by Huw Thomas
At the time, Harper had not wanted to argue. It seemed more important to get out of hospital. Showing confusion might have increased their reluctance to let him go. Besides, he was thinking clearly enough to know he was in no fit state to ride home.
Much more puzzling though were his clothes. The sketchy images produced by his mind showed him dressed in his usual riding gear. But that wasn’t what he found himself wearing in hospital.
It only began to sink in as he limped out through the main foyer and checked to see if he had enough money to pay for a taxi. Going through his clothes, he found his empty wallet in one pocket and less than three pounds in change in another. At that point, he started getting really confused. He more or less recognised the clothes: some faded jeans, an Africa Calling T-shirt, a fleece top bought years ago in the Lake District, as well as an ancient denim jacket he barely remembered. On his feet he had an old pair of trainers.
His clothes, sure enough, but nothing he would wear for cycling. He did not even realise he still owned the jacket. Which made it doubly strange. He calculated he was at the hospital for five or six hours at the most. He was also convinced he had been more or less conscious since his arrival. So the clothes on his body must be the same ones he was wearing when the paramedics picked him up off the road.
Besides which, it was not as if he had been in overnight and Becca had brought in a change of clothes. Harper shivered. They would hardly have changed his clothes in the ambulance. And where could they have found them? And why an old jacket that must have been lurking at the bottom of a suitcase?
By the time he reached the junction where Quay Hill met the top of the High Street, Harper was getting steadier on his feet. The limp still slowed him down though.
It was well past six in the evening now but the city centre was still humming. Most of the shoppers were gone. Now it was office workers thronging the streets: some on their way home, others off in search of refreshment or entertainment.
There were more people around than cars but as Harper limped over the pedestrian crossing at the junction, a black BMW swerved around the corner and into the High Street without pausing. Harper swore as he stumbled out of the way and the polished paintwork brushed his hip. Other pedestrians jumped back or jerked to a halt, some gesturing at the blatant disregard of their right-of-way and safety. But whoever was behind the tinted glass did not hesitate and the car continued without any sign the driver had even noticed the people in his path.
Harper shook his head. He was about to continue, when glancing sideways, a familiar face in the flow coming up Quay Hill caught his eye. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stopped next to a bollard and waited. He smiled as she drew nearer. One hand raised itself, ready for the embrace.
But she walked straight past, her eyes just grazing him as she turned the corner without pausing. Harper turned, confused. He stared at the back of her head, relief melting from his face. ‘Becca?’ he called.
She gave no indication of hearing him.
‘Becca!’
Still no response.
‘Rebecca!’ He bellowed her name and this time she stopped, turning to scan the street. She was wearing a big fluffy hat against the cold, her hair tucked out of sight. Her eyes flicked around in surprise, looking for the person who had hailed her.
‘Becca.’ Harper hurried towards her as fast as his limp would allow. ‘Didn’t you see me?’
The expression on Rebecca Shah’s face made him slow and he stopped a few feet away, one hand still outstretched. ‘What is it, Becca?’
She regarded him nervously. She appeared wary. Then she frowned. ‘Harper isn’t it?’ Relief washed some of the uncertainty from her face. ‘You work for Tony Wright, don’t you?’
Harper looked at her blankly. ‘What’re you on about? Work for Tony?’
He shook his head. ‘Didn’t you see me?’
Rebecca started to appear worried and a little nervous. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just didn’t recognise you.’
She bit her lip. ‘It is Harper, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s not bloody “Harper”! And what do you mean “recognise me”?’ Harper shook his head in angry confusion. ‘Come on, Becca. I’m not in the mood. I haven’t had a good day. I’ve just walked out of hospital; some idiot ploughed into me when I was on my bike and knocked me into a ditch. They wanted to keep me in and I’m covered with bruises.’
Rebecca backed off a little and glanced around. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you and I’m sorry if I got your name wrong. I mistook you for someone else.’
Harper held out his hands. ‘Becca, please. This isn’t funny. I just had a nasty knock and woke up in hospital. Stop acting weird.’
Rebecca began to move away more steadily. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you but it wasn’t intentional. I really don’t know what your name is. I’m sorry you had an accident but I don’t think there’s anything I can do to help.’ She shook her head. ‘My name’s not ‘Becca’ either. You must have mistaken me for someone too.’
She gave a polite smile, turned and began to walk off, glancing over her shoulder as she went. ‘I’m sorry but I really need to go.’
‘Becca!’ Harper began to limp after her, holding out his hands. ‘Stop this, Becca. Please.’
Rebecca stopped for a moment. She looked scared and unhappy in the face of his intensity and earnest entreaty. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can help. Maybe you should go back to hospital if something’s not right.’ She turned again and started to stride away.
Harper stayed in the same spot for a moment, too confused to know what to do. He was still standing when Rebecca began to run. Without thinking, he started to chase her. After only a few strides, though, he was forced to give up; the pain from his left leg and hip was too much and he could not limp fast enough to keep up.
He stopped, swaying on his left leg and grabbed a lamppost for support. He stared in bewilderment at her receding form. ‘Becca,’ he groaned. ‘What are you doing?’
