The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

  Edwards swallowed hard, keeping his mouth shut.

  “You could probably find him a job somewhere, if he wants it. Sounds a bright sort of chap. Got a police background, hasn’t he?”

  “I believe so, Sir,” said Edwards giving nothing away, thinking: Fat chance.

  “Good, good. Well, like I say, I’ll get someone working on it. The main thing is to keep it all under our hats.”

  “Sir, can I ask a question, Sir?”

  “’Course you can old chap.”

  “Who is the other side, Sir. Do we know?”

  “No idea. Thought it was the Ruskies at first, but they couldn’t afford it. Christ, did you see their last rocket launch? They all sat around in their woolly coats ’cos they couldn’t afford to put the heating on. It could be the Chinks, they’re years behind us. Could even be some crazy African country that fancies itself. The Yanks reckon it could be the Iraqis, but they’re paranoid about the Iraqis—if Saddam Hussein breaks wind they say he’s’ developing toxic gas—and they freaked out about the Iraqis getting their hands on a ton of those computer game things.”

  Edwards choked. “Iraq, Sir?”

  “Precisely, Superintendent. That’s what I said. Apparently they bought a few thousand kiddie computer toys for Christmas, but the Yanks reckon they could turn ’em into guided missiles … Humph!” he snorted his disdain, though Bliss was unsure of the target of the minister’s disapproval—Iraqis, Americans, or guided missiles, he wondered.

  “The Yanks reckoned they were onto something when the Iraqis booted out the U.N. Inspectors. You know, the chaps looking for Bubonic Plague and chemical weapons after the Kuwait affair.”

  Edwards nodded, not trusting himself to speak, but he remembered.

  “But keeping a load of foreign computer boffins under wraps is much more difficult. I don’t reckon they’re up to it myself. What do you say?”

  “Well, Sir …”

  “Quite, Superintendent, my views exactly.” Then he sat back, relaxed and changed the topic. “So, you got all men back safe and sound?”

  “A sergeant broke his wrist on the ship.”

  “Clumsy—that all?”

  Edwards poised, a large piece of lobster hovering in front of his face, kept his face blank in thought. “That’s all, Sir.”

  “Well done, Superintendent, I’ll even have a word with someone at the Home Office. See what we can do about your promotion—must be due.”

  Edwards swallowed hard, saying nothing, changing his expression to one of modest gratitude.

  “Excellent, excellent,” said the minister. “Now for dessert I can recommend the crème bruleè.” Then he leaned across the table, glanced suspiciously left and right, and whispered, “Steer clear of the fruit salad, half of it comes out of a bloody can.”

  chapter eighteen

  “Roger Francis LeClarc.” The court usher’s voice boomed around the packed courtroom. An expectant hush fell over the crowd. Experienced spectators swivelled into position for a clearer view of Roger. First-timers, lured by the media—“Internet sex-slave chained in dungeon,”—craned like kids at a monkey house, hoping to glimpse something bestial. Out of the public’s view, a door, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the prisoner’s dock, clicked open. A large white figure was prodded into motion by a smartly uniformed officer. “Wait,” he commanded as he turned and locked the door behind him, then he nudged the listless figure up the stairs. Roger, wearing a one-piece, white paper coverall, rose like a voluminous spectre into the dock.

  The hospital had been unable to supply anything more suitable than the disposable paper suit because of his bulk; the police didn’t care—the appearance of weirdness only strengthened their case. His parents, on the downhill slope of an emotional roller-coaster, would have brought him some decent clothes had they thought, but their elation at his rescue had swung from despair to disgust, and their concern had sunk in confusion.

  “Stand up please, Mr. LeClarc,” the court clerk instructed.

  Roger was already standing, doubled over with heart-rending sobs, and the crisp suit rustled alarmingly as he pulled himself upright, his head still deeply buried in his hands. Then the guard roughly pulled the hands away, leaving the tears to dribble down the bloated face.

  The clerk raised his eyebrows and put the inflection of a question into his voice. “Roger Francis LeClarc?”

