by Ed James
I take it out and some yank number is calling us. Fuck, who is this? I put it to my ear. ‘Hello?’
‘You stole my fucking car, man!’ Ah shite, it’s Mo. And he doesn’t sound happy. ‘My fucking car, man!’
‘Pal, I had to. You ran off after some tramp and—’
‘Where is it?’
‘Eh, good question.’
He sighs down the line. ‘Where did you take it?’
‘Just a couple blocks, pal. Listen, I got into a swedge with some local kids who were stealing from an ambulance and—’
‘Stay where you are, man. I’ll come to you.’
‘I would, but I’ve no fuckin’ idea where I am now.’
‘Can you see a street name?’
Can I? Fuck knows. I can’t quite focus on anything. ‘Haven’t you got a tracker in your car?’
But he’s gone.
Fuck this. I think it’s just up ahead.
Wait a sec, there’s red and blue lights flashing with a sprinkling of enough white to keep it patriotic.
I haul my weary fuckin’ bones along the street, heading towards the light like I’m diving again and close to drowning and need to get up to the fuckin’ surface. Press my thumbs and palms into my eyes and I can fuckin’ see again.
Thank fuck – a cop car has turned up. Two big guys are standing with Elvis, one black and one the same sort of rosy pink that passes for white back home. The paramedics are seeing to each other, both looking pretty fucked.
Elvis waves at us. ‘Brian chased them off, aye.’
The big black dude walks over to us. He’s stacked, big fuckin’ arms and the size of chest you only get from deadlifts. And not kettle bells either, big fuckin’ dumbbells. Short sleeves in this weather, but it seems like it’s to show off his tats. Big spider-y things on his right arm, and a dude playing a double bass on his left. And their uniforms here are covered in badges and embroidery and fuck knows what any of it means. Makes them look like soldiers. And he looks pretty fuckin’ pissed off with us, like, but hey ho.
I thumb behind me. ‘Lost them back at the underground.’
‘Underground? Oh, the subway. Huh.’ The dude takes a deep breath. ‘Well. Charles Holten.’ He holds out a hand, grinning away. ‘I’d shake, but you know how it is.’
‘Too right I do.’
‘Gather you’re a cop?’
‘Aye, pal. Chased the wee fuckers, but they just scattered and disappeared into the subway and some back alleys.’
‘Figures. They’re opportunists. Low-level, but it’s an effective strategy for them.’ Holten folds his massive arms across his chest. ‘They were after N95 masks. Respirators. Real nasty business. Steal from a hospital or an ambulance, then sell on the black market. Don’t know who’s worse, the scumbags who steal, or the sons of bitches who buy this stuff. Upper West Side types who want to protect themselves. Hate to break it to them, but it doesn’t matter shit if other people can’t stop this bug spreading, or the ICU can’t help you because they ain’t got any masks.’
‘I hear you.’
He gives a tight military nod. Maybe the magic’s working and he’s starting to trust us. ‘Didn’t get away with anything, though, so well done.’
I look over at the ambulance. ‘Seriously? Nothing?’
‘Uh huh. EMTs did a full inventory before they saw to each other. All the masks are still there.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’
Another nod. Doesn’t give much away, does he? ‘They got a 911 call, said some old dude in an apartment had Covid and needed to be intubated. So they turned up, got out onto the street, and those rats just swarmed ‘em.’
‘Fuckin’ nasty shites. Get them back home.’
‘Where in Canada you from?’
‘Canada?’ I’m actually laughing. Hope he means it to be funny. ‘Come on. I’m Scottish.’
‘Huh. Got relatives in Glasgow. You know it?’
‘Don’t talk to me about Glasgow, pal.’ But I say it with a smile.
Holten sniffs, then hands us a business card. ‘Buddy, you’re not on your home turf, so you give me a call if you need anything. And don’t go hunting after gangs. You got lucky this time. They could’ve been armed.’ He looks around, scowling. ‘This city, man.’
