The Death of Me

by Natalie Hames

  “You’ve made the right decision. As our friends in America would say, ‘it’s a no-brainer’,” Peter said, clearly pleased with the outcome of their meeting.

  A black hood came over the top of Phil’s head and a drawstring pulled so it fitted closely to his neck and once again he was filled with panic.

  “Don’t struggle Mr Harris, it makes it much harder.”

  “What’s happening? I thought we had a deal,” he pleaded.

  A sharp sensation on the side of his neck made him cry out as the syringe entered the vein, followed by a spinning sensation, then a blank.

  *****

  The sound of a car door slamming shut woke him with a start. He rubbed his hand over his forehead to ease the painful throbbing as the last memories of consciousness slowly trickled back. He looked around him, shocked to find himself sat in his car in the exact same parking space at the hospital. Had it been a dream, a nightmare and he had only just woken up? Had he really gone to see Father Michael? Unable to distinguish dream from reality, he turned his rear view mirror, angling it onto his face. The bruises were real, the pain giving them credence and the memory of how he had received them came rushing back along with the cold reality.

  Claustrophobia, something he had never suffered with until now, flipped his empty stomach and he opened his door to feel the cold winter’s air on his face as he retched. Leaving the car, he made his way over to the main entrance of the hospital, the bright lights and abundance of people rushing around gave him a much needed feeling of normality. Aware of his appearance, he headed straight for the male toilets to clean himself up and take a closer look at the cut on his lip which had now dried over with blood.

  “Are you alright? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  A gentle hand caught his arm and he turned to see a young nurse with a concerned expression.

  “I’ll be fine, thanks,” he replied, straining a smile and reopening the split in his lip.

  He felt his chin itch as a trickle of blood travelled down and he pulled a tissue out from his pocket and dabbed it away.

  “Are you sure? It looks nasty, you may need a stitch.”

  “Honestly, I’ll be fine. I just need to use the washroom.”

  He hurried away, not giving her any more time to persuade or usher him into a cubicle. Once inside the male toilets he pushed the plunger to activate the plug and filled the hand basin with tepid water.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, catching his reflection in the mirror above the basin. “No wonder she looked so concerned.”

  He switched off the water flow from the hot tap and blasted the basin with cold to help reduce the swelling on his cheekbone. The water stung, but he continued to splash it onto his face to wash away the dried blood. Grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, he gently blotted his face dry as the brownish mix of blood and water disappeared down the drain. He checked back in the mirror. Washing the dried blood off his face eased the brutality but it did nothing for the bruising and swelling. Removing the clot holding his lip together had now caused the blood to flow and he pressed the paper hand towel onto the cut.

  “Hmm, that nurse may be right. It looks like I need a stitch.”

  He decided he would have his lip seen to later, right now he had more important things on his mind such as what to tell Katherine when she asked what had happened. He left the washroom and headed left, down the corridor leading to the ward where she was still being treated. Would she be conscious? A layer of sweat formed over his body at the prospect of seeing his child and he stopped as he approached the Special Care Baby Unit. Neat rows of babies, all swaddled in blues and pinks in their clear Perspex cribs filled the room and he looked at each one intently for any inherited characteristics. A mop of dark hair. Katherine’s petite and slightly upturned nose.

  “Please God, don’t let this be a dream,” he murmured, his breath forming a mist on the glass.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, the possibility of it not being real too painful for him to consider. With his vision taken away his ears replaced the missing sense and the corridor twinkled with the sound of tiny lungs as they let out their cries.

  “Are you okay?”

  A soft voice interrupted the babies chatter and a hand gently pressed against the middle of his back so as not to startle him. A pretty young nurse with a fresh complexion and bright green eyes was staring at him, waiting for him to reply.

  “Err, yes. Sorry, I lost myself for a minute.”

  The innocence of her expression fell to one of uneasiness as he turned to speak to her, revealing his brutally battered face.

  “Are you visiting someone?” she asked with an air of caution to her voice.

  He sensed her tension from seeing the discord of a man whom had taken a severe beating tainting the civilised and sterile environment filled with the purity of new life.

  “It’s okay, I’m a detective. I had a run-in with one of the bad guys,” he babbled. “My wife…I’ve come to visit my wife, Katherine Harris?”

  The nurse took a step back, trying to mask her uneasiness and he could tell she didn’t quite believe his story.

  “I’ll just see if a doctor’s free to see you. Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried away, the stiffness of her back and shoulders giving away her underlying concerns. Turning back to the window, he watched as another nurse checked on the babies, occasionally picking one up and taking them over to a changing station over in the far corner of the room. His imagination soothed his troubled thoughts. Scenarios of night feeds, nappy changes, first steps and early smiles transported him into another world where the other night seemed distant and surreal.

  The door at the end of the corridor swung open sending a wave of baby smells into the air. Talcum powder infused with the soft aroma all babies seem to have filled his senses.

  “Mr Harris.”