  Roger dumbly looked across the courtroom to his mother, head down, face in her handbag, and sought guidance and comfort.— “Never mind our Roger. Here’s a bar of chocolate, you’ll soon be better.”

  She didn’t look up—How could you do this to me you little bugger?

  “Are you Roger Francis LeClarc?” the clerk tried again, knowing very well the man in the prisoner’s box could be no other.

  A dozen journalist’s pens doodled as he considered his reply, but Roger’s full name, address, and date of birth had already been circulated to the twenty reporters crammed into the press box, the twenty or so others in the public gallery, and the tail-end-charlies barred to the street with their cameras and camera crews.

  The “whirr” of the electric clock high on the wall above the magistrate pierced the air for five long seconds before Roger admitted he was indeed the man whose name had been called. Even then his sniffled “Yes” was heard only by those closest.

  The spark of a courtroom buzz was quickly stamped out by the clerk, “What is your address?”

  Roger tried, several times, but his head swam, and the information sank in a whirlpool of unfamiliar images. The clerk helped him out. “Do you live at 34 Junction Road, Watford?”

  Forty reporter’s pens scribbled unnecessarily. His little terraced house in Junction Road had been besieged by cameramen, reporters, and rubber-neckers ever since the call for a doctor had rung through the airwaves late on Friday evening.

  Roger wiped his eyes. “Yes.”

  The legal rigmarole of reading out the charges took the clerk several minutes. Kidnap, unlawful detention, sexual assault, assault occasioning grievous bodily harm, and attempted murder were high on the list, and a few minor offences were thrown in for good measure.

  “Do you understand the charges?”

  “I didn’t mean to …”

  The clerk stopped him mid-statement. “This is not a trial, Mr. LeClarc, all his Worship wants to know is: Do you understand the charges. Yes or no?”

  Roger’s lawyer helped him out with a deep nod. “Yes,” mumbled Roger, though in truth his mind was still at sea.

  The Crown prosecutor, a weedy man with comically large glasses, overly-flamboyant teeth seeking to escape, and strands of lank brown hair flopping over his face, leaned forward to examine his notes, then rose to his feet and waited while the audience settled. Satisfied, finally, he breathed deeply and let his eyes dart between the clerk and the Magistrate, ensuring they too were ready, pens poised. His squeaky voice matched his shrew-like appearance. “The defendant has been charged with a number of serious crimes and, at this time particular moment in time …” he paused, eyes everywhere as if looking for a way out, then finished with, “the Crown is applying for a remand in custody for seven days.”

  Then he sat. That was it. An entire performance in one sentence.

  Roger’s defence lawyer was even more succinct. Rising to his lofty six feet six inches, he stilled the whole room with his weighty presence and boomed, “No objection,” with such confidence that half the people present would have sworn he’d declared his client. “Not guilty.”

  The lay magistrate, a butcher in real life, looked down the barrel of his nose and put a bead on Roger. “Do you wish to say anything at this time, Mr. LeClarc?”

  Roger sniffed very noisily, causing a few grimaces, then muttered something unintelligible through sobs.

  “I can’t hear you,” said the Magistrate turning an ear.

  Roger wiped his nose with his hand and mingled snot with tears. He tried again, blubbering uncontrollably.

  �
�What did he say?” asked the Magistrate of the clerk.

  “He said, ’I love her,’ Sir.”

  “He’s got a bloody funny way of showing it,” muttered the Magistrate, much louder than intended, and shot an angered look at the press gallery that said, “If any of you scum print that I’ll have you for contempt of court.”

  “Take him down,” ordered the clerk, and Roger’s ghostlike figure drifted back down the prisoner’s staircase.

  Roger’s parents, clinging tightly together, were pounced on by half a dozen cameramen as they tried to slip out the back door a few minutes later. A seemingly sympathetic policeman had assured them they would go unnoticed if they took that route. But the same policeman, with a sly grin, had tipped off one of the reporters just a few seconds later. He had a daughter Trudy’s age.

  Camera’s clicked and several cassette recorders were shoved in Mrs. LeClarc’s face.