‘Some place, that’s for sure.’ The card’s lovely, really thick and got this nice texture to it. I’m about to put it away when I spot Mo’s car. Two big problems, rolled into one. ‘Well, actually, a pal there needs to go to the hospital…’
‘Sure thing.’
I lean in maybe a bit too close. ‘And there’s a Travis driver who needs to be calmed down a wee bit.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What I had to, pal.’
He laughs. ‘I hear you.’
I get out my phone and fuck me, the screen’s cracked. Shite, that’s going to cost a fuckin’ packet to fix. And I’ll need to find someone to do it, too. Most of the shops are fuckin’ shut. I reach for my wallet to put the card away.
But it’s not there.
Ah, fuck. Those cunts stole my bum bag!
11
Cullen
‘Okay, so…’ Apinya tugged at her mask like it was annoying her even more than Angela Caldwell was. She sighed then rested it back behind her ears. ‘Okay, well Mr Falconer’s here now.’ She checked her watch again. ‘Better late than never.’
Cullen folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’d rather it didn’t take two injured guards and another inmate on the run.’
‘Well, he’s not going anywhere now.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s tested positive for Covid-19. The prison’s medical officer conducted a test last week and he was isolated in the medical ward, but his condition worsened this morning, so they were concerned that he needed medical intervention.’
Cullen felt his mask tighten around his skin. ‘So he’s been passing that bug on to people?’
‘He was wearing a mask. No idea where he got it, presumably from Carl Kelleher, but it will have likely prevented any further spread of the novel coronavirus.’
‘That’s a good thing. But you’re testing that barista guy?’
‘Ah, you mean Donald Dunn?’
Cullen shrugged. ‘Only identified to us as Wreginald. With a W.’
‘That figures. I know police officers, and they know good coffee. Wreginald brews a nice cup. I know why some people won’t share information with you.’
Charming. ‘How is Wreginald?’
‘He’s fine. Stay at home, isolate, watch for symptoms, blah blah blah. He’s going to play with some new coffee recipes.’ Apinya fixed Angela with a hard stare. ‘Kenny Falconer, on the other hand, keeps complaining of severe testicular pain. Any idea what caused that?’
Cullen caught Angela grinning at him, but he really needed to have a word with her about battering Falconer’s balls up into his stomach. ‘He must’ve fallen.’
‘Fallen, sure. Heard that one a million times.’
‘Swear it’s the truth. He saying anything?’
‘Not to me, no.’
‘Can we speak to him?’
‘Not so sure. Your problem is that he’s started seeing things. Hallucination is a side effect of taking chloroquine diphosphate at such doses.’ Apinya shook her head. ‘Whoever’s dealing those drugs… It’s a crime.’
‘I mean, literally, yes.’ Angela walked over to the glass. ‘And it’s one of the reasons we need a word.’
Through the window, Kenny Falconer lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. All his stabbing and escaping and murdering had got him nowhere but where he was supposed to be. He coughed and his whole body wracked.
Angela was frowning. ‘Isn’t there supposed to be a guard here?’
‘Prison service sent someone, aye. But he’s speaking to Mr Kelleher in A&E.’
‘You know how the surgery went?’
She looked away. ‘The prison guard died.’
It hit Cullen like a
knee in the balls. Another murder by Kenny Falconer. Another preventable one, too. ‘Mind if we just have a quick word with him?’
Apinya checked both directions. ‘Okay, so I need to leave for the night. I’ll get my boss to send someone over but in the meantime, can you have a look at this?’ She handed Angela the handset. ‘I’m not sure it’s working.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Angela grinned at her.
Apinya slipped off away from them.
‘Good work.’ Cullen joined Angela by the window. ‘But we still need to have a chat about you tanning his balls.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously. Whatever’s happened to you, whatever Falconer did to you and his mate Vardy did to Bill, you can’t just hoof him in the conkers.’
Angela wasn’t taking it seriously. Her face lit up like she was in the front row of a gig by that shite comedian she liked, the fat Cockney one.
‘I’m being serious here. I shouldn’t use words like that, sorry.’
