Hit and Run

by Doug Johnstone

  Dean Whitehouse was striding down the corridor towards them, finger pointing, eyes blazing, veins in his neck twitching.

  Billy instinctively pushed Jeanie out of harm’s way and raised his hands in a half-hearted placating gesture.

  ‘I’m going to fucking kill you,’ Dean said. ‘You little piece of shit.’

  He was almost at them now.

  Zoe looked at Billy and got up from the bed.

  ‘Billy?’

  ‘Dean Whitehouse,’ Billy said. ‘Frank’s brother.’

  Zoe turned to Dean. ‘Now wait a minute, you can’t come in here . . .’

  ‘Shut your fucking face, you posh bitch.’

  He pushed past her and launched himself at Billy, grabbing the front of his hospital gown and hauling him up.

  ‘I know what you were doing with Adele in the pub toilets. Fucking my brother’s wife when he’s not even cold in the ground. You sick fuck.’

  He threw a punch. Billy didn’t even try to defend himself. What was the point? He was going to die here, there was nothing he could do about it.

  ‘Billy?’

  It was Zoe. He couldn’t look at her.

  Dean laughed, indicating Zoe. ‘This your bird? Very nice.’ He turned to her. ‘Didn’t you know, darling? This slimy little cunt has been fucking my sister-in-law, taking advantage of her grief.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’ Billy wasn’t sure why he was bothering to speak.

  ‘Billy?’

  He looked at Zoe now. Tears forming in her eyes. She backed away from the bed.

  ‘Zoe, wait.’ Why? What would he do if she stayed? He had no words.

  Dean still had a hold of Billy’s gown. He threw a rabbit punch into Billy’s side, sending shockwaves through his body. Billy struggled to breathe.

  Then suddenly Dean was spread across Billy’s lap, three men in hospital uniforms pinning him against the bed and pulling at his arms as he thrashed around, screaming, his neck muscles and shoulders straining.

  The three men lifted Dean away from the bed by his arms. Dean grimaced, shot Billy a stare full of venom, then spat at him. Billy felt the phlegm hit his cheek and lips and raised a hand to wipe it off, trying to get breath back into his lungs as he drowned in pain, soaked in it.

  Dean was being dragged backwards. ‘I’m not finished with you, fucking prick. Watch your back. I’m going to destroy you.’

  The men yanked at Dean, making him flinch. They pulled him past Zoe, who stood there frozen to the spot, watching Dean with her eyes wide.

  Dean was still looking at Billy, rage in his eyes.

  ‘Stay away from Adele, you dirty cunt. Understand?’

  Everyone in the ward was staring at them. With a clatter and swish, the men hauled Dean back through the door, leaving a vacuum of silence to fill.

  Zoe turned to Billy. Tears on her cheeks now, a look of understanding in her eyes.

  ‘Wait,’ Billy said, but he didn’t really mean it. Why should she wait, to hear more bullshit?

  She turned and strode down the corridor, raising her hands to her face, not looking back, then she was through the doors and away.

  Billy stared at the doors, swinging to a stop.

  He heard a whine and spotted Jeanie cowering next to the bedside cabinet.

  He put his hand out. ‘It’s OK, girl.’

  He tasted blood in his mouth, then noticed spatters of red on his white sheets.

  Jeanie crept towards him tentatively, but he made comforting noises to bring her near. When she was close enough, he stroked her snout and head, making small shushing noises. He felt the tension leave her body, then he lowered himself back on to his bed, still touching her face with a limp hand.

  He pushed the morphine button and kept pushing until he knew there was no more coming.

  26

  More drug-soaked sleep, distressed, swimming with nightmare visions, him in the pub toilets standing over Dean bent over the sink, then their faces morphing into Zoe and Charlie, then his mum frowning at him, Jeanie’s simple stare, all of them crushing him, making his head explode. Images of his brain liquefying, pouring out of the hole in his skull and down the sink, everything that’s him disappearing into the gutter then the sewer then out to sea.

  His eyelids snapped open. His breath caught in his chest then released in a chain of sickly gasps. He felt a slick sheen of sweat all over his body, sticking him to the sheets. Then new pain sweeping in, his face, kidneys, mingling with the old pain, the familiar throbs and aches and pulses of death flowing through him.

  ‘Are you OK, Kiddo?’

  Rose. Thank fuck.

  She was sitting by the side of the bed, her face was worried, full of compassion. It was good to see a face like that.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘Because you look like shit.’

  He coughed out a laugh and winced, pain across his midriff and forehead.

  She smiled. ‘It only hurts when you laugh, eh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘It’s been quite a week for you, huh, Kiddo?’

  ‘I thought my nickname was Scoop.’

  ‘You seem more like a kid than an ace reporter, sitting there in your hospital jammies, lost to the world.’

  Billy looked round. It wasn’t quite daylight outside, maybe around sunset, a warm evening glow ebbing through the window. He examined the ward, same spread of old-timers, wheezing and spluttering towards a bitter end.

  ‘Where’s Jeanie?’

  ‘The dog?’

  Billy nodded.

  ‘Your brother took it home. I met him on my way in.’

