by Andy Maslen
“You filmed me! Isn’t that in breach of about a million ethics codes?”
“Actually, for the first twelve hours we are legally allowed to observe patients without their knowledge or consent. It’s part of a new Department of Health protocol for the diagnosis and treatment of mental health disorders. Play it,” he said.
Trapped. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. There she sat on the single bed. The moment she started moving, Stella knew the jig was up. But what else could she do? She hit the green triangle to play the video.
Dan had used her hesitation to come and kneel beside her. They watched together as Stella engaged in an animated conversation with the chair. What was more disturbing to Stella than the absence of any physical interlocutor were the two voices coming from her mouth. Even issuing from the laptop’s tinny little inboard speakers, her own pleading tones contrasted sharply with Other Stella’s sarcastic, mocking and occasionally threatening voice. When she raised her right hand and slapped herself hard across the cheek, Dan reached across and stopped the playback. He resumed his seat facing her.
In a quiet, soft voice that made her want to cry, he asked her, “Who were you talking to, Stella? Why did you slap yourself?”
She shuddered. Felt herself sliding sideways. Tried to answer before it was too late.
“I—I—” She jumped to her feet, and carried on travelling upward until she, Stella, bobbed against the ceiling, leaving Other Stella in charge. “I’ll tell you why, you self-righteous little prick. Because she’s not strong enough to finish what we started. Now and again she needs to be reminded what this is all about. What it’s always been about.” She adopted a sassy American accent and began singing. “R-E-V-E-N-G-E.” As she continued vamping on the Aretha Franklin classic, Stella watched Dan. He didn’t seem scared. He maintained the same relaxed posture as before, looking up as Other Stella pointed her finger at him, wailing that he’d find out what it meant to her.
The impromptu karaoke session over, Other Stella slumped back into her armchair.
“That was quite a performance,” Dan said. “And you are?”
“She calls me Other Stella. But you can call me anytime.” She winked lasciviously.
“Pleased to meet you, Other Stella. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Ask away, doc. My calendar is unexpectedly empty. My time is yours.”
Stella looked down in horror at Other Stella, who returned her gaze with a steely glare that said, Too late, babe. You fucked up. Now it’s my turn.
“When were you born?”
“Clever. I can see why you made consultant so young. I was born, hmm,” she looked upward for a second or two, “about ten months ago.”
“When Stella lost her family?”
“Not quite. They were killed nearly two years ago. Poor girl could handle her husband’s death, but not the baby’s. Thought Lola was still alive. In the end, I had to come and straighten her out. She’d been paying an imaginary nanny to look after a fucking teddy bear. I mean, it’s sad and everything, but there was work to be done and she wasn’t what you’d call firing on all cylinders.”
“And when you say work?”
“This is all covered under doctor-patient privilege, right?”
“If it relates to events in the past, yes.”
“In that case, when I say ‘work,’ I mean killing members of a conspiracy who were running a little death squad in London. Her husband got too close to the truth so they wiped him out. Lola was what they’d no doubt call collateral damage.”
Dan rubbed his chin.
“Does Adam Collier belong to this conspiracy?”
“Give the man a round of applause, folks,” Other Stella said, looking around her and flapping her hands palms uppermost, as if inviting an audience to show their appreciation.
“So when you went to his office …”
“It was to kill him. Yes.”
“Tell me, is Stella still here. Is she in there with you?”
“Don’t be daft. She can’t handle it when I kick off nowadays. She’s up there in the gods.” Other Stella pointed straight at Stella.
“Could I speak to her, please?”
“Why?”
“Indulge me.”
“Oh, fine,” she said with a sigh. Then she looked up again. “Babe, you’re wanted.”
With a nauseating feeling as if she’d just stepped off a whirling fairground ride, Stella found herself facing Dan across the coffee table. Tears were running freely down her cheeks. Dan spoke. The compassion in his voice was almost unbearable.
“Leaving aside the question of what Other Stella may or may not have done, it’s clear to me, Stella, that you have developed what we now call a dissociative personality disorder. Normally, these types of disorders arise as a result of childhood trauma. But while Other Stella was speaking, she said she’d been ‘born’ less than a year ago. After your husband and baby daughter were killed. That suggests to me that this is a temporary condition, brought on by the intense grief you suffered. And that, although it may not feel like it to you right now, is actually good news. There are a number of treatments that have proved to be very successful, combining drugs and psychotherapy.”
She sniffed.
“Am I mad, Dan?” she said, in a voice clotted with despair.
He smiled and shook his head.
“No. You’re not mad. I know I talked about crazies a little while ago, which was my somewhat unprofessional attempt to lighten the mood. But we don’t really use the term ‘mad’ anymore. If it means anything at all, it refers to only a couple of psychotic illnesses including schizophrenia and severe forms of bipolar disorder.”
“I’m guessing this means you’re not going to overturn my section.”
He shook his head.
