Ben

by Cody Young

  “Is that true, Fee?” Ravi said. “Why would you do that? Were you on some kind of moral crusade?”

  “She hated Ben, that’s all. Because he was good and kind and everybody liked him. Go on, Fiona. Admit it. There was a form. And you knew he’d filled it in for her. So you guessed what was going on.”

  Fiona’s face looked stony.

  Sally looked at Ravi. “He did try to make it right. He did try to get her to change doctors before they got involved.”

  Fiona shook her head. “His behaviour was inexcusable. He deserved to get caught.”

  Ravi stood there, staring at Fiona. “So, you decided to be his judge and his jury?”

  “And his executioner,” said Sal. “She was the one who told Jonathan. They spent yesterday afternoon tucked up in his office, drafting a letter to the GMC.”

  “Poor Ben,” said Ravi, shaking his head.

  “As I see it,” said Sal. “He only got caught because Fee saw that form. Ironically, if he hadn’t tried to do the right thing. No one would ever have known.”

  “It’s all irrelevant now,” said Fiona. “Guns. Drugs. Prostitutes. He wasn’t fit to come through that door.”

  Ambulance

  They let Layla go with him in the ambulance. The sirens started to blare, which should have scared her, except that they were the only thing that gave her any hope. If he was dead, they wouldn’t need the sirens. So there must be a tiny bit of hope. The paramedic was working on him keeping the intubation tube going, squeezing the bag that sent life-giving air into his lungs. He asked Layla short sharp questions.

  “Did he do any other drugs?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Did he drink alcohol with the pethidine?”

  “No. Only water.”

  “Do you know if he had a weak heart?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  He had the strongest, most generous heart in the world, she thought.

  “Was in taking any other medication?”

  “I don’t know. He said he never got sick.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ben.” Layla remembered the look on his face, the first time she ever said his name.

  “Can you hear me, Ben?” the ambulance man said, loud and clear in the patient’s ear.

  Ben lay there, motionless, arm falling limp over the edge of the stretcher.

  “I don’t think he can,” she murmured.

  “It’s good to try, just in case. Sometimes it helps to keep them with us.”

  “Listen, Ben,” he yelled, “We’re taking you to The Royal London.”

  Oh, dear. “Don’t tell him that,” Layla said. “He hated the Royal London, he told me so on our first date.”

  “Date?” the ambulance man said, with a smile. “Is that what you call it?”

  The man thought she was a tart. Of course he did. The room – the condoms – the discarded parts of the intimacy kit – the crushed rose petals on the blood-stained bed.

  And Ben, lying there in the ambulance – dead white, like an Italian statue. No, you can’t die. She clutched his hand. He was still warm. He was still hers. Just for a while. She looked at his face as he lay there on the stretcher. Untroubled in a death-like sleep. She stroked his coal black hair. Glossy like the feathers of a rook.

  Oh Ben, what have I done to you?

  I’ve turned you into a black rook. A dealer. A liar. A thief and a killer.

  And you did it all for me.

  Then the paramedic noticed something he didn’t like the look of on the heart monitor. He stared at it – as if he could will it to show a better reading. But the capricious machine began to bleep out a warning instead.

  He pushed Layla out of the way, and called to his colleague. “He’s arresting, Blake. Pull over.”

  And to her surprise, they stopped the ambulance in the middle of a London arterial and started doing rapid compressions on his chest. Layla felt like she was watching from above. For a moment, she too was a frightened bird, wings beating, heart fluttering in a fragile breast. And she was hovering above the scene. She saw it all. The two men, leaning over Ben, the electrodes being placed on his pale chest, the harsh sound of the machine when they sent the current through him. The way his body went into spasm. She heard the electronic voice on the defibrillator machine telling them to do another set of compressions.

  “Keep trying, Blake…”

  Yes. Keep trying.

