The Darkness of Death

by David Stuart Davies

  Then something disturbing occurred. The fellow in the blue overcoat began walking towards me with a strange determination. As he did so he reached inside his overcoat. Instinct, experience, a message from the heavens, call it what you will, but I knew in an instant that this man meant me harm; that this man was in league with Mr Horn-rimmed Glasses; that this man was not reaching inside his overcoat to bring out a handkerchief.

  He then became my target. I lunged forward, throwing my whole weight against him and, as we both crashed to the floor, I caught sight of the gun in his hand.

  I had been right.

  As we struggled together on the floor, he brought the butt of the gun down on my head with some force. I went blind for a few seconds, so intense was the pain. I fell back releasing my hold on the man, while a road drill attempted to burrow its way into my brain.

  When I regained my sight—it was a bleared double vision really—I saw what appeared to be a couple of doctors hurrying down the corridor towards me, their voices raised in alarm. My assailant had spotted them too and had taken flight. As through a light mist I saw him disappear in the distance down the shimmering corridor. When the white-coated medic reached me, he bent down, his tired face looming like some ghoulish visage from a fairground distorting mirror. He said something to me, but by then the road drill had broken through the wall of my skull and all I could hear was an all-encompassing roaring noise. Shortly after that I lost consciousness.

  *

  When I returned to life I was lying on a bed staring up at the face of none other than Detective Inspector David Llewellyn. By his side was a young nurse whose cool hand held my wrist. With groggy logic I realized that she was taking my pulse.

  ‘What you’ll do to get some pretty young girl to hold your hand,’ David observed wryly.

  I would have liked to have replied, but my mouth was sandpaper dry and my brain was torpid, not to mention the thundering headache that consumed me. Little men were wielding pickaxes digging holes all over my medulla oblongata. In the background, by the door, I saw the young constable who had tried to restrain me. He was in possession of an embarrassed, guilty look and a very bloody nose.

  ‘You’ve been x-rayed and bandaged. No serious damage, just a bad concussion,’ explained my policeman friend matter-of-factly. ‘An overnight stay and you’ll be able to go home tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m going home now,’ I croaked, and attempted to slide my legs over the side of the bed, but nothing happened. They stayed where they were.

  ‘Steady, Mr Hawke,’ said the nurse. (David was right, she was pretty.) ‘You’re still in shock. You need to rest. Give it time for your body to return to normal.’

  I slumped back on my pillow. With deep chagrin, I had to admit she was right.

  ‘Who were they?’ David asked at length. ‘Did you recognize either of the two men?’

  ‘I’ve not seen them before,’ I said slowly, moistening my lips with my tongue. The nurse stepped forward with a glass of water from which I took a few sips. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘No, I don’t know them, but somehow they seemed familiar. I think the chap who pretended he was the doctor—’

  ‘The one with the glasses?’ said David.

  I nodded and set off a few explosions in my head. I winced. ‘I think the glasses were a bit of a disguise,’ I observed with groggy irony.

  ‘I’ve got his description from the constable here. What about the other fellow—the one who gave you the headache.’

  ‘Tall, well-dressed, in his late twenties I should say. Wore a smart blue overcoat, expensive material.’

  ‘Not a lot to go on. I might show you some pictures.’

  ‘Well, one thing is for certain, I’ll recognize the bastard again.’

  Then a thought came to me through the cobwebs of my mind. ‘The girl. What about the girl?’

  David shook his head and ran his hand across his mouth. ‘We’ve lost her, I’m afraid. For whatever reason, our bogus doctor wanted her dead and he succeeded in his mission.’

  My heart sank. If only I had arrived at the hospital a few minutes earlier…

  Thirty

  Max sat in the rear stalls to watch the opening number. She considered this the best vantage point in the theatre to gain the full effect of the scene and in particular the costumes—her costumes. It was a village-green set. A garish painted backdrop portrayed a row of ye olde world houses and shops. There was a maypole at the centre of the stage around which the dancers would perform and near the wings at the right-hand side there was the magic bean stall, a hand cart that would be wheeled forward when Jack appeared after the first number.

