The Girl Who Broke the Rules

by Marnie Riches

  The man that stood before him was nothing to look at. Reminded Derek of an insurance clerk or a bank teller – slicked-back hair, mid thirties maybe, glasses – except he wore a white doctor’s coat over a pair of jeans. The coat was stained with pale brown patches, as though it had been splattered with something dark that had failed to boil out on a bleach wash. Derek wrinkled his nose without being able to articulate why he found the man distasteful.

  ‘I’m Giuseppe,’ Derek said, holding out his hand.

  ‘I know. You already said that,’ the man said, keeping his own hands firmly in the pockets of his dirty white coat.

  ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Dr Fucking Doolittle.’ The man gestured that Derek should follow through a red door to their right. ‘Come on.’

  Beyond the red door, a shabby corridor with a flickering overhead light and scuffed grey walls led to a row of Perspex door flaps. It smelled different here. A strong odour of alcohol stung in Derek’s nostrils – but not the alcoholic smell of the club he was used to. It was the sort of smell he’d come across in hospitals when you had to rub your hands with that anti-bac shit every five minutes. But beyond that, there was a sickly, rotten whiff that caught the back of his throat. He’d once visited an abattoir to source cheap steak for the clubs. It had smelled similar there. Blood and shit and whatever else came out of a carcass. He looked again at Dr Doolittle’s stained coat and shuddered.

  On the other side of the heavy Perspex flaps, what he saw surprised him. It was a brightly lit space that looked like an operating theatre.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Derek said, looking at all the monitors, the tangle of wires and peculiar equipment that surrounded a black vinyl bed in the centre of the room. ‘When I thought I’d end up in hospital today, I didn’t expect this. What you up to in here, mate? Bupa forgot to pay the rent?’

  Tony’s admonition that he should under no circumstances try to make conversation was long forgotten. The threat to Tinesha’s wellbeing but a vague notion. Derek was fascinated.

  Dr Doolittle handed him what appeared to be a large cool box. A biohazard label on the side of it said there was something ropey inside that Derek didn’t really want to know about.

  ‘Don’t drop it,’ Doolittle said. ‘Precious cargo.’

  But now, Derek wasn’t paying attention. On the other side of this strange medical set-up, he spied yet another set of Perspex flaps that marked the threshold to somewhere else. Leaving Dr Doolittle holding the cool box, he strode past, pushing through the flaps. Gasped when he saw the unconscious girl shackled to a gurney. An operating gown hitched up around her belly, exposing her groin. Skin almost as pale as snow, her blood draining into a container below through a plastic tube that was plugged into the crook of her arm via a fat needle.

  ‘Jesus!’ he cried. ‘What the fuck?!’ This looked all wrong. Fear seeped into his body as though he had taken bad whizz. Dizziness, heart palpitating wildly, sweating freely all at once. Paranoid.

  At his side, Dr Doolittle in his shitty white coat was grinning. Pulling the girl’s gown down. Patting her hand, a smug little slicked-back haired shitbag.

  ‘Our girl’s got rare blood,’ he said. ‘Worth a lot of money to the right people.’ Winked, as though Derek knew what the hell he was talking about. ‘What’s up with your face? You got paternal instincts?’ He pointed to the girl. ‘You can have a go if you like. I won’t tell.’ Started to laugh. ‘She won’t fucking tell, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I know her,’ he said. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. It had slipped out. He had to keep schtum.

  ‘What do you mean, you know her?’ Dr Doolittle said, still grinning, though the amusement was gone from his eyes.

  Keep your mouth shut, Derek, he counselled himself. That ain’t your daughter lying there. But it was as if, after all the grubby, clandestine transactions he had been a party to and profited from, and all the young girls of Tinesha’s age and younger he had betrayed by allowing Gera to traffick them through the club, his conscience finally spoke for him, forcing the truth out of his treacherous, lying mouth. ‘She’s a porn actress. Works for my boss.’

  For God’s sake! Why couldn’t he have just kept that to himself? Honesty was overrated.

  ‘Oh,’ Dr Doolittle said hesitantly; eyeing him suspiciously. ‘Well, I’m afraid this isn’t going to go well for you, then.’

