by Cody Young
So Ben did the procedure. Counted down the boy’s ribs to find the right spot. Made the incision. Shoved his gloved fingers into the cut. Followed the line of the rib and pushed the tube into the pleural cavity. And Dmitri held the end of the tube for him, but he looked like he hated Ben's guts.
Melanie leaned forward get a better look. Blood spurted from the end of the tube. Thick dark blood. “Hemothorax, just like you said.”
Ben wasn’t the type to say ‘I told you so’.
The tube was draining blood into a jar on the floor when the ambulance men came. “He was a bit lucky,” one of them said, looking at the sleeping boy.
“Why did he come here?” said the other paramedic. "Why didn't he call 999?"
“He’s afraid of going to prison,” Ben said. There wasn’t much he could do to prevent that.
“Better than the other place, surely?”
Ben caught the look on Dmitri’s face as the ambulance men wheeled the boy away.
“He was my patient, Dima. I had to make the call.”
* * *
Ben had been looking forward to Wednesday. He’d changed his shift and worked all day Tuesday, and it had seemed like a very long wait.
He’d checked every detail connected with going to Tower Bridge. For what he considered to be a small admission fee, he could take her up to the viewing galleries that spanned the gap between the two towers on the bridge. From up there - if the brochure was to be believed – romantic vistas of the Thames would be theirs, and, for additional monies, they could hire a viewfinder and admire all sorts of important landmarks across urban London. It would make him feel like a tourist in his own city, but it was what she wanted. At this delicate stage in their courtship, it seemed very important to give her what she wanted. Ben reflected on how well his sister’s advice had worked, and he resolved to keep it up with slavish dedication The trip to the flower markets had been a great success, and the prison visit had got him that sensational kiss – the details of which he’d replayed in his head, over and over and over. Who knows where things could end up tonight if this delightful trend continued.
He’d only done one tiny thing that his sister Ruth might disapprove of. He’d bought Layla a necklace in a Hatton Garden jewellers. A lovely, delicate strand of gold. No pendant. That could come later. It came in a slim presentation box – about the size of a man’s wallet. The necklace was swirled around twice inside it – secured with little strands of white ribbon. He knew that Ruth said no presents. But it was Layla’s birthday, for heaven’s sake. She’d said nothing, nothing at all. But she had asked for Wednesday. And he remembered the date – it had been recorded in her patient file. She was eighteen. Legally an adult. Ben preferred to push all thoughts about the disparity in their ages to the very back of his mind – but right now he felt a kind of relief that she had reached this significant birthday.
He opened the presentation box for about the twentieth time. The necklace was just as lovely as it had been the last time he looked. He fantasized a few more times about fastening it gently around her neck – and in his imagination he placed tender kisses on the smooth pale curve of her neck, right there where her blonde hair ended and the creamy skin began. In his imagination the kisses didn’t stop there either. They went considerably further than they would be able to go in the galleries at Tower Bridge.
Only this time when he went to the boarded-up pub to pick her up, she wasn’t there.
He did the circuit lots of times. No Layla. Eventually, he parked his car in a side road and went to stand by the pub himself. He waited there beside the doorway for another forty minutes, getting colder and colder and more worried as the time went on. He looked at his watch. It was almost an hour after the time now. She wasn’t coming. And he didn’t believe for one minute that she’d changed her mind.
The kiss, the look in her eyes. The way she cried when he said he take her to Tower Bridge. She wanted this as much as he did. So why the hell wasn’t she here?
The fear inside him turned into panic. He walked rapidly towards the first block of flats at the Rookeries.
Gone
He paused on the concrete staircase that led up to Layla’s place. If Ray was there – this could be like walking into a trap. But he was beyond fear now.
He took the stairs two at a time and ran along the exterior landing. Every door looked the same – scuffed blue paint, applied inexpertly by some council employee. Each door had a square window with frosted glass in it, strengthened with wire. Every single door.
And then he got to Layla’s and it was NOT the same. Not anymore.
“Oh, God.”
