* * *
Dean left the house at seven forty-five, using the latchkey to close the door silently. Since Ryan’s death, he always barred his bedroom door with the chest of drawers, and his mum had given up trying, so he knew she wouldn’t notice him gone. He had left his bike in the back entry earlier in the evening — a risk, given the crime rate in the area, but he expected to do a lot of travelling that night, and he couldn’t afford bus fares.
He retrieved the bike, wheeled it to the far end of the smelly passage, avoiding the dog turds and split rubbish bags that disgorged their contents onto the ground. He emerged at the end of the street and mounted up out of sight of home.
Visiting time had just finished; the car parks were emptying, and he was the only person waiting to go up in the lifts on the ground floor. He waited for what seemed an age, clutching a box of Maltesers he had bought at the petrol station opposite the hospital. He had to wait for fifteen or more people to get out before he could step inside, and as the doors closed, a man in a white coat rushed up and jammed a hand in the gap. The doors shuddered, then opened.
The doctor stood next to Dean, towering over him and occasionally glancing down. Dean expected at any moment to be challenged. Sweat broke out on his upper lip; he had stuffed Ryan’s knife in the back of his waistband, and it chafed his buttocks.
He began to think he was mad to have come here, but the feverish pain in his tooth and the constant tugging sensation of the cuts on his arms were a reminder: he had a debt to repay.
He stepped out of the lift into a large, grey-tiled lobby. The wards ran in opposite directions on either side of it. He went to the door marked 3B, and went in. The ward was L-shaped, divided off into rooms around the nurses’ offices. Handwritten labels slotted into metal runners held the patients’ names.
Dean got as far as the second door before a nurse stopped him.
‘Hello,’ she said, using that voice adults put on for kids much younger than him. Normally it pissed him off, but this time he decided to use it.
‘Hiya.’ He gazed up at her.
‘Are you lost, pet?’
He shook his head. ‘Come to see our Barry.’
She glanced back at one of the doors further up the corridor. ‘He’s tired now, pet. Why didn’t you come in with your mum and dad — they’ve not long since gone.’
‘I did,’ Dean said. ‘But I . . .’ He wriggled his shoulders, frowning. ‘I got upset and . . .’ He hung his head.
She patted his shoulder. ‘I know it looks bad, but he’ll soon be on his feet,’ she said.
Dean sniffed a bit, refusing to be comforted. Somewhere a buzzer sounded, and she glanced round, distracted.
‘Can I see him?’ Dean pleaded. ‘Just for a minute? I bought him some chocolates.’
‘He’ll not be wanting those, pet,’ she said gently. ‘His mouth’s too sore for the minute.’
Dean offered them to her. ‘You have them,’ he said.
The nurse blushed. She was nice, and he felt a bit mean, fooling her like this, but he shoved the Maltesers at her and said, ‘Mum says you deserve a medal, the way you’ve looked after our Barry.’
He couldn’t know that Mrs Mandel had complained long and hard that her son wasn’t getting enough attention, that he needed stronger painkillers, that he shouldn’t be stuck in a side ward with a lot of incontinent geriatrics. He did notice the surprise on the nurse’s face, however, and added, ‘Well, that’s what she said . . .’
‘It’s after time, love. We don’t allow visitors on the ward this late.’
Rapid footsteps from somewhere around the corner, then, ‘Carla?’
‘Just coming,’ the nurse called. She looked down at Dean and chewed her lower lip. ‘I suppose a few minutes won’t hurt — only you will keep the noise down, won’t you? There’s a chap just come up from the operating room.’
Dean nodded, copying the wide-eyed innocent look he’d seen in nine- and ten-year-olds.
The buzzer sounded again, and he pushed the chocolates into her hands, giving her a happy grin before he turned and padded down the corridor. Baz’s bed was furthest from the door. All three patients were asleep, but Baz started and groaned as Dean pulled the curtain around his bed, for privacy.
A drip fed into his arm, while another tube emerged from under the bedclothes and trickled yellow liquid into a container on the floor. His face was swollen, mottled purple and black with bruising, and his skin looked stretched and full, like an overripe pear. His right eye, as big as a golf ball, was closed. His lip had shrunk to almost normal size, but it was disfigured with stitches.
