Paid In Full
Page 1
Paid In Full
By
Mark Newman
Published by markjnewmanbooks 2017
Copyright ©
Mark J Newman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This is a work of TOTAL FICTION.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Cover artwork created by Jimmy Gibbs
Edited by OBS (www.onlinebookservices.com)
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 1
The dead-eyed stranger matches his stare. His lips are numb, a crackling sensation inside his head adding to the fuzzy sensation running from his neck, into his shoulder, reaching down his arm, and ending at his fingertips. He probes the inside of his mouth with his tongue. The taste is metallic—aluminum, or at least the way he imagines it to be. He swallows it down, the dull aching at the back of his head a constant reminder of his mortality.
He closes his eyes, trying to focus as he repeats the mantra, reciting his name, age, and address. Next, he’ll take some pills and go back to bed—wishing it all away like a bad dream. If only it were that simple.
Chapter 2
That was twenty-four hours ago. He logs the details in to his phone, a diary entry for when he no longer had the capacity to recall the basics. The time when it all turned to shit, his life playing out like a scene from Memento where the lead role, Leonard, tattoos his body to record details of his life before he loses his mind in its entirety.
He’s checking the time now; still got ninety minutes waiting time. He doesn’t want to appear too eager—bordering on desperate. Better to leave it to the last minute, cut it fine. He hates waiting rooms. The smell, the décor, the people—everything. The worst thing is now he’s part of it, another statistic waiting to happen.
A splinter, a fragment—call it what you will, he knows it’s there, like trying to remember the finer details through the fug of a persistent hangover. That’s what his life’s become. It was just another stupid argument, came out of nowhere, blowing in like a storm. There’s been a lot of that lately, pressure of the job, modern life, and just about anything else he can take a stab at. If she’d just fucking listened that would’ve been the end of it, but no, as always—she was right. There was a time when things like that wouldn’t have mattered, not even registered, but not any more.
She should know by now, they’ve been together long enough, but that’s her all over, she always did like to his push his buttons—provoking the reaction, craving the showdown. Well this time she got it.
Two words that’s all it took. Forget the build-up, those two little words I’m leaving. There’s no coming back from that—turn the next page.
He’s moving to the car now, time he was on his way. He can’t put it off any longer. He needs to know—good or bad. Then he can plan. Garrett’s always been the strategist; it’s what he gets paid for.
He sticks the car in reverse just as his mobile starts chirping away, He resists the temptation to pick it up just as the hands-free connection kicks in. ‘I’m on my way now, I’ll see you there, bye.’
Garrett doesn’t want to be alone, not for this one. At least he knows he can rely on her, unlike his wife.
Chapter 3
Garrett’s staring at the time on the digital display, he’s still early. For the moment, he’s content to sit and wait, his thoughts like storm clouds whirling, gathering momentum. He can’t be doing with the inquisitive looks. That can all wait. He takes a deep breath, sucking in the diesel fumes and the detritus, the pollution of modern urban life. He tastes it, rolling it round his mouth like a connoisseur. It sticks to the back of his throat, burning when he breathes in deep.
It’s all down to the final verdict. It could go either way, condemned man or sentence quashed.
His phone’s beeping a text alert—she’s there. Waiting inside. No more delays—he’s going in.
Stepping away from the car, he’s looking at the sky, grey and ominous. He keeps mulling it over in his mind. It has to be this way. The wheels set in motion a long time ago. No opportunity to bail on this one.
He walks towards reception, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. With each step he’s resisting the urge to turn and run. He can’t deny the truth—no better than a dead man walking. Truth always wins out in the end.
One way or another he realises he’s been running all his life. A fugitive on the run, and now he’s handing himself in, hoping for a lighter sentence.
Nothing he can do now except hope for the best and plan for the worst. It’s all down to fate. The gods having their way, toying with him.
Garrett passes by the smokers, slung together like limpets sucking the life out of the dogends. One final drag before they go in, putting off the inevitable. He considers joining them, the camaraderie of outcasts. He decides against it, can’t take the risk of pissing her off. Not today.
He tells himself to keep moving. The automatic doors parting with a slow swoosh like waves before him. His eyes scanning the signs, a confusing melee of red, green, and blue fonts merging into one as his eyes struggle to focus. Now he’s making his way down the long, wide corridor to the junction, the smell of fresh disinfectant hanging heavy on the air. He’s ignoring the looks, not that he can see them, but he can feel them. Tunnel vision—that’s the only way, blanking them out, eyes straight ahead.
