Hospital Corners
Page 15
“My folks told me about the adoption on my eighteenth birthday. All they knew about my real mom was she was from Oklahoma somewhere. They told me she had died and the adoption agency brought me to them, and they couldn’t be happier. They love me - I know they do. Knowing I’m not theirs doesn’t change that one little bit.”
Brough winced. Luka didn’t know his adoptive parents were dead.
“They didn’t know anything about my biological family but one day, Oscar Buzz came to the farm. I didn’t speak to him but I saw him, all right. It was like just now - when I saw you for the first time, sir. Like seeing your own ghost. Well, he drove off before I could talk to him so I asked my parents what the hell he was doing there, and they told me he was looking for his brother.
“Well, it explained a lot - if Oscar Buzz was my brother - my twin brother - it was no wonder we looked so much alike. But my parents had sent him away, saying he’d got the wrong place! I went crazy. Why did you do that? I hollered. Why didn’t you let me speak to him?
“Well, I began to resent them afterwards. I guess I was an ungrateful brat. All my life I’d been in that one-horse town, working hard, struggling to make ends meet, while my twin brother was living the Hollywood dream, with more money than I could imagine and the world at his feet. It didn’t seem fair to me.
“So I left home. I just took off. Kind of regret that now - I’ll go back and make it up to them. I knew better than to try to front up and demand to see Oscar Buzz - I’d never get my foot in the door. So I decided to research our background. I wanted cast-iron proof that we were twins. I guess I was fuelled by resentment and envy and all those kind of negative things. I wanted my share of what he had. I didn’t want to be poor no more.
“I went to Oklahoma City and searched all the records I could find. Bit of trivia for you: his real name ain’t Oscar Buzz. It’s Oskar with a K. Oskar Buzowski. And I’m Luka Buzowski. But I ain’t his twin; no sir.”
Brough gaped. “You’re not?”
“I came here to warn him. I came to warn my brother there’s another one of us out there. We’re triplets, you see. The Buzowski triplets: Oskar, Luka and Kasper.”
Brough was dumbstruck. Luka leaned closer across the table.
“And Kasper’s one crazy motherfucker.”
***
Wheeler had to make another Skype call to the States. She decided to brazen it out. If Hardacre didn’t want to play ball, she’d speak to someone else.
“Sheriff Fat Bastard here,” the lawman tipped his hat. “What the fuck do you want?”
Wheeler reddened. “Hello, Sheriff. About that - what you may have misheard the last time we spoke... ”
“Bullshit,” said Hardacre. “I didn’t mishear nothing.”
Wheeler wrung her hands, “It’s just our British sense of humour, you know. We like to engage in a spot of banter when we’re at work.”
“You mean like, Fuck you, you poisonous fucking Munchkin?”
“Yes. Like that exactly.”
“As long as we’re clear. Now what the fuck can I do for you this time, ma’m?”
Wheeler, relieved the air was cleared - although fouled by strong language - told him about Kasper Buzowski. Hardacre promised he’d use all the resources at his disposal to find out what he could. Wheeler thanked him a fucking bunch and disconnected. Harry Henry was shaking his head. He would never understand his superiors.
***
“Detective Constable Pattimore, a word?” Brough called Pattimore away from the table in the canteen. Pattimore, who had been in abject misery since Oscar Buzz absconded, brightened immediately. He followed Brough along the corridor to the Gents toilet.
“Davey! Hi!” he grinned but Brough was in no mood.
“What the fuck did you do? Why did you let Oscar go?”
Pattimore hesitated. He was too embarrassed to tell the truth. At one point he might have relished telling Brough that his precious Hollywood heartthrob had come on to him, but now it had all turned out to be a ruse, a ploy to enable his escape, he didn’t want to mention it.
“He - um - snuck out. I was distracted. Sorry.”
“He’s out there,” Brough waved at the door and the world beyond, “And there’s a crazy fucking brother out there out to get him.”
“You’re wrong,” said Pattimore. “Miller found the brother; she brought him in.”
“There’s another fucking brother, you idiot.”
“Three twins? How is that possible?”
“Triplets. For fuck’s sake, Jason. I left Oscar with you because I thought he’d be safe.”
Pattimore hung his head. “I’m sorry. About a lot of things.”
“Don’t start.” Brough headed for the door.
“Davey, please! My counsellor says we really need to talk about what happened - about what I did.”
But Brough was gone.
***
“I really wish you’d let me do it, dear,” Bunny Slippers drained her fourth cup of tea. “Pardon me for saying so but you haven’t got the voice quite right.”
Miller was annoyed. If the truth be known, her accent was more authentic than Bunny’s attempt at the Dedley cadence. Bunny wasn’t even a native. She was from the East End of London, for pity’s sake.
“And stand up straight, dear. You’re a Matron not a shagged out hooker slumped against a lamppost.”
Miller straightened her spine. You annoying old bat - she was struck though by guilt. She had used to become irritated to the point of anger with her mother. Is this why I’m friends with Bunny, she wondered? Because I miss my mom so much?