It made Dean sick to look at him, and for a minute or two he stared instead at the steady drip-drip-drip of liquid from the bag above the bed. When he looked down again, Baz’s one good eye was open.
‘Come to gloat?’ His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
‘You should’ve got worse.’
The eye closed and Baz’s head sank into the pillow. ‘What d’you want, Dean?’
‘A name.’
‘Sheryl Crow — will that do?’
‘Who did it? Who turned over your gran’s?’
Baz’s mouth twitched — the closest he could manage to a smile. ‘Think I’ve got a death wish?’
‘I don’t know, have you?’
‘Give over, Dean. I’ve been threatened by professionals.’
‘You were with him,’ Dean said. ‘That night. You know what happened.’
Baz sighed. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘I’m listening,’ Dean said. He didn’t want to make a mistake. What he was planning was a mortal sin. Not even an eternity in purgatory could wipe a mortal sin from your soul. He felt the knife slip a little and reached back to reposition it in his waistband.
‘He said he felt sick,’ Baz told him. ‘Got off the bus. That’s the last I saw of him.’
‘Yeah? And why was he sick?’
Baz didn’t answer.
Dean reached back and unclipped the catch on the leather sheath of Ryan’s knife. ‘I asked you a question.’
‘I don’t know, maybe he had a bad pint.’
‘He was in training. Ryan never touched booze when he was in training.’
‘Well he did that night.’
‘You’re a bloody liar.’
‘Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t watching. I’m not his mother.’
‘You were supposed to be his mate. You’re supposed to look after your mates.’ Dean felt tears well up but was unable to stop them.
Baz looked away.
‘You gave him something, didn’t you? You slipped him a Mickey. Look at me.’ Baz shook his head, staring at the drawn curtains. ‘Look at me, you bastard!’ Dean hit him once in the chest. Baz groaned and coughed, his chest making alarming liquid gurglings. Dean stood back from the bed, frightened, wondering if he should call the nurse. At last, the coughing subsided, and Baz looked at him. He was crying.
‘Tell me,’ Dean said.
Baz began to talk in a slow, laboured whisper, stopping every few words to catch his breath.
‘I spiked his drink . . . Just for a laugh. He got high . . . Relaxed, for once in his . . . life . . .’
Dean wanted to hit him again, but he controlled his anger because he needed to hear the rest. ‘We were going to this pub I know . . . but Ryan . . . got sick.’ Baz stopped. ‘I didn’t mean for him to . . . It was a joke . . . A giggle.’ The tears were streaming down his face. ‘He was mad at me. Knew what I’d done . . . He . . . got off the bus. I don’t know . . . what happened after that — I swear . . . I swear I don’t.’
Dean stood at the window, watching the lights of the city swim in and out of focus. His shoulders heaved and he shook all over, but he couldn’t cry. He thought he’d had it all worked out: Barry had killed Ryan because Ryan was going to turn him in. It was simple, straight-forward: he would repay his debt to Ryan. He couldn’t think of it as it really was, even though he was carrying Ry
an’s fishing knife around with him, knowing what he intended to do with it. Baz was the cause of Ryan’s death. He had a picture in his head: the Montagues and the Capulets fighting it out in a town square; he cast himself in the role of Mercutio. If he got rid of Baz, then perhaps he would have earned some peace — but Mercutio had died, hadn’t he? What had the Prince said at the end? ‘All are punished.’ Now he saw that his guilt and Baz’s were alike. Theirs were both sins of omission.
The door opened and the nurse came in, rattling the curtain back on its rail. ‘How’re you two getting on?’ she asked.
Dean turned and ran from the room.
39
Nick was home when Geri and Lauren got back, sitting in the TV room, looking sorry for himself.
‘I thought you were working tonight,’ Geri said, being careful to keep her tone neutral.
‘I’m not feeling too good,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. ‘I might go back to bed.’ He looked up at her, a swift, furtive glance, then away again.
