Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  I knew what he meant. Like forensicating a hotel room. More prints and DNA than you can shake a swab at. In the case of Kevin’s room that would certainly include all the staff and most of the patients.

  I started to tell him the real reason for the call, told him what I’d just seen.

  ‘The Informals come in and go out,’ I said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Same with anyone who gets brought in on a 136.’

  ‘So . . . ?’ Banksy did not sound convinced.

  ‘So, let’s say Kevin had got himself involved with some nasty drug dealers.’

  ‘They’re all nasty,’ Banksy said.

  ‘Properly nasty, yeah? Say Kevin’s in over his head. Say he’s been paid up front for something he doesn’t deliver, or maybe he decides he wants to get out of it but he knows too much. It’s the perfect way to get rid of him.’

  There was silence for a bit. I could hear squad-room noises in the background, phones and chit-chat. I felt like someone who’d lost a child and then seen a woman out with her new baby. OK, that’s putting it a bit strong, maybe, but you know what I’m saying.

  ‘Go on then,’ Banksy said.

  ‘Someone comes in, pretending to be a voluntary patient, an Informal, yeah? It wouldn’t take them long to figure out the situation with the cameras in here, so they wait until Graham shuts the right one down, do what they’ve come for, then discharge themselves as soon as.’

  ‘That simple?’

  ‘Yeah, that simple. Listen, I bet I could easily find out who left the day Kevin was killed, or the morning after.’

  Another silence. Then, ‘It’s a bit far-fetched, Al.’

  ‘You haven’t even thought about it.’

  ‘I am thinking about it. You’re telling me that some gangsters hired a hit-man to pretend to be mad. They don’t normally go for anything that complicated. They’d just threaten his family or burn his house down.’

  ‘Yeah, but doing it this way wouldn’t draw attention, would it?’

  ‘Also, aren’t the staff in there trained to know if someone’s putting it on?’

  ‘They get things wrong sometimes.’

  ‘Did they get it wrong with you?’

  Now I was the one saying nothing for a bit. ‘They get things wrong.’

  I listened to that gorgeous office chatter for another few seconds. I pressed the phone hard to my ear, but I couldn’t make out what was being said or hear any voices I recognised.

  ‘It’s a bit of a stretch,’ Banksy said. ‘You must see that, and, like I said the other day, I’m really not sure this is doing you any good, so—’

  ‘If Kevin was getting the drugs from in here, he had to be getting them out somehow. You’ve got to admit that much, right?’

  Banksy sighed. ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’

  ‘So I think you should talk to Seddon,’ I said. ‘Tell him he needs to check out all Kevin’s visitors.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re already doing that, Al.’

  ‘We should make sure.’

  ‘They’re all good officers.’

  ‘I was a good officer.’

  Banksy said nothing.

  ‘I was really good,’ I said. ‘Point is, everyone thinks they’re a good officer until they’re washing the blood off.’

  THIRTEEN

  This Is What I Believed.

  Part One . . . because frankly there’s quite a lot to get through and I can’t really bring myself to think about it for too long. I should tell you that some of it might seem a bit all over the place, but that’s only because I was all over the place, and I can’t swear that I’ve got what happened when exactly right. I’ve talked to the various witnesses (Mum and Dad, Sophie, Andy, etc.) to corroborate statements where I could and tried to put together a timeline.

  Like every case I ever worked on the Job, except that I was the major suspect.

  The PTSD didn’t kick in straight away. I mean, I didn’t walk out of that flat in Mile End barking like a dog. I got cleaned up and gave my statement. I went home and just curled up, then cried on Sophie’s shoulder for a couple of days. But I couldn’t sleep and then I started having panic attacks. I swear, these days, it’s like every Tom, Dick or Harry has them, needs a nice cup of tea and a biscuit now and again, but I knew pretty bloody quickly that no amount of breathing into a paper bag was going to sort me out.

  Chills or nausea or thinking I was going to shit myself.

  Pins and needles, everywhere.

  Sweating like a rapist and feeling like I was going to choke.

  My doctor put me on Prozac fast enough (popping my SSRI cherry), and my boss and his boss were both great about it. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Al. Take some time – paid sick-leave, yay! – and let’s see if you’re ready to come back to work in a few weeks.

  A few weeks became a few more, but I don’t think they really understood how bad things had become until I was actually needed again, when the arsehole who’d carved up Johnno was about to go on trial.

  See, I didn’t mind taking the tablets, but it wasn’t particularly enjoyable, and pretty quickly I discovered that a bottle of red wine and a few spliffs every night could do the job equally well. So, on top of some prodigious pill-popping, I started bulk-buying at Oddbins and filling daily prescriptions with Billy. Twice-daily, sometimes. And I felt absolutely great, to be honest; no point pretending I didn’t. The panic and the piss-myself terror were all but gone, and I was calm for a while, at least. Until I found out what getting out of your head really means.

  So, the trial . . .

