first time since ‘the incident’, as it was now labeled, that Derek had been allowed to leave the house, a kindly neighbour sitting with her in his place. Shaken by the specific threat to his own life, naturally, he also remained unsettled by the bitter betrayal of the aide for whom he had fostered near-paternal affection. Despite his enduring malaise however, given that he had already come so far in his quest to do the right thing, Derek had resolved that he owed it to Queen and country to see things through.

  The front door to the club was opened with aplomb by a portly man in smart red jacket and bowler hat. They entered a small room, usually reserved for card games, to be greeted by a welcoming aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The Prime Minister sat alone at the felt covered table, hands clasped as if in prayer. After a moment of staged silence he gestured to the empty seats. Cleared his throat.

  He began, ‘I want you to know I’ve drawn a line.’

  The Minister replied, ‘How very generous of you, Prime Minister.’

  Derek noted the barbed spar and assiduously avoided any eye contact.

  ‘You miscalculated, Minister. Played your hand too early.’

  The bathos of the remark was not lost on the trio given they sat in a room designed for serious gambling.

  ‘Pah! You’ve been caught with your grubby little paws in the till. End of story, sir!’ the Minister snapped, smashing back his riposte.

  Anyone for tennis? Thought Derek to himself miserably.

  ‘I’m afraid that just won’t wash. Better men than you have looked into this matter in forensic detail. The only thi
ng linking me to Golich apparently is a job taken by my old school pal in a foreign country. He’s taken full culpability. And I will of course publicly distance myself from the little turd. Nothing else is provable. This won’t drag me down, not in the long term.’

  ‘There is a vote of No Confidence to be scheduled in the House. Call it a long overdue coup if you will. I’m running for the leadership.’

  The Prime Minister smiled enigmatically and leaned backwards in his chair. Derek shifted uncomfortably and started to wonder if he could ask for a cup of the rich fragrant coffee that wafted around the room and smelt so good. Or, he fretted, had that moment passed in terms of polite etiquette, eclipsed entirely by the overt sniping? He swallowed drily and kept his council.

  ‘I take it you’ve canvassed for support on this one, Minister? Counted those votes home already have you? Convinced that this stink is going to stick aren’t you?’ A dismissive, derisory tone.

  ‘Shouldn’t I?’ enquired the Minister, for the first time sounding a little less than sure.

  ‘Well I’m certain you’ve got your best men on it. How is Alistair anyway? I’m sure you can be confident that he will be able to marshal at least fifteen percent of the party to submit letters of support for the motion and then gain a majority to vote against me, especially after all I’ve done for them. Bringing them back to power after so long. Giving them jobs, reward, responsibility, purpose. Oh, by the way, is he still shagging that sixteen year old Filipino houseboy that he’s got stashed away in his Fulham pied-à-terre? One wouldn’t want a big scene made about that now would we? The fallout of these things can be so unpleasant. It’s the families in these situations that I, for one, always worry for.’

  Derek snorted, uncontrollably. Covered his face with both hands, humiliated. Stared down at the table. The Prime Minister looked directly at him for the first time and raised a hawkish eyebrow.

  ‘You were the cause of this in the first place by all accounts, Hemmings. What’s a no-mark civil servant on the verge of fading away into the obscurity of retirement doing prying into affairs that don’t actually concern him anyway?’

  Derek blushed. ‘I was doing the right thing, sir.’

  The PM sniggered audibly.

  Hemmings rallied to his theme. ‘I was looking out for the interests of this noble country at a time when, I’m sorry to say, our leader was displaying a spectacular dereliction of duty.’ His face was flushed with anger now.

  The Minister looked at him proudly. ‘You’ve underestimated the depth of feeling surrounding this, Prime Minister.’

  ‘And you’ve underestimated the power of national support for generating seven thousand jobs following the years of pain after Brexit. The country wants this. They don’t give a monkey’s red arse about Golich’s past. They want a proactive leader, someone who will stick their neck out for growth.’ His diction was at once immaculate, crystal clear and the epitome of self-assurance.

  Their eyes locked. Hard. Unflinching. Neither prepared to look away first. Finally the Prime Minister spoke again.

  ‘Humphrey has done the rounds. He’s spoken to the troops. Some were a little nervous about yesterday and the Golich relationship but on balance they are still with me. You’ll squeeze fifteen to twenty percent of the vote. I’ve still got the whip, Minister. We’ll smash you in a leadership contest and you should know it.’

  The Minister gripped the table with both sweaty palms. Derek exhaled and made eyes at the bubbling coffee jug.

  ‘Why are we here?’ he said finally. His tone flat, deflated.

  ‘I don’t want a battle, Brian,’ the PM oozed. ‘I need you on my team. I’m not going to suffer for this and I don’t see the point in losing one of the biggest stars of the front bench in the process.’ He smiled insincerely across the green felt at them both, riding his momentum. ‘Is this really worth your career, Brian? Of course I understand very well that after the rigmarole of yesterday and the public denouncement of the Rublex deal that some explaining needs to be done, some managing and massaging of the situation. And yes, of course, someone will indeed need to take the fall.’ With that the Prime Minister raised his eyebrows and chuckled, arms open in a gesture of generosity. ‘Who do you think that should be, Derek? How would you feel if I suggested that a certain Andrew Bartholomew could be lanced on the harpoon for this?’