  On cue from the director, who was sitting on the front row of the stalls, the small orchestra struck up ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ and the villagers filed on to the stage in time to the music and began the show’s opening dance routine. Given the limited choice of material and time, Max had gone for bright vibrant colours in a variety of hues for the costumes and ensured that none of the villagers was dressed exactly the same. The result was a pleasing kaleidoscope of moving colour across the stage, the fierce footlights gracing the costumes with a glamour they did not possess in the broad light of day. It was the magic of theatre.

  It all looked good. Max was pleased with her efforts.

  She heard a rustle in the row behind her. She turned and in the gloom she saw Roger Prescott, the show’s producer, shuffling along the seats towards her.

  ‘Hello there, darling,’ he said cheerily. ‘Admiring your work?’

  Max grinned and nodded. ‘Just checking it out,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you should be admiring it. Those costumes work a treat. You’ve done a grand job.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she beamed. Roger was a no nonsense fellow and she knew that he meant it.

  He leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re working on the show.’

  ‘You’ll make me blush.’

  ‘Seriously. Those costumes add a real sparkle to the panto. Look, Max, you’ve worked wonders in such a short time and got so far ahead, how would you like a few days off? I mean it. You’ve toiled long and hard to finish the costumes and now there are only the dresses for the ballet sequence to sort out and then we’re done. Honestly, we can do without you for a couple of days. I know you’ve been pining for that boyfriend of yours in London. Why not pop down on a train tomorrow and surprise him?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Max thought for a moment and then beamed. ‘Actually I can’t think of a reason why not. That would be wonderful. Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am, sweetie. Have one night of pash in the Smoke and then come back to us refreshed, ready for the final push before we open to those hordes of noisy brats.’

  ‘I will,’ said Max, grinning as broadly as she could.

  *

  ‘We are in the mire and no mistake,’ said Anthony Bernstein, running his thick fingers through his greasy hair as he paced up and down.

  ‘So you keep saying,’ replied his brother Vic stoically.

  ‘What the hell are we going to do now? All our plans, all our efforts, down the pan. And it’s all that bleeding interfering one-eyed bastard’s fault. I’ll swing for him.’

  ‘Well, you’ll swing, certainly.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You killed Gina. Remember? I trust you did manage it the second time.’

  ‘Why you…’ But angry words failed him as so often they did. Anthony always had difficulty articulating his feelings and so on these occasions he resorted to violent actions. With a grunt, he flew at his brother and grabbed him by the lapels of his suit and shook him violently.

  Vic was unperturbed. ‘Go on, hit me,’ he said smoothly. ‘Beat me up if you like. Where’s that going to get you? I’m the only friend you have in the world now.’

  Anthony’s eyes bulged with fury and frustration. He let go of Vic’s lapels and walk
ed away. ‘What are we going to do?’ he muttered again.

  ‘We don’t have too many options. The police will already be round to our gaffs looking for us. It won’t be long before they try all our hangouts, including here.’

  He looked around the cold dusty premises, a shabby lock-up near the river in Wandsworth. It housed a few cases of illegal liquor and packs of black-market cigarettes. There was also a sink, an electric heater, a couple of makeshift beds and a gas cooker, along with some emergency supplies. They had come here after escaping the hospital and had camped out for twenty-four hours. Vic was aware that sooner or later Hawke would regain consciousness and identify them as his attackers and Gina’s killer. They couldn’t go back to their respective flats, or even show their faces on the street. Vic knew that their father Leo would be no bloody use. Somehow the old man felt more allegiance to Gina than he did to his own sons, despite the bitch only turning up on his doorstep less than a month ago. No doubt this affection-cum-loyalty was due to Leo’s bond, or some weird filial link, to his brother coupled with his vague unexpressed disappointment at his own offspring. Vic sneered at the thought. Sod him, then, sod them all, including that creep of a brother of mine.

