The Crime Tsar (19 page)

‘Is that it, Thomas? Will you be content with that?'

The blind shell eyes turned to him again. The hollow sockets of the thin one.

‘What else is there? It's the top job.'

‘But, Thomas, if it wasn't, would you still be content?'

‘I don't understand. What do you mean?'

‘Careful what you wish for, Thomas. You're not drinking your sarsaparilla.'

Shackleton shook his head; he thought there may be some drug in it.

The fat one shrugged, still smiling. She squatted down on a fancy camel saddle that had been home to a pile of
Time
magazines and copies of
National Geographic
. The faces of powerful men on the covers of the former and the natural disasters featured in the latter lay exposed on the red fake-fur rug.

‘Who are you? You're like …'

The fat one exploded with laughter, slapping his thigh in her enjoyment.

‘We're like nothing on this earth. Are we, ladies? Nothing on this earth.'

The three of them were now screeching with laughter. The noise seemed to push against him, to stop him from thinking. It got into his mouth and prevented him speaking. He wanted to leave but couldn't get up.

‘How long have you been here?' He could check them out on the electoral register, police computer, immigration …

‘Lord … how long? Let's see now, well, I tell you this, we here not just for an age but for all time. Y'understand?'

He didn't.

She put her hand on his thigh again.

‘Are you a good man, Thomas? A clean man?'

Shackleton nodded, a little boy again.

‘You believe that? Good. Why you so mean then?'

‘I … I'm not mean.'

As he spoke he heard his mother's voice. Her litany of his faults, her dislike of her awkward ugly little boy.

The great black hand tightened on his leg.

‘Put the past down, Thomas. Let it go.'

‘I can't. It makes me what I am.'

‘Yes, Thomas. It makes you a bear on a chain. Back and forth, back and forth, over and over the same patch of earth. You coming to a cross-road, child. The place they buried suicides, you know. You will have to choose. You, Thomas, no one else. Come and see us again, Thomas. We're always here. But listen to me.' She leaned close to him. There was no laughter in her now. ‘Examine your life.'

Tom wanted to ask what she meant. But he knew. His protection was always to think in the concrete. The abstract with its dangerous cousin imagination were to be avoided. If he looked for his soul he found an aerial view of inland waterways. The central canal strong-flowing
and clear. But on the lesser canals the locks were rusted, the water stagnant. And further still from that main highway were great pools of stagnant weed-choked water. Foul and opaque through decades of neglect. And that was Tom Shackleton's inner life.

‘Make the water flow, Thomas.' She grasped his arm hard. She was strong enough to hurt him. Her powerful fingers dug into the muscle.

He winced.

‘And, listen to me. You can have everything you want but take care of the wood. Not the knives or bullets, Thomas, it's the stake in your heart will bring you low. Keep away from the wood.'

When he got home the street was quiet. It was 4 a.m. There was no sign of drama. He couldn't sleep and so sat working on his papers until six when he stood under the shower, the radio turned up loud, closing the door on the night. He hadn't thought of Lucy until the record ‘Bright Eyes' was used to trail a news item about rabbits. That's what she was, a small, trusting rabbit. He was comforted thinking about her.

Lucy had waited until Tom was out of sight before she let herself in. She couldn't stop little squeaks erupting like bubbles. She wanted to tell Gary all about it. Wanted to share with him the elation she felt. She did a little conga with herself while she found the bottle of Christmas brandy and poured herself a glass.

She couldn't go to bed. Not yet. She was too excited. She wanted to live and re-live every second with Tom. She could taste him, smell him, feel his arms round her. Quietly she opened the door of Gary's room.

At first she thought he was snoring, then she realised there was something odd about his breathing. As he took each breath he was trying to suppress a cough, then swallowing. Then he'd get a snatch of breath but the back of his throat would close and he was left with his ribcage pumping up and down trying to pull in the air. She turned on the light.

Gary was on the floor amidst the Scrabble set, his pills and the pile of sandwiches she had left for him. His catheter had come away and the bag of urine was empty, its contents over Gary and the carpet. Lucy shouted his name. She crouched beside him and tried to wake
him. His lips were blue. By shaking him gently she released the clamp in his throat and he took a long juddering breath.

She picked up the phone, also on the floor, and dialled for an ambulance. Then she sat holding him, trying to ease his breathing and crying at the thought of his lonely suffering. Why hadn't he called her? Because he hadn't wanted to spoil her evening. The thought of him being so thoughtful upset her even more. While she was standing outside the back door kissing someone else's husband, her own was lying on the floor, helpless.

By the time the ambulance arrived she had bargained with God that she'd never see Tom again if Gary could recover. It was all her fault. She should have stayed at home. Her self-flagellation was total. When they arrived at the hospital she knew she didn't really want Tom. It was just an infatuation. A desire for a thrill to relieve the boredom of her life. Looking at Gary's face, covered in an oxygen mask, she swore she'd never want excitement again. At that moment she would have given anything to be playing Monopoly with Gary on a wet February afternoon.

There was no bed for him at the hospital and none of the nursing staff seemed to have experience of multiple sclerosis. Lucy kept telling them he would need a special bed, a ripple bed. One that would prevent sores, keep the blood moving, avoid the necessity of manhandling him so the risk of spasm was minimised. She was smiled at and reassured, but nothing was done. Luckily he was still unconscious and his body couldn't cause him any pain.

The doctor who examined him said it was pneumonia and that he was ‘very poorly'. Lucy hated that expression. ‘Your cat's very poorly,' ‘That geranium looks very poorly,' ‘Your husband's very poorly.' But it wasn't in her to be rude, to say something sharp to the condescending child with a shiny new stethoscope in his pocket. All she could feel was misery and regret.

