Sufferer's Song

by Savile, Steve

  The grasslands stretched out in front of them, bordered on one side by water, the other by houses. In the distance he could just make out the sign above the Watersedge, the boathouse down the shore from there and the thunderheads of a storm brewing, above.

  He was whistling out of habit by the time he reached the road.

  Across the street Barney Doyle was talking to Daniel Tanner and the younger of his two girls.

  “Mornin' Mr Shelton,” Billy Rogan called breathlessly, emerging from somewhere beneath the street level.

  “Morning Billy. Up nice and early.”

  Scooby waddled up to the big man, and Ben had to smile when Billy squatted down and blew a wet sounding raspberry on the old dog's nose. “There's a smashin' fella. Got to scoot. Feed the birds.”

  “Okay Billy, good to see you. Give my best to your dad when you see him.”

  “Will do, Mr Shelton. Bye bye doggy,” Billy said, grinning as he scratched behind one of Scooby's cauliflower ears.

  From across the street, Barney called hello.

  “That'll teach you,” Ben said, seeing Scooby pawing at his wet nose. Leaving Billy, they walked across to join the others.

  “How's it going, Barney?”

  The sergeant gave him a little head shake of exasperation that said it all.

  In the two days since Ben had last seen him to say hello to, the man had aged perhaps five years. White and grey hairs were mixed in his sideburns. Some made it as far as his eyebrows, only seeming to make the man's owlish expression that shade more turbulent. Barney squinted against the sun, and drew a shallow suck on the thin cigarette dangling between his lips.

  “It's been better,” he admitted.

  “Morning Ben,” Daniel said.

  “How so?” Ben wanted to know.

  Doyle pinched the bridge of his nose, absently drawing on the dwindling Woodbine. His lips creased upwards wryly as he pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket to wipe his heavily lined brow.

  Ellen was fussing over Scooby. The old Labrador, knowing what was expected of him, sighed indulgently and rubbed up against her legs.

  “Well, I suppose you'll hear about it on the jungle line soon enough,” Doyle muttered, rubbing his hands together briskly. “The kid Johnny Lisker stabbed on Thursday died yesterday.”

  “Oh, boy. . .”

  “It gets worse, believe me. A stabbing on Thursday night, followed by a suicide on Friday morning. Frank Rogan's gone AWOL and some doctor, doctor for Christ’s sakes, sics his dogs on a guy when I'm out asking him to I.D. our man in the woods. It stinks.”

  And I don't even want to think what's going to happen next, seemed to be the silent inference, as he drew his inadequate collar tightly around his neck.

  The wind coming in off Devil's Water picked up, belligerently slapping at the sergeant's loose fitting civvies. It seemed to want to make sport of him, as if playing a spiteful game of tag.

  Ben looked him over. Shade under sixty, reasonably well dressed. Subtle aftershave. He didn't exactly look like a shuffling village copper. Then again, he wasn't exactly fresh from Starsky & Hutch either.

  Ben frowned, trying to dredge up some unidentifiable pearl of wisdom from his memory.

  “I just saw Billy,” he offered.

  “What about Lisker?” Daniel wanted to know.

  “The shitheel's disappeared right up his mother's own crotch. Sorry Ellen,” he added, seeing the youngster's wide eyed face jerk up to look disapprovingly at him. “No one's seen hide nor hair of him since Thursday night, but when I get my hands on him. . .” Doyle let the sentence trail, but his meaning was perfectly plain. As of an hour ago he was hitting the War Path and heaven help anyone stupid enough to get in his way.

  He gazed out across the lake, mopping at his forehead with the handkerchief again. He seemed to be scanning the shoreline for something. Finally, he waved in the direction of the lakeside diner. Ben and Daniel exchanged a look that spoke volumes, as the Long Arm of the Law sighed, face to the wind.

  “What a fucking mess.”

  - 35 -

  The woman next door spent most of the night making enough noise to wake the dead. With all her tossing and turning, Kristy didn't get to sleep too well either. The only silver lining was as of sun-up it was the weekend and she didn't have to worry about filing a story for two whole days. Small consolation that it was.