  ‘We’ve got to face it. We’re on the run,’ Vic said at length. ‘Before long the papers will have our mugs plastered all over them. We’ve got to get out of the city and lie low.’

  ‘You mean we have to run away like fucking scared rabbits?’

  ‘We leave as an act of self-preservation, dummy. If we stay we end up in the clink. You end up on the gallows.’

  Anthony blanched. ‘Then there’s no choice.’

  ‘There’s no choice.’

  Anthony paused for a moment, his podgy features wrapt in thought. ‘We’ll need some money and a car,’ he said at last.

  ‘Two cars. We can’t afford to stick together. Two separate needles in a haystack are harder to find than two stuck together.’

  Anthony wanted to complain, resist this plan, but he knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared of being on his own, away from the protection and guidance of his older brother. He was well aware that he wasn’t as bright or savvy as he was and it would be difficult functioning without his help and wisdom. Anthony had always felt inferior, always in the shadow thrown by Vic who was harder, more self-controlled than he was. At times he hated him for it, but he knew that in a crisis he needed his bright, arrogant brother. Anthony had no notion just how much Vic despised him.

  ‘We’ll have to wait until nightfall,’ said Vic lighting yet another cigarette. ‘Then I’ll take a trip to the Bamboo House, get our hands on the contents of Dad’s safe—whether he likes it or not. That should set us up nicely. Then we’ll grab us a couple of motors and I’ll head for the North and you get yourself down to Devon.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Vic shrugged. ‘Six months at least.’

  Anthony’s heart sank. What the hell would he do in Devon for six months? ‘Are you sure I can’t come with you?’

  ‘I’m bloody certain.’

  Anthony glanced at his watch and groaned. ‘So we wait until it gets dark.’

  Vic nodded and gazed at his useless brother, contempt and hatred burgeoning in his heart. Dark would be good. Dark was the time to do it. Well, this was crunch time and desperate measures were needed. He had put up with this mental cripple for too long. For the sake of the family. Filial obligations and all that. But now those obligations were out of the window. The arrival of Gina had seen to all that. She’d not just rocked the boat: she’d sunk it. His father seemed to care more about her than he did his two sons and Anthony had proved once more what a fucking liability he was. With things being as they are, Vic realized that he could no longer afford to be weighed down by such an encumbrance.

  Thirty-One

  I did as I was told and spent the night in the hospital. It wasn’t just that I was obeying medical advice; I knew that I hadn’t the energy or clear-headedness to hail a taxi to take me home, let alone cope with the other rigours of normal life. Certainly, chasing criminals was definitely out of the question. Thankfully, I slept soundly and on wakening I felt a little more like my old self. My head still ached and my mouth was dry, but I could see clearly out of my functioning eye and my limbs seemed to be working in unison.

  The doctor came early and examined me. ‘I know you’re desperate to go home so I’ll release you—but you are going to have to take it very easy for the next few days. In simple terms your brain is sore and disturbed and needs to recuperate. Any violent action, energetic activity could upset it further. Just rest, eh?’

  I nodded in agreement. Well what else could I do? I didn’t want to actually verbalize the lie. How could I take it easy when I had several murderers to lay by the heel? I could see by his tight grin and cynical expression that the doctor didn’t believe me. He could see the truth in my eye. He gave a gentle eloquent shrug. Well, it seemed to say, I’ve done my duty and explained the consequences to the chump; if he chooses to ignore my advice that’s his look out.

  ‘Take care, Mr Hawke,’ he said as a parting shot and swept from the room.

  Like an arthritic robot that needs oiling, I pulled back the covers and got out of bed. I slipped off the hospital pyjamas and dressed myself. It was the first time I realized how many fiddly aspects there are to a man’s attire from shoe laces to collar studs and fly buttons to braces. It seemed to take an eternity to make myself presentable and decent to the outside world. With every movement my head complained and occasionally I had to pause for the ache to subside. God, I thought, I hope this state of affairs doesn’t last for long.