She sat by the trolley on which Gary lay hooked up to tubes, holding his hand and loving him. Not that silly girly feeling she had for Tom but a deep ache, a knowledge that without Gary her life wouldn't be worth continuing. She knew she could never have Tom and even if she could he wouldn't be half the man Gary was. But had Gary been this man before the illness? Probably not. He'd never had to call upon his better self while out there competing, running,
striving. Gary was what was left of the man when job and position were taken away.

And if Tom had got MS and Gary had got his dream of becoming an MP? What would be left of Tom? Lucy tried to change her thoughts. Find some that didn't automatically revert to Tom Shackleton. But she was in the grip of a disease and could no more talk her way out of it than out of the flu. She would just have to wait until it passed and hope that, like shingles, it didn't keep coming back.

She'd made her decision. When Gary recovered they would move away – but if Tom got the Met? – they'd move away, never mind Tom! she shouted at her mind. Shut up about bloody Tom. Gary and I will move right away, to Cornwall maybe. The weather's good there. Or Sussex – Gary had always loved Brighton. Yes. That's what they'd do.

‘We've found a bed for Gary.' The tired-looking nurse was smiling her professional smile. ‘It's about sixty miles away, in Kent. We're just waiting for an ambulance to take him.'

Lucy was confused. She didn't know what to do. If she went with him, she'd have no clothes, no money. But if she left him and he woke up to find her not there. She wanted help but didn't know what help she was asking for.

She had some change in her pocket and seeing the phone down the corridor she loosed her hand from Gary's and followed the coloured lines on the floor towards it. Red for X-ray, Blue for Wards, Yellow for Outpatients. She pushed in the numbers. Five rings and Tom answered. It was eight o'clock.

‘Tom?'

‘Who's this?'

‘Lucy.'

He gave a nervous little laugh.

‘Good morning – I'm afraid you've just missed Jenni, she's gone to London.'

‘Oh. Right.'

Lucy could hear none of the intimacy of last night in his voice.

‘It's just that Gary's been taken ill. Pneumonia. He's in hospital here but there are no beds and they're transferring him to Kent and I've got no clothes or money and I don't want to leave him.'

There was a tiny pause. Lucy knew he didn't want to be involved. That this was irritating.

‘I'm sorry, Tom, I suppose you're just leaving for work.'

‘Yes, I've got a conference in Birmingham.'

‘If you could just …' Lucy didn't know where she found the strength to coerce him. ‘Get my front door key from the hook in your kitchen and bring my handbag. It's on the fridge. I forgot it.'

She knew asking for clothes would be pushing him too far. She could already feel his reluctance.

‘I'm sorry to bother you.'

‘Oh, it's no bother. I'll see to it straight away. I only hope Gary will be all right. Anything else?'

Yes, Tom, despite all the promises I've made to God, Gary and myself in the last seven hours, I still want you and I'd like you to come here now and just take me away from all this illness and smell.

‘No. Just my handbag. Thanks, Tom.'

After she had given him the details of the hospital he rang off with a brief goodbye and a softly spoken ‘Take care.'

She went back to Gary. Well, at least she'd see Tom, if only for a minute. She went to the Ladies quickly. She looked a mess. She splashed her face with water and dried it on paper towels. Immediately the skin felt tight and shiny. She wished she had some moisturiser. A comb. She sighed. What was the point? She went back to Gary who was moaning quietly but still unconscious. Every twenty minutes a nurse checked his vital signs. His blood pressure was low; Lucy told them that was normal for Gary. His temperature though was high.

Lucy saw a policeman come in. One of the many that had passed through Accident and Emergency since she'd been sitting there. But this one was carrying her handbag. She called him over. He gave her the bag and she signed a chitty for it. He seemed a pleasant young man and no, he'd never met the Chief Constable. Lucy couldn't believe Tom hadn't come himself. She was angry and deeply hurt. But within a few minutes she was making excuses for him.

And Jenni would come home to the pile of unwashed dishes and glasses. Her dining room a litter of crumbs and candle wax. Lucy left an apologetic message on Jenni's answer machine. The early years had left their mark; she was still more frightened of losing friends by causing offence than she was fearful of being regarded as a doormat.

The ambulance was ready. Gary was loaded gently into it and Lucy took her place beside him.

While Lucy was worrying about the washing up, Jenni was hearing a favourable future told by her hairdresser's medium.

She had arrived at the modern brick-built cottage in a cul-de-sac of similar homes near Tower Bridge a little early. The extraordinary creature who opened the door begged her indulgence while she watched the end of
Star Trek
on Satellite.

Jenni was seated in the ‘reading' room which doubled as sitting room. The small television kept the medium rapt while Jenni stared around in astonishment. Heavy curtains framed the double-glazed patio doors leading to a small square of green complete with umbrella-shaped clothes-dryer. The rest of the room was a riot of icons. Virgin Marys jostled with voodoo figures and sinister-looking carvings. Buddhas and Hindu gods were hung with rosaries, and pentagrams fought for space with crosses. The furniture was draped with cheap Indian shawls, and joss sticks filled the air with the smell of seventies student parties.

Star Trek
came to an end and the medium, a hefty Danish woman with long blonde hair parted centrally in the manner of a semi-professional folk singer, made camomile tea and sat down to commence the reading. She talked non-stop for an hour saying all the things Jenni wanted to hear. She even summoned up a message from the other side that Jenni identified as coming from her grandmother. As Jenny handed over her £25 at the end of the session she clasped the Viking's hand.

‘And my husband will get the … promotion?'

‘Oh, yes. I'm sure of it. And you'll both be very happy. You wait, you'll be coming back to me in six months saying, “Ailse, everything you told me was right. Everything.”'