  “Your comments, Mrs. LeClarc?” was one of the many demands flung at her.

  “Our Roger’s innocent,” she screeched, with a scowl nasty enough to guarantee a spot on the front page of several tabloids, captioned: “Internet fiend’s mother say’s innocent.” The power headline “Netted” would be reserved for Roger’s photo, as soon as a friendly cop could be induced to cough up a copy and, should Trudy die, some assistant editor would torture the language yet again.

  Trudy’s mortality was problematic; her fractured body hesitating somewhere between life and death. Less than a mile from the courthouse, Peter and Lisa sat next to each other by the side of her bed, hanging onto every faint breath the scrawny pale body took. The array of machines, monitors, and tubes had become no less frightening as Sunday had dissolved seamlessly into Monday. They had slept little, woke guiltily after the briefest cat-nap, and spoke only of Trudy. Even the staples of small talk—movies seen, books read, holidays taken or planned, the state of the weather—were deemed inappropriate.

  Margery had flitted in and out all day Sunday, toting food, messages of sympathy and support, and more flowers, before getting the train back to Leyton in the evening so she could feed Trudy’s cat. Peter had given her the train fair, and a handful of money to buy food and anything else she needed. “Be very careful,” he had said earnestly, as if she faced some terrifyingly perilous journey.

  Just after they had politely refused an offer of breakfast from a trainee nurse —“How can we eat?”—a policeman they’d not met before interrupted their vigil to tell them about Roger’s up-coming court appearance.

  “It’s only a remand hearing,” he’d said, trying not to sound enthusiastic. “It’ll just take a few minutes.”

  There was no argument, neither of them would leave Trudy’s bedside. Although, they agreed, they would at some time want to confront the person who had done this to their daughter, now was not the time. The young officer’s shoulders slumped in relief. The prospect of having to deal with a distraught mother in the face of a determined press corps was not one he relished.

  Doctors came and went, nurses fiddled and fussed. But, apart from an encouraging smile and an occasional sympathetic word, nobody gave any indication as to what they thought about Trudy’s chances of recovery. One doctor had lingered long enough to make a few sweeping generalizations. “These things sometimes take weeks or even months to sort themselves out,” he had said, then added, “A coma is the way a body deals with severe trauma. It is just like a long sleep.”

  “Why won’t she wake up then?” asked Lisa, with a certain naïvety.

  “She’s still tired,” replied the doctor as if addressing a child.

  “I won’t be a minute Luv,” said Peter, giving his ex-wife’s hand a tender squeeze, before slipping out of the intensive care cubicle after the doctor left.

  Two minutes later he was back.

  “Have you called Joy?” Lisa enquired solemnly, managing to name Peter’s second wife without contempt.

  He nodded. “Uh, um.”

  “Is she coming to visit?”

  Peter’s concerned face turned away, then he looked back and came out with the truth. “She said she won’t come if you’re here. She’s never forgiven you for the curry.” Then his face warmed in ironic memory as he recalled the incident in the Indian restaurant.

  “I’m staying, Peter,” she said, without rancour.

  “I don’t expect you to leave,” he replied, squeezing her hand again.

  Lisa sank back into the chair and found no comfort in its padded seat. It lacked the viciousness of the old wooden kitchen chair. Although she still got cramps from continual sitting, she felt no great attachment to it. Peter made her get up and walk around the room whenever her saw pain on her face, and she had even willed herself out of the chair from time to time, when she had felt herself drifting off to sleep.

  “I’ll wake you if anything happens,” Peter had promised on numerous occasions, but the mere thought of sleep was repugnant. Only by remaining awake could she be certain to keep Trudy’s spirit alive. Succumbing to sleep was tantamount to abandoning her to God-knows-where.

  Yolanda and Bliss were having no difficulty sleeping, in fact they slept most of Monday as they lay side by side in the ventilation duct somewhere under the Iraqi mountains. Shafts of light filtering up through vents from the rooms below illuminated the maze of tunnels with a metallic glow that was both soothing and comforting. The low-pitched hum of the fan and the constant flow of warm moist air lulled them through hours of restful slumber.

