Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

  Like his treacherous legs before them, his arms betrayed his mind. They were weak when he most needed strength. Despite his desperate commands for them to ignore the pain, they dropped to his side. His legs kicked the air as his neck took his full weight. Wallace finally realised that there would be no escape. I’m dying.

  The old cliché wasn’t true; his life didn’t flash before his eyes. Instead Wallace found himself reliving only the most painful moments. The death of his parents. The mutilated bodies of the Afghan children that had finally sent him home. And Connie. Warm, sweet, tender Connie, her sad, tear-drenched face looking up at him, full of love. She had been right, and now, more than ever, he regretted letting her go.

  Through the free-flowing tears, Wallace looked down at the masked man, who watched impassively as his life was choked away. Wallace’s lungs, full of stale, fetid air, burned with the desire to expel their contents. His eyes pushed further and further forward, edging their way out of their sockets. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have done better.

  Remorse was the very last feeling Wallace experienced before he blacked out. Inertia kept his body swinging after his legs had stopped kicking. A pendulum marking the final moments of existence.

  The masked man watched Wallace’s body until it fell still. Satisfied, the killer began the next phase of his work.

  2

  Primal pain stabbed searing barbs that jolted Wallace back to consciousness. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced in its sheer brutal ferocity. It overshadowed being shot on the road out of Kandahar and made the resultant fleshy shoulder wound seem like an alluringly benign experience. Wallace forced his senses through the pain and realised he was lying on his back covered in heavy timber, plaster and rubble. The beam had collapsed. The beam had collapsed! Euphoria trumped agony, and the pure joy of being alive surged through his body.

  The impact of the beam landing on him had rapidly compressed Wallace’s lungs, expelling the toxic air, and shocking him awake. He instinctively tugged at the noose, loosening it enough to take a breath. The relief he felt was instant, and a warm, divine feeling flooded his body. It was the most intoxicating moment of his life. His heart pounded, pumping euphoric adrenalin everywhere, and this time his limbs didn’t betray him; he got to his feet as he removed the noose. The room was empty; no sign of his attacker. Phone. Police. Wallace’s brain kicked into gear.

  He started for the door only to be greeted by the sight of his masked killer running into the room from the inner recesses of his apartment. Drawn by the noise, the killer seemed momentarily shocked to find Wallace alive. The moment didn’t last, and the killer took action, producing something – a Taser? – from beneath his long coat. Wallace didn’t wait for his attacker to use the device. Get away! Distance was life. Proximity was death. The logic was simple, but the execution was not. The killer stood in the only exit, a doorway that led to the entrance hall that led to the front door that led to the sweeping staircase that wound down two flights of converted church to the main entrance. Wallace’s only way out was past the killer. The killer with a weapon. Not the only way. Wallace’s legs were moving before he’d even fully registered the thought. He would risk the chance of dying over the certainty of it.

  He crashed through his large living room window and heard himself scream as he tumbled two floors and hit the well-groomed lawn of the front garden, landing on his back. Even in London, where citizens were adept at ignoring the most terrible sounds, the noise of his fall would draw attention. But Wallace didn’t want to be found, not here, not in sight of the man who had tried to kill him. He fought back the dark mass crushing his consciousness and looked up at his window. The killer thrust his head through the jagged hole in the glass and looked down at Wallace before withdrawing. He’s coming.

  Wallace felt the dark mass grow heavier as oblivion beckoned, but knew that he had to stay awake. He reached for his chest, the part of his body that was causing him the most pain, and felt something bony and wet – an exposed rib. He pushed it, hard. The ensuing agony was so severe that it cut through his drowsy mind like a searing laser and startled him to life. Wallace staggered to his feet, ignored the screaming pain that came from almost every inch of his body, and stumbled down through the front garden to the street.

  Death is hunting you. Think. Think. Think. Wallace’s creativity made him a living, but this wasn’t a matter of lighting and composition, this was real. He was badly injured, wavering on the edge of consciousness. He had no clothes, no money and no weapon. He considered appealing to his neighbours for help as he stumbled down Hamilton Terrace, but this was one of London’s most exclusive addresses and nobody in their right mind would open the door to a battered lunatic on a dark September night.