“Now, say the line as though you mean it. It’s not rocket surgery, dear.”
Miller cleared her throat. Before she could utter a word, Bunny waved at her to stop.
“What’s all this? Do you clear your throat every time you speak? Like you’re going to make a speech? You’re just saying a line, dear. It’s got to sound like everyday talking. You’re a ruthless professional care-giver. Without you, the entire ward - the entire hospital - would grind to a halt. You’re not satisfied with the cleanliness of the bedpans and you want them cleaned and scrubbed again. It’s not an unreasonable request - not in your eyes. But if they’re not cleaned to your satisfaction, you imply with your eyes, with your intonation, well - you leave that to the imagination. That’s what acting is.”
Miller nodded.
She opened her mouth to say the line but was interrupted by the head of Benny Stevens appearing around the edge of the door.
“Aye, aye, so this is where we’re playing Doctors and Nurses?”
“Piss off,” said Miller.
Bunny was outraged. “Matron would never say that, dear, no matter how warranted.”
“Davey-boy’s going for a stroll around town. Bit of a decoy while the rest of us go to the set and get ready for tonight. So, if you’re coming with, you’d better come now.”
“Is it safe?”
“Well, I’ll be there.”
“No, I mean for Brough. Walking about town.”
“Probably,” Stevens’s face shrugged. “Come on. Chop, chop.” The head withdrew.
“Twat,” Miller muttered.
“I don’t know... ” Bunny reflected. “Reminds me of my fifth fiancé. Did I ever tell you about the time we were mugged in Jamaica?”
“Yes!” Miller snapped. “Now get your coat on, Mom, or we’ll miss the -”
She realised what she had said. Bunny pursed her lips. “I was never blessed with children,” she said. “But I would have been tickled to have a daughter like you.”
Miller felt awful. She helped the old woman get into her coat. Arm in arm, they walked through the building and out to the car-park, where an unmarked van was waiting.
19
They must know the film’s in town. They must know Oscar Buzz is here. They must recognise me...
At the disused fountain, greened with moss and pigeon shit, he stooped to re-tie a shoelace. He wanted everyone to have a good look at him. He wanted Kasper Buzowski to spot him. He wanted someone to have a conversation with him so that Kasper Buzowski might hear.
“Sure, I love this town,” he would lie in Oscar’s accent. “Yeah, filming’s going great; I can’t wait for y’all to see it. I’m heading there now. To the old hospital. We’ve got an important night shoot happening. Tonight as a matter of fact.”
Two hobby bobbies walked by. They nodded and saluted. Prats, he thought. It would be just like them to call him by his real name.
He ambled towards the market stalls and pretended to browse the fruit and vegetables.
“Excuse me, our kid,” a voice said at his elbow. It was a stallholder. He was holding out a cheap plastic mobile phone cover, with a badly reproduced picture of Oscar Buzz on it.
“Would you mind signing this, please? For my daughter. Her’ll be tickled pink.”
Brough obliged. “What name?”
“Asif,” said the stallholder, beaming.
“That’s your daughter’s name?”
“Er - yes,” the stallholder looked shaken. Brough noticed the placard above the stall. ASIF’S GOODS.
“As... if... ” Brough said as he signed. Oscar Buzz must get this all the time. No wonder he rarely goes out in public. The stallholder went away delighted.
Brough moved on. Other people approached. Mothers and daughters. Groups of schoolgirls. Brough signed whatever they asked - apart from one woman who presented a bare breast far too close to comfort - i.e. on the same planet.
Brough repeated his lines, although no one was speaking to him. He posed for selfies with his arms around strangers. It pained him to be out without his sanitising gel. But I’m not me, he reminded himself. I’m Oscar Buzz. I’m Oscar Buzz. I’m -
“Oscar Buzz!” cried a man walking past. “Fucking poof!” The man laughed with his mates. Brough smiled Oscar Buzz’s smile. And showed them his middle finger. The man’s mates laughed louder. “Fair play,” said the man.
Brough walked away from the market and into the Clement Attlee shopping precinct. He went into Queequeg’s and ordered a mineral water. He took a table outside, nodding at the denizens of Dedley as they shuffled past.
Is Kasper watching? Can he see me now? Will he make a move?
It is Oscar Buzz he wants, isn’t it? Brough reflected. All of this - the murders - what were they all for? Is Kasper trying to get to his famous brother? Is Luka also at risk?
And where is Oscar himself?
What the bloody hell is he playing at?
“Excuse me,” said a little girl, holding out a napkin. “Are you Oscar Buzz?”
Brough took it and scrawled Oscar’s autograph. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.”
“My mom fancies you,” said the girl. She pointed at a red-faced woman with her hair scraped back into a high ponytail, standing behind a double-pushchair. The woman waved. Brough waved back. “I think you’m a prick.”
***
Wheeler and Hardacre were speaking via webcam.
“Good morning, bitch,” the sheriff snarled.
“It’s afternoon here, you bastard,” said Wheeler. With the pleasantries out of the way, Hardacre said he’d found something she would find interesting. He would email her the file.