  She called the hospital at six, and then again at eight. All they had to say was that there was no change. Jason was sleeping. His condition was described as comfortable. He was in no immediate danger.

  That should have made her feel better, but it didn't, so she was up and dressed before half of the birds were awake themselves, and on the road to Hexham pretty soon after. She drove with the music cranked up loud and the window down low. Jim Kerr and Simple Minds were the order of the day; good loud rocking to take her mind off yesterday.

  The roads were quiet for a summer Saturday when most people would be making their way to the coast. She made good time, dropping off the dual carriageway just shy of the market town. Hexham looked like so many rooftops of red and blue Lego. The beginnings of a storm fermented above the tiers of Lego, rising in various shades of grey to black. Following the curious weave of the old roads, they led her in a virtual circle to the hospital.

  Kristy parked the car and then just stood still in the strained serenity of the grounds, not sure within herself whether she wanted to make the lonely walk to Jason's bedside. Some equally strange thoughts refused to go away. There was something very peculiar about Dr Richards' little piece of heaven, like why the hell did they need dogs trained to attack? And they were well trained. The way they stood off even after being bloodied would have needed a hell of a lot of discipline on their part. Someone had put a lot of work in on Saul and Duke. But why?

  Who did they want to keep out?

  And again, why?

  What had Jason seen, if anything?

  Questions. Only answered by more questions.

  An ambulance pulled in behind her, the paramedic clambering out of the back doors almost before it had stopped rolling. There was an almost instantaneous bustle of life as the blanket covered unfortunate was transferred onto a hospital gurney and wheeled away inside with the minimum of fuss. Standing back, the paramedic's face twisted with a look Kristy knew well enough. A look that said he was at his own personal boundaries and he'd left his training way off behind. It was a look Kristy associated with the victims. A look that said death had come to pay a too-close-for-comfort call. It wasn't a look she expected to see on the face of a healer, and it did little to boost her flagging confidence.

  No point in putting it off, she prodded herself.

  Out of the way of the wind the sky was like an axe waiting to fall, heavy with the threat of rain. It seemed to dampen the morning sunlight and hold her surroundings so still she could see everything clearly. A vandalized window in the low frame of a portacabin. A paint-splashed branch of a sapling overhanging the far corner of the car park. The remains of a cigarette smouldering as the breeze sent it tumbling across the tarmac.

  She had to hope that talking with Jason was going to help. She double-checked the doors before heading off towards the entrance marked 'B' Block.

  A hospital porter smiled as he guided a free-wheeling gurney around Kristy. The corridor she turned onto smelled thickly; detergents, bleach, antiseptic, and some unidentifiable other.

  It didn't feel anywhere like the thirteen hours it was since Kristy had ran every red light between Pilgrim's Hall and the hospital with Jason Kelso out cold on the backseat.

  Her footsteps echoed with a clangy, mechanical precision that mated well with the institute's drab walls and linoleum floors. She wondered if the uniformity of the surroundings was meant to aid the healing process in some way she couldn't fathom. The walk to Jason's room was a short one; left, then left again to the elevators. Up two floors. Right at the end of the first corridor, under the sign for I.C.U., the third doo
r down, on the right. The door was open, a slim blue-eyed nurse talking back into the room as she straightened the lie of her skirt. Seeing her coming, the nurse smiled, and said:

  “Someone to see you.”

  She heard Jason laugh.

  “A sexy blonde?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Looks like my prayers have been answered. C'mon in Kris.”

  The room was as plain as the corridor. Fresh flowers and three cards hid the top of the bedside cabinet. An old chair stood in the corner furthest from the bed. A metal locker style wardrobe in another. Other than that, the room was empty.

  “Be gentle with him,” was the nurse's parting comment.

  “Kid gloves,” Kristy assured with a grin. She didn't know what to expect until she saw him propped up in bed. His leg was up in traction, thick bandages wrapped around his upper arm. “How come you never let on you were such a hit with the animals,” she joked, pulling up a chair. She felt all tight and knotted inside.