The hammering sensation in his chest catches his breath. He feels lightheaded, as if he’s about to faint. Garrett reaches out with his arm to steady himself against the mint green wall, and looks down at his feet, feeling as though he’s walking on sponge. He needs to stop, his vision blurring, everything around him turning to a Monet painting. The ground feels as if it’s coming up to meet him head on to swallow him up whole. He can’t breathe—shit, panic attack. He’s looking round, willing himself not to black out. Not here, not in public—he’s still got some dignity. After all, he doesn’t need the attention. Garrett just wants to blend in, to be anonymous—normal, just like everyone else. He’s crouching, breathing deep, telling himself he just needs a minute.
You can do this, he says, willing himself to be strong. He’s straightening up, ignoring the looks, and moving forward. Garrett reaches the junction, turns right. Down the corridor to the end, he turns left then follows the narrow corridor. One hundred yards down, he takes a right. You have now reached your destination.
She’s there, awkward and out of place, pacing up and down in between the rows of waiting patients. The anxiety’s written all over her face. She’s chewing at her gum, and then he remembers her text, the fact that she’s back on the patches and the nicotine gum, desperate to quit. The way she looks right now, he wouldn’t bet against her smoking her way through a pack of twenty before the day is done. He notes that she looks a little older, but even so she’s a striking woman—still good for her age.
They embrace as she fights back the tears, telling herself not here, not now. It’s been over a year since they last met up in person, there’s so much to say and so little time, but nothing can change their bond, not even this.
They sit in silence—waiting. Hands clasped like lovers on a date. Garrett glances around. Storing the information away. The door’s opening, there’s a guy coming out, he has that same look. Garrett knows that look. He’s resigned to it—exclusive members club—invitation only. This is it. He’s next in line. He scans the room one more time. They’re all the same, avoiding eye contact, trying to put off the inevitable by staring in to space—pretending it’s not happening.
Garrett doesn’t hear his name on first call. She squeezes his hand, he looks at her, her eyes imploring him to make the first move.
Show time, he’s up and out of his seat, a little too fast as he struggles to manoeuvre his jellified legs one in front of the other towards the consultation room.
She’s leading him, like a toddler taking his hand. There’s no way out. He’s got to face up to it. The door clicks shut behind him, he’s trapped, caught in the snare.
Chapter 4
He sits letting the news sink in, his eyes closed, scrunching the pupils till it hurts as stars dance across his eyelids. It’s just him and the noise, like the tinnitus pitch of a TV of old drilling down to his core.
The drone of the consultant’s voice has slowed like an old seventy-eight record stuck on the go-slow. ‘Mr Garrett... can you hear me?’
Garrett, cold-eyed stare—catatonic.
‘I need to know that you fully understand the diagnosis and its implications.’ The consultant’s words seeping through like syrup, the awakening cold and numb.
First he notices the décor, sparse and business-like. Some might call it professional, or utilitarian. The designer favouring the Northern European, Scandinavian influence, straight out of the IKEA catalogue, the glass topped desk with white, cylindrical legs and matching chairs. The effect is sparse and cold, the aesthetic non-descript, creating a consultation room devoid of character. It’s nothing more than an afterthought tacked on to the side of the ward—hollow and soulless.
His eyes flicker a note of recognition. Autumn rays, like bullet holes piercing the venetian blind, texturised shadows dance across bland, magnolia walls.
‘I get it, just don’t understand... why me?’
‘I’m sorry Mr Garrett... that I can’t answer, but I can say that with radio therapy life may well be prolonged by as much as six months to a year.’ He pauses, his eyes narrow, looking for sincerity. ‘There is no definite time frame.’
‘And without it?’
The consultant, Mr. Aziz, a tall, slim business-like third generation British Asian, early fifties, pauses then smiles. Aziz tries to look comforting, like a kindly old uncle. He makes a point of removing his oval-shaped, carbon fibre designer spectacles, cleaning the lenses on his flamboyant, Tweetie Pie cartoon character tie. He’s playing for time, waiting for the right words to form in his mouth.
‘Mr Garrett, you have a Stage 3a inoperable brain tumour. You may live three weeks or possibly six months. God willing—even longer, but the headaches, the nausea, and mood swings, they’ll all become progressively worse—that’s a given.’
Helen squeezes his hand, he’d zoned out, forgetting she was there. Garrett averts his eyes from Aziz to Helen, seeing the tears well up in her hazel eyes. He knows she’s scared, every fibre of his body feels her pain.
He looks straight at her, his eyes piercing her soul, Garrett forces a smile. He needs to be strong, knowing he has to face it straight on, man up. He squeezes her hand, and nods as if to say it will be all right. But it won’t, it can’t be. The final outcome is inevitable. It’s just a matter of time.