The flat was burnt out. The blue door wasn’t even there. It was boarded over now, like the pub. And the windows were the same – blank and boarded up. And above the windows and the door there was an ugly great stain where toxic smoke had belched out when the flat was burning. Ben just stared at it all, like it couldn’t be true.
Her flat was burnt out. The acrid smell of burning still clung to the place. An ugly, chemical smell. Harsh on the lungs. The smell left by synthetic carpets when they burned to dust. The smell left by burnt plastic toys and the foam inside cheap furniture. He touched the lintel around the door, and the soot stained his fingers. Thick, black soot. He knocked on the boarded-up door – which was ridiculous – no one could possibly still be in there.
Then he heard a voice. “She’s gone. She don’t live there anymore.”
And he turned and saw a young girl – only fourteen or so – with red-brown afro hair and solemn dark eyes. And she said. “You’re Ben, aren’t ya?”
And he nodded.
“I’m Tracey.”
Tracey? This was Tracey? He’d imagined someone older, because this was the person Layla said she left the children with. And in Ben’s world, she would have been older. But there were more pressing problems than that. Questions that had to be answered. “Where is she? What’s happened to her?”
“Please,” said Tracey. “Don’t stand around out here. People will have seen you already.”
Tracey turned, as if to go.
Ben panicked. “No. You have to tell me!”
“Follow me,” Tracey said. “My mum wants to talk to you.”
Tracey
Tracey thought he looked like a film star – the bloke Layla had landed. He was far more good-looking than Layla had described. But he was pale and worried and more than a little upset. She took him into her flat two doors down and asked him to come through to the lounge.
Tracey’s mum was sitting behind an old industrial sewing machine making Christmas stockings out of red felt. They were going to sell them next week in Romford market. There were strict rules about not running a business from a flat in the Rookeries, but rules had to be broken when there was even a sniff of money to be made.
“Mum. This is Layla’s boyfriend.”
Tracey’s mother looked up from her sewing. She was a big woman of Afro-Caribbean descent. “Oh, no. You poor, poor boy.”
“The flat’s burnt out,” he said. “For pity’s sake tell me if she’s dead?”
“No. She’s not dead. She wasn’t there when it burnt. If she had been it might never have happened.”
And Tracey saw the reaction on Ben’s face, when he took in this information. “She’s alright?”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly,” said the mother, over the top of her glasses.
“But she’s alive?”
“Yes. She wasn’t there on the night of the fire. She’s being looked after – if you can call it that – by a man named Mr Birch.”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head, clearly struggling with painful emotions. “She was supposed to be meeting me. We had it all planned.”
“Other people had plans for her, too.”
“No,” he said, panicking. “No, please, no.” He clenched his fists, then glanced away, Embarrassed, perhaps, at experiencing this flash of anger in front of two strangers.
Finally, Trace
y’s mother got up from her sewing. “I’m Cynthia. I’ll tell you what I know.”
“My name’s Ben.”
Cynthia smiled. “I know what your name is. We’ve heard all about you.”
She gestured that he should sit down in one of the armchairs, while she sat down in the other.
Tracey hovered near the sewing machine, not sure if she should stay or go. Then she sat on the floor and looked up at Ben. Marvelling at this remarkable man. No wonder Layla thought he was wonderful. He was everything and more. The angles of his face. His dark eyes. The hint of masculine cologne. And he loved Layla like she was the last girl left in the whole world.
Cynthia sighed. “Ray found out.”
“About me?” Ben said.
Cynthia nodded. “And Layla wasn’t the baby she was pretending to be. I hope you knew that?”
“Of course,” he said. “I would hardly have been dating a girl of fifteen.”
“Well, I don’t know, doctor. You’ve crossed a few boundaries, haven’t you?”
Ben blushed. “She’s told you everything.”
“Yes. Tracey’s her best friend. And I was best mates with her mother.”
Ben swallowed. “Tell me about the fire.”