  CHAPTER 60

  Ramsgate, seafront B&B, 28 January

  She was smiling. She was chatty. She was all, ‘Morning, gorgeous. How are you feeling? Let’s do it again before breakfast.’ She was nothing short of wonderful. But as van den Bergen stood under a hot shower, washing the scent of his young lover from his tired body, he had never felt lower.

  Rinsing the suds from under his foreskin, he considered the absence of moral rectitude in his having slept with somebody else’s girlfriend, who was not only currently his employee – making their union an utter abuse of his power – but who was some twenty years his junior.

  ‘Goddamn it!’ He punched the tiled wall. Banged his head against his fist. ‘What have I done? I’m such an idiot. I’ve ruined everything.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ George asked.

  Through the steamy shower cubicle, he could see she was poking her head into the cramped hotel bathroom. Though they had spent the last twelve hours either making love or merely lying naked in each other’s arms, talking, he felt suddenly exposed. He covered his penis with his hands.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ he said.

  Jesus. When he had already been a father at twenty-two, George would have been celebrating her second birthday. A toddler. A baby, really. It was preposterous. He looked down at the white hair on his chest and navel that ran all the way down to his saggy old bollocks. The skin around his knees starting to wrinkle. The firmness that his glutes had once enjoyed, now on the wane, giving way to a sorry, skinny pair of hairy buttocks that no beautiful young girl should ever see, let alone entertain as they bounced up and down between her firm, strong thighs.

  His battered heart was heavy. His head sluggish. He felt as though he was maybe suffering from lead poisoning or something of that ilk. Wondered briefly if the water supply at work had been contaminated, perhaps by terrorists. It was always a possibility. He felt as woebegone as ever. And the spectre of his dead father seemed no less domineering in his mental landscape today, reminding him of his own mortality and fallibility, destroying any post-coital happiness he may have temporarily enjoyed overnight. He would have to let George down gently. It was for the best. He would only infect her life with sadness and discord and, ultimately, death.

  Over breakfast, he had no appetite for the traditional English menu.

  ‘Aren’t you eating that sausage?’ George asked, talking with her mouth full and already half way through her own enormous greasy feast. Notably, two fried eggs sat on their own on a side plate, which she ate with clean cutlery. She had given the cook specific instructions on how to prepare the eggs, although van den Bergen knew she could barely make a cup of coffee herself. On her main plate, she had made a dam for her beans using two fried potato croquets that she informed him were hash browns. The beans were not allowed to touch anything else. It took her five minutes to cut every piece of fat from her bacon rashers, which she put on a napkin. She rejected her fried tomato, explaining that it was sloppy, messy food and therefore not clean. But everything else on the table seemed to pass muster. ‘This is glorious, man. I could eat a scabby horse after last night.’ She grinned, radiant even with a piece of toast hanging out the corner of her mouth. ‘We burned some calories, didn’t we?’

  He nodded. Wanted to stroke her face. Touch her hair. Settled for holding her left hand as she snatched up his uneaten sausage with her right. Bit into it.

  ‘I can see you’re not going to eat this and I don’t mind having it because the beans ain’t touching it. And you get top marks for following the bean etiquette. But you got to eat, Paul. You’re too
skinny at the moment, man. I mean, you’re well fit for an old guy, but you know. You were lucky I didn’t break you last night. So, you’re going to need to keep your energy up if you’re going to be with me because…’ She started to whisper behind her hand in what was almost a childish cartoon gesture. He had rarely seen this playful, relaxed side to her. ‘You give me the proper lady-horn. I’m so wet, I’m gonna need to be wearing incontinence knickers around you.’

  Laughing loud enough to make the other diners look over to see what the commotion was about, she was giddy like a young schoolgirl.

  Van den Bergen looked at her quizzically. ‘If you’re going to be with me?’ he asked. ‘What do you mean?’