Geri glanced at him, suspecting that he was spoiling for a row over the locksmith, but he seemed fretful rather than irritable.
‘I’ll probably be up late,’ she said. ‘I’ll maybe sleep on the sofa.’
He stared dully at her for a few seconds, then looked away. ‘Might be for the best,’ he said. ‘If I’ve got a virus . . .’ He stopped mid-sentence as if going on with the lie was too much effort.
‘You got your keys?’ Geri was aware that they were talking to each other with the polite distance of mere acquaintances, and she felt an ache just below her sternum. Since their argument that morning, she had tried not to think of his easy dismissal of the possible danger she and Lauren were in the previous night. She didn’t want to believe that he was more concerned about his bike than her safety. Now, seeing him unrepentant, perhaps even resentful, she found the hurt of his indifference almost unbearable. It’s over, she thought, and her heart contracted. It really is over.
Nick shot her a look of — of what? Reproach? Regret? As he walked away and she heard his slow tread on the stairs, she almost called him back, but what would be the point? Another brief reconciliation, then a downward spiral into bitter rows?
The television had been turned down low, and Geri watched the actors grind their way through an aimless plot, delivering meaningless dialogue, and saw in their earnest posturing the futility of her own interactions with Nick. She fixed her gaze on a biking magazine Nick had left on the arm of a chair. Suddenly she was crying.
Lauren sat and put her arm around her.
Geri wiped her eyes. ‘I’ve made such an unholy mess of things.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘I have! I should’ve talked to Frank earlier. I knew he was upset. I just left it till it was too late. If only he’d talked to someone . . . I should’ve found out what was bothering Adèle and I didn’t. I should’ve told the police what I knew, and I didn’t. And now I’ve sent Joe out looking for Adèle and I might have put him in danger.’
Lauren stiffened and Geri faltered, looking into her friend’s face. ‘Lauren, are you ill? You’re as pale as plaster.’
Lauren gave her a squeeze, then let go. ‘I’ll make us some tea, shall I?’ she said. ‘I’m just cold, Geri. You know what I’m like in the cold.’
She started for the door, but Geri said, ‘You had a call, didn’t you? Frank rang you.’
Lauren changed course and went to the window, hugging her elbows. ‘I can’t talk about it, Geri. You know I can’t.’
‘What did he say?’
Lauren shook her head.
‘That’s why you were upset on Thursday, isn’t it?’ She stared at Lauren’s back. ‘You could have saved him, and you said nothing.’
Lauren spun round, her eyes glittering with tears. ‘I couldn’t, Geri. I couldn’t break his confidence. He asked me not to—’ She broke off. ‘I shouldn’t even be telling you this.’ She strode to the door.
‘At least tell me when! When did you speak to him?’
‘Last Sunday, all right?’ She was out in the hall before Geri could react.
She blinked, then ran to the door. ‘Sunday?’ she called after Lauren, who was already halfway up the stairs. ‘It can’t have been Sunday.’
‘All right, early hours of Monday.’
No!’ Geri followed Lauren up the stairs. ‘He was dead last Sunday. He died—’ She took a breath. ‘They’re not sure exactly when he died, but they think he was . . .’ For a moment she couldn’t go on. ‘He’d been there several days,’ she finished, her voice hoarse and choked.
Lauren turned to face her. ‘I spoke to him!’ she insisted.
‘To someone,’ Geri answered. ‘But not to Frank.’
A breathless silence. Then Lauren came down a few steps and looked into Geri’s eyes.
‘Oh, God,’ she said, grasping Geri’s hand. ‘He wanted me to meet him. He wanted to be sure he’d got the right person.’
A more sinister meaning to the phrase suggested itself. Geri squeezed her hand, and Lauren began shaking. Geri put her arms around her and held her until she was calmer, then she drew her down to sit next to her on the stairs.
‘It was definitely Frank the first time,’ Lauren said at last. ‘I’m sure it was.’
‘He called more than once?’
‘He was so frightened.’
‘What did he say?’
