by Lenny Brando
As her eyes wandered around the room in search of something to focus on, she picked up the paper the paramedic had given her. She stared at the telephone number for two or three minutes before she gave a nod to herself. Then she tapped the number into her phone.
“Paddington Haven, Jill speaking. How can I help?”
Alice’s instinct was to kill the call, but she persevered. “Um, hi. My name is Alice. A paramedic gave me your number. Said to call.”
“That’s good, Alice. Are you able to tell me what happened?”
Alice breathed in through her nose and felt her chest expand. “Someone broke into my house and assaulted me in my bed.” Another deep breath. “Sexually.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last night. The forensic police are still here.”
“Would you like to come to us now?”
“Can I?”
“Yes. Someone will see you immediately. Did the police assign a SOIT? That’s a...”
“I know what it is, but I’m waiting for my partner. He’s on a train home.”
“That’s up to you, Alice. But the sooner we see you the better. We can help.”
“Okay.”
“Alice, I need to ask you something. Was there any penetration?”
“Y... Yes. But only his finger.” She brought her knuckle to her mouth and bit hard on it. “I don't mean only. It’s... It’s difficult to describe.”
“Don't worry Alice. I understand what you mean. Nobody is trivialising anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Good. Alice. We can do a forensic examination for the court case if you wish. Have you showered since?”
“No.” She shivered as she remembered the sticky touch of Flanagan’s hands on her body, and the need to scrub him off became urgent.
“We’d advise you not to. Just in case.”
“I think I can still feel him now you say it.”
“I understand. Get here as soon as you can, and we’ll take great care of you.”
When she ended the call, she rang Ian but got his voice mail. She groaned and shook her head, then left a message telling him she’d gone to the Haven and the police had arrested Flanagan.
74
It took Ian several heavy blinks to remember he was on the train to Euston and not in an uncomfortable position in his hotel bed. He rubbed his eyes and finished the last of his bottled water, wishing he'd bought another. A glance at his watch showed the train would arrive in ten minutes. He’d left his phone off for the journey so he could sleep off the hangover and dull the guilt. Despite the sleep, his head still pounded.
The train pulled in at platform 6 on time at 10:12 and Ian turned his thoughts to Alice. Should he have mentioned the broken window? Would it have made any difference? He stepped from the throng of disembarking passengers to the side of the platform and powered on his phone. There were messages from Alice and Paul Flanagan. He called Alice straight away, but her phone went to voice mail. “Hi. It's me. Sorry. I had the phone off on the train. I’ll be home in about 40 minutes. Just got into Euston. Call me.” Then he listened to her message which said she’d gone to the Paddington Haven for a post assault exam and she asked him to meet her there.
He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and decided to get a cab to Paddington. Paul could wait. He grabbed the handle of his wheelie case and hurried towards the taxi rank. People milled around the concourse and he dodged his way through the crowd. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he answered without looking. “Alice?”
“No Ian, it’s Paul. Why didn't you answer my calls earlier? What the hell’s going on?”
“Huh? What do you mean?” Ian rolled his eyes and muttered an obscenity.
“What? I didn't hear that.”
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
“Mark. My son, Mark. The police arrested him. Something to do with a sexual assault in your house. He says he didn't do it, but your girlfriend claims he did. What’s going on?”
“Er, hold on, Paul. Let me explain. Someone let themselves into our house last night and sexually assaulted Alice. They had a key to the house and knew the alarm code. The police must have joined the dots. And, er, you know...”
“Mark’s not their only employee. Are you trying to get at me, Ian? Is that it?”
“What?” Someone swerved to avoid Ian and gave an angry stare, but Ian ignored him. “No.”
“Mark wouldn't assault anyone. I know him. Why would you and your girlfriend accuse him of such a despicable act?”
Ian’s mouth was dry, and he swallowed hard. “If Alice says it was him, that's good enough for me.”
Paul scoffed. “I am meeting the legal people shortly to discuss the situation. Your input will be critical, and I want you present.”