‘Fights are dynamic situations, Scott. You know that as well as I do. I was aiming for his thigh and he moved.’
‘You need to at least appear to regret it.’
‘Fine. I regret it.’ With a sigh, Angela picked up the handset and spoke into it: ‘Kenny?’
He looked over at the window, but didn’t say anything.
‘Can you hear me, Kenny?’
‘Not talking to you.’
Angela looked like she was going to fight back, so Cullen snatched the handset from her. ‘Go and stall Apinya’s boss.’
‘Righty-ho.’ She took one last look at Falconer then trudged off away from the window.
Cullen put the handset as close to his mouth as he dared: ‘Kenny, you know me, so let’s cut the shite, okay? Who were you working with?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Don’t give me that. You escaped with another prisoner. We have too much history to be playing games here. Tell me where he is.’
‘You think I want to tell you anything, pal?’
‘You’ll get another eight years for that trick today. And that’s just the escape part. You murdered a guard, Kenny.’
Falconer shrugged. The exact response Cullen expected. Taking a life with no remorse. The world must be a strange place to someone who could do that.
‘That’s another life sentence, Kenny. You seem intent on collecting them.’
‘What was the plan? Sit this out in the flat above your bookshop?’
‘I was waiting for someone. Boy who worked for Dean Vardy, owes me a favour.’
‘He know you’ve got that bug?’
Another shrug. ‘He was going to take us on a wee trip up north to see my mother.’
‘Kenny, your mother’s dead.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘It’s the truth, Kenny. She died in January.’
‘My uncle Robert, fucking lying bastard, man.’ Falconer slumped back in the bed with another wracking cough. Five or six in quick succession.
‘Where did you get the pills?’
‘They’re to help me.’
‘Who gave you them?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Was it Wreginald?’
‘No.’
‘Kenny, they’re poisoning you. Worse than whatever bug you’ve got, if you’ve even got one. These fits and coughs and whatever else, it’s because your body’s receiving toxic shock.’
‘So?’
‘How many did you take?’
‘Not telling you that. Got them inside.’
‘So you want to die?’
‘What?’
‘You’re happy to die in a hospital bed of poisoning from a stupid drug? Rather than face prison like a man.’
‘You should try it, pal. Wouldn’t even last a day in there.’
‘You’re probably right. I’m a cop. But then, some people are better inside than out. I respect you for who you are, Kenny, and what you can do.’ Cullen left a pause and waited for a reaction. There, a slight curling of the lips. ‘But that respect has to cut both ways, Kenny. I’m not going to talk shite to you and I am sincerely sorry to have to tell you about your mother. I love my mum too, mate, so I can’t imagine…’
Kenny lay there, blinking.
‘The way I see it, Kenny, you were the brains behind your escape attempt. You’ve got the muscle to pull it off. Right?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What did your mate contribute? A smile? A knowing wink?’
And he’d lost him. Back to staring up at the ceiling.
‘What could the other guy have contributed, Kenny? Wait, I see it, you’re the total package, right? Brains, brawn, skill. Contacts. Even got some money.’
Still nothing. Not even the faint smile.
Sod it. ‘Your mate must be a coward, right?’
Kenny looked over, frowning. ‘Eh?’
‘Well, it’s that or he’s using you. Either way, he’s preying off your strength and skills to get out of prison.’
‘Nah, Kegsy’s alright, mate.’
Got you.
Cullen smiled at him. ‘Kegsy, eh?’
Falconer slumped back in the bed. ‘Ah fuck.’
Cullen had no idea who Kegsy was. But someone at the prison would know.
12
Bain
‘I mean…’ I watch New York whizz past. Up ahead, the ambulance weaves in traffic behind Holten’s car, carrying Art Oscar to safety. ‘And who fuckin’ steals a wallet but leaves a phone?’
‘You expecting me to show you some sympathy here?’ Mo’s shaking his head as he drives, but he seems to love this, getting escorted by two of New York’s finest through Downtown Manhattan. ‘You stole my car, man.’