  He tumbled down Abercorn Place, the gentle slope drawing him towards the throng of Maida Vale. The yellow street lights hanging high above the busy road looked like the glowing hearts of angels. Salvation, Wallace thought. If it wasn’t a mistake, if the killer had come for him, Wallace knew his safest bet was anonymity – losing himself in the teeming city would rob the murderer of a second chance. Rush hour had long passed and traffic was moving freely on Maida Vale. He looked up Abercorn Place and saw no sign of his assailant. Then something in one of the gardens, a figure pulling himself over a wall – he was being followed.

  Fear injected him with energy and Wallace staggered towards a bus stop where one of London’s double-deckers was discharging its contents. He leaned against the bus while commuters stepped off, and then slipped through the doors as they closed. If the driver had spotted him, he didn’t say anything. He’d probably been on the job long enough to know that it wasn’t worth confronting nutters over their bus fare. With his last reserves of strength, Wallace hauled himself upstairs. He barely registered the looks of disgust as he made his way along the upper deck. As one of London’s rare considerate drivers finally gave way, and the bus pulled out, he collapsed on a seat near the back of the bus. His nearest neighbours gave him concerned glances and moved towards the front, but Wallace didn’t care. He leaned against the cold glass and looked out of the window, scouring the gardens of Abercorn Place for signs of his killer. When he saw none, he finally relaxed. The bus rolled along Maida Vale, and he felt the gentle warmth of adrenalin subsiding before comforting darkness closed in.

  3

  One word stuck in Wallace’s mind as he came round: suicide. He’d heard it a great deal over the past few kaleidoscopic days. Suicide. Suicide attempt. Suicide watch. He’d tried to explain, but he hadn’t been making much sense, and the world flickered by like a zoetrope. Wallace caught spinning moments that gave the illusion of being connected, but in reality he had no idea what games time was playing. His only certainty was that everything around him seemed to be urgent and important; things happened quickly and seriously. Wallace didn’t mind; during his conscious moments he felt like he was swaddled by a white world of soft clouds, and when he was asleep he dreamed the most colourful nightmares. Horrors so terrifying they made everything else seem utterly blissful. Wallace drifted and drooled as he was eased in and out of life, the zoetrope whirling on. While doctors operated and nurses drained, orderlies pushed, anaesthetists had him count in reverse, lights shone brightly, steel gleamed, blood flowed, and life continued. And that’s what made it all so pleasurable: life. Wallace recalled the crushing, unconquerable grip of death and it made everything that came after it a joy. Each breath, each blink, each simple movement was a prize that he had stolen from the man who’d tried to kill him. He drifted in and out, half registering the world around him, existing in a place without time or meaning.

  Then he woke up. This is different, Wallace thought as he looked around the hospital room. He felt the self-awareness and mental acuity that came with sobriety. He guessed they must have dropped the dosage of whatever was keeping the pain at bay. Three months on a photo assignment in Nepal had given him a passing familiarity with opiates and he recognised the muted feeling
of withdrawal rooted somewhere deep in his gut.

  Laminated vertical blinds cut the sunlight that shone through the frosted window and illuminated Wallace’s private room. There was nothing unusual about it: an electric bed, a trolley tray pushed to one corner, a stand supporting a bag of clear liquid that ran through a tube into the needle embedded in his arm, a heart rate monitor, a television attached to the wall, and an old lady. The old lady smiled as Wallace did a double take. She sat in a low chair positioned against the wall opposite his bed. She wore a floral jumper and a long black skirt and held a book: Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Her smile was joined by wide eyes that conveyed a perfect mix of sympathy and pity. Should I know you? Wallace tried to place the face, but he didn’t recognise her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ the old lady asked.

  ‘OK,’ Wallace croaked, his throat raw.

  The old lady stood and went to the tray table to pour a glass of water from a plastic jug.

  ‘They said you would find it difficult to talk,’ she said as she brought it over. ‘This might help.’