  Memories of his last conscious spell began filtering into his mind. Zoe. And Dean. The truth about Adele.

  Rose was watching him intently. He knew she could read his face.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, I know what you were up to. In the toilets with the merry widow? That is quite something.’

  Billy raised a hand to his face. His skin felt like a plastic bag, creased and artificial. He ran a hand over his bandaged head, trying to find the weak spot with his fingers.

  ‘Does everyone know?’

  Rose sighed. ‘Not sure how far word has got out. Tom and I will keep it out the Standard, but I can’t guarantee the tabloids won’t get a sniff of it. I spoke to the barman, persuaded him to keep his mouth shut if anyone came asking, but if one of the red tops gets wind of it and offers him money, there’s not a lot I can do.’

  ‘It’s not really news, though.’

  ‘You’re right, a rival reporter taking drugs and having sex in a pub toilet with the grieving widow of a recently murdered, notorious Edinburgh crime lord – not newsworthy at all. I think the worst hack in the world could make a case for that getting some column inches, don’t you?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  Rose stared at him. ‘Look, I’m on your side. You’re a friend, a colleague, OK? We cover for each other, look out for each other. And you got us some great stuff on this story, although now your means of getting the scoops looks rather unprofessional, to say the least. But anyway. Rest assured that the paper is going to do its best to protect you in all this, I have the gaffer’s word. And I’ve got your back too, OK?’

  ‘I appreciate that, Rose, really.’

  She looked down. ‘But you’re going to have to take some serious time off, you understand? You’re way too close to this whole thing, to the point where you’re part of the story.’

  Billy had a flash – Frank’s body clunking up the bonnet and over the roof of the Micra.

  Rose nodded at Billy’s bandages. ‘I guess all that nonsense will take a while to recover from anyway.’

  ‘Brain surgeon reckoned I could be out in a week.’

  ‘Really? Modern medicine, eh?’

  There was silence for a moment, just the low thrum of hospital machinery, occasional coughs from other patients.
<
br />   ‘Listen,’ Rose said. ‘Your brother told me that Dean came to see you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And threatened you.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘I’d love to tell you not to worry about it.’

  ‘But you can’t.’

  ‘I know what that arsehole is like, Kiddo. Maybe you should consider lying very low for a while. Maybe even leaving town.’

  Billy thought about that. His dead mum, absent father. His tiny microcosm of life. ‘I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you have.’

  Billy’s orphan status hadn’t taken long to come up in conversation with Rose when he started at the Standard. He wasn’t exactly shy about mentioning it, using it for leverage. It always helped to have sympathetic, middle-aged women on your side, taking care of the motherless child in all his sorrow.

  Billy spoke. ‘Zoe knows.’

  Rose sighed. ‘I thought she might.’

  ‘Dean told her.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did.’

  ‘I don’t think I can go home.’

  He was angling, and they both knew it. Rose played along.

  ‘Hell, if you need a place to stay when you get out of here, I’ve got a shockingly uncomfortable sofa bed with your name on it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. Just make sure and get better, OK?’

  She patted his hand maternally and looked him in the eye.

  ‘Listen, Kiddo. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask this . . .’

  Billy nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Did you get anything out of Adele when you met, something that might help with the story? And the case, of course.’

  ‘You still in touch with the detective inspector?’

  ‘Very much so. We make a pretty good team, I think.’

  ‘He’s lucky to have you.’

  ‘Oh, please.’

  Billy was surprised to see her blush. He’d never seen her blush before.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘Did you get any info from Adele?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘It wasn’t that kind of conversation.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It really isn’t like that. It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘I feel like I do.’ Billy could feel tears welling up, a hot prickle swarming over him. ‘I need to talk to someone about it.’ He looked down.

  He felt Rose’s hand on his, a loving squeeze, and tears fell. He caught his breath and sniffed, immediately wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands.

  ‘I feel something for Adele, but it’s not . . .’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Billy looked up. ‘Rose, there’s something I have to tell you.’

  But he couldn’t. Looking into her eyes, her concerned face, he couldn’t talk, couldn’t work out how to get his mouth to make sound. Couldn’t face the awful fallout, especially not from her. She was like his mum, his memory and imagination blending them into one. His heart plummeted like an anchor.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Rose said. ‘Women are trouble, Kiddo, you should know that by now. Best just stay away from us.’

  Billy got the tears under control and put on a fake smile. ‘Must be the medication making me weepy.’

  ‘Must be. Hey, what am I thinking, I’ve got some news that could cheer you up. The police have got a witness.’

  ‘The Whitehouse case?’

  ‘Of course the Whitehouse case, what else?’

  Billy put his hands on his legs, tried to stop them shaking. All he could feel was a colossal pulse in his ears, bursting to get out.

  ‘What sort of witness?’

  ‘A taxi driver came forward. Said he drove past a stationary car on Queen’s Drive in the early hours of that morning.’

  ‘Did he see anyone?’

  ‘No, but that’s the thing.’ Rose was excited, newshound instinct kicking in. ‘It was parked, no one in it, lights off.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, whoever it was must’ve hit Frank Whitehouse, then stopped, got out and moved the body to the bottom of the Radical Road.’

