If The Bed Falls In

by Paul Casselle

  Then came Tilda. She proved herself time and time again. And each time strengthened the faith that that solidity will be there the next time. And so, imperceptibly over time, you learn to trust. You learn to trust a person rather than a chemical. You learn that finding worthwhile people is not an act of will, but extreme, good luck. And anyone that has such good fortune showered upon them, is one of the luckiest people alive. And then… and then… they are taken from you. And you lay them in the ground. And throw dirt onto their coffin.

  Tilda was asleep. She had left the bedside light turned on, on his side of the bed. Joseph got in beside her. He watched her sleep for a few minutes. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She smiled with slight embarrassment.

  “How can I sleep when at any minute the love of my life is about to climb into the bed beside me?”

  She looked away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She spoke without returning her eyes to his.

  “You had to live with the knowledge that I was dead. I had to live with the knowledge that I wasn’t. I had to spend every waking hour knowing that every minute that passed would be a dagger in your heart… and those bastards were creating that lie.”

  “We’ll get them for what they did,” Joseph said. “Believe me, they’ll pay for it.”

  Tilda looked at him and stroked his face.

  “Did they hurt you?”

  Joseph laughed.

  “They tried to. Sherry got one of her goons to actually put a pair of bolt-cutters around my balls.”

  “My god!” Tilda said sitting up. “What did you do?”

  “I killed them. It’s what I do.”

  “You killed Sherry?”

  “No,” he ran his fingers over her back, “I thought I had, but she’s alive… with a nasty limp, though.”

  Tilda lay back down, and pulled the bedclothes up tightly around her neck.

  “She’s a bastard, that one. I wish you had killed her.”

  They turned to each other and kissed, gently.

  “It’s ridiculous, I feel nervous,” Joseph said.

  “I’m not surprised,” she said with a laugh, “It’s not every day that you get to sleep with your dead wife!”

  After making love, they lay together talking of easier times. Then Tilda got up.

  “Where are you going?” Joseph asked.

  “I’m going to take a shower.”

  “Another one?”

  “Oh, don’t get paranoid. I just want to freshen up, that’s all.”

  Tilda disappeared into the en suite bathroom, and Joseph lay thinking for a while. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom door.

  “Are you all right?” he called.

  There was a pause. Then Tilda answered.

  “Yeah, fine… Go back to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Joseph put on a pair of trousers, and went back to the bathroom door.

  “I’m going to have a word with Cyril,” he called through the door.

  There was a pause again.

  “Okay,” Tilda answered.

  Joseph walked the short distance to Cyril’s room and knocked. The door opened almost immediately.

  “I need you to see something, Sir,” Cyril said with gravity.

  Joseph followed him to the single bed. Cyril pointed with a heavily nuanced finger at his open laptop.

  “Look,” he said simply.

  Joseph studied the screen. It showed an online news channel.

  BBC producer found murdered.

  The man discovered earlier today has been identified as Greg Thompson, a BBC producer…

  Joseph turned to Cyril.

  “So, that’s it then,” he said with a sigh, “they’re all dead.”

  “Yes, Sir. All five.”

  Joseph paced around the room.

  “But how? How the fuck did they get to them so quickly?” Joseph stopped pacing and looked at Cyril. “Well, you’re the human behaviour expert. How Cyril? How did they do that?”

  “I do have a theory, Sir,” Cyril said carefully. “It’s a little delicate.”

  Joseph stared at him.

  “How do you mean, ‘delicate’?”

  “Well… we know what SIS and Simmons know. We also know that if the CIA had much more than that they wouldn’t have tried to get information from you, they’d just have killed you as they’ve been doing with the five Bedfellows.”

  Cyril studied Joseph’s face.

  “… And?” urged Joseph.

  “Well… the Safe-Cracker got vital details out of you, which in conjunction with the files I’ve put together identifies the Bedfellows,” Cyril continued.

  “So, Will Mitchum has been giving the CIA the information he got from me. And that would be enough, right?” suggested Joseph.

  “In my opinion,” Cyril proposed, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no, you don’t think so’?”

  “You’ve heard the tape the Safe-Cracker made with you. It’s very convoluted and disjointed. We’ve had to listen to it many times to work out the identities of the other five. You see, I don’t think he could be doing that with such accuracy from simply remembering what you said. I think one has to actually have the tape to do that.”

  “So, what then? How have the CIA identified them so quickly?”

  “Well, Sir, it’s as if they have another source of intelligence.”

  “What source?”

  “That’s the delicate bit,” sighed Cyril nervously.

  “Cyril, if you have an idea, please just say it,” Joseph demanded.

  “Forgive me, Sir, but I have been noticing some strange behaviour.”

  “What strange behaviour?”

  “Your… wife, Sir. Tilda,” said Cyril.

  “What about her?… Are you suggesting that she’s leaking information to the CIA?”

  “Well, it would make sense, Sir…”

  Joseph marched towards him and grabbed the small man by the front of his shirt.

  “Listen, Cyril… I know that woman… There’s no…”

  “… I know, Sir, I know. I have nothing against her, really. She’s a… nice… woman, but the leak is coming from somewhere, and she’s been acting strangely.”