  Jason was ashen. A line of black stitches ran through a deep purplish bruise, from just below his ear to half an inch above his swollen eye. A second line of stitches held his lip and cheek together. Blue-black swellings puffed around a mesh of bite marks that came from below the neckline of his gown and climbed a fretwork of ladders to his hairline.

  “Jesus, Jason. You look like shit.”

  “Yeah? You should see the other guy,” he winced at the pain that small chuckle cost him.

  “How are you feeling?” It was a silly question, but she didn't know what else she was expected to say.

  “Better than I look, I hope. The Doc reckons I'm a lucky bloke, but right now I hurt just about everywhere I can hurt. If that's what he means by lucky then I suppose I am,” Jason half-smiled. That half-smile twisted into something closer to a grimace, as the hot teeth of pain bit hard into the ruined tendons of his right arm. Cramps dug into his chest with ice picks as he shifted. Fingers ran razor-blades beneath the plaster cast on his right leg.

  Nothing he did seemed to ease any of the burning ache-stings that snapped across his body.

  Instead of sitting, Kristy read the cards. One was from Spencer Abel, another from the News Room staff, the last a comic effort from the staff photographers.

  “Looks like you're quite the celebrity.”

  “Not by choice, let me tell you. Right now there's nothing I'd like better than to be waking up in my own bed next to a beautiful blonde, any offers?” Kristy couldn't help but laugh at his lascivious wink.

  “You should see yourself, pal.”

  “I think I'll pass on that one. Nurse Blue-eyes and long legs promised to come back later to give me a blanket bath. Now that should be something.”

  “And I thought you were going to die. Will you listen to yourself, Jason? I was up half the night sick with worry, and all you can think about is getting a blanket bath from your blue-eyed beauty.”

  Jason went all serious on her then, lifting himself onto his good elbow and wincing for his pains. “Kris, up until about three hours ago I thought I was dead. I couldn't understand why I wasn't. Then I woke up, and the only person I wanted to see in the world was you. Don't spoil it. Please.”

  She couldn't tell if he was serious, and if he was, just how serious he was, but she suddenly felt quiet light, almost giddy, inside. “Come here, you big lug,” she said, holding him gingerly.

  She half expected him to say something about not breaking.

  He kissed her instead. A brush of his lips on her nose.

  “Go and get my coat,” he told her, touching her chin.

  Jason's few belongings were hung and stacked neatly in the metal locker. Jacket, shirt, jeans and sneakers. Blood had dried up to the colour and consistency of rust around many of the rips. The same arm of both jacket and shirt had been bitten out by savage teeth. Rust had inked into the fabric of the shirt and hardened. Much the same had happened to the jacket, but Jason wanted it, so she fetched it back to the bed.

  “In the pocket,” he said before she was halfway.

  Kristy patted the jacket down until she felt out whatever it was he meant her to find. His compact Cybershot. She took it out to give to him. “Pull the photos off it, Kris. We've got that bastard nailed.”

  She slipped the camera into her own pocket and sank down into the seat again. “We've got to talk, Jason. There's a whole heap of stuff I want to know, not least being why the hell they set the dogs on you like that.”

  “Long story, kiddo. And not a pleasant one.”

  “I've got the time,” Kristy assured him.

  “Okay, then. You're not going to like this, but I'm pretty sure the health farm story's a cover for some sort of research lab.”

  “How so?”

  ”I couldn't get in anywhere, but I found some rats dumped in the rubbish bins. Maybe twenty of the little critters. They'd all had their backs broken. Some of them had had their scalps shaved, and the last time I saw anything like that was when I covered an animal rights raid on a lab in Stockton. The research animals had had their scalps shaved so the electrodes could be attached.”

  “What the fuck is Richards playing at?”

  “I don't know, Kris, but I'm going to be banged up in here for the duration, so it looks like you're on your own from here on in.”

  “Richards won't know what hit him.”

  “Just be careful. This fella doesn't fight fair, believe me.”

  “Like I told Spencer, careful's my middle name.”