Actually, I’ve no idea what “Downtown” means. Always think I do, then someone fuckin’ bursts it open wide.
‘I did what I had to. You ran off after that tramp and we needed to get laughing boy to hospital.’
In the back, Elvis is looking fucked. Head between his knees, fingers clawing at his hair.
‘Mm.’ Mo pulls out to follow Holten’s motor through a particularly snarled up section. ‘You want to know?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Because the cops can track a cellphone. Can’t track a wallet.’
‘I can track mine.’ Elvis is upright and leaning forward. ‘Got a little tracker thing in it.’
‘That only works locally, dumbass.’
I shoot a glower at Mo. ‘You got rage issues or something?’
Mo looks over at us. ‘Like you don’t?’
I just try and shrug it off. ‘What’s “Downtown” mean?’
‘Downtown?’
‘Aye, what’s it mean?’
‘Downtown is… Downtown. It just is what it is.’
‘I know, but where is it?’
‘It’s where… Like the businesses are. And like bus and subway stations. Galleries and the Federal Building and City Hall and—’
‘But that’s all over New York?’
‘Right, but it’s just… Downtown. Where everything is.’
‘You mean the high street?’
‘The what?’
Fuck sake. Two cultures divided by a common language… ‘The city centre?’
Mo grins. ‘I guess.’
‘Why not just say “city centre” then? Why Downtown?’
‘Well, we’ve Midtown and Uptown too. And don’t get me started on Chinatown and The Village.’
‘Some people say it’s from Boston.’ Elvis is back between us, got his phone out. His seems to have escaped being smashed by twats. ‘But Wikipedia says it comes from this fine city. Early nineteenth century, there was a town at the southern edge of the island of Manhattan.’ He thumbs behind us, but I don’t think south’s that way. ‘That’s where all the business stuff was at the time. Only way to grow was north, or up if you’re looking at a map. And that was all houses.’
‘Huh.’ Mo shrugs. ‘Never knew that.’
&n
bsp; ‘And Elvis here knows bugger all except how to use that phone of his.’
‘You’re lucky you’ve got me, Bri.’
Judging by the signs and stuff, we’re like a block away from the hospital. Not that it’s that much different from back the way. Just more Starbucks and better-looking delis. And one of those tunnel things over the pavement you see on films too, but it’s for a bar rather than a swanky hotel. Probably a smoking shelter. Fuckin’ Irish pub, too. I mean, I like the Irish as much as the next man, but Guinness is an average beer at best. Much better stouts out there.
‘You’re lucky I’m not pressing charges.’
‘I’m not lucky, I’ve just got a new buddy in the NYPD. And you’re lucky you’re not getting done for attempted murder. Running off like that, you twat.’
‘Dude was asking for it.’
‘You catch him?’
‘Nope.’ Mo pulls up on the right. Row of trees on the pavement, all starting to come out green. ‘Here we are.’
Big pink building with glass in the middle. Twenty floors maybe. Looks like a fancy hotel.
‘This is the hospital?’
‘Sure is. What were you expecting?’
‘Don’t know, but not that.’
‘Well. You can get out now. And don’t forget to five star me.’
‘Sure thing.’ I get out onto the street and the wind hits me again. I mean, it’s nothing like back home but it’s got something unique to this country, I tell you.
Mo drives off into the traffic with a wave.
Fuck it, I give the boy a four. Or at least it looks like that through the cracks.
Elvis claps my arms. ‘So, what’s the plan now?’
‘Get tested, I suppose.’ Hate to think about going on a ventilator, but better to know, right? ‘Those pricks nicked our shower curtains and… Elvis, we need to talk about those sex masks.’
‘Come on, Bri. You said you weren’t going to mention them again.’
‘What happens in the safety of your own bedroom between you and Danielle is sacrosanct. I just dislike having to wear her mask.’
‘It’s just that you’ve got a much bigger head than me.’
And the phone rings. The little lady. ‘Hey, what’s up?’
