Find My Way Home

by Mark Timlin

  ‘If I can. If I can’t, don’t worry about it.’

  ‘’Course you can.’

  Relief washed over me. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Heading your way.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Twenty minutes.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘’Bye. And thanks again.’ And I cut her off.

  I left the car close to Maida Vale tube which was about five minutes’ walk from Diane’s flat, or more like five minutes’ lurch for me, as I felt pretty weird when I got out of the Audi.

  I kept to what shadows there were as I cut through the side streets to her place, which was on the ground floor of a big old semi-detached mansion close to a park.

  The lights were on behind drawn curtains when I arrived. I climbed the five stone steps to her front door and leant against one of the columns that supported the porch and rang the bell of her flat. She answered in a moment with a dressing-gown over her nightie and let me into the hall.

  As soon as she saw me in the hall light I saw her face go white. ‘Nick,’ she said. ‘What the hell’s happened? You’re covered in blood. And your head.’

  ‘A bit of grief, darlin’,’ I said. ‘Nothing to get worried about.’ And I passed out again.

  I came to as she was helping me up. ‘Lean on me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to call a doctor.’

  ‘No. No doctors.’

  ‘Nick. You’re losing so much blood.’

  ‘It’s not all mine,’ I said. ‘Jack Robber’s been shot.’

  ‘Your friend.’

  ‘The very one.’

  She helped me over to the sofa in her living room. ‘Get something to cover it,’ I said, wavering on my feet. ‘I don’t want any evidence that I’ve been here. You could be in big trouble.’

  She left me standing there and ran into the bedroom and came back with a bed sheet that she threw over the sofa. Meanwhile I’d taken off my leather jacket, rolled it up inside out and dropped it on the floor. As soon as the sofa was covered I fell on to the cushions. ‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘but I feel rough.’

  She went out again and came back with a wet flannel, moved a table lamp and examined my head, dabbing at the wound to get a better view. ‘That’s a bad cut, Nick,’ she said. ‘What hit you?’

  ‘A spent bullet, I think,’ I said. ‘It went through Robber’s shoulder and came up and hit me. It must’ve been deflected off a bone.’

  ‘God,’ she said. ‘But it needs stitches. You must go to hospital.’

  ‘Fine. I’d be in jail as soon as I left. No. No hospital.’

  ‘But it must be stitched.’

  ‘Then you do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. You stitch it. You repaired my old jeans.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, this is a bit different.’

  ‘Not much. They’re both old, frayed material that’s seen better days.’

  ‘Oh, Nick.’

  ‘Have you got anything to drink?’ I asked.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Hard liquor, preferably.’

  ‘There’s a bottle of scotch.’

  ‘Get it. And any aspirin or paracetamol.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She scurried off for a third time and came back with a nearly full bottle of Whyte & Mackay and a box of fifty paracetamol. I washed down half a dozen of the painkillers with the whisky and she said, ‘Take it easy with those.’

  ‘Sod it,’ I said. ‘My head feels like a fucking horse has kicked it.’

  ‘It looks like it too,’ she remarked, which sort of closed that subject.

  I lay back and she helped me off with the rest of my clothes apart from my boxer shorts which seemed to be the only item not covered in gore. ‘Wash those, will you,’ I said. ‘And rinse off my jacket and boots. Sorry, darlin’, but I can’t manage on my own.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve seen to you.’

  ‘And Jack,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to find out how he is.’ I kept nipping at the scotch as we talked.

  ‘Was he hurt badly?’

  ‘About as badly as can be. He stopped breathing for a bit.’

  ‘Oh, Nick, I am sorry.’

  ‘And he saved my life,’ I said, my tongue getting heavy in my mouth. ‘He stepped between me and a bullet.’

  Then I passed out for a third time. It was getting to be a habit.

  I came to as pain went searing through my head like a hot wire, and sat up sharply. ‘Be still,’ said Diane, needle and cotton in her hand. ‘Or it’ll hurt more.’

  I swallowed more whisky and went under again.

  When I woke up the next time I was in Diane’s bed. It was daylight and I was alone. The top of my head felt like it was coming off, and I touched the wound with my fingertips. It was dry and scabby and felt as tight as a drum skin. I tried to call her, but the effort was too much, and I sank down once more into a cold blackness tinged with hot scarlet.

  I could feel myself shivering with the cold, then sweating with the heat, and from somewhere a warm, naked body held me tight and rocked me into a delicious healing sleep.

  Then another awakening, to the rich smell of some kind of cooked meat. I was starving and Diane was sitting on the edge of the bed with a tray on her knee. On the tray was a bowl of broth, and I can’t remember when anything smelled as good.

  ‘Christ, but I’m hungry,’ I said, and sat up, sending a dart of pain through my head. But not so much pain as before, and it didn’t last as long.

  ‘Are you going to go away again?’ she said. ‘You keep on waking up and passing out again.’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least not until I’ve eaten that.’ She put the tray on to my lap and I dived into the broth. It was delicious.