  Bad News

  It was obvious to Sylvia that this was no ordinary phone call. Morrie was holding the handset up to his ear, listening intently, his other hand rested on his chest as if a pang of pain had just gone through him. His eyes widened as he heard the news.

  She stood there, putting her own hand up to her chest now too. “Who is it?”

  He shook his head – barely looking at her. His responses to whoever was calling were short – one word answers and worrying phrases like “We’ll come. We can be there in three hours.”

  After the longest four minutes of Sylvia’s life, he put down the phone. “Don’t upset yourself, but that was the hospital.”

  “What’s happened? Ruth? Or Ben?”

  “We have to go to London, my love.”

  “Ben,” she murmured. Ben was in London. “Is it bad?”

  “An accident. With a gun. I spoke to Layla.”

  “A gun?” Mrs Stein went white. Whiter than white. Her chest heaved, under her hand.

  “He got shot in the shoulder, Layla was with him when it happened. And after he got shot, he took some medication that sent him into a coma.”

  “A gun? A coma?”

  “They’re doing everything they can.”

  She looked from left to right as if instructions on what to do next might be written on the walls of her sitting room. “I must pack. He’ll need us both by his side if he’s in a coma.”

  “We’ll drive to London. I’m not sure if they’ll let us see him, but I want to be near, just in case. Layla needs someone with her, too. We must help her. He loved that girl.”

  “No. No!” She put both hands up to her temples, like there was noise in her head and it was going to make her scream. “You said loved. Like he was gone, Morrie. Tell me he’s not dead.”

  “He’s not! It was a slip of the tongue.”

  And Mrs Stein, who nearly always had something to say, was struck dumb. She opened her mouth to speak and no sound came out.

  So Morrie spoke for her. “My dear, let’s not delay. I’ll tell you everything when we’re in the car.”

  * * *

  They put him in a private room. Hooked up to various monitors. The light in there was subdued – and it was night outside. Morrie sat there looking at his son, with the girl, Layla, by his side.

  She turned to him. “Have you been asking the man upstairs to save him?”

  “Constantly,” Morrie admitted.

  “I never really believed in anything much,” she said. “Except fate, maybe, and how I ought to dodge it. I never worried about Him Upstairs.”

  Morrie patted her hand. “I’ll speak to him for you, if you like.”

  “No. I’m angry with him. I hate him for doing this to me. The only good thing God ever did for me was to send me Ben Stein. I can’t believe he’d be so cruel as to take him away.”

  “He’ll send him back to us,” Morrie said, although in his heart he knew that many good Jewish boys had been lost to the people who loved them, one way or another.

  She moved a bit closer to the bed – and touched Ben’s hand – which was pale and lifeless. “Oh, Ben, I don’t need no saints or martyrs. I just want you back, you hear me?”

  Morrie looked at her. Young and lovely as a just-opened flower, and hopelessly in love with his son.

  She sat down next to Morrie on one of the hospitals uncomfortable plastic chairs. She touched the gold necklace she wore, and Morrie guessed that Ben must have given it to her. Perhaps his son had even dreamed of getting her a ring.

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nbsp; Layla glanced nervously at Morrie and then spoke, “I’m going to convert for him, you know.”

  “Are you, my dear?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided. I’ll tell him when he wakes up.”

  Morrie smiled at her, kindly. “He was never worried about it, Layla.”

  “Don’t say was. I don’t like was.”

  “No. We must be positive.” Mr Stein squeezed her hand. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

  “It would take away the last barrier between us, wouldn’t it?”

  He nodded. The last barrier. “He’ll be thrilled.”

  When she turned back to Morrie Stein, he was wiping away tears with the back of his lined, veiny hand. He fished for a pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he put it in his pocket, rose solemnly, and left her alone with Ben.

  There was only one barrier that could separate Ben and Layla now. And that was death.

  Dirty Work

  Mr and Mrs Stein said she shouldn’t have to do it. The police had no right to use a young, untrained girl in their undercover operations. It was too dangerous. No one would want to put her through that now. She needed time to get over it all.