“Alice is getting treatment in a specialist centre and I am going to meet her.”
“From the limited knowledge I have from Mark, this is a sexual assault, not a rape. So it’s not as bad, right?”
Ian closed his eyes and inhaled. Just as he did, he barged into a large man and the phone fell from his grip. It clattered to the ground in a forest of scurrying legs. By the time Ian retrieved his phone and found a space away from the crowd, his shirt stuck to him and beads of sweat trickled down his nose. The phone had shut off and he held his breath as he pressed the power button. It beeped into life with notifications. A text from Paul. My son's future is at stake. Your future in this company is at stake. Conference room. 45 minutes. No debate. Be there.
A Twitter DM from Jo. Hows the head? You’ll get some later!! Will I? #returnthefavour Promises, promises, yeah? J xxx
He stared at the phone and shook his head. His first thought was Jo had put the message on public Twitter because of the hashtag, then remembered she had a habit of using hashtags instead of emoticons. She now appeared to have another habit of adding ‘xxx’ to every message. He knew he had to reply, but he didn't know what to say. Seeing Jo was like driving a high powered stolen car. Exciting, but risky. Now it was time to get out. As he considered the best choice of words, a well-dressed man in his thirties approached.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
Ian looked at him. “Huh?”
“You look stressed. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes.” Ian put the phone in his pocket and rubbed the tip of his nose. When he took his finger away, it was wet. “I’m fine.”
“Are you a friend of Jesus?”
Ian let out a long breath that sounded like a chesty wheeze. “Jesus?”
“Ask yourself, what could Jesus do for you today? What do you need more than anything else in the world?”
Ian pointed downward with his finger. “Right now?”
The man smiled at him. “Yes. Right now.”
Ian clenched his fists tight and stared at the man. “I need everyone to leave me the fuck alone and stop hassling me.” Then he wrestled the handle up from his wheelie case and trundled into the sea of people.
75
Cole rinsed out a mug in his kitchen and filled it with cold water. He knocked back two mugfuls with trembling hands. Most went into his mouth. The rest fell to the floor. Last night’s confidence had evaporated and now a terrible anxiety gripped him. He fumbled with his phone to view the live footage from the camera in his hallway, convinced he would see police outside waiting to break down his door. The relief when he saw the empty hall was fleeting.
He went into the bathroom and washed his eyes out again. They still stung, but not as bad as earlier, even though they were bloodshot and the bags beneath his eyes were red and inflamed. His head pounded and he drank more water. His stomach rumbled, and as he rummaged in the cupboards for food, he staggered on unsteady legs. A vision of bacon butties popped into his head and he couldn't shake it. He needed at least two. All washed down with sugary tea.
An hour later, Cole sat in a cafe on Bethnal Green Road where he ordered two bacon sandwiches and a pot of tea. While he waited to fill his empty stomach, his h
ungry head sought every worst outcome in relation to Alice Madsen. His mind gorged on every negative morsel, relished every adverse notion. By the time he took his first bite of a greasy bacon sandwich, he had convinced himself the police would bang him up in the Scrubs by the end of the day. Under the cover of the sandwich at his mouth, he surveyed the other customers, half expecting some of them to leap to their feet, pull out massive guns and drag him into a waiting van.
When nobody had arrested him by the time he finished eating, he felt a little better. Once more he checked the hallway view on his phone. The event log showed nothing since he’d left. The pounding in his head relented and his pulse was fast but regular. He rested his chin on his hands and let out a long sigh.
“You looked like you enjoyed that darling.”
Cole jumped in his chair. The old waitress laughed at him. “Lost in thought, was you? Some young lass on your mind, eh?”
“Er, yeah. I guess you could say that.”
“Don't I know it and all. That’s £6.50 darling.” She stuck out her hand.
Cole gave her £7. “Keep it, thanks.”
Outside, Cole blinked in the midday sun, and set off for the tube station. He sat in the last carriage and stared into space as he waited out the 16 stops to East Acton. When he turned onto Du Cane Road, he shivered at the thought of having to walk by the Scrubs, so he waited for the bus.
