by Mark A. King
All I could manage back was a weak gurgle. “Help!” I thrashed desperately, attempting to keep afloat and thrust myself away from the stalking boat, which was gaining.
Something hit the water nearby.
“Grab it!” the same voice shouted.
I reached all around me. A life ring buoy. Tugging it towards me, I linked both my arms through it and held on tightly.
Just as the boat got to me and the shadowy woman stooped to clasp me, I was pulled away. Fast. Strong. Certain.
So fast was the pull that I had to raise my head to avoid being overwhelmed by the oncoming surge of water.
I did not look back to see if the woman in the boat followed me.
Quickly dragged to land, I was hauled up and over the concrete embankment with little concern for cuts or bruises.
I rolled over to see my saviour.
The man with the bowler hat stood over me. He looked pale, and he had the sort of concentrated frown a concerned parent might have watching a child cross the road alone for the first time.
“We’d better go,” he said.
“I guess this proves that you’re real,” I replied. I crouched over and went on all fours before gingerly standing to face him. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, you’re not safe yet”.
“Who the hell is that?” I asked, indicating the woman on the boat in the Serpentine.
“Trust me, Cal. You really don’t want to know.”
Jimmy
In Jimmy’s morphine-fuelled dreams he recalled the past. He dreamt of violence.
In his early forties, he still had some of the things he’d now lost: hair, strength, a belief that anything was possible. His voice was stronger; years, cigarettes, and criminal career choice hadn’t fully taken their toll.
Burgundy liquid coated his hands and soaked his clothes. He never liked the feel of blood. Wet. Sticky. Hard to remove. Difficult to forget.
The Americans had it right. Guns were easier. Less personal. Knives, hammers, screwdrivers, fists, petrol; they all required close proximity. There was no escaping the event. No detachment. Might as well get stuck in and do the job properly.
Ryan Thistle was no more than thirteen or fourteen, a kid who did favours for Jimmy. Ray Liotta to Jimmy’s DeNiro. Small jobs. Nothing that would get him into any serious trouble with the police if he were stupid enough to get caught. Ryan had been taken away from his father when he was small. The boy had spent his childhood bouncing from one care home to another.
Ryan had talked to Jimmy about one of the other boys at the home, his roommate. The other boy had met a man who would buy him cigarettes, which progressed to alcohol, to glue, to tablets, to more. Ryan’s roommate would sometimes disappear for an entire day—the caregivers at the home were overworked and undertrained to spot the signs or intervene. Ryan’s roommate came back from these days away covered in bruises. Bleeding. Hiding his soiled clothing, so he didn’t have to feel the shame of being shared like a carcass, each predator having their fill.
Ryan begged Jimmy to intervene. Jimmy didn’t take much convincing—he’d seen and heard enough from the church back home that he couldn’t stand by and allow it to happen.
Jimmy had told Ryan to pack his bags, that he’d be taking care of Ryan from now on. But it was a final choice, if Ryan came, his path in life would be set. Did Ryan want to be involved? Or allow Jimmy to take care of it?
In Jimmy’s morphine-soaked world memories were lucid, vibrant, and indistinguishable from reality. He was interacting with Ryan in a opioid-powered time-machine.
Jimmy looked directly at the teenager. Ryan’s pupils were a small black bucket at the bottom of a large bright blue well. All Jimmy saw was focus. Hunger. A need to belong.
Ryan had taken to the underworld life with ease. He was keen to show Jimmy how serious he was. There was no holding back. No wavering. No leniency or remorse. Worryingly for Jimmy, Ryan seemed to enjoy it—especially the violent jobs. It seemed like they were natural for him. Religious fools might refer to it as a calling, something he was born to do.
In the dream, Ryan, only just bigger than a kid, turned to Jimmy. Ryan held up his hands, covered in blood, and he smiled with the glee of a child on the morning of his birthday.
Ryan and Josh stood either side of Jimmy’s bed, motionless, like steroid-pumped seraphs guarding a mausoleum.
Ryan grabbed Jimmy’s hand and squeezed. “How you holding up, boss?”
