The Cold Calling cc-1

by Phil Rickman

  ‘You could take a vacation, do it that way.’

  ‘I may find Ersula in a couple weeks; finding myself could take a little longer. Holy Grayle carries a lot of excess baggage.’

  ‘You’ll go to England?’

  ‘Wherever.’

  ‘Beats Florida. Climate excepted.’

  ‘You won’t go to Florida, Lyndon. You will never go to Florida.’

  ‘That a firm psychic prediction, Grayle?’

  The wine all gone. The decision made. A decision made, if truth be told, some while back.

  She’d give in her notice tomorrow. Maybe she’d tell them it was a protest thing, about Lyndon McAffrey and the cult of youth. Holy Grayle was through with cults.

  She’d have to tell the parents. Mom, who read the column avidly, would be sorry to see it go but she’d understand all the stuff about finding yourself, having found a whole new (and arguably monstrous) self at the age of fifty-eight. Dad, who hated the column and all it stood for but believed in the need for a firm career structure, would come on like she was one of his more valued students planning to drop out before next semester. If things became difficult she would have to show him Ersula’s letter, the whole bit.

  He ought then to understand why she needed to be pulled out of this before she went as crazy as Grayle.

  Grayle’s eyes began to prickle. It was as if Ersula was reaching out to her. As if, thousands of miles apart, they were seeking a common bond.

  Automatically, she closed her eyes, pictured Ersula with her blond hair and her steady, watchful, almost cold blue eyes.

  Slowing her breathing, reaching out for Ersula.

  Nothing. It never did work, did it? Especially when your senses were swimming in stale wine.

  XV

  ‘OK. Mr Lazarus. Where is he?’

  ‘My flat.’ Good-looking girl with very dark hair, dressed for aerobics. She kept biting her thumb, looked scared half to death but doing her best not to show it.

  She’d been waiting for Andy in the lobby, where there was a uniformed doorman, who must be the only one in Elham. A digital wall clock showed 20.30.

  She ought to be miles from here by now. She ought to be there. So no time for formalities.

  The doorman lifted Andy’s beaten-up holdall after them into the lift. Jesus God, but this place had changed. Not so long ago, the Edwardian building overlooking the park used to be full of old-established solicitors’ and insurance brokers’ offices and dentists’ surgeries. Brass plates and steps up. Then, some consortium headed by Tony Parker, the ‘leisure operator’, had somehow acquired the building, and now it was very expensive luxury apartments — not flats — and it was all cream walls and concealed lighting.

  She didn’t recognize the woman. One of Elham’s fortunates, then: never crashed the car, attempted suicide, got mugged, burned, battered by the husband.

  Half an hour ago, she’d phoned the hospital, sounding panicky, demanding to talk to Sister Anderson. The night sister, Sharon Fox, had refused — as was customary — to give out Andy’s home number, but the woman had left her own and her name — Suzanne — and a message: It’s about Mr Lazarus.

  Andy had called her back in seconds.

  It was one of those lifts you couldn’t even tell when it was moving. The girl leaned against the doors, breathed out. ‘Thank Christ. I owe you one, Mrs Anderson. I’m useless in these situations.’

  ‘You’re Suzanne?’

  ‘Emma. Em. Forget Suzanne. Bobby said you could be trusted. But not the hospital.’

  ‘Aye. Maybe so.’

  The lift doors opened. Directly across was a fancy, dark-wood apartment door with a brass 7 on it. The girl banged the panels with her fists. ‘Me, Vic.’

  No problem recognizing the grizzled guy who let them in. Not one of Elham’s fortunates, Andy having glued him together more than twice in the bloodied hour after closing time.

  ‘Could be a messy one, Sister,’ Vic Clutton said, and Andy’s heart sank, because if even he thought it was messy then it was very messy.

  Big picture window in the bedroom. The lights of Elham, but it might have been Paris; distance, the night and the trees hiding all the scars and cavities and bruised, smashed people. The wee lights making it look pretty and contented.

  ‘Peas,’ Andy demanded.

  Em said, ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Frozen peas. Soft packet. Beans. Sweetcorn. Anything like that.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Vic said. Aye, he’d been down this alleyway before. ‘I’ll check the freezer.’