  ‘Thank God. I was so worried.’

  A sudden freezing fear cut through me. ‘How long has it been?’ I asked, my spoon halfway to my mouth.

  ‘Three days.’

  ‘Three days. You’re joking.’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious. I thought you were going to die. You had a terrible fever. You were freezing, then boiling. I got into bed with you. It was the only thing I could think to do.’

  ‘God.’ Then another thought struck me. ‘Jack. How is he?’

  ‘Serious but stable. Whatever that means. He’s in Intensive Care.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I phoned the hospital. It’s been on TV since the morning after you arrived here.’

  ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘His niece. But I could only phone once. The police came on and gave me a hard time.’

  ‘Where did you phone from? Not here.’

  ‘No. I used a phone box a mile away. You made me promise not to use my phone, or your mobile.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you were delirious that night and the next day. You talked a lot. I was so frightened I almost called a doctor.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t. What did you do?’

  ‘What you said. I stitched the wound myself. It’ll scar.’

  ‘What’s one more? Thanks, Diane. You’re a genius.’

  ‘Not really. But the wound started to go septic a bit, even though I used white thread and boiled it, and sterilised the needle. Thank God it’s cleared up.’

  I passed her back the empty soup bowl and made as if to get up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the toilet, then out. I’ve got things to do. What about the toilet, by the way? You know, when I was out of it.’

  ‘I rigged up a bed pan.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘And you’re not going anywhere. At least not for a few days. You need to build up your strength.’

  ‘But there’s so much I need to do.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait.’

  And she was right. When I got up I could hardly stand, and she had to help me to the bathroom.

  When I’d done the necessary I came back and almost collapse
d into bed. ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘What’s happened to me?’

  ‘Blood loss and lack of nourishment. You’ll be OK.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ she said and went out of the room, returning a minute later with a pile of newspapers in her hands.

  Robber and I had made the front page big time. At least in the Standard. In the daily newspapers we were relegated to the centre spread or next to the topless bimbo.

  ‘Shit,’ I said again, reading about our exploits. ‘Fame at last.’

  No mention was made of names, and the gist of the story was that a couple of East End villains had fallen out and decided to settle their differences with guns. One was near death in hospital, the other had threatened the police and escaped. There was no suggestion that other parties had been involved.

  But a little digging would prove otherwise. Robber had the bullets from at least two separate guns inside him, and if I was the other face involved, who had wanted him dead bad enough to shoot him at least three times, why the hell had I phoned the emergency services and then stuck around waiting for them to arrive?

  No. Old Bill knew more than they were releasing to the media, and I was willing to bet that at least a part of it was Robber’s identity, and possibly mine too. I wondered if he’d talked, if indeed he was able to, and I had a dreadful premonition that he was dead.

  ‘I’ve got to phone the hospital,’ I said. ‘Which one is it, by the way?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dalston General. You told me that too.’

  And I suddenly remembered the paramedic reporting to his control over the radio.

  ‘I forgot,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to phone them.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s why I told you not to use the phone here, or my mobile. There’s too many places with call ID for my liking.’

  ‘You can’t go out.’

  ‘I know. I don’t think I’d make the end of the street. But there must be a way.’ I snapped my fingers. ‘’Course there is. The widow.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Robber’s landlady. She’ll know the score. Is my book in my jacket pocket?’

  She nodded and went and fetched it. I looked up the number that Robber had given me, picked up my portable from the side of the bed and punched out the number. It was answered on the third ring by a woman.

  ‘Mrs Brody?’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name’s Sharman. Nick Sharman,’ I said. ‘It’s about Jack.’

  ‘Mr Sharman,’ she replied. ‘Where are you? The police are looking for you.’

  ‘Are they there now?’

  ‘No. But they’re never far away.’

  ‘So they know who he is.’

  ‘They knew the morning after it happened.’

  ‘You know I didn’t shoot him, don’t you?’

  ‘Jack told me all about you. I believe you were his friend.’

  ‘Were. He’s not . . . ?’ I felt the cold hand of fear again.

  ‘No, no. I’m sorry, that came out wrong.’

  I breathed out with relief. ‘How is he?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not good. He’s still in Intensive Care.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can he talk?’

  ‘No. Nothing anyone can understand, anyway.’

  ‘What do the doctors say?’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  ‘Sod it . . . sorry.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. I’ve heard far worse. Where are you?’

  ‘It’s better that you don’t know and that no one knows I called. I’ve been shot too. Have you told the police what he was doing?’

  ‘No. Jack and I are old friends. We know how to keep each other’s secrets. My past hasn’t been all it should be.’

  I guessed she’d been a brass or on the hoist or something. That was good. The last thing I needed was an irate solid citizen bleating about everything she knew.

  ‘At least he’s still alive,’ I said. ‘He stopped me from being badly hurt the other night. I owe him one. Tell him if you can, if he can understand, without anyone else hearing. And tell him I’ll get in to see him before long. Somehow. I’ll call again soon. I’m glad he’s got you.’