He summoned a smile for the nurse in the ICU, but it drained when he sat in the chair by Daz’s bed. The first thing Cole noticed was the additional equipment surrounding Daz compared to the last visit. But Daz still looked pale and lifeless. His existence now maintained by tubes, wires and bandages. A deathly quiet filled the room, punctured only by the metronomic sound of medical machinery and the fading footsteps of the nurse as she walked away.
Cole put his head in his hands. He had nothing to say to Daz. There was no point. Daz couldn't hear. Daz couldn't talk. The place reeked of death. And what had Daz done to deserve this? Nothing. Would it have happened if it wasn't for Alice Madsen? Cole no longer knew or cared for the truth. In his mind, she was culpable. And he'd failed to exact retribution. Maybe he should work with Scully?
Cole dismissed that thought straight away. Scully was far too unpredictable, too damn dangerous. No. Whatever the end game, Cole would do it alone. He reached over and squeezed Daz’s hand. In a moment of weakness, tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them away with a focused effort. He glanced around and when he saw no-one watched him, he wiped his eyes with the end of the sheet of Daz’s bed.
He stared at Daz for several minutes until he heard footsteps approach.
“Mr Cole?” It was the consultant, Ibrahim.
Cole got to his feet and shook the offered hand. “Uh, hello.”
“Perhaps we could step outside for a word?”
Cole followed, and with every reluctant step his paranoia increased. In the corridor outside the ICU, his pulse missed several beats as the raging Captagon hangover returned with a vengeance. Ibrahim brought him into a small office and waved to a chair.
Cole shook his head. “I’ll stand.”
Ibrahim nodded. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Cole. But your brother is not responding well to treatment. He should be out of the coma by now.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“We don't know. It’s a very complicated situation. He suffered severe head trauma and...” Ibrahim looked at Cole in the eye. “...some brain damage.”
“Some? What do you mean some?”
“His brain’s electrical activity is diminishing.”
“What does that mean?” Cole ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at it.
“He’s getting worse, not better.”
“Can't you do something?” Cole took several heavy breaths and leaned against the wall. “Can't you, like, cure him? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?”
“We’re doing everything we can. However, there is also an infection. We’re treating him with antibiotics, but with limited success to date, so we are going to try a different treatment. His kidney functions have failed, and we have him on a dialysis machine.”
Cole swallowed and tried to breath. The light dulled in his vision, and he sank to the ground as his legs gave way. “Water. I need water.”
Ibrahim helped Cole onto a chair and hurried from the room. A moment later he returned with two plastic cups of water which Cole glugged down.
“Mr. Cole, are you all right?”
Cole shrugged. “Not feeling great. No. Could do with something for my anxiety.”
Ibrahim looked Cole up and down. “Let me check your pulse. Give me your wrist.” Ibrahim nodded as he felt Cole’s pulse. “It’s a little irregular. Did you take anything? Your eyes are very bloodshot, and your pupils are dilated. Too much alcohol? Recreational Drugs? Caffeine?”
Cole rubbed his nose then his forehead. “No. No. Nothing like that. Only had tea this morning.” As he brushed his hair back, he noticed it was so damp it was almost wet.
“All right. I’ll write you a prescription for a week’s supply of .5 mg Xanax. Take two a day. If symptoms persist, go see your GP.”
“That will depend on Daz.” He stared Ibrahim in the eye. “And you.”
Ibrahim tightened his lips. “We are doing everything we can, however, you may need to consider end of life possibilities.”
Cole stood and almost lost his footing. Ibrahim grabbed him and settled him back into the chair. Cole sucked in lungfuls of air and fanned his face with a hand. “Daz is gonna be all right. Needs more time is all. More time. He’s gonna be all right.”
Ibrahim opened a drawer in the desk, pulled out as pad and wrote on it. “I’ll make the dose for 1mg.” He tore a page off and handed it to Cole. “Bring that to the hospital pharmacy downstairs. They’ll give you the drugs.”