  Her incandescent expression of enthusiasm dimmed somewhat. ‘Our affair. We’re lovers now, right? This wasn’t just a booty call for me, Paul.’ She drained her coffee cup. Clasped his hand again. Her skin was warm and soft. Beyond the smell of frying that permeated the hotel dining room, he could detect the residue of coconut shower gel coming from her arms. ‘You know how I feel about you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded and made an effort to smile. Staring out the window, the squall of the grey-brown North Sea echoed the turmoil of conflicting emotions within him. His heart felt like it might quake and collapse under the strain. Did he love George? She was looking at him for a response. Though she had not said the words outright – I love you – he knew she meant them and now she wanted him to reciprocate, he could see. Soulful brown eyes seeking the truth that lay behind the rationed, careful words of her older, clandestine paramour. Of course he loved her. He had fallen head over heels for this captivating, brilliant young woman pretty much as soon as they had met. She was his dahlia in full bloom. Perfect. Multi-faceted. Vibrant. But to harbour such desires for a girl who was old enough to be his daughter had felt wrong then, as it felt wrong now, even after their heady night of passion. Perhaps she had ruined him, after all.

  ‘I’m not good enough for you,’ he said, sipping hot coffee, watching a ferry chug slowly towards the horizon, growing smaller with every blink.

  ‘Bullshit.’ She slammed her coffee cup onto the saucer and wiped her mouth with the napkin. ‘God, I’ve eaten too much now.’ Unbuttoned her jeans. Puffed out her cheeks. Looked around the dated Victoriana dining room. ‘This flowery wallpaper is hideous. Reminds me of my grandma’s from when I was a kid. We’ve got to get out of here.’ Checked her phone. Read a message, scrolling down on her screen with delicate fingers that had conquered every inch of van den Bergen within the last twelve hours, inside and out. ‘London-bound, right? That Rob said the dead men may have been refugees that got into trouble with gangs. My Aunty Sharon is taking us to meet a woman who knows everything about everyone worth knowing anything about. She’s an elder at one of the big gospel churches and works in an outreach centre for refugees.’

  ‘There are eight or nine million people living in London,’ van den Bergen said. ‘What makes you think we can find out anything useful about three illegal immigrants?’

  George winked. Stood up. Came round to his side of the table and kissed the top of his head. ‘Wheels within wheels. Some things the police can’t find out. But I can.’

  Despite his best intentions, he found himself encircling her waist with his arms, pulling her to him. Stroking the contours of her womanly shape. She felt warm and reassuring, standing there. He knew the elderly diners were watching them; passing judgement on the nature of the relationship between this middle-aged white man and this young mixed race woman. But he didn’t care. You’ve cuckolded Karelse, his conscience berated him. Stop touching her. You must not kiss her. Do the honourable thing, for Christ’s sake. Let her go. But he found there in that dining room, drinking in the scent of her clean clothes and toiletries and her skin beneath them, he couldn’t.

  ‘What time’s check-out?’ he asked.

  ‘Eleven,’ she said.

  ‘Then we’ve got forty minutes.’

  CHAPTER 61

  Somewhere in Kent, a field, later

  Overhead the silver sky was punctuated by swathes of rain clouds, scudding by like hulking grey battleships on a drab sea. In his peripheral vision, Derek saw naked poplar trees bending in the wind, as though they were upturned brooms sweeping the heavens. He had never had such profound thoughts before. Maybe this was what actually happened before you died, rather than a mere replay of your life in your mind’s eye.

  What had his life even amounted to?

  Sweet FA: a disastrous romance with Sharon Williams-May – the only woman he had ever really loved. A beautiful daughter. Yes, Tinesha was the sole good thing in his life and yet, even now, he had put her safety in jeopardy because of his greed.

  How the hell had it come to this?

  His parents had wanted him to join the Royal Air Force as a cadet. Instead, he had worked as a roadie for a soul band in the eighties, ending up working in shitty Soho bars and pubs once his back had gone, eventually landing a ‘career’ as the low-life manager of a titty bar. Now, he was lying with the sharp woody stalks of last year’s wheat crop sticking into his back. In a field. In an area of outstanding natural beauty. In the middle of Kent. And the stalks weren’t even the worst of it, because he couldn’t feel them. He couldn’t feel anything.

  He was going to die.