  ‘He’s got his sister too. She’s come up and moved into his room.’

  ‘Is she as bad as he makes out?’

  ‘No. But she’s gunning for you.’

  An unfortunate choice of words, I thought.

  ‘Then it’s better no one knows I’ve called.’

  ‘They won’t from me.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  We said goodbye and I turned off the phone.

  Then I saw two sets of keys on the bedside table next to the Detective Special.

  ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘The car.’

  ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You told me what it was and where you’d parked it. I went and had a look for it the next afternoon but there was no sign.’

  ‘We must’ve had a hell of a lot of conversations when I was out of it.’

  ‘We did. Who’s Wanda?’

  ‘An old friend. She’s dead now.’

  ‘You talked to her a lot.’

  ‘We had a lot of unfinished business,’ I said, turned on the phone again and called Charlie’s garage from memory.

  He answered swiftly too.

  ‘Charlie,’ I said.

  ‘Sharman,’ he said back. Bad news when old mates call you by your surname. ‘What the fuck have you been up to now?’

  ‘The police found the car.’

  ‘Yes they sodding well did. In Maida Vale with the upholstery covered in blood. It’ll cost me a fortune to get it right.’

  ‘That was mostly my blood,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’

  ‘Fuck sympathy. This is business. Anyhow, I guessed you were all right. They never found your body.’

  ‘So the police have been there?’

  ‘They’ve been crawling all over the shop for the last couple of days.’

  ‘There now?’

  ‘No. I kept telling them the motor had been nicked off the forecourt, and they finally pretended to believe me.’

  ‘Was my name mentioned?’

  ‘Just in passing. They want you, son, and they want you badly.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. I’m sorry, mate. Put the cleaning or whatever down to me.’

  ‘I will do when I get the sodding thing back. I told you I’ve got a lot of dough tied up in that motor.’

  I lay back on the pillows and said wearily, ‘Believe me, I’m as unhappy about it as you are.’

  ‘I just bet you are.’

  ‘I am, mate. Robber’s in Intensive Care.’

  ‘I heard. I’m sorry. How come you always come out smelling of roses and your mates get the shitty end of the stick?’

  He was right. ‘I don’t know, Charlie. I really don’t. I’ll be in touch,’ I said, and I switched off the mobile.

  I looked at Diane and said, ‘I’ve blown it again.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Try and get some more sleep.’

  ‘No,’ I protested. ‘I’ve slept enough.’ But the room darkened and seemed to slip away from me, and I didn’t hear her next words although I saw her lips move. Such beautiful lips.

  I woke up early on Sunday morning feeling a lot better. My forehead still felt tight and painful, but not as tight and painful as before. Diane was asleep next to me and I slid out of bed without disturbing her and made the bathroom without too much effort. Score one for me.

  I looked at my wound in the mirror. It was scabbed hard between the stitches, and looked pretty healthy, with little redness or puffiness of the skin where Diane had put the stitches in. This was the first time I’d really looked
at it properly and she’d done a good job, pulling the flesh tightly together to minimise scarring later.

  I shaved, using the stuff I’d left at her place almost as soon as she moved in, and showered wearing her shower hat to keep the stitches dry. She came into the bathroom as I was towelling myself off and almost bust a gut.

  ‘Very amusing,’ I said, gingerly taking off the blue plastic hat decorated with yellow flowers.

  ‘I wish I had a camera.’

  ‘I’m glad you haven’t. Fancy going back to bed?’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘You know.’

  ‘You’ll open your wound.’

  ‘There’s only one wound I want to open and that’s the one between your legs.’

  ‘You south Londoners have such a charming turn of phrase.’

  ‘We’re noted for it. So what do you say?’

  ‘Only if you promise to wear my shower cap.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  She grinned. ‘Let me clean my teeth and take a pee, and I’ll rendezvous with you back under the sheets.’

  Later on she went out for the papers and I dressed in the clothes she’d washed and made breakfast. I was feeling much better, especially after exploring Diane’s damp patches.

  She bought every different newspaper in the shop and by the time we’d finished going through them I had a headache right where I’d been shot, but there was not a single mention of the shooting incident in any of the linens.

  ‘Yesterday’s papers,’ I said. ‘How soon they forget.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The important ones, the boys in blue, haven’t forgotten. They hate to be made to look stupid, and I made two of their finest look just that the other night. They’ll be on the lookout for me to the max.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘How soon can these stitches come out?’

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  She examined her handiwork. ‘Tomorrow, I should imagine. Or next day at the latest. I just hope I don’t make a mess of it. But as it happens the wound’s bloody clean. It must be all that practice I’ve had on your Levis.’

  ‘I always knew the experience would come in handy.’ A thought suddenly struck me. ‘What are you doing about work, by the way? Sorry. I’ve been so out of it I forgot to ask. I hope I’m not getting you into trouble.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you were just trying to do when we went back to bed?’