  I gazed at myself in the mirror above the little sink in the corner. I was pale and weary-looking with a bandage around my head. I tried to convince myself that I looked interesting rather than damaged but I failed.

  I was just about ready to leave and was struggling desperately with the knot on my tie when David Llewellyn entered, followed by his trusty sergeant, the lugubrious Sunderland.

  ‘You going somewhere, boyo?’ David grinned, slapping me on the back. My brain rattled in my skull setting off a few minor explosions.

  ‘No rough stuff, eh,’ I grimaced. ‘I’m delicate cargo for the moment.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ He sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘I’ve just brought you a bunch of photographs to cast your eye over. See if we can identify those two fellows.’

  I nodded and perched on the bed while he opened his briefcase and withdrew a manila file. ‘Take a butcher’s at these.’

  I searched through the pile of dark grainy photographs, most of them featuring men who looked like the prize exhibits from the ugly farm. Then I came upon one face which was of a different aspect: young, smooth, intelligent-looking in an arrogant way. It was the fellow in the smart overcoat, the one who had slugged me.

  I passed this information on to David. He seemed both surprised and delighted at the same time.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said excitedly, searching through the pile of photographs, if that was the chappie with the gun…Ah, here we are...what about this one as the bogus doc?’

  He snatched a picture from the file and thrust it in my direction. I gazed at it for some time. The face staring back at me was young and jowly but it had unruly hair and wore no spectacles. However, it did ring some kind of bell.

  ‘Actually, I have seen this fellow before. He was with Archie Muldoon when he came to Benny’s trying to extort money from him. He was the quiet one who said nothing. Not sure he was the bogus doctor though. Just a minute.’

  I took a pen from my inside pocket and held it over the photograph. ‘May I?’ I said

  David nodded.

  I drew a pair of heavy spectacles on the face and inked in the hair so that it appeared combed and flattened back away from the forehead. My artistic transformation worked.

  ‘Yes, that’s the man. That’s Gina’s murderer.’

  David and Sunderland exchanged glances
.

  ‘Well,’ said David at length, ‘you’ve just identified the Bernstein brothers. The chubby fellow you’ve drawn all over is Anthony and the sleeker model is Vic. Well done.’

  *

  David had offered to drive me home before he and Sergeant Sunderland paid a call on Leo Bernstein. Despite still feeling quite groggy, I insisted that I accompanied them on this particular jaunt. There were so many questions that I wanted answering about this affair and I reckoned Leo was the man to answer quite a few.

  ‘Look, I’ll be the silent witness,’ I said to David. ‘Just let me sit in on the meeting.’

  ‘You look like death warmed up, my friend. You should be back in your own bed sleeping off your bloody concussion.’

  ‘I can do that later. Come on, do me a favour. You owe me one.’

  David shrugged. ‘Be it on your own battered head,’ he said, with a sigh of resignation.

  *

  ‘I’m not sure how much the old rascal knows about this business, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him,’ David observed as we pulled up outside the Bamboo House.

  Some kind of lackey answered the door. He had a face that looked like it had survived a thousand late nights, and a ragged moustache darkened by a similar number of cigarettes. ‘We’re closed, mate,’ he growled, rolling his rheumy eyes. ‘This is a nightclub. We open at night. Not during the bleedin’ day.’ He was about to shut the door when Sunderland held up his warrant card. ‘Police. We have twenty-four hour access, so step aside.’

  The lackey did so mutely. He knew when to keep his trap shut. No doubt his previous encounters with the rozzers had been unfortunate ones.

  ‘Now, if you would be so kind as to take us to Mr Bernstein’s office, we’d be much obliged,’ said David, with only the slightest trace of sarcasm.