“Ray’s on crack. Crack addicts burn out their dwelling places all the time. Naked flames and booze and addicts who don’t care anymore. Not a good mix. Some of the older residents around here are scared to go to bed at night. Afraid they’ll wake up and find themselves trapped above someone else’s bonfire.”
Ben listened. “Um… is Ray…alright?”
“Ray Leach is dead. Gone to a better place, or a worse one. He took two others with him.”
Ben’s face looked stricken. “The children? Oh, no, Cynthia. I could have put them in care. Layla wouldn’t let me.”
“No, Ben. Not the children. Two other poor souls who shared Ray’s affliction.”
Ben sat back on the couch, face very white, looking like he needed to deal with some of the shock for a moment. Three people dead. But not the ones he cared about. More by luck than judgment. “What happened to the children?”
“They are in care,” said Cynthia. “I would have had them here, but the social services got there before me. Ray called them, when he found out about Layla’s birthday.”
“It’s today,” Ben said, softly. “I bought her a necklace. I was going to take her to Tower Bridge.”
Cynthia touched his arm. “She would have liked that. Tower Bridge is where Layla’s father proposed to her mother. She thought it was the most romantic place on earth. But you don’t you ever tell her I told you.”
Ben looked up, like Cynthia had inflicted some kind of pain upon him. “But will I ever see her again? And before I do, what will they have done?”
“Mr Birch has her now. Mr Birch likes girls like her – naïve, untouched. He’s got a whole bunch of evil people he knows who’ll pay very highly for the first time with a girl like that.”
“I think we should contact the police.”
“Are you crazy? Everyone’s afraid of Mr Birch – and that includes the police. He runs this whole estate with an iron fist and you can’t do a thing about it. If you could have got her away somewhere – that would have been your only hope.”
Ben ran a hand over his face, perhaps realizing how stupid he’d been. “I wanted to. I asked her to come and live with me. But we were just getting to know each other. She was shy and she needed more time.”
Cynthia looked at him, sadly. “Time was something she didn’t have, Ben. Time ran out for Layla.”
Ben looked like he didn’t even want to know the next part. “Go on.”
“They have their little gatherings on a Friday night. In a back room down at the Fizz Club. God have mercy on their thieving, lying souls. Hounds from hell, they are. Pimping poor girls like Layla out to the highest bidder. I’ve got to get my Tracey to a better place before she comes of age, that’s for sure…”
Tracey was already aware of her mother’s long term plan. Save up the money for a campervan and live off the grid somewhere, where the likes of Mr Birch could never find them. But they’d need to sell a hell of a lot of Christmas stockings to make that dream a reality.
But Ben touched Cynthia’s arm. “She only turned eighteen today. And it’s not Friday. Does that mean they haven’t done it yet?”
“Ben. I can’t promise you that. If someone has already offered them the right money. They might have done the deal. They wouldn’t be too fussy about the exact day, you know. They break the law every day of the week.”
He put his head back in despair. “Oh, Cynthia, I’ve been so stupid.”
“It wasn’t your fault. What could you be expected to do? You’ve got your own life to think about.”
He shook his head. “No. Layla. Layla. She is my life.”
“Oh, Ben. You’re a good, kind man. But Layla wasn’t for you. She’s mixed up with some terrible people and you can’t stand up to them. They’ll kill you if you try. You think I don’t mean that but I do. Go home. Go home and forget about Layla.”
“No. Never. Do you have his telephone number? Mr Birch?”
“For goodness sake,” Cynthia begged. “Have you lost your mind?”
Ben gave her a fierce, angry look. “Yes. My mind, my heart, my soul. If they hurt her, I’ll tear them apart.”
“You’re a madman, thinking like that. It’s you that will be torn apart.”
Tracey looked at him. Thinking of what the Birch gang would do if Ben did anything crazy. But then, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, Mr Birch might need to watch out, because he’d made Ben into a madman, and only a madman would take on Mr Birch.