  Phil turned to see Doctor Khan stood at his side. His daydream vanished in an instant, replaced by the memories of the night Katherine had been admitted to Accident and Emergency.

  “Would you like to come through and see your wife? She’s not been awake long so don’t expect too much from her.”

  Doctor Khan turned and started to lead the way to the bottom of the corridor where Katherine was recovering in a separate room.

  “But…the baby. You told me it was too early to tell and indicated the worse.”

  Doctor Khan stopped and turned, his expression dead pan.

  “You must be mistaken, Mr Harris. Your daughter is there.”

  He pointed at one of the clear cribs where a baby swaddled in pink lay fast asleep. He ran his hands through his hair, clutching handfuls as he watched a nurse pick the baby up and leave the room.

  “Why…why did you do that? Why did you let me think it was over?” Phil said, the volume of his voice rising.

  “Mr Harris. You were very distraught the night you arrived at the hospital. I assure you I said no such thing.”

  Phil shook his head and started to laugh hysterically.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?!”

  Doctor Khan took a sharp step closer to Phil and lowered his voice.

  “Be careful, Mr Harris. The last thing you and your wife need is for you to be sectioned.”

  He gave an obvious glance over towards the security guards hovering at the far end of the corridor. He placed his hand on Phil’s arm and squeezed it tightly, stepping a little closer so his lips were inches away from his ear.

  “We don’t own children, they’re all on loan,” he whispered menacingly then released his grip and stepped back, a smile bursting across his face. “Would you like your wife to meet her new daughter…or not?”

  Chapter Thirty One

  Tiny fingers wrapped around his and he marvelled at their new arrival, soaking in every detail of her delicate features as she lay peacefully in her crib. Was she really theirs? Looking back his doubts now seemed absurd as he recognised family traits.
The black hair, the Harris chin, dominant genes and characteristics the whole family carried through the generations. He banished the last remaining doubts from his mind, partly because the alternative would be too devastating to entertain, the other part because it would put his sanity into serious question. Besides, what would he say to Katherine? Insist on a DNA test? He glanced over at her as she slept. The after effects of the surgery had left her weak and sore but she was slowly gaining back her strength. She had decided on naming their daughter Molly as its Hebrew meaning translated to ‘a longed for child’ and he had agreed it was fitting.

  “Molly,” he whispered as she fell back to sleep, still holding his finger.

  He gently released it, taking care not to wake her so Katherine would get her much needed sleep and quietly went down to the kitchen to grab some breakfast. The lights in the kitchen dazzled him, the contrast of the dark morning and their sudden blaze making him squint till his eyes adjusted. Two weeks away from the job had done him good and despite the night feeds his natural sleep pattern had been restored bringing with it a renewed vitality. But today had arrived too fast. The feeling of electricity prickling through his veins, the slight clamminess which covered his skin had returned.

  During the short time away from work and the ability to reach a deeper level of sleep he had gained a new perspective. A fresh burst of ambition had cleared his mind, allowing it to think more freely and consider other options and the events of Molly’s birth seemed surreal. Did they even happen, or was his mind so deprived of sleep it had played an illusion? Spending time with Katherine and Molly had brought them closer and they had engaged in several deep conversations about his career and the stress it put him under. Becoming a parent and surviving a near death experience had mellowed the materialistic and social climbing streak of her personality, making her more receptive to him pursuing another career. For him, it was a way out of the trap he had fallen into with the highly organised crime syndicate. A sideways step to break their hold on him. If he quit the force then he would no longer serve a purpose in their grand design.

  He had paid close attention to the local news to see if there had been any mention of Father Michael being found but there had been nothing. He didn’t expect there to be. He knew how they worked and how the priest’s body would conveniently appear covered in his DNA if he stepped out of line and didn’t do their bidding. His hands tightened into fists as anger returned. Anger at how he had allowed himself be put in this position and how out of control his life would be if he stayed in the job. His mother had not been her usual standoffish self, instead taking on a quiet aloofness since Father Michael’s disappearance and he had cautiously asked about him when they had met for lunch at the weekend. She changed the subject, only briefly mentioning he had be assigned to another diocese and had left suddenly.

  By the time he was ready to leave the house and head to work it was as if the last two weeks of replenishment had vanished. Katherine was making herself breakfast as she cuddled and rocked Molly in her arms and he resented having to leave them. He wanted to quit. Ring DCI Burns and tell him to shove the job, but his financial situation dictated his impulsive fantasy. The only thing spurring him on was his meeting with Guy later on when he would run through his new business plan and ask him for the funding he needed. Then, he would kick the job into touch and never look back.

  He pulled into the car park with no conscious memory of the journey. His thoughts were consumed with the situation he was now in, flicking from the shock of past events and his new business venture which was planned to set him free.

  “Philip Harris, Private Investigator.”