  Wallace nodded his thanks and took a sip, which immediately caused his throat to clam up with what felt like the worst case of tonsillitis he’d ever experienced. He mouthed an oath and grimaced as he held the glass out for the old lady.

  ‘It may take a while,’ she observed as she replaced the glass on the tray.

  ‘Police,’ Wallace rasped, the searing sensation now registering through the diminished painkillers.

  ‘No, I’m just a volunteer. We sit with some of the more . . .’ the old lady hesitated, searching for the right word, ‘. . . vulnerable patients.’

  Suicide watch. Great. Wallace shook his head at the old dear.

  ‘Police,’ he said again, willing her to get it this time. He wasn’t sure his throat could take much more.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed with sudden realisation. ‘You want me to fetch the police. Of course. I’ll ask one of the nurses to call someone.’

  Wallace was surprised at how tired he’d become; that simple attempt at communication had exhausted him. He passed out shortly after the old lady had left the room and came round to find someone gently touching his shoulder. A moment to focus; then recognition, one of the faces from the zoetrope; a doctor.

  ‘Mary said you were awake,’ the doctor began. ‘We were wondering if you could tell us your name.’

  The doctor wasn’t wearing a badge. Wallace put him in his mid-forties. He had a harsh Afrikaans accent and a severe, unfriendly face, which reinforced Wallace’s paranoia.

  Wallace touched his skull and shook his head to indicate that he didn’t remember.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘Odd. You don’t show any signs of neurological damage,’ the South African continued. ‘It’s one of the few parts of your body that was OK. You suffered serious bruising to your legs and back, three broken ribs, one compound, a fractured collar bone, broken wrist, lacerations of the neck and a collapsed windpipe.’

  Wallace’s eyes widened.

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ the doctor said as he studied Wallace in puzzlement. ‘I’m going to order another MRI. Make sure we didn’t miss anything.’

  Wallace smiled and nodded.

  ‘There’s a police officer outside. Are you up to seeing him?’

  Wallace nodded as emphatically as his damaged neck would allow.

  ‘If you need help with anything, just press this button,’ the doctor gestured towards a green button that hung from a cord beside Wallace’s bed.

  Wallace smiled and waved his thanks as the doctor withdrew. Moments later the door opened and a young black man in a shabby, crumpled suit entered.

  ‘Hi, I’m Detective Sergeant Bailey. The doc tells me you can’t remember your name. Is there something you’d like me to call you?’ Bailey was tall and slim, but had round cheeks that gave his face a babyish look, making him seem kinder and more approachable than he probably was. His closely shaved hair was almost certainly an attempt to give himself a menacing edge.

  ‘John,’ Wallace croaked.

  ‘John. OK, John, how can I help you?’

  Wallace beckoned the police officer closer. The pain each word caused him meant he didn’t want to repeat anything. Bailey drew near. Wallace could see that his eyes shone with intelligence.

  ‘Someone tried to kill me,’ Wallace rasped.

  ‘OK. Someone tried to kill you,’ Bailey said with more than a hint of scepticism.

  Wallace glared at him. ‘Man in body armour,’ he said through the pain.

  ‘I don’t mean any offence,’ Bailey replied. Wallace guessed he was somewhere in his mid-twenties, young enough to be eager, old enough to know that things aren’t always exactly how they seem. ‘It’s just that, well, patients’ records are confidential, but I’ve been waiting out there a while and I’ve always found that if you chat to the nurses, maybe buy them a tea, you can learn way more than you’d ever learn from a file. They say your injuries are consistent with a suicide attempt and that maybe you panicked when it went wrong. You were found passed out on a bus in Victoria Station.’

  Wallace had wanted to get lost, but couldn’t believe he’d made it all the way to the depot without any of the other passengers alerting the authorities. He shrugged inwardly: London, the place where nobody wants to get involved.

  ‘Man tried to kill me,’ he protested, his hoarse voice making him sound menacing and inhuman.