Then she was gone, round a corner and out of sight. Harper clung to the lamppost, practically sobbing with frustration and worry. As he did so, he became aware of the stares, some subtle, some not, being directed his way.
One man, with dyed hair and a purplish suit far too young for his actual age, looked at Harper sympathetically. ‘Women, mate,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem. No logic in any of them.’
Harper stared for a moment. ‘Oh, piss off!’ he snapped.
The purple suit shrugged and hurried on again, soon lost in the crowd that flowed around Harper and his lamppost. He stayed clinging to its support for several minutes, trying to collect his thoughts.
4. Sharks
Monday, 7.30pm:
Councillor John Harrison hopped out of the back of the black BMW. Leaving his assistant to park the car, he trotted up the steps of the civic centre. At the building’s entrance, he paused and took a deep breath, smiling to himself. It had been a good day. He had brokered a satisfying arrangement at the planning referrals committee. Good for the city, good for the developer and another endorsement to his reputation as the man who could fix things. Plus, there was a nice little donation that would arrive in due course.
Inside, Harrison ignored the lift up to the council chamber and took the stairs at a brisk run. After four flights, his pulse was only ticking over a little above normal. He nodded, satisfied. Although now closer to fifty than forty, he prided himself on looking like a young man and a strict routine kept his fitness at an enviable level.
The city councillor slowed down as he approached the doors to the chamber and ran a hand over his hair. From the muffled sound of the voices inside it seemed he was still in time. The police authority’s meeting had yet to begin.
Harrison nodded to himself. He hated to be late. To be on top, you had to have control and being out of the loop was fatal.
Outside, a light ra
in began. Just spits of cold to start with, it thickened into a dank drizzle: the kind of weather to dull the soul.
In the car park, the BMW sat waiting, its windows disappearing behind a fog of moisture. Harrison’s young assistant, a suited boy with a penchant for gadgets and a knack for making numbers disappear, shrugged. He pulled a Game Boy out of the laptop bag on the car’s back seat, turned up the music on the BMW’s stereo and settled down for a couple of hours of virtual mayhem. The boss would call on his mobile when he wanted the car brought round to the front.
Soon, with the view of the car park fading into a watery abstraction, a series of alien invaders began to die: picked off with a sniper rifle, blasted with a plasma carbine or blown to pieces with a rocket launcher.
Inside, the meeting was called to order and the committee settled down to work through the agenda. This time, the members only had a relatively short list of reports to deal with and a few matters to approve under existing policies. For a change, there were no new government initiatives to take on board this month.
The committee had been getting on with their work for nearly an hour when a white limo pulled into the civic centre car park. The over-long car moved slowly, ponderously, a white shark cruising for its prey.
The hubbub rose again as the meeting finally came to a conclusion. Conversations broke out as chairs were pushed back, papers shuffled and briefcases snapped shut.
The doors to the chamber swung open a minute later and the members of the authority began to filter back out. Harrison was one of the last. He held back, apparently sorting some papers and scribbling a couple of notes in order to time his departure.
Just as the only other man left in the room headed for the door, Harrison scooped up his papers, reaching it only a few paces behind.
‘Isaiah! How are you?’
Harrison caught the man in the doorway. He reached up and slapped one hand heartily on the other’s shoulder and squeezed firmly.
A sharp look of pain crossed Isaiah Van Hulle’s heavy features. His eyes closed and the big man seemed to wince. But he pulled his mouth into a smile as he twisted out of Harrison’s greeting and turned to face the councillor. ‘Mr Harrison. I am well, thank you.’
Harrison grinned. He tucked his sheaf of papers under one arm. ‘Good, glad to hear it. A satisfying meeting, don’t you think?’
Van Hulle’s heavy brows knotted. ‘A bit of routine administration, Mr Harrison, I wouldn’t go any further than that. I do not feel we have really achieved anything tonight that will have a major impact on law and order in the city.’
‘Hey, call me John, please.’ Harrison shook his head. ‘But I guess you’re right: until the last lot of policies we implemented have time to take effect, we shouldn’t get too excited. We need to see what they achieve, eh?’
Van Hulle pursed his lips. ‘And still, it is only the beginning. There is too much lawlessness in all areas of society, from parking regulations to prostitution. People need to learn respect again. Forcing a few individuals to moderate their behaviour is just tinkering. We have to bring about more deep-seated changes, Mr Harrison.’
The big man lowered his eyes. ‘As the book says: “And thou shalt teach them ordinances and laws, and shalt shew them the way wherein they must walk”.’
The councillor made a pretence of looking thoughtful as he studied Van Hulle. The Dutchman was an odd fish in many ways and not the most attractive of people. When Van Hulle pressed his fleshy lips together in that disapproving face, Harrison was struck by a peculiar notion. The Dutchman’s prim expression turned his flabby, androgynous features into those of a sanctimonious middle-aged woman.
Harrison tried not to smile as he pictured Van Hulle as a menopausal housewife whose nose had been put out of joint by society not conforming to how she thought the world should be run. He frowned and gave a nod as if seriously weighing the other man’s comments. ‘Maybe. I do know what you mean but sadly I’m not sure the issues you’re talking about are really within the remit of the police authority.’