  “What’s the time, Yolanda?” Bliss whispered in her ear as he awoke. She stretched noisily and Bliss cupped his hand over her mouth to stifle her wakening yawn.

  “What time is it?” she asked through his fingers.

  “I asked first,” he muttered, found her wrist and brought it to his face. “Seven forty-five.”

  “Have they gone yet? I’m hungry,” she breathed into his ear.

  “I’ll look,” he mouthed silently.

  He was back in a minute, the tinny scratching noises sounding like a herd of mice as he scrabbled through the ducts. “They’re just getting ready to leave,” he whispered. “I want to see what happens at the elevator when they go,” he added, scuttling off in the other direction.

  “One guard gets all the prisoners together in the elevator,” he said, on his return. “There are still a few people around, cleaners I think, but we should be able to get out soon.”

  It was nine-thirty before the dimming lights and the dying fan told them the staff were leaving, and another half an hour before they took the plunge and dropped down through a vent inside a store cupboard. The Welshman had left enough food for an army in the battered metal filing cabinet, but they had to drink the water from a tap in the washroom. As they sat in a couple of cheap plastic chairs, munching a pile of goat meat sandwiches, there was only one question on their minds and Yolanda asked first, “How are we going to get out Dave?”

  Bliss had the germ of an idea but was still developing it when a sudden noise caught their attention and jerked them upright in their seats.

  He winced. “What was that?”

  They listened.

  “The elevator?” she suggested.

  “Footsteps,” breathed Bliss, “Quick.”

  The rustling of wrapping paper seemed deafening as he grabbed the sandwiches and threw them back into the filing cabinet. “Get under the desk,” he whispered, his eyes desperately scouring the nearly naked room for a hiding place.

  Orders were being bellowed, doors flung open, men shouted.

  He ducked behind the filing cabinet, she scrunched herself into a ball under one of the kneehole desks.

  “I can see you,” she hissed, peeking out.

  He sized the other desk—too small.

  Flicking off his gun’s safety catch he heard Yolanda do the same.

  Gruff foreign voices were getting closer. They’re searching for the missing guard, he realized, as he eyed the panelled ceiling—too high. He wasted seconds trying the other desk.
/>   “I can still see you,” she hissed as his knees protruded.

  Doors were banging open all around. Get behind the door, he thought, and rushed toward it. Two seconds later he changed his mind—they were bound to check. His brain was swirling with the white noise of indecision—there was nowhere to hide; there was no solution.

  The door to a nearby office flew open with a crash and a flurry of words. “We’re next, he thought, standing in the middle of the room, turning one way then the other, stunned to inactivity by overwhelming fear. Then he pulled himself together. “Stay still,” he barked at Yolanda, and, gun at the ready, marched smartly into the corridor, slammed the door behind him and stepped across to the room opposite. His ill-fitting guard’s uniform attracted no attention as he strode swiftly through the room and out into another corridor opposite the toilets where he’d talked to the prisoner. His shaking gun couldn’t have hit a barn let alone a door as he slipped unseen into the toilet, dashed into a cubicle and vomited until his stomach was empty.

  Ten minutes later he was still there, standing on the lavatory seat, his eyes and gun focussed over the top of the stall door. The voices had drifted away. The footsteps had wandered off. Fighting back the sickly bile taste in his mouth, he kept his statuesque pose on the pedestal for a further five minutes, forcing himself to count every second, fully cognisant of the old hide-and-seek trick of pretending to go while leaving a fifth-columnist in hiding who pops out and shouts, “Fooled yah,” just when you were convinced it was safe to emerge.

  Cautiously, silently, Bliss crept back to the office, the blood deafeningly pulsing in his ears; then he saw the office door—wide open. His heart sagged—maybe I’ve got the wrong office—willing it to be the case. He raced inside: Right office, right filing cabinet, right desk. But everything was wrong—she was gone. His mind swam, his legs buckled and he steadied himself against the desk. That’s why they left so quickly— they’ve taken her for questioning. He retched at the thought. “Do something you idiot,” the voice in his mind insisted, but what?