  They’d put Bobby Maiden on the bed. Blood was soaking into the cream duvet where it had poured down from the eye to join another river from a long cut under the jaw. As for the eye itself … Jesus God. How could this happen … again? Tonight, of all nights.

  ‘Put the big light on. OK, son, look up. And open it. I need it open.’

  It would have to be the left eye again. He tried his best to open it, but she had to do it for him, which was like getting into a walnut. If this turned out the way she feared, it was going to be 999, no messing. And prayers.

  Holding his head. It felt familiar, in an awfully disturbing way, but no time for that now. ‘Keep still. Good boy.’

  The woman, Em, standing with her back to the picture window, biting her thumbnail.

  Andy peered into Bobby Maiden’s left eye.

  ‘Jesus God.’

  ‘What?’ Em sprang up. ‘What?’

  ‘It moved. Shit.’ Andy sagged. ‘The damn pupil contracted in the light.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Calm down, hen. It’s a good sign. If the pupil wouldnae move we’d have big trouble. This is the eye that took it last time. I was convinced the pupil wasnae gonny contract, but it did, so we breathe again. You got pain anywhere else, son? No, don’t shake your head, you daft sod! Jesus God.’

  ‘Can I get you some tea, Mrs Anderson?’

  ‘No time, hen … Aye, OK.’

  Vic Clutton came back with the frozen peas, and she arranged the bag over the eye, instructing Bobby not to move. ‘Any numbness?’

  ‘Nothing I didn’t have before,’ he said thickly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about this.’

  ‘Save it. How about the other eye? Can you see out of that OK?’

  Bobby fumbled a deathly smile. ‘What’ve you done to your hair?’

  ‘Good.’ She rummaged in her holdall, dug out a packet of lightweight gauze. ‘You got any Sellotape, hen?’

  ‘Drawer over the bookcase, Vic. Would you mind? I’ll make some tea. Can you … I mean, is he going to be all right?’

  ‘A hospital would tell you better than me. And a hospital’s what he needs, I kid you not.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Bobby said. ‘Really.’

  ‘Shut up, you.’ Andy turned to Em. ‘All right. Forget the tea. No bullshit. How’d this happen?’

  ‘We took him back to his flat to get some things,’ Em said. ‘Vic-?’

  ‘These two blokes was already in the flat, Sister. In the dark. Dead quiet. Suddenly all the lights go on, no warning, and they come for him. With these iron bars. Crowbars.’

  ‘Jesus God. Burglars?’

  ‘What I thought. At first.’ Vic looked at Em.

  ‘Tell her,’ she said, biting a thumbnail. ‘Tell her the lot. I don’t care who goes down for this.’

  Vic shuffled. ‘Well, it was … It wasn’t burglars. You surprise a burglar, he might go for you in a panic, sorter thing. Not these two. It was what they’d come for. They was waiting for him. Give him a beating.’

  ‘With iron bars?’

  ‘A big beating,’ Vic said.

  ‘Say it,’ the girl said. ‘A final beating.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Vic said. ‘Looked like it was gonna be a final beating. Sorter thing.’

  ‘You mean …’ Seen-it-all Andy knowing she’d gone white. ‘… they were waiting to kill him?’

  ‘Would’ve looked like he’d interrupted a burglary. When they fo
und him.’

  ‘God above, what’s he into?’

  Vic looked across at the bed then at Em. Em said, ‘Bobby?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You can say what you want in front of Andy. We go back.’

  Vic rubbed his jaw. ‘What a bleeding mess.’ He sat on a corner of the bed. ‘Course, they never thought there’d be two of us. And I had me little tool kit.’

  Andy said, ‘Against iron bars?’

  ‘I threw the tools at the window, Sister. Well, it’s a quiet street, in spite of the bypass. Em hears the glass go, thinks it couldn’t be me, and starts on the car hooter. Course, they’ve no way of telling, these lads, how many of us was out there. Could’ve been we was mob-handed, for all they know. They piss off smartish, the front way. Self-preservation cooling their aggression, sorter thing.’

  ‘You told the police?’

  Em and Vic looked at one another.

  ‘That’s a problem, is it?’ Andy starting to wonder who these people were, how they connected with Inspector Maiden. Like, were he and the girl an item?

