by Bateman
She gave me a helpless look. Jeff was at the door. She joined him.
‘You’re going to get better,’ she said.
‘Pamphlet,’ I said.
29
I lay on my bed and tried to think it through. It was an odd experience. I was used to thinking about a million things at once: the drugs, and the caffeine and my zest for life allowed me to do that. But I was off the drugs and denied caffeine, which only left the zest, which had never existed. But now there was definitely something strange going on: my mind wasn’t whizzing along disconnected tangents, there was even a certain amount of clarity. I was able to focus on The Case of the Man in the White Suit, and put the feelings of betrayal and rage and the problem of pirated downloads of e-books and the likelihood of life on Kepler 26B to one side, with the full knowledge that I could get back to them later. It was like parking them in a pay and display: they were there, I knew they were there, and I would do my level best to get back to them before my time was up.
I was already, after just a week, becoming a new man, physically and mentally. And I kind of liked it, but it also scared the pants off me. I had in the past devoted so much of my energy to appearing lethargic, but now I was beginning to feel I had an excess of it, as if I could almost do anything. I could run more than the length of myself and swim like a turtle or make love to a woman for more than a minute without fearing that my elbows would collapse. But what if all my many ailments and hang-ups were actually my strengths, were what made me the greatest detective of my age? What if, when the dust settled, all that was left of me was merely ordinary or unremarkable? What if I was dull? I was starting to feel as if I was in at least partial control of myself for the first time in years. I felt sane. But what was going to sustain me, and energise me, in the long months after the case was solved and I had murdered Alison, Mother and Jeff for their betrayal? I was going to be very alone.
And then I thought, No, there is always Jesus.
There had thus far been four deaths: three of them certain murders, and the other one more than likely. There were defixios for two of the dead for sure, but none for Francis Delaney, which suggested that that murder was separate. Francis Delaney was connected to Fat Sam, who was an enforcer for the O’Dromoderys. Bernard O’Dromodery had employed me to find out who was behind the defixios, so it wasn’t stretching the bounds of possibility that he had also sent Francis Delaney into this hospital to interrogate Gabriel using methods which perhaps the police were prevented from employing. The O’Dromodery Brothers’ presence at his funeral certainly suggested a strong connection. Bernard O’Dromodery was now dead, but he could not have been murdered by Gabriel. With two O’Dromoderys already dead, it wasn’t hard to predict that the surviving brother, Sean, might need to start looking over his shoulder.
I had asked Alison and Jeff to find out what they could, but I knew better than to rely on them. I was the only one really capable of solving this case, and I was in the best place to do it, because I knew that Gabriel was still the key to it. But I would have to do it sooner rather than later if Sean O’Dromodery was to survive. I had to get to Gabriel; I had to break him.
‘Do you really own a bookshop?’ Patrick said from the door.
I sat up. ‘I do. I specialise in crime fiction. Mystery fiction.’
‘So you know something about writing.’
‘I know a lot about the writing of crime fiction.’ Patrick nodded. He kicked his heel against the doorframe and avoided eye-contact. I didn’t mind that. Eye-contact is overrated. ‘Do you want to talk about your book?’ He gave a little shrug. ‘Is it crime fiction?’
He shook his head. ‘But there’s a murder in it. I don’t know. Maybe it is.’
‘As long as the murder isn’t solved by a cat, I’m more than happy to talk to you about it.’
‘What do you have against cats?’
‘Nothing. They just don’t make for great detectives.’
‘Macavity was a mystery cat,’ said Patrick.
I liked him.
We sat on my bed and talked books and writing for an hour. I surprised myself. Normally I have no time for unpublished writers, mostly because of having had to endure an endless parade of poor deluded idiots through Brendan Coyle’s creative writing class in my store on a Saturday morning; the only reason I tolerated them at all was my desire to sell them books. But as I was talking to Patrick I was thinking to myself that perhaps I had been unjustly negative about the class, and not really listened to what Brendan was teaching or what his students were writing. Writers had to come from somewhere, and while many arrived fully formed, others could benefit from nurture and trelliswork.
Patrick was probably about thirty years old, but he had the sullen/ecstatic demeanour of a teenager. When I eventually got him to open up a bit he proved to be smart and well read, but despite his earlier Booker bravado, lacking in confidence about his own writing. He was still well short of letting me read his book, but I didn’t mind that. It was good to have an intelligent conversation with someone, and also I didn’t want to discover that he had merely typed All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy one hundred and fifty thousand times. I was, after all, in a nuthouse. I could call it that, now that I was sane again.
I said, ‘How long have you been in here?’
‘Here? About a month. I have a history of burglary and suicide attempts.’
‘That’s an unusual combination,’ I said.
‘Yes, well. I almost instantly regret breaking in to people’s houses, so I try to top myself there and then. It’s just my thing. I’m not very good at it. I mean, the suicide. I’m good at the burglary, I can break into anything, but when it comes to the suicide I just don’t seem to have it. Been close, a couple of times, but generally I wake up having my stomach pumped or being stitched back together. I don’t even steal anything, I just like the challenge. I was downstairs before, voluntary.’