  But Layla decided that she would do it. For Ben, as much as anything. Someone had to try to bring down that evil man Birch. He ought to go and live in one of Her Majesty’s best apartments, and Her Majesty ought to lose the key.

  She was strung out with emotion. The police had interviewed her for hours. The events that led to the death of Jimmy Warren had been thrashed out a hundred times. Then came the deal. They had prepped her and trained her. Talked for hours until she was word perfect on what to say.

  They dropped her off a short way from the club. She stood outside looking up at the sign, which looked scratched and seedy during the hours of daylight. The Fizz Club. She’d made three promises that she’d never go in there. To Ben, to her father, and to herself.

  But she went in. She didn’t care about anything now, except getting revenge on Mr. Birch.

  The bar was empty. No punters. Only the old barman, Jacob, polishing glasses. She walked through to the private room where Birch’s chosen ones gathered around the green card table. Gambling and smoking, just like the bad old days. There were four of them in there. Volatile, violent men. And an empty seat where Jimmy Warren used to sit.

  The youngest one looked up. A man in a red cap. “Hello, Layla. Where’s the good doctor?”

  “Ben Stein’s dead.”

  No emotion. They had told her she mustn’t show emotion.

  There was a pause.

  She raised her chin, like they taught her to. They’ve got to believe you don’t care. He was just a punter. And life’s full of twists and turns. Tricks to turn. Fates to change. Just because one man was dead.

  “How did he die?” said the man.

  “Same way Jimmy died,” said Layla. “Just took him a little longer.” This time her feelings betrayed her. A shake in her voice. A pain that could not be smothered.

  That made them look at each other. Frowns and glances crossed the card table, passing from one man to another through that place where the light fell and the smoke rose, above the green baize on the table. Then a man she recognised as Glenn Hallam spoke.

  “And why are you here, Layla?”

  “Because I’ve got nowhere else to go. And this place was like a second home to my mother.”

  That was true. Tara almost lived here at one time. And for all that Ben had tried so hard to help her, some things would always be true. Her father was a convicted criminal. And her mother was a tart.

  “Blood will out,” said one man, as if he’d said something incredibly wise.

  “Didn’t the doctor have time to make a will, darling? Didn’t he leave you all his lovely money?” The man laughed at his own joke, which Layla found inadequately funny.

  She ignored him. “Where’s Mr Birch, I need to talk to him.”

  And ask him to sell me a gun, she thought.

  “You can’t disturb him. He’s in the office. Arranging Jimmy’s send off.”

  “Poor Jimmy,” she said, with a strange little sigh. “He was my first. The first man I ever slept with.” Well, there was no way Jimmy could deny it. So it didn’t matter now, if she lied.

  Layla watched the men closely to see their reaction.

  The young one looked up and smiled, “Might be best not to mention that to his wife, if you’re planning on coming to the funeral.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  One of the others whispered something that she couldn’t quite hear.

  Layla smiled and walked around the Fizz club – she even went over to one of the poles the lap dancers used – and touched it like she was tempted to take a twirl around it, just for a laugh.

  “Get Mr Birch,” she said. “Tell him I’m interested in applying for a new position.”

  One of the men laughed. “The old positions are the most popular, darling.”

  She was glad she was making them laugh. It meant they didn’t see her as a threat.

  “Did you hear how much they got for me, then?”

  “I heard twenty grand,” said Glenn.

  “Yeah. And he never laid a finger on me, neither. Do you think he was a fool to pay twenty grand for a girl he didn’t want? It’s like buying a violin and never taking it out of the case.”

  “I wish there were a few more like him,” said Glenn.

  “Oh, they’ll never be anyone like Ben Stein,” she said, dangerously. “If there were, I could make twenty grand a week, maybe.” She threw her head back like she was drunk. “Think how much coke I could buy with twenty grand a week!”