‘Of course not.’ Van Hulle looked disdainful. ‘The police can only put into practice the laws that are made. They need to be given the necessary powers by those that make the laws. It’s the politicians that need to take the lead, Mr Harrison. Politicians like yourself.’
Harrison held up his hands. ‘Hey, not me. I’m only a city councillor. We don’t have any power to make laws.’
‘But I hear you are ambitious, Mr Harrison.’
Harrison chuckled. ‘Perhaps, but there’s ambition and ambition. I like it here. I’m not sure I’ve got any intention of running for higher office.’
‘No?’ Van Hulle looked at his watch. Harrison could not help but notice the other man’s forearms. There might be something womanly about his face but his build was more akin to an Eastern European shot-putter from the Soviet era.
‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must get going. I have a meeting to attend.’
‘Sure.’ Harrison nodded. ‘Still, good to talk to you, Isaiah.’ He patted Van Hulle on the shoulder again as the other man turned and began to stride towards the stairs. Van Hulle closed his eyes with another wince but did not stop walking. Harrison stood and watched him go.
Then, just as Van Hulle was about to descend, Harrison hurried after him. ‘Oh yes, Isaiah? Just remembered something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Yes?’ Van Hulle stopped a couple of steps down, wanting to go on but reluctant to appear rude even to a man he detested.
‘Yes. A friend of mine is interested in buying that old car showroom down on The Parade. Seems to be some uncertainty over the identity of the other parties in the running. You wouldn’t know what the situation is would you?’
Van Hulle raised his eyebrows. He paused a moment before answering. ‘I’m aware of the site you refer to, Mr Harrison, but I’m not the best person to answer your questions. My company principally deals with civil engineering projects and social housing. We have little involvement in commercial property.’ He gave a narrow smile. ‘Our work is on different lines. “Build you cities for your little ones, and folds for your sheep.” We follow a different path.’
‘Oh well,’ Harrison shrugged. ‘Just thought you might have heard. I know my friend is quite keen on the place. Might be willing to come to an arrangement. Develop a partnership, that sort of thing.’
Van Hulle gave a quick nod and hurried down the stairs and out of sight.
5. Shifting Ground
Monday, 8.03pm:
For Daniel Harper, the nightmare did not end with his fiancée walking past him in the street. There were more twists of the knife yet to come.
After finally abandoning the lamppost on the High Street, he continued home to William Street. It was a slow walk; the pain from the bruises up his left side seemed to get worse rather than better. The discomfort did, however, help take his mind off the insanity of the past couple of hours. None of it made sense and it seemed easier to grit his teeth and concentrate on walking than try and work it out.
When Harper finally hobbled into William Street, it was with a great sense of relief. The street looked the same as usual: a backwater of terraced red-brick houses, lines of parked cars broken by the mature trees dotted along the pavements on either side. The orange glow of the streetlights gave the scene a warming comfort.
There were few people about and none Harper recognised.
He and Becca had bought the flat a few months earlier. Because of the work needed to make it habitable, they had not actually moved in until about five weeks ago. There had been little time to make new friends and, so far, they were only on nodding terms with a few fellow residents.
But Harper was happy to go unrecognised. He was too confused, tired and angry to exchange the mildest pleasantries. He continued up William Street in silence, limping past trees, cars, piles of dead leaves and the odd wheelie-bin out ready for emptying in the morning.
It was only as he drew closer to number eleven that he began to w
orry. The usual red Transit van was parked next door but there was something wrong with the steps leading to his and Becca’s first floor flat.
At first glance, Harper could not work out what was wrong; it simply did not register. But as he drew closer it dawned on him and a cold blade of doubt slid into his stomach. He blinked in disbelief. Part of him wanted to stop and turn round, walk away and go to the other end of the street: see if it worked better coming from that direction. But he kept walking: reluctant and with an acid taste rising up his throat.
A couple of doors away, Harper paused. Above the low brick walls at the side of the steps, he could see the straggly branches of a small buddleia. The bush was growing from a crack in the wall where the flight turned to go up to their door.
He blanched. A tight fist gripped his heart and he felt himself cringe, both externally and internally. A shiver ran down his spine and a twinge of nausea made his stomach twist.
The bush should not, and could not, be there. Harper had removed the buddleia himself. It was one of the first things he had done. Even before the sale went through, he had got hold of a pair of secateurs and cut the plant back to the brickwork. Three weeks ago he had dug the roots out of the wall and cemented up the crack.
The buddleia did not exist anymore. But it was there now, its dry stems poking over the wall and across the stairway. A weather-bleached crisp packet was stuck on its twigs and, as Harper reached the foot of the steps, he could make out a drift of other litter clogging the stairwell. He also saw the boarded-up windows and the heavy lock fixed to the peeling frame around the front door.
The wrong front door: not the one he had hung himself three days after taking ownership of the flat, not the freshly-stained, hardwood door with the inset glazed panels. This simply could not be. It was the old door, the one he had ripped out, along with its rotten frame, smashed up and burnt in the back yard. The door that was now ash and cinders: that was what stood in the entrance to his home.