‘And then you stabbed someone.’
‘No. I was only joking about that.’
‘I can relax then.’
‘I beat them half to death with the leg of a chair.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘But I prefer it up here. I can get on with my work. It’s like a writer’s retreat. More writers should be locked up, it concentrates the mind.’
‘I’m with you on that,’ I said, ‘especially Scandinavians.’
He looked at me for several long moments, and I began to worry about how detachable the legs of my bed were, but then he began to laugh, and he lay back on the bed as it took a greater hold of him, and his whole body began to shake. It wasn’t that funny, but I appreciated his appreciation. He sat up suddenly, without a trace of a smile and said, ‘Who were they who came to visit you?’
‘My girlfriend, and a guy who works for me.’
‘Is she any good in bed?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘What does she do that makes her so good?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
He nodded. ‘And the fella, he works in the bookshop?’
‘Yep. And also he helps out with . . .’ and I weighed it up, and thought yes, this could work for me ‘. . . with my other work.’
‘Like what?’
I got off the bed and pushed the door closed. I came back and sat down. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. Honestly. Ask anyone.’
‘Okay. Well – you told me about your book. In my spare time, I’m a private detective. I take on all sorts of cases, from a missing dog to murder most foul. And that’s really why I’m in here. I deliberately had myself sectioned. I’m on a case right now.’
‘You are fucking not.’
‘I really am. Did you not notice me asking all those questions at lunchtime about The Man from Del Monte?’
‘You did ask a lot. He’s your case?’
‘He’s being accused of a murder
I’m pretty sure he did not commit.’
‘I don’t want to burst your bubble, but I seen him kill Franno, there’s no doubt about it.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he did, but it’s the murder that got him in here in the first place that concerns me. A guy called Sam Mahood, he had the nickname of—’
‘Fat Sam. Yes. Downstairs, we were allowed newspapers and the internet, and everyone was dead curious when Monte was brought in wearing his nice white suit. They wouldn’t tell us why he was in, but we found out soon enough.’
‘And he was then as he is presumably now – quiet?’
‘Not a word. He just sat and played the piano.’
‘They have one downstairs too?’
‘Yes, but it’s not in as good nick. More people pass through downstairs, so it gets more of a pounding, including from a lot of people who like to bang their heads against things. We don’t have so much of that up here. We’re more from the violent psychotic end of the spectrum.’
I cleared my throat and said, ‘What about mealtimes? Did he attend lunches or eat in his room?’
‘Bit of both. He ate, okay, but no eye-contact, no reaction to sounds, just in his own world, y’know? The Sister down there, Sister Brenda, she would spoonfeed him. She always has a soft spot for the waifs and strays – all of us really. She ruled us with a rod of sponge.’
I smiled. ‘And when he was here, did JMJ spoonfood him?’
‘Are you joking? She had him down the road for electro as soon as he arrived, and if he didn’t show for lunch, none of us ate. Got to the point where if he didn’t show the inclination, we dragged him along – and I mean dragged.’ His eyes narrowed suddenly, and he pointed at me. ‘You’re interviewing me! I’m like a witness!’
‘That’s exactly what you are.’ He grinned, and stuck his chest out. ‘So, Patrick – and this is important – what happened when this guy Franno came in? You’ve been around the mentally challenged, you recognise the signs the same as I do, would you say he was unwell? He was supposed to be in the black hole of depression.’
Patrick thought for a moment. ‘Well, he wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs. And he had no patience with any of us, always snapping, and Sister Brenda didn’t like him one bit because he was also a bully and seemed to be giving Monte a hard time about the piano. Sending him for electro didn’t seem to cheer him up much either.’
‘Did he need electro?’
‘Does it matter? It’s the JMJ way. I can’t say it did him much good. He was angry when he went in, even angrier when he came out, and slightly singed.’
‘Singed?’
Patrick smiled. ‘No, of course not. But he was certainly furious once the drugs had worn off. Depressed? I don’t know. It was his temper more than anything. You would get out of his way. And The Man from Del Monte didn’t.’ His eyes flitted up to me, just for a moment. Then he stared back at the floor.
‘Patrick,’ I said, ‘I think you’re going to be a very fine writer.’
‘You haven’t read anything.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Sometimes you can just tell from listening to someone, the way they tell a story. A great writer, yes. What you do is – you reflect real life, but you also embellish it, right?’
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘But they’re different things. There’s real life and there’s fiction, and it’s important to know the difference.’
‘Of course. I’m not an idiot.’
‘I know that. You’re the opposite of an idiot. But I’m investigating a murder, two murders involving Monte and several others which may be connected to it – so it’s absolutely vital that you tell me the truth, not a version of it, which would be your inclination, the same as any great writer. Do you get me?’
‘Sure.’
‘Okay. So I need to concentrate on just the facts. At lunch, you were talking about how you saw Franno with his tummy cut open – did you really see that?’
‘Yes, of course. His guts were hanging out.’
‘Where was this?