  “Too much.” One of them laughed. “Did you have some already today, sweetheart?”

  The bar at the Fizz club ran right through from the public lounge into the back room, so that customers in both areas could be served by the same bartenders. The ebony barman – Jacob - came through and asked her if he could get her a drink.

  She said no, she wanted to be high. She needed to be high. “Come on, Please. Someone help me out.” She looked at Jacob appealingly, but he shook his head. “Can’t help you, missy.”

  She sighed and turned to the men sitting at the card table. “Don’t you gentleman have something I could buy?”

  But they hardly took any notice of her. Waved her away like she was cigarette smoke. Nothing more.

  So then she tried a mixture of sleaze and naivety, though her soul screamed inside her. Ben would hate for me to do this. Ben took a bullet so I didn’t have to do this.

  She leaned right over the table, and she plucked a few fifty pound notes out of the front of her bra. That made the men pay attention. They liked double Ds, and they’d like fifties even better.

  Yes. This was getting easier. She could be the kind of girl they liked. A girl with assets in her bra. She pouted and teased them – the way she’d seen her mother do a thousand times.

  “Yeah, we can find you something,” said one of the guys, smiling and forgetting his cards. “My name’s Glenn, by the way.”

  “I know who you are,” said Layla.

  And then he sold her some. He put his gun on the table and got a little fold of paper from out of his pocket. And Layla asked him if it was nice stuff. She only wanted to buy nice stuff.

  “It’s the best,” Glenn said. “Came in last Friday. Sixty per cent pure – guaranteed.”

  She smiled and handed him the money. “I want some downers too. For afterwards. Something to dull the pain.”

  Glenn looked shifty. “Can’t help you there.”

  “Yes you can,” said Layla, smiling innocently. “You’ve got Oxycodone. I know you have. And you know why I know. So. Sell me some.”

  One of the other men stood up. The tallest one. “Oxy’s never been Glenn’s thing. It’s always been coke and weed with him, sweetheart.”

  “No. He’s trading in Oxy now,” said Layla, petulantly. “Ben Stein sold it to him. Ain’t that the truth, Glenn?”
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br />   All the men looked worried now. Glancing from one to another in confusion. But no one looked more worried than Glenn.

  The man with the red cap spoke first. “Mr Birch will kill you if you’ve been buying stuff elsewhere.”

  “I haven’t. I don’t need to. I work for Birch and that’s good enough for me,” said Glenn desperately. “Why would I? Birch keeps me well supplied. I’m doing alright.”

  But the other men were all looking at Glenn. And Glenn was shaking.

  “He’s been flush with cash all week,” the youngest man said. “Talking about a new car.”

  The third one shook his head in amazement. “You’ve been selling for Stein? Under Mr Birch’s nose?”

  “No. I haven’t. I swear.” There was sweat beading on Glenn’s face and his eyes were round with fear.

  “You fucking liar!” One of the men got up to administer what he considered to be justice. And Glenn just closed his eyes and waited for the man’s fist to break his jaw.

  “What’s all this?” Mr Birch stood in the doorway.

  Confusion

  Ben thought he must be back at med school, though he couldn’t understand why. He was sure he had a dim and distant memory of leaving all that behind. Wasn’t there a graduation party… photographs? Lots of people shaking hands? But no, he seemed to be doing morning rounds with a bunch of other interns and he could hear the familiar voice of a senior doctor posing questions.

  “And what do you think the effect of this injury will be on the brachial nerve bundle?

  “Um… he may lose the use of his right arm?”

  “He may indeed, gentlemen.”

  Yes – Ben knew this man. He always called the students ‘gentlemen’ even if some of them were women. What was his name?

  “And why did the pethidine cause a coma?” the senior doctor said.

  This one drew a blank, until some bright spark spoke up. “Did it... maybe… interact with some other drug in his system?”

  “That’s worth considering,” said the senior doctor. “But what’s the correct answer? Did we all study our notes?”