  I was the prosecution’s star witness, of course, but that soon changed when a couple of the DCs working the case came round to go through my forthcoming appearance in court. All very straightforward, and not even official because they weren’t allowed to ‘coach’ any witnesses and were just there to talk about a couple of the questions the defence might throw at me. Sod’s law – I was midway through a bit of a bender when they turned up, so it only took a few minutes with them before ‘forthcoming’ became ‘not-a-cat-in-hell’s-chance’. Never mind take the stand, I was hardly in a fit state to stand, so it was quickly decided I would not be giving evidence at all.

  I was gutted, because I’d wanted to be there for Johnno.

  I knew both those DCs, but the way they stared while I ranted at them, it was like they didn’t know me at all.

  It didn’t much matter in the end, which is the only good part, because the toe-rag got was what coming to him anyway. They had my original statement, a Stanley knife with his prints on, and the bloodstained clothes which the moron had not thought to get rid of.

  Next thing, there’s a lot of official coming and going with Police Federation reps and the like. Everyone was ‘shocked and disappointed’ but it was not the behaviour expected of a Met officer – whatever said officer had been through – and, being permanently unfit to return to duty, I hadn’t left the powers that be with much choice. The extended paid leave became ‘medical retirement’, and even though they were nice enough not to nick me for possession they made it clear they were actually doing me a favour and maybe I could do them one by not making a fuss about it.

  Handing over my warrant card nice and quietly.

  Fair enough back then, I suppose, and being ‘medically retired’ means I get a small pension which comes in useful, but it still pisses me off looking back at it now. The lack of sympathy or understanding. Yeah, I had a problem with drink and was doing way too much skunk on top of all the pills. As if all that wasn’t enough – and it was more than enough for most of my so-called friends – it was around this time that I started to believe some of the things that led me, eventually, to the tender mercies of the Fleet Ward, by way of the less-than-tender process of being sectioned.

  Maybe we should leave all that fun stuff until next time.r />
  I should mention, though, that I’d also turned into a bit of a slapper. Up to that point – before Johnno died, I mean – I’d had a couple of longish relationships and even been engaged at one time, but afterwards, once the booze and the weed had begun to work their magic, I decided to really let rip and throw casual sex into the mix.

  Why not, right?

  There were a lot of wild nights spent in clubs and bars and a lot of miserable mornings spent telling myself I would never do it again after waking up with one loser or another. You know what Coyote Syndrome is, right? When you wake up curled around some stranger and you’d rather chew your own arm off than move it and risk waking them up. I was very familiar with that. I think I fell for the ‘Hello ladies’ line more than once myself back then, though I was usually the one looking for a quick bunk-up.

  Worst part is, I can’t remember any of the sex.

  Not a single moment.

  It was probably all terrible, but still . . .

  All very sordid and, believe it or not, it’s the aspect of my somewhat chequered past I’m least proud of. That’s probably because of where one such encounter led. Because of who it led to.

  I can’t even remember where I met Andy, but the morning after wasn’t quite as terrible as usual and he stuck around until the afternoon. I told him a bit about myself, but not all of it. He told me about his boring job in an office and I remember feeling quite jealous. We saw each other a few times after that and suddenly we were going out. Restaurants and the pictures and stupid cards on Valentine’s Day.

  All fine and dandy.

  It’s how things are supposed to be, isn’t it?

  He knew exactly what he was getting into, I want to stress that right now. He knew. How could he not, for God’s sake, the state of me back then?

  When he suggested that I move into his flat, I wasn’t convinced it was a good idea, but Sophie certainly was. I must have been a total nightmare to live with, so I don’t blame her for encouraging me.

  ‘New start,’ she said.

  Looking back now, it’s quite funny, because I can see how desperate she was.

  ‘Could be just what you need, Al . . .’

  It wasn’t, and you already know that things with not-as-nice-as-I-thought-he-was Andy went tits-up very quickly – before I’d taken all my stuff out of the boxes, more or less – but there’s all manner of fun and games you don’t know about yet, and I think I’ll save the more lurid details for the next instalment.

  The cutting and the masks and the hospital.

  The plot to murder me.

  You really don’t want to miss that. Watch this space.

  FOURTEEN

  Half an hour or so after I’d talked to Banksy, Marcus knocked on my door. I shouted ‘fuck off’, which is my standard reaction, to be fair, but I was angry that Banksy had rubbished my fake voluntary idea. I still thought it was something worth following up.

  Marcus knocked again and this time he didn’t wait for an answer. The bedroom doors can be locked and we’ve all got our own keys, but most people don’t bother because we’re in and out all day and the staff have to come in so often for checks. We’ve each got a small cupboard inside our room with a padlock. That’s useful for any valuables, because sometimes phones or iPods can go walkabout, but the doors themselves tend to stay unlocked.

  Marcus walked in and sat down on the end of the bed, like we were best mates. ‘Back to WEO,’ he said.

  Within Eyesight Observation. No big surprise, but it didn’t do much for my mood. It’s exactly like it sounds and would mean a nurse keeping an eye on me twenty-four hours a day. Watching me eat and following me into the toilet. Even at night, there’d be someone sitting outside my half-open bedroom door.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Whatever.’

