As he often did when he thought about such things, he recognised the never far away knot of regret that he’d had to abandon the places where he’d grown up; the areas where he’d honed his skills. Not for the first time, he wondered where else might end up so blighted before his career ended.
Of course the novelty of living in someone else’s half-completed project had worn off long ago. Well-dodgy plumbing – the cash-strapped previous owner had done it himself – and an intermittent power supply soon saw to that. And while he wasn’t entirely sure about Rosanna – she never talked about it – he knew that somewhere in his mind’s deepest recesses, the doubts and fears still lingered.
'Besides,' he said, returning to the bedroom and picking up on the subject of Alun’s early starts. 'You know the only person he ever listens to is you. Now why is that I wonder?'
A pillow hit him in the face.
'Policemen. You are useless at everything apart from catching the criminals who are so stupid they leave their DNA everywhere.' Then she remembered. 'And hounding-dog motoristas.'
Two weeks before, she had picked up her second three points on one of the coast road’s many cameras, adding fuel to what he feared was a growing disillusionment with his - not their he always noted - choice of home. Knowing better than to rise to the bait, he sought a diversion.
'What time is this thing tonight?' Looking round for his shorts, he spotted them at the side of the bed. As he bent to step into them, her silence signalled a warning and he turned. She was propped on an elbow, glaring at him. Chiding himself, he made a mental note to not refer again to the Royal Northern College of Music’s Mediterranean Folk Festival as ‘thing’.
'Half-pas’ seven,' she said, pointedly. 'I tol’ you las’ night.'
'Just checking.'
'Please don’ be late.' The eyes became those of a little girl, a technique she could deploy to devastating effect. 'I am second on the programme. If you are late, you will miss me.'
He threw himself down beside her so that she bounced and her luscious tresses flew around her head before settling back about her shoulders.
'Would I miss you?' He reached for her, but she slapped his hand away, not willing to play until she had the commitment she was looking for.
'You missed me at Liverpool.'
He waved it away. 'That was a simple mistake. The doorman said. People always confuse the Empire with the Philharmonic.'
'If you had listened, instead of thinking always of your work you would have known.'
Recognising a loser when he saw one, he decided another change of subject was called for. 'How’s the throat?'
She sniffed, gave a little cough, then reached for the water bottle beside the bed. After a couple of sips, she hit and held a long, soft, 'Aaaaaaahhhhhhh.' She drank some more, then tried a couple of scales. 'Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-aaahh.'
'Sounds good,' he said, hoping to be sufficiently encouraging.
The ploy worked. Forgetting the cajoling, she got out of bed. Unwinding her sinuous body she stood straight, taking a long, deep breath. Her arms lifted into the pose she usually adopted at the start of a performance, and she sang.
Way too small, enclosed and echoey, the bedroom was hardly the best place to appreciate the seductive rhythms and subtle cadences of Fado, the mountain folk-music that is to the Portuguese what the Tango is to Argentina. Nonetheless, as Carver listened, relieved to hear the cold had cleared, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as they always did whenever he witnessed her transform from mere beauty, to angel.
But as he stood there, entranced, the words that still invaded his dreams from time to time returned. ‘..and that other bitch. You’re both dead…’A shudder ran through him. With an effort, he willed the memory away. Pray God they would always remain just that. Words.
The singing stopped and she rounded on him - 'How was that?' - jolting him out of the morbid reverie threatening to take him.
'Wonderful.'
In that moment Carver decided. He didn’t want to lose her, and would do whatever it took to make sure he never did, even if that meant staying away from the sort of cases that had ensnared him in the past. Which, unfortunately, would also mean delaying his return to CID beyond the eighteen months he had originally planned.
'An’ you promise you won’ be late?'
He crossed to her, took her face in his hands and placed his lips on those his father had once likened to the old Italian actress, Gina Lollobrigida. 'I promise.' But as they parted, he saw the green eyes narrow, the disbelief within them. Before she could say anything, he placed a finger to her lips, sealing them shut. 'I’ll be there.'
Then, not wanting to risk going over the issues that seemed to raise themselves more often these days and knowing what she could be like in the morning, he decided it was time to answer the craving for caffeine that always grew rapidly once he was awake.
As he made his way down the stairs he remembered not to reach for the non-existent banister rail. He’d made that potentially debilitating - and painful - mistake once already, and didn’t intend to repeat it.
CHAPTER 3
One floor below Antranig Koloyan’s vain attempts to attract attention, Doctor Mikayel Kahramanyan was doing his best to stay calm as he spoke into the telephone. He was also trying to ignore the pain from his upper-left pre-molar. Two weeks before it had shed a filling, but there had been no time to seek out a dentist, even if there was one within twenty miles of the Institute, which he doubted.
'I understand that Colonel. But I still have over forty patients here. You promised me the rest of the trucks would be here the day before yesterday.'
'But that was before the rebels crossed the border at Damnah.' The voice was that of someone resigned to the inevitable. 'You must understand Doctor, I am fighting on three fronts and right now I need every transport available. Our Gorshki Division is on its way from Aliverdi and should be here tomorrow. You will get your trucks then.'