Physical male bonding had always made Jimmy uncomfortable. That stuff was for TV, for obscenely-paid play-acting footballers, for blokes who didn’t have to worry about appearing to be weak or sentimental.
“I’ve had better decades, but today is a good day,” Jimmy replied, shifting in his bed to relieve the aches and pains. “I’m still here. Which means I still have time to make my peace.”
Jimmy was still struggling with the dream. It had seemed so vivid, the sounds of screaming, the patterned flecks of blood on the floor and walls, Ryan’s psychotic grin.
The dream receded like a slow-moving tide. Standing on the dry shore of post-hallucination, Jimmy could only see Ryan as he really was; older, loyal, reliable, and more measured. The boy Jimmy had helped grow into a man had repaid that debt a hundredfold.
Josh coughed, as if reminding Jimmy he was still there. “You know we’d do anything for you, boss,” Josh said as he grabbed Jimmy’s other hand and gently squeezed it.
“I know that, Josh. That’s why I asked to get Detective Stone involved.” Jimmy looked at Josh and then at Ryan. Although he thought of them as family, nobody would ever make that assumption naturally. Ryan used his height, his smile, and his charm to get what he wanted. He was definitely the brighter of the two, but he could handle himself just about as well as anyone Jimmy had known. Josh was squat, with a centre of gravity that a supercar would envy—he didn’t need a smile or charm—his frame said everything that needed to be said.
Ryan released Jimmy’s hand, turned, and walked a few feet away from the bed. He faced Jimmy again. “Charlotte Banks, Charlie. I did what you asked. I’ve been keeping an eye on her, but she’s perfectly safe. It’s a busy floor and they have a security guard running regular patrols. I don’t think you need to worry about her, Mr. Kinsella.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about, Ryan. But, I’d rather you keep an eye on her, just in case.”
Ryan shrugged. “Who are you worried about? The missing girl?”
“Yeah. I feel responsible for her and everything that happened in that shop. You work for me, Ryan. You allowed those fuckwits to rob the shop. Regardless of the fact that this is your mess, Ryan, a man should take responsibility for the people he employees. Her mum is dead because of you. I can’t just wash my hands of it, can I?
“But it’s more than that. You’ll come to realise, one day, that some ways of living are worthless. I thought being a grass was the lowest form of life imaginable,” Jimmy said, letting go of Josh’s hand. “Grasses are pure scum. But what I’ve come to realise is that knowing that my legacy will be to stop some of the worst suffering, the poison that Westbourne and others have infected on the weakest—now that’s a thing to live for. How did you get on? Did you meet with Detective Stone?”
“No, sir,” Ryan replied. “If you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Kinsella, I’m concerned. This is going back on everything that you believe in. It’s implicating you. It’s bloody well implicating me. Besides, Westbourne is too powerful to stop, you know that”
“Why’s that?”
“Westbourne is chest-deep in unsavoury crap. No morals whatsoever, even compared to us. This is even deeper than modern slavery and human trafficking. Who knows what Westbourne might do,” Ryan said. He looked over his shoulder, then looked back, and talked in a gruff whisper. “If you want to us to protect the woman downstairs, I don’t see the point, but that’s fine. If you want us to go looking for the disappeared girl because you somehow feel responsible, then that’s fine, too. Although�
�I can’t see the logic myself and it’s more my doing than yours.” Ryan moved closer to Jimmy. Grasped his hands once more. “Boss. I respect you like you’re my father, but for heaven’s sake, this Westbourne thing is just crazy. All because of this one, unfortunate event? It doesn’t make sense. What good is going to come from it? Involving a police officer, no matter how much you trust her, is just suicide. You might not care anymore. I get that. But nothing good is going to come from this.” Ryan gazed at Jimmy like a loyal dog gawping pleadingly at its owner.
Jimmy took his hands away from Ryan. The dream flashback remained a punishing hangover. He glanced at Josh, an arms-length away. “What do you think, Josh?”
“I have no opinion, sir.” Josh shrugged hunched shoulders. “You’re the boss. You always have been. Always will be. What I think doesn’t matter.”
“But I’m asking for your opinion, son.”