  It had a certain ring to it and he had done his research for his business plan. He had already written out his resignation to DCI Burns, all he needed was for Guy to give the go ahead on his business proposal and he would print it off and deliver it by hand. The thought of seeing Mick Burns’ expression when he received the letter lifted his flagging spirits as the doors of the lift opened and he walked across the busy office pool. No one looked up from their computer screens, the feeling of awkwardness after his explosion a fortnight ago still lingering in the air as he made his way over to his cubicle. No sooner had he reached it and placed his coat on the back of his chair when Mick appeared at the door of his office and beckoned him inside.

  Oh, what now?

  A bolshiness swept over him, as if he were an errant school boy being summoned to the head teacher’s office and he let out an audible sigh.

  “Morning Sir,” he said, trying to keep the petulance from his tone as he entered the room.

  Jason was sat in one of the chairs and Phil felt a shot of anger fizz around his stomach.

  Here we go. He’s going to stick the knife in, now.

  “Sir,” he greeted him with a polite nod.

  “I won’t beat around the bush,” Mick began. “DS Cook has kindly agreed not to press charges against you for assault so I want you both to move on from that unfortunate incident.”

  “Press charges?”

  He glared over at Jason who reciprocated with a wry smile and the anger he had felt on their last meeting instantly reignited.

  “In that case,” he quipped. “I won’t press charges against DS Cook for harassment.”

  Mick’s face turned dark. He wanted Phil to take this act of compassion as a means to close the matter and not fill his desk with extra paperwork. He opened his mouth to reply but Phil interjected, not giving him time for the words to come out.

  “Now, if that will be all Sir, I’d like to crack on with my work.”

  He stood from his seat and set his focus on Mick struggling to reply, eventually settling for a nod of agreement.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  Without hesitation he left the office and headed straight for the male toilets in the corridor by the lift. His face was burning and he was aware of being watched by other members of the team, waiting cautiously behind their screens for any hint of another outburst. He kicked open the door and rested his hands on the wash basins while he concentrated on regulating his breathing. The image staring back at him in the mirror was fearsome, the anger in his eyes unmistakable. He pushed the plug down, filled the sink with water and started to splash his face in an attempt to bring back its usual pallid tone but the blood continued to pump against the cold.

  “Feeling better?”

  A voice stopped him from dousing his face and he looked up into the mirror to see Jason’s reflection. He paused for a second as he considered his next move, water dripping from his face and down his clean white shirt. Choosing to ignore him, he turned and pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and patted the water off. Aware the men’s washroom had no witnesses, he felt uneasy about being alone with him in case he started his sarcastic goading, so he dropped the towel into the bin and made his way past Jason to leave.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Jason said, grabbing his arm when he got level. “You’ve got me all wrong.”

  Their eyes locked and Phil calmly pulled his arm out of his grip.

  “I don’t think I have,” he replied. “I’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re up to and it’s only a matter of time till you slip up.”

  Jason stepped backwards, pressing his back against the door and blocking Phil’s exit.

  “Look, I know everything,” he said, and Phil feigned a puzzled expression. “I know you’ve been following me, I know what you think you’ve found out. But I’m not who you think I am.”

  “And who do I think you are?” Phil replied, their faces inches apart. “A corrupt cop? Or, maybe a devil worshipping human trafficker?

  Jason scanned the cubicles to check they were alone.

  “I’m undercover. I deliberately baited you the other week to get you away from this place and your investigations.”

  Phil stepped back in shock.

  “You expect me to believe that? You sabotaged the Fletcher case and lost me my promotion.”

  “I know, an
d I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Do you realise how shit you’ve made my life? I was Mick’s star detective, set to be fast tracked up the promotional ladder only to find myself a laughing stock…and you’re sorry?”

  “You think I’m the bad guy, and I am. I have to be to infiltrate their organisation and you got too close. They needed Anthony Fletcher to be guilty, if you’d have proved his innocence more people would have been hurt.”

  “And what about Tom Dalton? I’m guessing they wanted me off that case as well.”

  “Dalton was different. The organisation had nothing to do with that until much later down the line and haven’t had any involvement with Tom,” Jason said in a hushed tone.

  “So, you’re saying someone unconnected kidnapped Grace?”

  Jason stepped away from the door, stood over by the wash basins and rubbed his face as he considered the question carefully.

  “They were unconnected until the organisation stumbled upon Grace during an operation. Instead of disposing with whoever the kidnapper was, they must have decided they had a use for him.”

  Phil’s mouth gaped open, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  “So, where is she?”

  Jason became agitated and for the first time since they had met, Phil noticed his forehead glisten with stress from his questions.

  “Look, I’ve already told you too much, I can’t jeopardise the operation. I don’t know where she is, all I know is that she’s still alive but it won’t be for much longer,” Jason said.

  “Maybe she’s in St Jude’s?” Phil quipped, his expression angry as the images of what he’d witnessed stirred up his rage.

  “No. All I can tell you is she’s not there. I know you were there, Phil. Don’t ever try anything like that again otherwise next time you won’t be so lucky.”

  “Pffttt, operation. You’re just throwing me a red herring to get me off your back. Well, you don’t have to worry for too much longer because if things go to plan I’ll be away from the force and this poxy office, for good.”