  “Glad to hear it. One of us in here's one too many for my liking. Now, get those photographs uploaded, and if they're any good, use them. I know a girl at the University, she's hooked up with God knows how many dodgy-but-politically-correct groups. She'll be able to put you in touch with some useful people if you need to put the frighteners on Doctor Frankenstein.”

  “I hope it won't come to that.”

  “But if it does, promise me you will call her. As far as cavalry goes she’s one of the best.”

  “Okay,' Kristy agreed, grudgingly, “but only if I have to. What's her name?”

  “Robin Stone. She's a final year Politics student. Her number's in my wallet.”

  The wallet was in the back pocket of his jeans, her number on a card inside. Kristy read the number before slipping the card into her own back pocket.

  “Now you do something for me.”

  “You name it?”

  “Stay in here, enjoy that blanket bath and concentrate on getting better.”

  “Oh, you've got a cruel mind, Kristy French. But I don't care if you take it out on me. After all, what position am I in to argue?”

  “None,” she smoothed down his rumpled bedding, plumped up his pillows and kissed his forehead. “We're all worrying about you, Jason. You don't need me to tell you that. Now, do you want me to fetch anything in for you? Maybe a book or something?”

  “My T.V. and PS3 wouldn't go a miss. Kicking the crap out of some helpless zombie death squads would buck me up a bit. Other than that,” he huffed out a breath and shrugged, “A good sized crate of Guinness?”

  “We'll see,” was as far as she would go on that.

  * * * * *

  “A penny for them?”

  “What? Sorry. I was a million miles away,” Kristy said, looking up from wherever her thoughts had taken her. She turned the cup twice around its saucer, watching the last traces of sugar dissolve away to nothing, then looked at her watch.

  “Wishing your life away?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You want anything else, love?' You look like you need cheering up.”

  “It's that obvious, is it?”

  “Only to a trained professional, love. Do you want to talk about it?” The waitress smiled. She was a huge roly-poly woman with a bosom ample enough to satisfy two page three girls. Dark hair was clipped up in a loose bun beneath her cap. She had a ruddy almost rustic complexion and a definite country smile that was reassuringly homely in its friendliness.
>
  “Pull up a seat,” Kristy offered, downing a mouthful of the coffee she'd allowed to cool.

  “Don't mind if I do. It's not as if we're busy this morning.”

  And that was the truth of it. Kristy had retreated to the first friendly sign this side of the photography shop, to wait out the hour for the prints because it was quicker than trekking back for the laptop and transferring them digitally. Mrs Miggins' World Famous Coffee Shoppe; the sign said, that put her in mind of the pie shop in Blackadder, and made her smile. She had pretended to examine the window display of a second-hand bookseller's while she tried to think ahead to her next plan of attack, but when nothing useful came to mind opted for a sit down and a mug of coffee.

  So they talked to pass the time, but Kristy's mind was off to that elsewhere again. Down the line she had no idea what they had spent forty minutes talking about, but forty minutes had slipped by, and by rights the prints ought to be just about ready for her to collect. She put on a smile to show she'd cheered up some, paid for her coffee and promised to come back and finish the chat sometime soon.

  Fingers, toes and just about everything else crossed, she went back to the photography shop. The windows were cluttered with signs advertising Pentax, Cannon, Ricoh, and others warning: KEEP OUT, BEWARE THE DOG, NO CREDIT, NO SMOKING, and THIEVES WILL ALWAYS BE PROSECUTED. She went in. A bell tinkled overhead. She handed her chitty over and found herself feeling obliged to say something witty to at least try to neutralize the poison in the assistants' look as he handed the envelope containing Jason's prints over. “I'm doing a piece on the rubbish bins of the rich and famous.”

  That didn't seem to go down especially well. She was opening her mouth, and trying to think of something less disastrous to say, when the assistant said: “Three-forty. I suppose you think you're quite hilarious, miss, but in future I would appreciate you taking your grotesqueries elsewhere to be developed. That is to say your business isn't welcome.”

  As soon as she was out of the shop, Kristy turned to flip her index finger at the officious little prick behind the counter.