'TOMORROW WILL BE TOO LATE,' Kahramanyan yelled, frustration finally spilling over. Did the man not realise what was happening? Did he not care?
Across the room, the nurse with soft brown hair that seemed to be turning greyer each day carried on pretending not to listen. She did not want to further burden the man for whom she worked by letting him see how alarmed she was, especially when his, to her. transparent anxiety signalled well enough the seriousness of their situation.
Gadara Nalbantian had worked with Mikayel now for five years, ever since she accepted the post no one else wanted so she could be close to her ailing mother in nearby Martuni. And though her mother had died within the year, Gadara never thought to seek another position. By then she was happy working for a man who, unlike many of his peers, abhorred the ignorance through which their charges were classified as either ‘demented’ or ‘evil’- save perhaps in one exceptional case.
During those five years, Gadara had never seen Mikayel lose his temper, not even during the laborious negotiations he had to suffer each month with the Health Ministry just to secure enough supplies to cover their basic requirements. But over the past few days, a change had come over the man she admired above all others. Gone was the caring clinician who had worked long enough within the country’s rudimentary Health Service to both understand its limitations, and remain philosophical about what he could ever achieve as Head of Psychiatry and Assessment for the institution housing the country’s Forgotten. In his place was a man increasingly desperate, worn down by The Ministry’s prevarications over moving them somewhere safe. She knew, without having to ask, he hadn’t slept well in weeks.
Of course, neither she nor Mikayel ever referred aloud to the desperate souls in their charge by the term in common use throughout the Ministry, The Forgotten. Whenever they heard it, they were quick to denounce the inference. To emphasise that the care given out to the one hundred and twelve inmates – the maximum number of cots available – was the best they could manage under their impoverished circumstances. In realit
y they both knew the truth. That as far as the Ministry was concerned, the rudimentary fragments of humanity housed within the Armenian State Psychiatric Institute and Correction Facility could disappear off the face of the earth tomorrow, and no-one would give a damn. Why else locate an asylum for the criminally insane so close to a disputed border which, even before the place was built, was prone to Azerbaijani incursions into the lands they still regard as their own?
As Gadara listened to Mikayel’s tortured pleadings, at the same time continuing to pack the medicines and supplies they would need if the trucks ever came, her conviction that her efforts would prove wasted grew stronger.
'So, what do you suggest, Colonel?' Mikayel said. 'You are the sole authority in the region now. You tell me what to do with forty-odd men the authorities think are too disturbed for prison, but not enough, apparently, to merit proper psychiatric care.'
A weary sigh preceded the military man’s answer. 'Leave them.'
A crackle on the line gave Mikayel hope he had misheard. 'I am sorry, Colonel, I didn’t catch that. For a moment it sounded like you said, 'leave them'.’
Another sigh. 'I did.'
For long seconds, Mikayel stared at Gadara’s back as she rooted over her boxes. But the sudden silence made her turn and as he saw the alarm flood into her face, he knew she had been listening.
'Y- You cannot mean that, Colonel,' Mikayel said, knowing in his heart he did.
'You have no choice Doctor. Even if I wanted to, and believe me I do, there is nothing I can do for you from here. According to intelligence the rebels will overrun that area within the next few hours. You know what will happen if you are still there when they arrive.'
Conscious of a growing feeling of dread, Mikayel persevered. 'But I can’t just leave them for the Azerbaijanis. It would be as good as sentencing them to death.'
The casual tone in the Colonel’s reply made clear that at that moment, the psychiatrist’s problems were well down his order of priorities. 'Then set them free.'
'WHAT?'
'Either that, or leave them for the rebels. It is your decision.'
Mikayel’s drawn face grew red and his voice rose. 'What you are suggesting, Colonel, is outrageous, and not worthy of your profession. It would be tantamount to a war crime.'
The Colonel’s voice rose to match his. 'Face reality Doctor. This is a war. Or the nearest thing to it. In such circumstances we all have to take difficult decisions. I am sorry I cannot help you further.'
'But what about… Him?' the psychiatrist said, referring back to the problem they had considered when they first discussed the so-called evacuation plan. 'How can I set Him free? If by some miracle he avoided the rebels….'
The Colonel became abrupt. 'Then deal with him yourself.' He had more pressing problems to attend to.
'Wh- what do you mean… deal with him?'
'The box on your wall, doctor. We spoke about it during my assessment visit.'
As he pondered the little good that had come of it, Mikayel turned to the red wall-cabinet behind the door. He remembered now the interest the military man had shown in it. Had he known all along it would come to this? The psychiatrist’s blood turned cold and his stomach lurched at the thought of what the Colonel was suggesting.
'But I- I am a doctor.' His breath started to come in gasps. 'I could not contemplate….' As he sucked air, pain erupted again in his broken tooth and he winced.
'In that case you must live with the consequences. I am sorry doctor. I cannot waste any more time on-.'