  Derek waited. Still watching the clouds. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt more than the actual act of getting stabbed repeatedly and strangled.

  He was definitely going to die, now.

  It started to spit with rain; the kind that was so cold, it felt like needles puncturing your skin. Derek opened his mouth to let the moisture in, though just parting his lips drained him of all the energy he could muster. For another eon or possibly only a minute (for time runs differently in the shadow of death) he lay, motionless. Then, it occurred to him that could actually feel the rain. After a long while, or it could have been but moments, he realised that he was hurting all over. In fact, he was in agony.

  ‘H.’ He tried to make a sound but could only manage a shallow exhalation. The beginnings of a word. Did he imagine that he could open and close his right hand?

  His throat was too dry. The sound would not come. Flickering movement in his fingers was not an indication that he was any less of a dead man than before the rain started to fall. But somehow, from a place within him that Derek de Falco had not hitherto been aware was there, he found a certain resolve. Courage, even. And he started to roll himself over.

  This barren, frost-hard field in the rolling, bucolic Garden of England seemed to him a dream. A bad dream, with the whine of a high speed train a tantalisingly, potentially navigable distance away, carried to him on the wind. Eurostar, plummeting through the British countryside, carrying mainly business travellers and ordinary people celebrating big birthdays and milestone anniversaries from the cat-shit exoticism of Paris into the grubby bustle of London, with its Maccy D wrappers and ubiquitous Starbucks. Too skint to do the Orient Express, but a two-star mini-break, staying in the crappiest of the arrondissements, had done nicely. Every single one of those bastards was unaware that a middle-aged man in ripped, brown Farah slacks with one missing loafer and a blood-stained shirt lay dying some two hundred feet away.

  The outlook was bleak to say the least. But somehow, Derek dragged his anaemic, plundered body a few metres. He had to get to a phone. Somehow attract attention to his plight and speak to Sharon. Tell the police everything he knew and all that had befallen him.

  Dr Doolittle had turned out not to be a doctor at all. He was just some murderous little turd; a lowly pawn, mopping up blood and shit for an altogether more important piece on the chess board. Derek had asked too many questions and found himself checkmated, by means of what looked like a boning knife in the belly. And the shoulder. And the leg. And the chest. If his death – for he was certain he would die of exposure now, if nothing else – was written up in one of the red-top newspapers, they would definitely use the words, ‘frenzi
ed attack’.

  Those hands that Tony the driver possessed, hidden inside the ridiculous leather gloves that had never in a month of Sundays come from a normal shop… Those hands had, indeed, turned out to be killer’s hands, which had closed around his throat like unforgiving vices. Stabbed and strangled in a derelict industrial estate in the middle of nowhere. Nice move, Uncle Giuseppe. The girl on the gurney should count herself lucky. At least she was unconscious.

  In the end, the only act of self-preservation available to Derek de Falco had been to play dead, which he had managed with sufficient aplomb as to have been driven out to this field and dumped.

  In the sputtering imagination of a dying man, he saw his beautiful girl, Tinesha. Surely, if he did nothing else in this wasted life, he had to get to her. Had to warn her that she might be in danger because of her old dad’s stupid, flapping mouth. Gleaned some strength from this need.

  ‘Help!’ he cried. Weak voice. Bruised, constricted throat. Vomited with the effort. Had he been hit over the head as well? He hadn’t the energy to lift his hand to check for blood on his scalp.

  Just crawl, Derek, Sharon said. You ain’t nothing but a fucking cockroach anyways. So, do what you do best and crawl. A hallucinatory hologram of Sharon, standing in that field of dead wheat stalks. Admonishing him, arms folded, though she was tucked up and hopefully safe in the club, grappling with empty barrels of bitter and disrespectful punters.

  Perhaps he had advanced fifty feet. Perhaps five. It was hard to tell with the jaws of pain closing around him. Then, a dog barked in the distance and scampered closer, closer until it was sniffing this unexpected lump of meat in the field. Barking like a nutter. Deafening noise. It licked his wounds with a warm, wet tongue. Snuffling around his crotch. Cocking its leg and peeing on the gaping slash that formed a grim smile in his abdomen. Where was its owner?