There was a pause. It was hard to know what Josh was thinking. “If you want my honest opinion, sir. Then yes, I think you should make your peace. No matter how uncomfortable it might be to all of us. You’re right that this city is on the brink. We might not be saints, boss, but we know where to draw the line. You’ve always protected the people who are being exploited. The poor, the weak. We’ve only ever ripped off those who threatened us, or who could afford it. If someone doesn’t stop this crap then there will be nothing left at all.”
For a meat-head who didn’t talk often, Josh was smarter than he knew.
What was it with Ryan? It was more than just the dream. He was distracted and less willing to listen to Jimmy’s orders lately. Perhaps this was inevitable. He would have to fend for himself soon—and Jimmy knew he was ready for that responsibility.
“I’m sorry, Ryan,” Jimmy said. “If you don’t feel comfortable with the police thing and passing over what little information I have, then I understand. I’m not in the position to force you to do it, nor would I want to. You keep an eye on the witness downstairs—hospital security are used to dealing with incoherent drunks, but not the types of people that might be after her. And bring her—what’s her name, Charlie?—to see me if you can. I want you to search for the girl, too—she’s the one the most at risk. If you hadn’t have screwed up by using those junkie losers, then this wouldn’t have happened. I… you… we need to make amends.” Jimmy narrowed his eyes as he stared at Ryan. “Do you understand what I’m asking you to do, Ryan?”
“Yes, Mr. Kinsella.”
Jimmy then fixed his stare on Josh. “I want Detective Stone brought to me. If Ryan is unwilling to help you, then do it on your own. Am I making myself clear?”
Josh nodded.
Ryan huffed a frustrated, exaggerated sigh, like a schoolboy. Jimmy didn’t like the insolence. “Something wrong, Ryan? You’re wearing on my patience, both of you. What are you doing standing with me? There is nothing you can do. I don’t want to see you again until you have information for me. I want some space. Now, leave me alone and get to work!”
Charlie
The physiotherapy had gone well. The NHS seemed to insist on employing well-meaning sadists in these roles. Which was good for Charlie, who just wanted to recover, get home, and be with her precious boy, Noah.
Nurse Ciarán had been keeping the security guard at bay, telling him that Charlie was well looked after and there were enough staff and patients around to spot anything suspicious. Still, Charlie worried about a couple of people who seemed out of place.
The young woman with the nose-ring and dip-dyed hair, for instance. She’d walk the corridors once every few hours, sniffing loudly and running her sleeve across her nose. She looked twitchy, like one of the criminals in the newsagents’ shop.
Then there was the tall guy in the well-tailored suit who sported enough wet-look hair gel that he almost reflected light off his scalp as he walked. He’d been skulking around, his eyes always glancing at her, even for just a few seconds, before he looked the other way. Perhaps it was just her imagination? She thought he might be a consultant, though he looked more like burglar on a scouting mission. Sometimes he’d be on the phone—or pretending to be on the phone—as he passed her side-ward. The security guard was not there on any occasion, but thankfully the wards were generally full of staff or visitors. Besides, the man didn’t look the type to be involved in an armed robbery.
Like many patients, she had a medical alarm button, which the medical staff had told her to press if she was in any sort of trouble. Charlie found herself fiddling with the button, wondering when Ciarán was going to return with a battery-powered version so she could attempt to get out for the wheelchair ride that he’d promised her. It was a prerequisite for her hospital discharge. This is pathetic, Charlie thought. I need to be worried about Noah, maybe Maria Mathan, the missing girl from the newsagents’ robbery, not me.
“How’s my favourite patient?” Ciarán said, rolling the clunky wheelchair beside her bed. Charlie watched silently as he carefully angled the contraption to make it easy and no doubt less painful to access.
Charlie gave him a crooked smile and looked around. “Hey. You can’t say that. You can’t have favourites.”
He smiled back. “Don’t worry. I say that to all the patients.”
I can believe that. But Charlie sensed that some patients were more favourite than others.
Ciarán moved the hoist near the bed. “We’ll take it easy today,” he said, “I know you’re still in a lot of pain. Let’s try and get you in the chair the easy way. Go for a spin. Then rest up. How does that sound?”