  Joseph let Cyril go.

  “She’s not acting strangely,” said Joseph. “Fuck it! None of us are acting normally.”

  “Yes, Sir. I’m sure you’re right, but…”

  “… But what, Cyril? But, fucking, what?”

  “Listen,” Cyril said gently, “the leak can’t be you, can it?”

  Joseph shook his head and threw Cyril a supercilious expression.

  “So,” concluded Cyril, “it has to be either me or… Tilda. It’s just logic, Sir.”

  “But she has nothing to gain from selling me out, does she?”

  “Not that I can think of, no,” Cyril agreed.

  “So, there you are,” said Joseph with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “But I came to terms, some time ago, Sir, with the fact that I don’t know everything. I don’t have conclusive evidence. I actually don’t have any evidence at all, but she’s… been creeping off for no apparently good reason quite regularly. And at the motorway services I caught her out, well… acting strangely.”

  Throughout Joseph’s visit the television had been on. It had unobtrusively been supplying background music. It suddenly stopped causing both men to glance at it. A news item came on about the upcoming US presidential visit. Joseph turned his back on the TV and resumed the conversation.

  “Well, Cyril, as you say. You don’t know everything.” He went to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Cyril.”

  Cyril stood and absentmindedly watched the TV which showed stock footage of US President Harrington boarding Airforce One.
The commentary reported on the planned visit to the UK on the thirteenth of July.

  Back in his own room, Joseph found Tilda deeply asleep. He watched her for a moment, and gently shook his head. He undressed quietly and got into bed beside her.

  He awoke suddenly. Everything was pitch dark. A mechanical whirring noise started beneath him, and the bed started moving. Florescent lights flickered on as the bed seemed to emerge from a narrow tunnel. He looked around. Tilda approached him wearing a white doctors’ coat.

  “What’s happening?” he said.

  “I think you drifted off,” answered Tilda.

  Joseph sat up. Behind him was a large white doughnut shaped machine. The bed he sat on protruded from it like a petulant tongue.

  “Where the fuck are we, Tilda?” he asked.

  “What?” said Tilda.

  “Where are we?”

  “No,” she said, “I heard what you said, but who’s Tilda?”

  He grabbed Tilda by the arm.

  “What’s my name?” he demanded.

  Tilda pulled her arm away.

  “Tom,” she said, “if this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny.”

  “Say that again,” he said tersely.

  “Say what?”

  “My name,” he replied pointedly.

  The woman simply looked at him.

  “My name’s Tom, right?” he asked. She nodded. “And you’re Sarah… am I right!… Fuck it! Answer me!”

  A sudden noise on the far side of the room made Joseph jump. He could see the door to the room shaking as if someone was trying to break it down.

  “Oh my god!” the doctor shouted. “It’s Sherry. You should have killed the bitch, Tom, when you had the chance.”

  Joseph swung his legs from the bed and jumped to the floor. The door burst open, and Sherry stood at the threshold, gun raised and trigger pumping. The first bullet hit Joseph in the right shoulder. The second in his leg on the same side. He stood in pain and leaking blood over the sterile floor. Sherry walked up to him.

  “… And this – you bastard – is for Berlin,” she said, lifting the gun and firing point-blank into his undefended chest.

  “Are you all right?” asked Tilda.

  Joseph was lying on something soft, and Tilda was gently shaking him.

  “I think someone’s outside,” she said.

  Joseph looked around the hotel room, then over to the door. He could hear whispers coming from the other side. He turned his head back to Tilda.

  “They’re here, aren’t they?”

  “Who?” said Tilda.

  A pained smile curled the edges of Joseph’s mouth. The door rattled again.

  “Get dressed,” he said, moving quickly over to his clothes and pulling on jeans and a t-shirt. He picked up the Walther and checked it, then crossed over to the door. Tilda had also hastily dressed. The two looked at each other. Joseph nodded to her, and she moved towards the door.

  “No!” he said quietly, but emphatically.

  Tilda looked disapprovingly at him.

  “I’m not an idiot,” she said, then disappeared through the bathroom door which stood open next to the main door. A controlled click from the bathroom door closing completed the set-up. Joseph went to the main door.

  “Yes?” he called out.

  “Room service!” came a voice from the other side that was far too cheerful to be a genuine hotel employee.

  Joseph hid his gun behind his back, and carefully slid the lock to open. He opened the door. A large, silver gun was waiting for him on the other side. The muzzle twitched indicating he should back up, which he did. Sherry moved tentatively into the room keeping the barrel of the huge firearm pointing at Joseph. He held his right hand up in surrender.

  “And the other one,” demanded Sherry.

  Joseph held his left hand aloft, leaving the Walther tucked into the waistband of his jeans. They looked at each other for a few moments.

  “So, what now?” asked Joseph. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Hell no!” said Sherry, “where’s the fun in that? No, I’m gonna take you in. Make you face up to being the fucking traitor that you are.”

  “You think I’m a traitor? What do you think I’m betraying?”