  Derek glanced sideways at the Minister and then back at the PM. ‘I’m listening,’ was all he said.

  ‘Here’s the trade gentlemen. We’ll continue the gas exploration but won’t deal with Golich. He’s off the menu for good. But we’ll try to find a partner we can progress with to build infrastructure for those jobs. Minister, you’ll call off the vote of No Confidence. Come out in support of me and I’ll give you any tenure you desire. Your pick of the top jobs. Heck I’ll even endorse you to take over from me when my term is up. I’ll recommend you as successor and won’t stand for another re-election. So much cleaner than all this messy in-fighting which just serves to weaken the party, don’t you say?’ He waited whilst the rhetorical question settled between them. ‘Hemmings, you’ll get a bump up to MI6. A final hurrah. A kicker to the pension fund, something to impress upon the little lady. And best of all old boy, you get to stick the knife right between Bartholomew’s shoulder blades yourself. Whatdayasay chaps?’

  Derek looked at the Minister, who was looking right back at him.

  The Minister cleared his throat. He spoke with a quiet intensity. ‘Well played, Prime Minister. It seems you have yourself a deal’.

  Chapter 47

  SPAIN. BARCELONA. LAZARIDIS MARMOR SA. CENTRAL HOSPITAL.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I pressed forcefully. The fat nurse at the hospital reception was squeezed tightly into a baby pink uniform. Her saucer brown eyes sat atop a pair of pudgy cheeks all framed with a frizz of thick black curls. Studiously completing a complicated looking form, she resembled some sort of serious over-stuffed cuddly toy. The look I received back at me couldn’t hide the alarm on her face as I stood before her desk dangling a bloodied body in my arms. She began calling for help in Spanish, unbridled urgency in her voice. All eyes in the waiting room were fixed upon us.

  Two porters appeared from nowhere, dressed head to foot in powder blue, fussing around me and trying to ease the Target from my arms. I stood steadfast.

  ‘I need to speak with Doctor Cavestendros. This is urgent.’

  The request elicited a series of blank looks. I repeated the name loudly whilst shrugging off the unwanted attentions of the hospital orderlies. A brief phone call later and we were finally directed down a well-lit corridor.

  I kicked my steel toe-caps twice against the base of the clinic door to announce our arrival. Entered sideways, careful not to bang Daniel’s head on the frame. Smiled to myself. It would be just my style to get this far and finish the lad off with a concussion whilst carrying him inside the hospital. A small man in a white coat, thick-framed glasses and a carefully crafted goatee beard rose from his chair and guided me towards a medical table. I laid the Target flat as the concerned doctor busied himself checking for vital signs.

  ‘Charles Hand sent me. He said you’d be expecting us’.

  ‘Yes. Everything is arranged. There will be no police record of the gunshot wounds. You guys weren’t here. And of course the treatment is taken care of. Do you know what has happened to him?’ he asked as he inserted a cannula into the vein and then attached a saline drip to the bung to feed the arm of the ailing patient. ‘I need the truth.’

  ‘What I know is this. He’s in a bad way. Has been for the last ten hours or so since I’ve been with him. He’s lost quite a bit of blood. He was shot in the arse. Mauled by a dog. Think he took quite a beating before I sprang him.’

  ‘Bad day at the office then,’ the doctor replied without cracking a smile.

  ‘He’s gonna make it, right? You’ll have to attest that I got him here alive.’

  ‘He’s very weak. Surprisingly stable given the bullet w
ound. But you got him to me in the time frame in which surgery can be performed and can make a difference. So the good news is once we stabilise your friend, we can operate. Then we will sanitise his wounds, replace the blood he has lost, and medicate him correctly. He needs fluids. I don’t think he’s eaten or drunk for some time. In my view he has a better than fifty percent chance of making it through this but that will drop by nearly ten percent each hour from here on in unless he gets the treatment he needs.’

  Fucking close call.

  It had been a rough ride but I could handle those odds after what we had been through together. I nodded. Backed up. Slumped into a plastic chair to the side of the room. Closed my eyes. Head spinning.

  ‘We can’t work with him until he has taken on the fluid. Your shoulder needs care too. It’s seeping’

  ‘Yeah. I took a lump of lead a day or so back. Got the bullet pieces out. Tried to clean it up. It feels all wrong now though I gotta say.’

  ‘Let me see. It’s not good that you haven’t had treatment for so long. It hasn’t been sanitised properly. You may have an infection by now.’

  He moved across the room and cut away the sleeve of my shirt to give the unfettered access he needed. Carefully cleaned the wound. Injected local anaesthetic into the shoulder. I watched as he took a set of metal tongs resembling some form of medieval torture implement and fished around inside the scorched angry wound for what seemed like an age. Gritted my teeth. A second later, a tiny metallic clatter into the bowl told me he had removed the remaining shrapnel that my own primitive attempt must have left inside my arm. He dressed the shoulder tightly, packed with clean gauze and wadding, and secured my arm in a sling.

  He smiled at me. ‘No arm wrestling for you for a while, okay?’

  ‘Sure thing, Doc,’ I said, grinning back at him. I flicked my head over at Ratchet as a nurse tended efficiently to his medical requirements. ‘Will he need to stay in overnight?’ I asked, catching myself staring at her arse as she reached over the examination table causing the hem of her uniform to ride up a little.