‘In the rec room.’
‘And did everyone see this?’
‘No. Just me. They were all out in the exercise yard, compulsory five-a-side.’
‘And how come you weren’t?’
‘I just had a session with Dr Richardson. It overran a bit and by the time I came out they were already started.’
‘And Monte?’
‘He was at the piano. They tried to make him play footie, JMJ thought it might spark something off. They even managed to get him out of his suit and were trying to put a Liverpool top on him when they found all these stitches on him like he’d had major surgery, and when the doctors saw that they called a halt – health and safety and all that crap.’
‘Stitches? Where?’
‘Ahm . . . here. What’s that, kidneys?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Okay, okay. So he didn’t do sports, and you were too late to play – how come Franno was there?’
‘He wasn’t long out of electro and still a bit woozy. Again, health and safety wouldn’t let him out there in case he fell over and cracked his head.’
‘So it was just the three of you in the rec?’
‘No, I went to my room for a lie-down. Then I heard raised voices, and then – like a crash, glass smashing. I went out to see what it was, and there was the two of them on the ground; they’d landed on a table and the glass in it had smashed and the legs had given way so they were lying in all these shards and Franno had his hand round Monte’s throat and I yelled at him to get off but he wouldn’t . . .’
He trailed off and gave a little shrug. He studied the floor some more.
‘Okay. That’s good, Patrick. And the orderlies or JMJ, they didn’t come to see what was going on?’
‘I don’t know where JMJ was, but the orderlies were outside at the footie. When there’s a proper game it gets frantic and there’s a lot of screaming and crying goes on – gets so loud a bomb could go off in here and they wouldn’t hear it.’
‘So there was just you, and Franno and Monte on the ground, and Franno has his hands like this . . .’
‘No, just one hand. He was a big guy, strong guy – like a body-builder, you could tell.’
‘And Monte was . . .?’
‘He was pinned, and his face was going purple and I yelled at Franno again to get off him but he wouldn’t, and . . .’ Patrick rubbed at his jaw. He examined his fingernails. ‘And then there was blood everywhere, just shooting out. Arterial blood, isn’t that what they call it? His whole stomach was just split open, side to side. Gross. One minute he was throttling Monte, the next he was on his back, gutted.’
‘The glass? Monte used a shard of glass?’
‘Right across the tummy. Yeah. Yeah.’
‘Even though he was pinned down by a body-builder.’
‘He must have worked an arm free.’
‘You saw that?’
‘I . . . it all happened very fast.’
‘And when you yelled at Franno and he wouldn’t get off, what did you do? Go for help or stand there or . . .?’
‘I don’t know. It just – it’s just a bit of a blur.’
‘Did you not try and pull him off?’
‘Yeah, sort of, but he was big and strong and he wouldn’t budge.’
‘And what did he say to you? Did he swear at you or threaten you?’
‘Yeah, yeah, he yelled at me.’
‘What did he yell, Patrick?’
‘He just – yelled.’
‘Like to eff off or something?’
‘Yeah – that was it.’
‘Patrick, this is great, really useful – you’re a brilliant witness – but remember, I wasn’t there. I can only go on what you’re telling me – and the clues to what really happened might be in what you saw, in the detail you maybe haven’t even thought about or you’re not telling me because you don’t think it’s relevant . . . but it could be, it really could be. Just, just . . . create the scene for me ag
ain. You hear raised voices, right?’
‘Yeah, yeah, absolutely.’
‘Whose voices? Franno’s?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And who else? You said there was nobody else there. Did you hear Monte’s voice?’
‘It must have been. Yeah.’
‘But Monte doesn’t speak. He hasn’t said a word since he was brought in.’
‘Well, he must have. Good point. Hadn’t thought about that.’
‘Can you remember what they were shouting?’
‘No. Just . . . I don’t know. Words. Yelling.’
‘You recognised Franno’s voice?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘And the other voice: what did it sound like?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Like Franno’s?’
‘No. Different. Franno’s like broad Belfast, Monte’s was different.’
‘Different how?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Not so broad, a different part of Belfast?’
‘No, more . . . I don’t know. Foreign, maybe?’
‘Any words at all you can remember?’
‘No, honestly.’
‘But possibly foreign.’
‘Yeah, possibly.’
‘And it was definitely his voice?’
‘I don’t know. There was no one else there, but by the time I got to the rec room he wasn’t saying anything because he was being strangled.’
‘Okay, so you come in, and Franno’s on top of him, pinning him to the ground, one hand round his throat?’
‘Yes. Like this. Throttling him.’
‘And his face is purple?’
‘Yes. Or, what’s that word? Puce. His face was puce.’
‘So he’s being choked by this guy who’s so strong he only needs one hand to do it, and his face is puce – he must have been nearly dead by the time you arrived?’
‘Yes, yes, he was.’
‘And you yelled at Franno to get off him. What did you yell?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Like, “get off him”? “Get the fuck off him”?’
‘Yes, like that.’
‘And what did he do? He was nearly killing Monte – he ignored you or yelled back at you?’