  “You can fuck around all you want, but we both know the truth.”

  “Well,” Joseph said shaking his head, “actually we don’t. You might think you do, but I can assure you that I don’t.”

  “Trying to be clever ain’t gonna save your ass this time.”

  “There’s nothing clever about it.” He tapped his temple. “If there’s something in here that you want, it isn’t there because you fucked it.” Sherry furrowed her brow. “You fucked it with your drugs… I don’t remember a thing.”

  “You expect me to believe that? You think I’m so gullible that I’d fall for that bullshit. You’re well and truly fucked, Joseph. And I fucked you.”

  “So, I guess you’d never believe that there’s someone behind you about to smash your head in with a fire extinguisher, would you?”

  Sherry smiled, then laughed.

  “Tilda? I guess Tilda’s behind me, right?”

  Joseph kept his gaze steady and inscrutable.

  “You are so pathetic, Joseph,” Sherry said, “You think you know what’s going on, don’t you? You think you know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are, don’t you? And you – the mighty Joseph Miller – are the supreme good guy, right?” She paused. “You know shit!”

  “I told you, Sherry, I know very little about what’s going on thanks to your injections, but I’m sure about one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Whatever side I’m on is both the right side and the winning side.”

  “Arrogance is never attractive, Joseph, but on your smug face, at least it fits.”

  “Sticks and stones, Sherry, sticks and stones…”

  Sherry twitched the gun again.

  “Take a seat,” she said. Joseph sat on the bed, and Sherry lowered her gun. “I’m going to start educating you on the truth about the world.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Joseph responded.

  Sherry pointed over her shoulder.

  “You mean instead of Tilda doing it for me?” Sherry paused. “You want to know about that bitch Tilda? You want to know who she really is…?”

  The sudden contact between the fire extinguisher and Sherry’s head made a sickening thud. Sherry fell unconscious to the floor. Tilda bent down to pick up her gun.

  “What were you waiting for?” demanded Joseph.

  “I wanted to hear what she had to say. She might have said something useful.”

  Joseph rose from the bed and pulled the gun from his jeans. He took Tilda by the arm.

  “What did she mean about who you really are?”

  “What?” Tilda said studying Joseph’s face, “she was fucking with you, Joseph.” She pointed at Sherry’s slumped body. “Enemy…” then pointed at herself, “wife!”

  A noise in the corridor caught their attention. As they stepped out of the room they found the area clear, but disconcerting sounds were coming from Cyril’s room. Tilda and Joseph crept down the hallway and discovered their friend’s door open. They found Cyril barricaded behind upturned tables and chairs with two CIA agents trying to get to him.

  “Hey, guys!” Joseph called into the room.

  The agents spun around, pointing their guns at the newcomers. Two shots spat out of the Walther PPK and the startled men hit the ground like sacks of potatoes falling from a fast moving truck. Cyril nervously emerged. Joseph grabbed the small man, and the three started running down the corridor. The door in front of them burst open revealing two more CIA operatives pumping the triggers of their Company issued Berettas. Joseph and his compatriots turned one hundred and eighty degrees and careered in the opposite direction. As they passed Joseph and Tilda’s room Sherry had woken from her induced slumber and staggered into them. Luckily none of the thre
e had been hit. And, even more fortunately, the hail of bullets ceased. Probably due to the arrival of Sherry into the line of fire.

  In seconds they were through the double doors at the far end of the corridor and running down the stairs. They crashed through the lobby of the hotel into the street, then crossed the road, weaving between cars and buses, and lost themselves amidst the crowd of people walking in the park adjacent to the road. They stopped for a moment, and looked back. A number of black cars had arrived and parked hurriedly at the hotel entrance. Agents were pouring from the vehicles and rushing into the building. Joseph grabbed Cyril’s arm.

  “Where the fuck’s Tilda?” Joseph screamed.

  Cyril’s eyes were wide and empty. They gazed across the road, searching for an answer. Simultaneously their eyes gravitated to a third floor window. Pushed up against the glass was the blanched face of Tilda. Standing next to her, holding the large, silver gun, was Sherry. Joseph accelerated forward, but found himself held fast by Cyril.

  “Let the fuck go!” Joseph shouted.

  “Sir,” Cyril said calmly, “it’s suicide.”

  Another two cars sped to a stop outside the hotel. Joseph snorted like a trapped animal.

  “Fuck!”

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  Chapter 21

  Joseph had remained quiet for almost two hours. They were driving north out of London again, but this time only two seats were occupied. The silence seemed to demand words, but Cyril was having trouble finding the right ones.

  “I’m really sorry, Sir. I didn’t notice that Sherry had grabbed her,” Cyril said.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No, Sir, but it is my responsibility. We are duty bound to look out for each other. I’m ashamed to say that I momentarily dropped the ball.”

  “If you don’t look after yourself, Cyril, you’re no use to anyone else. Look, I don’t blame you for saving yourself,” said Joseph.

  “Then why is it different for you?”

  “Because she’s not just anyone else to me. She’s my wife. Some things you can’t afford to lose.”