Charlie shook her head. “No hoist. No easy way. You know what I’m going to say next.”
“That you need to get home. That your boy needs you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if I’m annoying, demanding, or in any other way a pain. But he needs me. I need him, too.”
“No need to apologise. I wish a hundredth of my patients had your determination. But I’m sure your boy is being well looked after.”
Charlie didn’t mean to glare at Ciarán. She was trying hard to forget about Robbie. She needed to focus on herself, on Noah, then maybe on the missing girl, Maria. “Will you help me do this for myself, Ciarán?”
“Of course.”
Ciarán encouraged Charlie to sit up and inch to the side of the bed. He positioned himself to support her weight and bolster the pillows behind her as she gingerly edged her way towards the goal. “That’s it,” he encouraged, “now, just grab that handle and put your other arm around my shoulders. I’m afraid it’s not the most dignified manoeuvre, if you’d rather a female nurse…”
Charlie shook her head.
Ciarán paused and looked at her. “Remember to breathe. It’s natural to hold our breath when we encounter or anticipate pain, but it’s totally counterproductive. Just breathe. Slowly. Calmly.”
Charlie hadn’t realised she was even holding her breath. “Was I going blue or something?”
“Like a Smurf,” Ciarán replied.
She placed one foot on the floor. Pressing down, wincing, ensuring the ground was solid under her weight. She placed the other foot down, stood hunched-over, and shuffled to angle her back toward the welcoming throne of the wheelchair.
The pain thrashed, punched, and tumbled behind her ribs like a concrete block in a washing machine.
Think of Noah. Think of Maria. This is nothing. Nothing.
She wanted to slump quickly into the square faux-leather embrace of the seat, but Ciarán shook his head. “Do it gently, it’ll hurt, but not as much as throwing yourself down.”
Would Robbie have offered such advice? Would he even have offered to help her? Charlie’s legs jittered under the pressure of lowering herself, slowly, into the chair.
At the nightclub, the burly guys knew to take her seriously. At first they’d thought she was there for PR, a gimmick, or to level out the gender ratios. Soon after starting she’d cut her long dark hair into a short bob, easy to manage, safe—long hair inevitably was the first thing grabbed
in a fight. On her first night she’d stopped a fight from escalating, talking one drunk into going home early, while the other she’d restrained without any assistance. By week five her boss said he’d had requests from the other bouncers to work her shift. It was always a smoother and less dangerous night when she was working, they told him.
Intelligence, empathy, conflict-avoidance, planning—these were more important than sheer muscle. She’d gained respect from guys twice her size. But not at home, not with Robbie.
Robbie could charm snakes. He was good with Noah, when he chose to be. He didn’t have to take on as much responsibility as he had done, but Robbie had a temper. He’d go from volume one to volume ten without warning. His triggers were arbitrary—although Charlie had tried desperately to pre-empt any provocation. He liked to teach Noah discipline—though he hadn’t hit her boy—yet. Robbie liked to drink, but didn’t everyone?
Charlie felt the cold wipe-clean surface of the chair penetrate through her gown and chill the back of her thighs. She slumped. Exhausted, she felt like her body was a laptop in hibernation mode. “I’m useless. No good to anyone. If I can’t even do this, then how can I get home? How can I be with Noah?”
Ciarán squatted down and looked at her. “You can do this. You’ll be out in a couple of days, max. Trust me.”
Ciarán wheeled her towards the window, the rubber wheels squeaking and scuffing against the clean hard floor. “I’ll head off now and come back in a few minutes. You have the call button if you need me. Relax, as best you can, recover a while, and we’ll set off shortly.”
They were on the eighth floor. Through the murky windows Charlie could see the cityscape. On the horizon, the Shard’s glass pinnacle punctured the cobalt sky, shredding foolish clouds that dared to go near. The building glittered in the midmorning summer sun. So tall, sleek, and elegant, it stood alone, pleading to be admired. Somewhere down there, Maria Mathan was alone and isolated. She would be obvious to those who wished to harm her.