  ‘And?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘I’ll blame the painkillers for your slowness, yeah? That means it wasn’t an accident. If it was an accident, why not report it? Or why not just drive off? Why go to the bother of moving the body to make it look like suicide?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It still doesn’t quite add up, though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The police don’t think the Mackies were responsible, at least not directly. They have a strong alibi.’

  ‘They could’ve got someone else to do it. Made sure they were somewhere public when it happened.’

  Rose grinned. ‘Now you’re starting to think like my Scoop again. But the type of car is unusual.’

  ‘The taxi driver identified it?’ Billy heard his own voice catch, it was fucking obvious.

  Rose shook her head. ‘A small red hatchback, that’s all he could tell the police. That fits with the forensics so it’s definitely the car responsible. But forensics also came up with a definite age limit – at least ten years old. Something to do with polymers in the paint that are now banned or something.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I can’t imagine an associate of the Mackies, or a hitman or whoever, driving around in a small, ten-year-old hatchback, can you? These clowns all have souped-up racers or executive sports numbers, not wee family cars.’

  Billy felt something wash through his body, not pain exactly, but a horrible shiver, like a spirit entering him.

  Rose leaned back. ‘Anyway, don’t you worry about it, I’m on the case. I think we’re getting close to finding out who was driving that car.’

  Billy closed his eyes and took a slow breath.

  ‘You OK, Kiddo? You don’t look so good.’

  He pushed the button for morphine.

  ‘Want me to get a doctor?’

  He shook his head. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘Right, I get the message, I’ll leave you to it. Got some loose ends to chase on this story anyway.’

  Billy watched fireworks dance on the inside of his eyelids, and felt Rose’s hand on his. He smelt her flowery perfume, a familiar and comforting smell.

  ‘I’ll pop back in tomorrow, see how you’re doing. Take it easy, Scoop.’

  He gave a vague nod of the head but didn’t open his eyes.

  The clack of her heels on the floor faded away, then he opened his eyes. He lifted his hands to his temples and began to push in, scrunching his face up and trying to fill his lungs with air.

  27

  He eased himself out of bed with small, tentative movements. Didn’t feel too bad. His legs were weak but stable. His head wasn’t pounding too much. His heart raced in his chest, but when had it ever not done that?

  He crouched down, still attached to the drip, and opened the bedside cabinet. Shoes and socks at the bottom, shorts, jeans and T-shirt, then jacket on top. Methodical, precise. He’d never seen his clothes so tidy before.

  He rummaged in the jacket pockets. He pulled his jeans out, and felt the heft of his phone. A whiff of beer and piss. That’s what came from passing out on the floor of a pub toilet. He pulled the phone out. No messages.

  He thought of Adele. Dean knew about him and her. He flicked through till he found her number and pressed call.

  She answered after two rings.

  ‘Billy.’

  Her voice was quiet, upset. There was a sniffle and a hesitant breath. She’d been crying.

  ‘Adele, are you OK?’

  She laughed, a croaky sound. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’

  Billy rubbed at his bandages. ‘I’m fine.’ His haunches were sore from crouching, so he slumped on to the floor and leaned against the bed. It felt secretive, whispering on
the phone down there. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Her voice was cracking.

  ‘Come on, something’s obviously happened. Is it Dean?’

  ‘Did he come to see you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, Adele, don’t worry about me. It’s you that’s been crying. Tell me what he did.’

  She burst into thick sobs, emotion crackling down the phone. He felt helpless.

  ‘Adele, shhh, it’s OK, calm down.’ He tried to sound in control.

  Eventually her crying settled and calmed, and she sniffed loudly.

  ‘Just tell me,’ Billy said.

  Another deep breath. She was gathering herself.

  ‘He knew I’d met you. I think he had one of his guys follow me. I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone in the pub. But somehow he knew.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was obviously upset when I got in, after you had collapsed. I couldn’t hide it. He was there, interrogating me. Not just asking, demanding.’

  ‘Did he hit you?’

  ‘He fucking . . .’ She crumpled into tears again.

  ‘OK, take it easy, deep breaths.’

  She spoke through the sobs. ‘Fuck off with your deep breaths.’

  ‘Sorry, just trying to help.’

  ‘Deep breaths aren’t going to bring my baby back.’

  ‘What?’ Billy felt part of his brain leak out of his head, his skull came crashing in on itself. ‘Adele, what did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What has he done? Is it Ryan?’

  ‘Ryan’s fine.’ She was trying to regain composure. ‘Forget I said anything.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. What baby? What did Dean do?’

  A long silence down the phone. Adele trying to calm down. Billy softened his voice.

  ‘Come on, you can tell me.’

  Another lengthy pause.

  ‘I was pregnant. Just a few weeks.’

  ‘Frank’s?’

  ‘Fuck you, of course Frank’s.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  A different silence on the line now, simmering rage.

  ‘Dean knew. He was so angry when I told him about us. He hit me in the stomach.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘It was only a few weeks. Just a grain of sand. But it’s gone now.’