  ‘I haven’t dealt with many situations like this,’ Bailey responded, ‘But I do know that a lot of people feel embarrassed. Rather than admit what happened, they’re all like, “I don’t know how I finished up in front of the train, I slipped,” or, “I miscounted the pills, I meant to take two, but I took sixty.’’’

  He smiled down at Wallace, who hadn’t considered the possibility that he’d have to convince the police someone had attacked him.

  ‘Not suicide. Murder,’ Wallace rasped. ‘Was working. Knock at door . . .’

  He felt the world fade. His chest tightened and his mind became light and fuzzy. He could feel his heart pound and his palms grow moist. The memory of what happened was triggering a frightful reaction in him. Wallace felt the familiar haze of a panic attack, and his head grew light as reality drifted into a distant bubble.

  Bailey drew close. ‘Are you OK?’

  Wallace nodded and then shook his head. Don’t try to fight it. Breathe. He focused on his breathing – slow and full. Slow and full. The tightness in his chest subsided.

  ‘I died,’ he whispered. ‘Shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ Bailey suggested, his demeanour changing from light scepticism to serious professionalism. ‘Have you really forgotten your name?’

  Wallace hesitated. Someone had tried to kill him and he’d watched The Godfather enough times to know that hospital was a prime place for a second attempt. Bailey produced a pad and pencil and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Promise me. Not tell anyone,’ Wallace said quietly.

  ‘Any notes are confidential. They only get put on file if there’s an arrest, in which case you’d have nothing to worry about. You’re safe, I promise,’ Bailey replied reassuringly.

  ‘John Wallace.’

  ‘Address?’ Bailey asked.

  ‘Flat four, sixty-one Hamilton Terrace, St John’s Wood,’ Wallace replied.

  Bailey breathed a silent whistle. ‘Nice part of town. Where do you work?’

  ‘All over. Photographer.’

  ‘You enjoy your job?’

  Wallace’s eyes narrowed. ‘Didn’t try to kill self,’ he rasped.

  ‘Do you live alone?’ Bailey continued.

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened?’ Bailey asked gently.

  Wallace hesitated. He could feel panic rising as he cast his mind back to that night. Bailey put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s OK. You’re safe.’

  ‘Ten o’clock,’ Wallace began. ‘Working. Uploading pictures. Knock at door.’

  ‘Does your building have a buzzer?’ Bailey interrupted.

  Wallace nodded.

  ‘And you didn’t let this guy in?’

  Wallace nodded again.

  ‘So either one of your neighbours let him in, or he broke in,’ Bailey observed before falling silent.

  Wallace continued, ‘Opened door. Nobody there. Something sprayed in face. Passed out. Came round. Blindfold. Hands and feet tied. Put noose . . .’ He trailed off, his hoarse voice cracking to nothing.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Bailey encouraged him gently. ‘I need to know what happened.’

  Wallace wiped his welling eyes and composed himself. ‘Noose on neck,’ he whispered. ‘Forced to stand. Blindfold off.’

  ‘Did you see him?’ Bailey asked.

  Wallace shook his head. ‘Not then. Cut bonds. Made get on chair. Then saw him. Black mask, black suit. Black goggles. Round, covered eyes. Long coat. Like superhero,’ he said as he remembered his dark observation.

  ‘So you didn’t get a look at his face?’

  Wallace shook his head.

  ‘What about height? Build?’ Bailey continued.

  ‘Six feet. Maybe taller. Strong.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’ Bailey asked. ‘Tell you why?’

  Wallace shook his head again. ‘He just . . .’ He struggled with the memory, and his chest pounded with the unbearable pressure of fear. His throat tightened, making every breath an effort.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ Bailey said, his hand pressing gently on Wallace’s shoulder. ‘You’re OK. You’re safe.’

  Wallace tried to suppress the panic, but it was an illogical force. He knew there was nothing to be afraid of, but try as he might to convince himself, there was something deeper and more powerful at play. Millions of years of instinct bred into mammals to ensure their survival, panic at the first sign of danger provoking a bestial fight or flight response that could not be satisfied by a wounded man in a hospital bed. No amount of reason or rationality could overcome this ancient, primal feeling.