“Nope. I think what will be best for you is to begin a treatment regime here and take the full twenty-eight days to rest and see how the treatment works. Then we have to review your case anyway, and it may be you can move to seeing us on an outpatient basis. Of course, there is the question of this conspiracy fantasy. We need to explore that in a little more depth together. I don’t think it’s very helpful. I suspect you – or rather, Other Stella – are using it as a way to make sense out of the deaths of your husband and daughter. But that’s for another day. I am going to prescribe more Zopiclone to ensure you are getting enough sleep, and an anti-anxiety medication called Lorazepam. Don’t worry, it won’t turn you into a zombie. But it will help you to relax while we use psychotherapy to get to the heart of your problem.”
Sitting in the communal recreation room twenty minutes later, a book open on her lap, Stella looked around her. Apart from the poor souls staring off into space or repeatedly scratching at imaginary bugs under their skin or talking to themselves, it was hard to tell who was a patient and who was a psychiatric nurse. The latter wore their own clothes, and unless their badge was visible on its blue lanyard, they could be John with fears of open spaces or Marie who thought aliens were telling her what to have for tea every day. She turned back to the book and tried to concentrate on the story, but one of the bug-scratchers had started keening to herself and eventually the noise became too much and Stella wandered off to watch TV.
9
Down Payment
If Monica was surprised by Collier’s statement, she masked it well. He observed her as his words sank in. Her face was impassive, though her deep-brown eyes flicked left and right. Finally, she uttered a single word.
“Who?”
“Not why?”
She shrugged.
“None of my business, is it?”
“No, you’re right. Her name is Stella Cole.”
“Friend of yours, is she?”
Collier permitted himself a small, tight smile.
“Not exactly. A former colleague, as a matter of fact.”
Monica reached for a packet of cigarettes balanced on the arm of the chair. After she’d lit one, taken a lungful of smoke and ha
cked it out again, she fixed Collier with a stare.
“You want me to kill a cop?”
“Do you have a problem with that? I seem to remember you weren’t averse to trying now and again.”
Another shrug. Another drag on the cigarette. He watched her considering her options. He knew the way her mind worked. Fear of justice was a part of the equation. But for Monica Zerafa, money always came first.
“Why me?” she asked, finally. “Plenty of blokes out there,” she jerked her chin at the window, “who’d do her for a couple of grand.”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But the boys are too cocky. We’ve tried twice, with … disappointing results. I need someone who can actually get the job done. Someone who can try a different approach.”
“You got deep pockets, have you, Mr Collier? You’re going to need them. I mean, look around you. This shithole the council give me and Nathan, well, it ain’t exactly Buckingham Palace, is it? Maybe me and him’d like to move out. Find ourselves a nice little house over Essex way. By the seaside.”
Collier was just about to speak, calculating how far he could beat the wary woman down when she spoke again.
“And who’s this ‘we’? I thought this was something personal.”
“As you said, it’s none of your business. But we have funds available. Did you have a figure in mind?”
She drew deeply on the cigarette and Collier watched as the red tip glowed brightly and advanced towards her puckered lips. Before she could answer, she was seized by a coughing fit, doubling over and almost retching. Eyes watering, she returned to an upright position, reached into the front of her V-necked jumper and retrieved a tissue from her cleavage. Having wiped her streaming eyes and replaced the tissue, she stubbed the cigarette out. Her face was scarlet with the effort of drawing oxygen into her lungs, and for a moment he wondered whether he’d chosen badly. An assassin crippled by what had to be galloping lung cancer was hardly a safe bet. But then, he thought, neither of his two previous picks – a borderline psychopathic rape-murderer and a ferocious Albanian gangster nicknamed ‘The Shark’ – had proved up to the task of eliminating Stella Cole.
“A million,” she wheezed.
Collier laughed. Genuinely, this time. You had to give the woman credit. With the rest of the Pro Patria Mori committee dead, control of its private bank account had passed to him and he knew what he could afford.
“Who are you, Monica, the woman with the golden gun? We could probably go to thirty thousand. That would make a nice deposit on a house somewhere better than this.” He waved his arm round at the cramped living room.
She lit another cigarette, held it between thumb and forefinger and jabbed it towards him as if about to throw a dart.
“Listen. You already admitted you failed twice. I’m strong, Mr Collier, and you know I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. I put more than one cocky little runt in the hospital for disrespecting me. But I’m not a professional hitter. Yet here you sit, in my second-best armchair, asking me to off a cop. That makes me think you’re running out of options. Two hundred thousand.”
Collier pictured the last statement he’d looked at online for the PPM account at Greville & Thackeray, a private bank so discreet they made Coutts look like a market trader with a wheelbarrow full of cash. The sum she’d come down to would barely make a dent. He held his hands wide in surrender.
“I can see why you did so well in your former profession, Monica. OK, cards on the table. I can go to fifty K and a Get Out of Jail Free card for young Nathan if his courier job lands him in trouble.”
She smiled and held out a hand decorated with several heavy gold rings.
He took it. Then winced as she exerted more pressure, grinding the undersides of the rings against his unprotected knuckles.