Garrett looks from Helen back to Aziz, and catches the sideways glance. That’s the second time. He chooses to ignore it, pretending not to notice. He reminds himself that she’s a big girl now and she needs to fend for herself, after all, he won’t be around forever.
‘What about work?’
Caught off guard a moment earlier, Aziz fumbles through his notes, ‘And your profession is?’
‘Corporate Analyst.’
Aziz affixes his glasses in situ and eyes Garrett, attempting to get the measure of the man sitting before him. He recalls from standing and shaking his hand when he entered the room that he is of reasonable height, around six feet tall, weighing in around approximately twelve stone. An ordinary guy. Outwardly healthy, with an athletic, wiry physique. In good shape for a man of thirty-nine.
Thirty years experience have taught him that looks can be deceiving. It’s only two weeks since Ronald Johnson’s diagnosis. In the guise of the Grim Reaper, Aziz had delivered the fatal blow on the Tuesday. Johnson had appeared to take the news in his stride. It was, after all, treatable, unlike Garrett’s diagnosis. Friday of the same week, Johnson was found dead. He’d given up, no energy for the fight. Aziz didn’t blame him. At least not initially. Some patients just didn’t have it in them. The blame and glimmer of self-doubt—that came later. Three days later, in fact, after the initial Post Mortem had found that Johnson had OD’d on a mixture of paracetamol and vodka.
Then there was the note. Which in turn led to the on-going investigation. Aziz had been formally notified that he might have to appear before The Board, but at this stage in the proceedings he was free to continue working. The note, which they weren’t at liberty to discuss, was the reason for the enquiry. Nice of them though, he thought, to let him continue, until such time that they decided differently.
Aziz closes his eyes, pushing the recriminations aside. He buries them deep. He needs to focus on the present—Martin Garrett is a fighter.
‘Mr. Garrett...’ He stops, meticulous in the choice of wording. ‘How can I put this? You need to get your house in order, as it were. Particularly if you choose not to have the radiotherapy treatment offered.’ Aziz pauses, and looks straight at Helen. Demure is the word that springs to mind, dark hair and porcelain skin.
He continues, not daring to let his thoughts wander further. ‘It’s your call. There may be other aspects of your personal life,’ Aziz lingers on the word personal, his eyes boring into Helen, ‘... that take precedent over work commitments.’
Garrett inhales sharply and straightens himself out of the chair. Projecting his body upward in one fluid movement. No sign of weakness, not that of a condemned man. He thrusts his hand out towards Aziz. Gripping it, he thanks him for the diagnosis and candid summary.
He turns to Helen, ‘come on, let’s get out of here.’
Outside, he looks up at the bright, powder blue, cloudless sky, the air is crisp. He breathes it in long and deep. Winter’s just around the corner. He wonders if he’ll be around to see it. Helen’s light and gentle touch to the shoulder brings him back to the present.
‘I know you’re scared, and I’ve known you long enough to realise that you’re too damned stubborn to admit it or ask for help, but the offer’s there. This new assignment, it can wait.’
Ignoring her offer, Garrett forces a weak smile. ‘Saw him checking you out back there. Should’ve planted one on him.’
Lines crease his face. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing, really I do, and thanks for today. It’s just something I need to get my head round, work it out for myself, you know?’
Helen nods agreement, no use in flogging a dead horse. She wants to say more, but can’t find the right words. Not quite sure how to go about it, she decides to blurt it out. ‘It’s not really my business but... You really should let Maria know.’
Garrett seems to consider it for a moment, before shaking his head. His mind is made up. ‘For what? It won’t change a thing.’
The last flicker of hope vanishes from her eyes. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ She’s about to add some infinite wisdom as the bleep of a text message diverts her attention. She mouths a silent apology S O R R Y, as she’s interrupted by an immediate second annoying text.
‘You’re popular,’ says Garrett, reaching into his jacket pocket to check his own messages.
Helen glances at the screen, her brow ceasing. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I need to go. Call me, I mean it, any changes—I want to know straight away.’
‘Go... Go on. We’ll speak soon.’ It’s just a formality, and they both know it. Later, she’ll be boarding a flight, off to God knows where—another foreign assignment.
They embrace; she can’t look him in the eye. Fearing he’ll see straight through her, it’s important that she remains strong for him. Secretly, he’s glad of it. He can’t handle an emotional outbreak, not now. Definitely not in broad daylight in the middle of a public car park.
She’s moving away, looking back over her shoulder, waving at him like some enthusiastic lunatic. They both feel it, caught under the black cloak of death. He wonders if they’ll ever meet up again, maybe in a different life.