His words were lost as a thunderclap rent the air and the building rocked with the shock-wave of another explosion. But this time the noise was so loud, the shaking so violent, Mikayel’s first thought was they had suffered a direct hit. He held onto the desk to stay on his feet while across the room Gadara pressed herself between two metal cabinets. Chunks of plaster rained down from a rent that suddenly appeared in the ceiling. After several seconds, as the shaking subsided and the leakage from above trickled to dust, an eerie silence descended. Mikayel waited long enough to be satisfied that the ceiling wasn’t about to cave in, then returned to his conversation.
'Did you hear that Colonel? That was-. Colonel? COLONEL?' But the line was dead, and as he saw the blanked-out computer screen on Gadara’s desk – it was usually connected to the creaking Health Service Network – he knew that their communications were gone. He imagined a large crater in the ground at the side of the building, where the service ducts were buried.
For long seconds he stared at the phone, stupidly, before placing it back on its cradle. He looked across at Gadara. Her face was a picture of fear.
'Wh-What did he say?' she said. As she spoke he saw her eyes slide in the direction of the cabinet. She had seen him look at it, probably guessed what was being suggested.
Mikayel swallowed. 'He said they are not coming. And that I must… deal with him.'
For long seconds neither spoke as the desperateness of their plight finally struck home.
Then Mikayel moved, quickly, like he had made a decision and needed to act on it before he changed his mind. He started opening desk drawers, rummaging through them, urgently.
'Where is it, Gadara? I remember I had it once.'
'What Mikayel? What are you looking for?'
'The key. It must be here somewhere.'
She joined him to help look. Eventually she found it, in the match box Mikayel had stuffed at the back of one of the drawers, certain he would never need it but keeping it safe in case some paper-wielding Government Inspector demanded he produce it. Taking it out, he crossed to the cabinet, unlocked it. As he pulled the doors open, he thought again how ridiculously large it was for its meagre contents.
A cardboard box, about three inches deep, rested on the upper shelf; another, smaller but more squarely proportioned, on the one below. Taking one in each hand – they were both heavier than they looked - he carried them back to his desk. Gadara appeared at his side.
The larger box was emblazoned with the logo of the American gun manufacturers, Smith and Wesson, a faded pen picture of a revolver, just like ones he’d seen in western films, beneath it. Mikayel lifted the lid. The gun was folded in stained oil-paper. As he took it from its nest and unwrapped it, a bitter, metallic smell caught the back of his throat. Though it must have been thirty years old or more, it seemed as new. Unused by the look of it. Its black metal was covered in a thin film of oil. As he weighed it, he noted at once how strange it felt. He was used to wielding instruments that in their various ways were designed for use on the human body, but not in the way this was intended. Another shudder ran through him. He turned the weapon in his hand, peering into the chambers. They appeared empty. He lifted the lid off the other box. Neatly arranged rows of bullets stared up at him, the rounded lead tips in their brass casings pointing up, six to a row. He took one out, but as he raised it to the gun he suddenly realised. Never having handled such a weapon in his life, he hadn’t the faintest idea how to load it. He was wondering how the bullet fitted into the chamber when Gadara’s hands appeared.
'Let me,' she said, taking the weapon from him.
He looked at her in surprise.
'My father was militia during the soviet. He used to let us shoot mouflon on the slopes behind our farm.'
As he watched her confident handling of the instrument, Mikayel suddenly realised, with regret, he knew almost nothing about her life before the Institute.
'Like this.' She pushed a catch and the revolver’s cylinder flipped out to the side. She took a round and pushed it into one of the empty chambers.
'Okay,' he said, taking it back from her as she was about to reach for more bullets. 'It is my responsibility. I will do it.'
She stepped aside as one by one, his shaking fingers loaded five more rounds. When he was finished he pushed the barrel back into its housing. It locked in place with a loud, ‘click’. Then he stood there, looking at her, the gun dangling at his side. In the distance, more e
xplosions went off.
'You must go, Gadara. Catch up with David.' An hour earlier Mikayel had ordered the young American-Armenian who had recently come to work with them to leave.
But she shook her head and, to his surprise, smiled. At first he thought she was simply trying to convey her understanding of what he had to do. But then he thought he saw something more than just sympathy in her eyes.
'When we leave, we will leave together, Mikayel Kahramanyan.'
'But this is…. I would rather you-.'
'Hush.' She pressed a finger to his lips. 'I will go when you go.'
He looked down at her. There was a moment’s awkward hesitation, then he put his arms round her and drew her to him.
'Pray God will forgive me,' he whispered in her ear.
In that moment, Gadara Nalbantian was almost tempted to surrender to the feelings she had held in check for so long. But then she remembered the gun in his untrained hand, and twisted in his arms so she could keep her eye on it.
CHAPTER 4
Antranig Koloyan pulled at Melkon’s sleeve, urging him through the gate that the institute’s Head of Psychiatry was holding open.
Family Reunion Page 2