  He didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, just sat there fiddling with his ID, dangling from its ever-so-cheerful rainbow-coloured lanyard. ‘It’s a shame, that’s all,’ he said, eventually. ‘You’d been doing really well.’

  ‘Not well enough to be sent home.’

  ‘Well, all the same. Better.’

  He was trying to be kind, I can see that now. His voice, as always, was low and dripping with concern. That didn’t stop me wanting to upset him and make the rest of his day as awful as mine was going to be. ‘Maybe I’m just messing you all about and behaving the way you want me to,’ I said. ‘Saying all the right things.’ I tapped the side of my head. ‘Maybe in here I’m still massively fucked.’

  ‘If that is the case, the only one you’re making a fool of is you,’ he said. ‘It’s your weekly assessment the day after tomorrow, so let’s see what happens.’

  ‘I know exactly what’s going to happen,’ I said. ‘Well, I know what’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Do you not think we want you to go home?’

  He looked like he genuinely meant it but, staring at him, I found myself thinking about what Tony had said about a member of staff being the Thing, and even though the whole idea is just about the maddest thing I’ve ever heard I sat there for half a minute trying to imagine what it would be like if it was actually true.

  ‘We want all the patients to go home,’ he said.

  I tried to manufacture a smile. ‘Well, whether I’m massively fucked or not, and I’m not saying one way or the other, I mean it’s your job to work that out—’

  ‘Not true,’ he said quickly. ‘Perhaps that is Dr Bakshi’s job, or part of it anyway, but the rest of us are here to keep you safe.’

  ‘Either way . . . I might be massively fucked, but you’re the one that looks like you are.’ I leaned close and studied his face. ‘You look knackered.’

  He laughed, gently. ‘Yes, I am very tired. We all are.’

  ‘You need to pace yourself, mate. It’s not even Wednesday lunchtime yet.’

  ‘We don’t have the luxury of pacing ourselves,’ he said. ‘On top of which Malaika is off sick today.’

  I hadn’t noticed she wasn’t around.

  ‘The agency have not sent a replacement.’

  ‘Never enough dosh,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Governments have short memories.’

  ‘Yeah, I hear what you’re saying.’ It wasn’t very long ago that Marcus and the hundreds of thousands like him were heroes. The saviours of a nation. I’d been one of those standing outside my flat, clapping in the street.

  ‘It was never applause we needed.’ Marcus stood up. ‘It was money and the proper equipment. Four nurses died on this unit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Public funding is one thing that’s always been massively fucked. Same in the Met.’

  He stopped at the door. ‘That’s another thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is what tells me that you still have a fair way to go before you are well. You talking about the police.’ He was playing with his stupid ID card again. ‘Like you are still working for them.’

  ‘OK, now you really can fuck off,’ I said.

  He didn’t. ‘Why were you asking Femi those questions?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

  ‘Missing drugs.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea how crime is actually solved, have you?’ I was kneeling up on the bed now, my voice a good deal louder than his and both fists clutching the duvet. ‘You probably think it’s all about CCTV and mobile phones and all that technical crap, don’t you? The truth is, doesn’t matter how much of that stuff you’ve got, crime actually gets solved because human beings like me ask questions.’ I took a few deep breaths. ‘One of your patients was murdered, I’m not sure if you’re aware of that.’

  ‘What happened to Mr Connolly was truly horrible,’ he said. ‘But I still have patients like you to take care of and keep safe.’ He took hold of his badge again, held it up like I’d never seen it before. ‘Tha
t is my job.’

  ‘Right, and I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job, fair enough?’

  ‘It’s not your job, Alice.’

  I was still screaming when he closed the door.

  After that I tossed my duvet and pillows around for a while, heaved the mattress on to the floor exactly as George and Marcus had done the night before and turned the bed over. Then once I was out of breath and had put everything back together again, I lay down until I was feeling a little less like putting my fist through a window.

  I needed to get my act together, because there was lots to do.

  I would start getting into this properly the next day.

  There were plenty of people to talk to and I had no shortage of questions to ask.

  FIFTEEN

  I woke up Thursday feeling jumpy and knowing that if anyone so much as said good morning there was every chance I would do them serious damage. All I wanted was to scratch and kick at something or someone. I don’t know if they’d upped my dosages without telling me, but half an hour after I’d taken my morning meds – fighting the urge to fly across the counter at Femi – things had swung much too far the other way and just walking to the toilet and back felt like wading through treacle.

  When Donna walked past it was like she was sprinting.

  I knew that the morning was a washout. I was no use to anyone, up and down like a yo-yo, so I went back to bed.

  All being well, I’d get stuck into the interviews come the afternoon.

  That’s just the way it goes sometimes.

  A bit later, before I had a chance to talk to anyone, Jamilah left.

  It’s not like there’s a fanfare when it happens or anyone makes an official announcement, so most of the time people just go home or get sent somewhere else without you even knowing. They’re just . . . not there any more. But a few people were talking about it when I got up again so, when the woman of the moment finally appeared in the corridor with her wheelie suitcase, me and a couple of the others were standing around to watch her go.