“What is it?”
“We ran a search on Kasper Buzowski. He was, up until recently, an inmate at a facility for the criminally insane. But he escaped. Before he did, however, he had a visitor. Our mutual friend, Luke the farm boy.”
“Well, well, well,” said Wheeler. “Do you think Luke helped him get out?”
“I don’t rightly know,” said Hardacre. “But he sure as hell triggered the escape. Warden at the facility tells me he showed up, asking to see his longlost brother. You’ll see them talking to each other on the footage. There’s no sound though.”
“He’s here,” said Wheeler.
“Who?”
“Well, both of them, we think. We’ve got Luka here right now. We suspect Kasper is at large in our town.”
Hardacre sucked in air through his teeth. It was a gesture Wheeler often performed herself.
“Then you got one shitload of trouble, lady.”
“What did you call me?”
“I apologise, ma’m. You fucking whore.”
“That’s better, you shitter.”
***
She played Luka the footage in the interview room. Pattimore was standing by the door in case this Bukowski brother tried to get away.
“Yeah, I went to see him. I was curious,” said Luka, his arms folded. “Wouldn’t you be?”
Wheeler didn’t answer that. “What did you talk about?”
Luka shrugged. “I did all the talking. He didn’t say a word. I told him who I was - who we were - and that he wasn’t alone in the world no more. I said I would go to our brother and he’d be sure to help us.”
On screen, Luka held up a full-page picture in a magazine next to his face. Kasper looked from one to the other and back again and then pointed at his own face. He reached to snatch the magazine. The guards emerged from the shadows but Luka let his brother have the magazine.
Kasper shredded it with his bare hands in seconds.
A guard gestured that it was time for Luka to leave. Luka nodded goodbye to his brother but Kasper was absorbed in eating the magazine.
“He’s not well,” Luka explained. Wheeler grunted a no-shit grunt.
“He’s escaped,” she said.
“I know,” said Luka. “I’m not responsible for that, if that’s what you’re thinking but I do blame myself. I came here to warn Oscar but Kasper got here first. When you look like one of the most famous people in the world, a lot of doors open for you. I shouldn’t have gone there. People wouldn’t have died.” His face fell. “You don’t think... my folks... ”
Wheeler hung her head. Luka understood at once.
***
The producers were keen to comply with whatever the police requested. The chance to get their movie underway once more was too good to pass up, especially considering financial ruin and professional suicide were the alternatives. The main ward of the hospital was set and lit for a night-time scene. Doctor Kilmore would have a heart-to-heart with a bandaged figure in the bed - representing the late Delia Cartwright’s character, Nurse de Screens, who would die following an explosion courtesy of the terrorists.
“You do realise we’m not really filming,” Miller pointed out. “It’s not really Oscar and I hope to hell that’s not really Delia Cartwright lying there.”
“It’s all good,” said one of the producers.
“We can see how Monty’s new scene fits in with the rest. We can tell the backers we’re back in business.”
“Great,” said Miller. “But I’d advise you to make yourself scarce, if I were you. And don’t go nowhere without a police escort.”
The producers laughed. “Your cops don’t even have guns,” said one.
“What can they do?” said the other.
They walked away, still laughing. Pricks, thought Miller. Stevens jogged up.
“Oi, don’t go upsetting my new bosses,” he jabbed her with a fingertip. “Don’t go spoiling my big break.”
“I’ll give you
a big fucking break in a minute,” said Miller.
Stevens laughed. “Ooh, that tone of voice. That nurse’s uniform. Getting me going!”
Miller glowered. “I’m a Matron,” she said. “Now the next time I look I’d better be able to see my face in those bedpans.”
Stevens was puzzled.
“Just rehearsing. Isn’t there something you should be doing?”
“Oh,” Stevens was casual, “I’m just hanging around. Lurking in the shadows. When that nutter makes his move, I’ll pounce. Do you think they’ll be watching? The producers? I want them to be impressed.”
“I’m sure they will be,” Miller muttered. “Now, don’t you think you ought to get in position?”
Stevens bristled. “You don’t tell me what to do. I’m an inspector. I outrank you.” He clapped his hands and addressed everyone, “Come on, people; places please.”
He winked at Miller and blew her a kiss. She dodged out of its way.
A minute later, the set was apparently deserted. Apart from the figure in the bed and Miller, there was no one around.
“Just you and me, then,” said Miller. “I feel I ought to apologise about the quality of the bedpans.”
The figure did not respond. Probably a stuffed dummy, she considered. A prop. She walked up and down, keeping in the light, practising her line over and over, with different emphasis each time and with ever-changing gestures.
She gasped as a shadow approached. A man with long blond hair loomed beyond the lights. Miller backed against the bed.
The man stepped into the pool of light around the bed.
“Freeze!” yelled Stevens jumping out from behind a screen. Other police, dressed in black, emerged and surrounded the scene. “Get your hands up where I can see them?”
“Oh fuck off, Ben,” said D. I. Brough. “It’s me.”
“Stand down, everybody,” said Stevens. “It’s one of ours.”