  ‘It’s one hell …’ Bobby tried to sit up, moaned, fell back on the bed. ‘… of a problem.’

  ‘I told you to stay still,’ Andy snapped. ‘Don’t you dislodge those peas.’

  ‘We do have a problem with the police,’ he said. ‘Though not all the police.’

  ‘There are policemen and policemen in this town,’ Em said. ‘Like everywhere, I suppose.’

  ‘After they’d gone, we didn’t hang around,’ Vic said. ‘We’re practically dragging him back to the car. He’s half out of it, as you can imagine. I know we shouldn’t’ve moved him, sister, but if them guys came back … Which was a possibility. Be quite an earner for them. You know?’

  ‘Listen, I don’t want to know. The less I know the better. What I do know is you ought to be in hospital, Bobby. You ought never to’ve come out. This is some kind of madness.’

  He didn’t reply. He was looking deathly.

  ‘Look, I’ll make him an eyepatch with Sellotape, but he needs a proper one, Long John Silver job. No pressure’s the thing to remember. Ice packs till then.’ She stood back. ‘Could look worse than it is, but we cannae be sure. There’ll be bad bruises where they hit him with the bar. Could still be internal injuries. He needs constant attention. Any change for the worse, any change at all that isnae for the better, you get on to a bloody doctor pronto, y’hear? Can he bide here a while?’

  ‘No way,’ Maiden said. ‘Not now.’

  ‘You be quiet, son,’ Andy said. ‘You make too many of your own decisions. Did I no tell you to think first?’

  ‘I think he might be right, Mrs Anderson. It sounds ridiculous to say he wouldn’t be safe here …’

  ‘But that’s what you’re saying, is it, hen?’

  ‘Maybe. We knew things were difficult, we didn’t realize how difficult.’

  ‘Those lads,’ Vic said. ‘Not local. They was of an age I’d know them if they was local. Well, you think about it. You don’t just hire complete strangers, half an hour’s notice, to go and beat somebody to death. They was on a retainer. They was just waiting for the word.’

  ‘If this is Pa, I’ll bloody kill him.’

  ‘I’d say not. I’d say somebody lost patience with your old man. It’s getting less difficult to find people who’ll do for somebody for a couple of grand. Plus, there’s a lot of very discreet middlemen about, so it don’t get traced back.’

  Andy said, as calmly as she could manage, ‘They’re gonny try again, are they not?’

  Vic shrugged.

  There was an answer to this situation. Andy closed her eyes momentarily and saw a pale red sun against the lids. Oh aye, a very obvious answer here. So obvious, she wanted to resist it.

  ‘I hear your daddy was at the hospital, Bobby. Is there no chance-?’

  ‘Don’t even ask.’

  ‘Like that, eh? You got a problem, then, son.’

  Andy walked over to the window. Saw her own grim-faced reflection hologrammed over the lights of Elham. She should’ve been in St Mary’s by now.

  ‘So what did you have in mind to do about this, Bobby?’

  ‘Get out of town. Book into a hotel somewhere for a few days. Except my wallet’s in the hospital safe. Cash. Credit cards. Looking like this is going to be another problem. You book into a hotel with a face like this, they do a courtesy check with the local police. I’m a bit buggered, really.’

  ‘We can sort out the money. Jonathan’ll get that. Bobby, listen, there’s a place you could go. Well out of it. Where nobody’s gonny find you. Where you could have the time to heal, son. You need to heal. Physically, mentally and …’

  It was as if, when she’d placed her hands on his head, bringing up High Knoll, she’d made a connection, plugged into a live circuit and it wasn’t going to be broken; the current was strengthening. It was the right thing to do.

  ‘… and spiritually.’ Andy looked at him, blood all over his Elham Hospital Fun Run T-shirt. ‘There are some places you heal quick. Some places heal parts of you you didnae know were sick.’

  ‘I’m sure there are,’ he said, ‘but it’s not your problem, Andy. We’re really grateful for what you’ve done. Don’t get involved any further. Not many laughs in this.’

  ‘Hey!’ Andy walked to the foot of the bed. ‘Don’t you tell me what’s no my problem, Bobby Maiden. They’re gonny kill you, son, you hang around here, and then you’ll die and go back to the nasty grey place, am I right?’