“Sixty. A favour for Nathan. Plus one for me. Deal?”
Wondering whether he could extricate his hand without losing a finger, he pushed a smile onto his face.
“Deal.”
Then Monica raised a palm to her mouth and widened her eyes theatrically.
“What am I thinking of? I haven’t offered you anything to drink. My mum, God rest her soul, would have killed me. Hospitality is very important to us Maltese. You want a cup of tea, Mr Collier? A little something to eat?”
Resting his right hand lightly on his knee and wishing he could rub it, he nodded.
“Lovely. Thank you.”
She levered herself out of the armchair and took her cigarette with her into the tiny kitchen off the living room. While she busied herself making tea, he massaged his right hand, examining the deep, red depressions where Monica’s gold rings had ground against the skin. Bitch! Maybe once she’d dealt with Stella he’d come back and repay the favour. With interest.
“Here we are!” Monica announced, returning with a large, bamboo-edged tray bearing a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and two cups and saucers in matching, rose-patterned bone china. Beside the teapot, a side plate was loaded with small, pale-brown biscuits decorated with halved glacé cherries. “Pull out one of those tables, would you?” she said, speaking past the cigarette, which dangled from her lips, trailing smoke upwards into her eyes.
Collier did as he was asked, placing the smallest of the three nested tables into a free couple of square feet of carpet.
Monica put the tray down.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Milk, please.”
She handed him a cup and pointed at the plate of biscuits.
“I made those yesterday. Nathan’s favourite. Biskuttini tal-lewz, we call them. Know what that means?”
Collier shook his head.
“Try one”
Collier selected one and took a bite. It was sweet, with an intense hit of almond.
“Almond biscuits?”
She smiled, revealing a gold tooth at the back of her mouth.
“Very good. So, about this Stella woman. Where is she?”
Collier took a sip of the tea, which was so hot it burnt his lower lip.
“St Mary’s, Paddington.”
“What’s that, a church?”
“Hospital. She’s in the psychiatric ward.”
“Mad, is she?”
“Very.”
“You put her there, did you?”
“Yes. I needed to contain her.”
“So how am I supposed to get to her, then? You can’t just walk in and book a room?”
“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong. You just turn up at the front desk and tell them you’re hearing voices telling you to kill yourself. Or you think you’re married to Jesus. Say you want to voluntarily admit yourself to the psychiatric ward. You don’t need to be sectioned and because it’s voluntary, you can leave whenever you like. Once you’re inside, you do what you have to do then leave. Make it look like an accident, or suicide. After all, unlike you, she was sectioned. It happens all the time. There’ll be an internal enquiry, but that’s not going to affect you. And if there’s any suggestion of a police investigation, I’ll either squash it or misdirect it. You’ll be free and clear and looking at houses in Clacton-on-Sea with Nathan.”
She sipped her tea and bit one of the biscuits in half. Once she’d finished chewing, she spoke.
“Lot of powerful drugs in hospitals.”
“Blades, too. Not to mention stairwells. All kinds of hazards for someone who’s not feeling themselves.”
Perhaps picturing herself taking strolls on the sand with Nathan, Monica grinned at Collier.
“Have another biskuttini.”
They spent another ten minutes discussing the timings. Today. Right now. And the financial details, which amounted to a thirty-thousand-pound down payment in cash from Collier, the rest to be paid on completion. Then, after imparting a few pieces of what he called “intelligence,” he left.
At ground level, the youths on the BMX bikes were still there. He moved to skirt the tight little group, but one pushed himself backwards so he blocked Collier’s
path.
The youth – black, muscular, hair razored tight to his skull at the sides and carved into a sharp geometric quiff – looked Collier up and down.
“Sharp suit, mate. Must have cost a fortune.”
Collier shrugged.
“You’re a fan of men’s tailoring, then?”
He sensed the youths priming themselves. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye as two others detached themselves from the group and wheeled their bikes behind him.
The youth facing him smiled.
“Would be if I had the money, know what I mean, bruv? Maybe you can help me out. You know, a donation for my first suit?”
Cackles from the group at this.
“Sure, why not?” Collier said. He reached into his jacket, watching the youth’s eyes tracking his hand.
When it emerged curled round the grip of the Glock, the boy’s expression snapped from greedy expectation to naked terror. Eyes wide, hands held out palms outward, he reared back, almost falling off the bike.
“Whoa, man! Don’t shoot! No need for the gat. I was joking, yeah!”
Collier sensed the other boys pulling back. Enjoying the moment, he turned a slow circle, making eye contact with each of them in turn.
“Wallets,” he said.
Hurriedly they produced a variety of leather and nylon wallets.
“Throw them over there.” He pointed the Glock at a couple of industrial-sized rubbish bins in a glass-strewn square of concrete.
They complied at once.
“You know who I am?” he asked.
Much shaking of heads, eyes downcast, owners afraid to make contact.
“I’m the man your mothers warned you about. Now fuck off before I decide to use this.”