Fizz Club
Ben stormed into the Fizz club, hoping to strike fear into the hearts of everyone drinking at the bar. The late lunch crowd was there, having plates of fries and big glasses of white wine. Robbie Williams was playing – not in person, of course – but his voice and his music was pouring forth from every speaker in the club. Ben decided that doctor-like decorum was no longer his modus operandi. He needed a new method of operating, and yelling at the top of his lungs was his first and best hope.
“Layla! If you can hear me, Layla, answer me!”
Everyone in the bar looked up, there was a hint of misplaced laughter, but for the most part they all stared at Ben with a certain amount of fear in their eyes.
“Layla! Layla! I want to take you home!”
Two bouncers with physiques much more impressive than Ben’s own came ambling forward through the crowd. And Ben turned and glowered at the first one. “Go and get Mr Birch. I want to speak with him.”
“He’s not here.”
“Yes, he is. There’s a Mercedes outside.”
A strange look passed between the two bouncers. They approached Ben, who stared them down. “Get Mr Birch for me. Now.”
One of the bouncers folded his arms across his huge chest. “Maybe he doesn’t drive a Mercedes.”
Ben almost laughed. “No. The Merc’s yours and he drives a Morris Minor? I don’t think so. Tell him Ben Stein’s here about the girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl the police are looking for. The girl he’s holding here against her will.”
Ben hadn’t told the police, he’d come straight here, but he wanted to see what reaction he got. Years ago, his sister Ruth had told him he was clever and crazy – and it was a dangerous combination. The two men’s eyes widened.
After a pause. One of the men stayed with Ben, and the other turned around and walked through to a back room. To get Mr Birch, Ben thought, smugly.
While he was waiting for Mr Birch, Ben took stock. Thirty or forty people in the bar. Plenty of witnesses. Nothing could happen to him – but he could accuse Mr Birch, publicly. The ebony barman – Jacob – was standing behind the counter, holding a glass and a polishing cloth, just like before. He wasn’t moving, though. He wasn’t polishing. He was staring fixedly at Ben. Like he was tryi
ng to convey him something with his eyes – or trying to work something out in his own mind. Ben couldn’t tell.
The Robbie Williams song was reaching its climax when a door painted black to match the wall behind the stage, opened. And there was Mr Birch, standing in the doorway. He didn’t move. Just stood. He asked the bouncer to point Ben out to him, and gave him a good hard stare.
Ben stared back. Birch was over sixty – but fit and tanned. Obviously he’d been somewhere hot in recent weeks – no one tans like that in London in November. He was wearing a hand-made suit, prick-stitched around the lapels. Possibly Italian. Definitely upwards of a thousand pounds. Ben had one a lot like it. He’d worn it to Becky’s wedding – another exercise in humiliation.
Everyone was watching. Ben wasn’t used to being the cause of a bar-room showdown, but he was glad he’d chosen a public place for his first encounter with Mr Birch. He stood there, waiting for Mr Birch to come towards him. But he didn’t. And there was no way Ben was volunteering to go into a back room with Mr Birch.
It was an impasse. For about eight whole seconds.
Then Mr Birch addressed the bouncer, standing beside Ben. “Get him out. He’s nobody and he’s disturbing the peace.”
Then Ben felt the bouncer’s hand on his shoulder, and his other hand twisting his arm. He started to yell and protest about Layla. “Where’s the girl, Birch? You can’t keep her here against her will. That’s kidnapping. That’s illegal. Hey. I’m talking to you!”
But it was no good. Singlehandedly he was removed from the bar. Ejected into the street.
Ben didn’t quite hit the pavement when they threw him out – but he stumbled off the edge of the kerb and into the path of a car that swerved and blared its horn.
He stepped back up onto the pavement. He considered hammering on the door – yelling in through the windows – threatening Birch once again with the police. But threats made once don’t work any better the second time they are uttered. They work on the first go, or they don’t work at all. Ben knew that Mr Birch wasn’t afraid of the police. And it was his bar. He could throw anyone out. And once he had done so, it was all too easy for him to send people after – to make sure Ben didn’t return.