Lauren made a move to get up, but Geri restrained her. ‘You have to protect yourself, Lauren. What if the break-in was—’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Lauren whispered, then slowly, reluctantly, ‘He gave me a name. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right.’
She remembered that last call, the unnerving way in which she felt that he was running the show, that he was the one in control of the situation.
‘What was the name?’ Geri asked. ‘Who was Frank so frightened of?’
‘He was upset,’ Lauren said. ‘It was difficult to make it out.’
‘Lauren!’
She took a breath. ‘Georgie,’ she said. ‘I think he said Georgie.’
‘We’ve got to call the police — tell them what you know.’
Lauren shook her head. ‘I should talk to someone — get advice.’
‘If that’s what you feel you have to do,’ Geri said, exasperated by Lauren’s insistence on viewing the situation from the Samaritans’ perspective. ‘In the meantime, I’m calling the police.’
‘And what will you tell them?’ Lauren demanded, returning to her old self for a moment. ‘I don’t know anything. “I got a call two weeks ago from someone who refused to give a name — but it might have been Frank Traynor, you understand, officer — and he said the guy he was scared of was called . . . Well, I’m not quite sure, but he might’ve said Georgie.”’ She shook her head. ‘They’ll think I’m barmy!’
Geri thought for a moment. Lauren was right, it did sound preposterous. ‘Okay,’ she said, determined not to be put off. ‘I’ll talk to Vince.’
She rang his number, but it was constantly engaged. ‘I’ll go round,’ she said. ‘You stay here and wait for word from Joe, I’ll try to get Vince to come over.’
* * *
Dean stood outside an ordinary-looking suburban house, looking up at the light in one of the bedroom windows. He couldn’t go home, not until he knew who to blame — apart from himself — because with blame came punishment. Dean was already being punished. The fact of Ryan’s death was constant punishment, but he had made other acts of contrition: the cuts on his arms, and the throbbing pain in his damaged tooth bore testament to his willingness to make reparation. Baz had been punished, too, but the one person who truly deserved to suffer was still free, and Dean could not rest until he was found and punished.
His religious interpretation was simple: sins must be paid for, you must atone, but Dean’s understanding of atonement owed less to the Christian doctrine of the New Testament than to the Old Testament’s edicts of bloody retribution.
He
had cycled for an hour or so after leaving the hospital and ended up outside this perfectly ordinary house in a quiet street. He watched the house for fifteen minutes, trying to decide what to do, then a car swished up the road towards him, slowing as it came closer, and to avoid being seen, he wheeled his bike up the drive and rang the bell.
It took a long time, but eventually the hall light went on and a shape appeared behind the frosted glass of the front door.
She was taller than his mum, and older. One side of her face was swollen and puffy, and even his untrained eye could that see she was wearing a lot of make-up.
‘I’m Dean,’ he said. ‘It’s about our Ryan.’
Agnes Hepple gasped, all suspicion fled. ‘Oh, love!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re soaked through. Come in!’
He propped his bike against the wall and stepped inside, wiping his feet carefully on the doormat. She walked ahead of him, but turned when she realized he wasn’t following.
‘I’ll drip on your carpet,’ he said, suddenly distressed.
‘Not a bit of it! Here—’ She stripped him of his coat and he hissed as she caught the red lines of punishment on his arms. She bustled into the kitchen, shoving him ahead of her, and found a fresh towel for him to dry his hair. He rubbed it while he looked around him. It was twice the size of their kitchen at home and had a big pine table in the centre. No proper fitted units, only a Welsh dresser and pine cupboards, but nice, all the same.
‘You must be perished,’ she said. ‘Sit down, love. Sit down.’ When she had fed him tea and biscuits and satisfied herself that he was warm and dry, she sat opposite him at the table.
‘Now,’ she said. ‘You’ve come about your Ryan.’ She placed both hands palms down on the scuffed surface of the table and closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath.
‘He’s worried about you.’ Her voice had changed subtly; it was higher and lighter. It made Dean think of birds fluttering. ‘He says you’re acting wild.’
‘Tell him I can take care of myself,’ he replied ungraciously. ‘It’s him I’ve come about, not me.’
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