On the ground floor, Cole studied the prescription. He borrowed a pen from the receptionist and altered the dosage from 1mg to 2mg. As soon as Cole paid for the Xanax, he bought a large bottle of water and washed a pill down on the way out the door. He wondered how Xanax would work with Captagon. He needed something to take his mind off Daz, but Ibrahim's words rang in his head as he walked back to East Acton station. The phrase occupied him so much, he never as much as glanced at the stone walls of the Scrubs as he passed. End of life possibilities. End of life. No way. Wasn't happening.
He slumped into a seat on the Tube with a scowl. At Holland Park station, his scowl began to lift. When the train pulled into Marble Arch, he sat straighter and his eyes drifted to the bare legs of the brunette sitting across from him. By the time the train got to Holborn, he no longer thought about the hospital or Ibrahim’s glum outlook, he was just disappointed that the brunette got out.
A lot of passengers got off at Liverpool Street, and he pulled a face at his reflection in the window opposite. When he stepped off at Bethnal Green, he had developed an indelible smile, a smile that widened with a stranger’s stare. He bounced up to street level with a solid conviction that everything would work out right. He was still thirsty and decided he felt so great, he should celebrate with a beer.
In the nearest pub, he drank a lager and fiddled with his phone. He smiled when he saw his video of Flanagan and hairy hottie Hannah had a few views. Flanagan had seen it. Cole thumbed a tweet. From the bedroom of #AliceMadsen #Champagneterrorist @StalkingAlice brings you #MarkFlanagan and #HairyHannah. Enjoy. He added the link to the video and sent the tweet.
Cole raised his glass and as he sipped, he broke into a fit of giggles and spluttered beer over the table. What wouldn't he give to have seen Flanagan’s face when he saw the video clip?
76
Kapoor and Manning entered an interview room in Notting Hill station. Flanagan and his lawyer, Geoff Davidson, sat on chairs across the table, and the detectives took the seats opposite. Manning fiddled with the equipment and spoke into the microphone.
“What’s happening? Can I go?” Flanagan asked.
Kapo
or opened her case and took out Flanagan’s mobile. She smiled at Davidson, “We have the pin number, thanks to a warrant for the contents.” She passed the phone over to Flanagan. “We accessed your email. What can you tell us about this video?”
“Huh?” Flanagan tapped on the phone and Davidson leaned over to look.
Kapoor watched as Flanagan’s eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped. She smiled at Davidson. “That is Alice Madsen's bedroom.”
Davidson asked, “What does this have to do with the assault on Alice Madsen?”
“Perhaps Mark can tell us?”
Flanagan’s face had turned red and he scratched his head. He mumbled something and turned to Davidson. Davidson raised a hand and whispered into Flanagan’s ear. They carried on the hushed conversation for several minutes until Davidson addressed Kapoor.
“I would suggest this video came from the actual perpetrator of the assault, and that if the police were to pursue the sender, they would solve the crime. As we told you earlier, a property viewer, most likely the person by the name of Brian Hailsham, is the culprit. My client has recalled further helpful information since our earlier statement.”
Kapoor raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Flanagan nodded several times. “I, er, gave him the keys at one stage, you know, while I took a phone call.” Flanagan shrugged and looked to Davidson, who nodded. “He was on his phone when we entered the property, so he could have filmed me tapping the alarm code.” Flanagan spread his hands. “Sorry. I didn't expect that. You know, that he would...”
Davidson put a hand on Flanagan’s arm. “My client’s actions may have been foolish regarding security, but certainly not illegal. I would also add that while what my client did on his client’s bed may be distasteful, it isn't criminal either.”
Kapoor looked to Manning and sighed with a shake of her head. “Christ.”
“I’m sorry, detective?” Davidson asked.
Kapoor raised her finger but stopped short of wagging it at Flanagan. “We will have to contact your employers and see what other information on Brian Hailsham is available.”