  She regretted it at once. His whole body went rigid.

  ‘I’m sorry, son,’ she said.

  She rang Jonathan and told him as much of everything as she could pack into four minutes.

  ‘What a colourful life you lead, Sister Andy,’ Jonathan said. ‘How long will you need?’

  ‘Well, I already begged two days. I’ll try and stick to it, but if it takes longer, it takes longer.’

  ‘Don’t put your pension on the line,’ Jonathan warned, ‘for a bit of mumbo jumbo.’

  She made the eyepatch.

  She told Bobby Maiden to get some sleep. He said, no way. He lay there staring at the ceiling. He seemed to be glad of the pain.

  She thought she understood.

  Emma Curtis took her into another room. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘I’m no sure you need to know that, hen.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to bloody torture me, Sister. And if he can’t visit me, I want to visit him.’

  ‘You sure you’re good for each other, hen?’

  The dark eyes didn’t move. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’

  ‘OK.’ Andy smiled. ‘Let me have your phone number again. I’ll call you when he can see what he’s doing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Emma said. ‘And … thanks.’

  At two a.m., an ambulance arrived. ‘Apologies, sister,’ the paramedic said, ‘earliest I could make it.’ Giving Andy the envelope containing Bobby Maiden’s wallet and his keys. ‘Dr Jonathan says good luck. With the, er, mumbo jumbo.’

  XVI

  Three-fifteen a.m., Andy driving as if she could read Bobby Maiden’s mind. Grim-faced under the fluffed-up red hair, clogging the pedal as though they were breaking bail — all mobiles alert for a ten-year-old powder-blue Golf with a Greenpeace sticker.

  Slowing only whenever she spotted a police car. But it wasn’t police, as such, that Maiden was worried about. He was seeing a dark vehicle blocking a country road. Two men in balaclavas. Tooled up. Silencers. No small talk, no prelims. Maiden, then Andy. The Golf driven into a wood with the bodies.

  But, then, Maiden was as paranoid as you can get.

  They were a good ten miles out of Elham before Andy spoke.

  ‘Who’s Emma, then?’

  ‘Mmm. Well …’ He told her about the hit-and-run car which had first brought him to her attention.

  ‘Aw, you’re no serious …’

  ‘Plus — in case you missed the references back th
ere — her old man’s Tony Parker.’

  Andy shook her head, laughing her comfortable, smoker’s laugh. ‘Jesus God, Bobby. And I thought I was mixing with lowlife the day they called me into a meeting of the hospital trust.’

  ‘She’s OK. Didn’t you think?’

  Andy thought about it. ‘Aye. Genes aren’t everything. And the last person she’ll ever harm is you. But you’ll know that. Are you no awfully knackered, Bobby?’

  ‘Long past knackered. Knackered was yesterday.’

  She’d tilted the passenger seat for him, but he’d pulled it back up, even further, so it was almost a right angle. He concentrated hard on the lights through the windscreen, but with half his vision blocked by the makeshift patch it was hard to keep his good eye open.

  ‘But you’re no gonny let yourself sleep, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bobby, you need-’

  ‘Sleep, sleep and sleep.’

  ‘You’re no gonny die, Bobby. Not again. I mean like not yet. Not imminently.’

  They were at a brightly lit motorway intersection, big blue signs. When they hit the motorway itself, it felt safer: a no man’s land.

  ‘I was wondering. Got anything in your bag to kind of ward off sleep?’

  ‘Speed? In your condition? Christ, you would be bloody dead. There’s chocolate biscuits in the glove compartment, and that’s your lot.’

  ‘Should have asked Clutton.’

  ‘I don’t like the way you’re talking.’ Andy leaned back in her seat, hands loosening around the wheel. ‘Look, I’m no shrink … But maybe what we’re looking at here is your subconscious manufacturing a smokescreen, setting up a block to shield you from some trauma. Images of bleakness, this cold, soulless place. Cold neutralizes pain. Like when we put the frozen peas on your eye.’

  ‘Yes … but … Well, OK … Suppose you wake up dead?’

  ‘Is that no a wee bit contradictory?’

  ‘With all your bodily juices drying up. Your muscles dead weight. Veins clogged.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And being aware of decaying. Tasting the soil.’

  ‘Shit,’ Andy said.