Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  ‘In the end, however, we have decided to keep the ward open and functioning as normal.’ He glances at Marcus. ‘As normally as we can, at any rate.’

  I think that normal is not a word he would be using if he’d ever set foot in this place before today.

  ‘Firstly, I must be honest and acknowledge the sad fact that we would simply not be able to find enough alternative beds for everyone, certainly not in London. Secondly, the board was of the opinion that everyone would benefit from as little disruption as possible and that patients would probably be in favour of leaving things as they are.’ He looks out at us all. ‘That you would prefer to stay together.’

  I can see the sense in what the bloke’s saying, but I consider asking if maybe we can just get rid of Lauren.

  It strikes me that keeping the ward open might be what the police would prefer as well. It’s always better if a detective can keep all their suspects in one place. As the posh bloke sits down and Marcus stands up to say a bit more, I’m finding it hard not to imagine the whole thing as some warped, psych-ward version of Cluedo.

  Mr or Mrs Mental, in the toilets, with a dagger.

  Or an air-locked room mystery. Ha!

  Now, various patients have begun standing up and shouting out questions, making observations or just sharing random thoughts, while Marcus tries to maintain some semblance of order.

  ‘Can we use the bogs again?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ Marcus says.

  ‘Good, because the men’s bogs stink.’

  ‘You stink,’ Bob says. ‘You stink of fish.’

  ‘Was there a lot of blood?’ Ilias asks.

  ‘I don’t think it’s helpful to talk about that,’ Marcus says.

  ‘Where’s Debbie?’ Graham asks.

  Now, it’s my turn. I’m sitting next to Shaun and he starts, nervous as a kitten, when I stand up suddenly. ‘What about some security?’

  Marcus looks at me.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Tony says. ‘Stop the Thing coming in.’

  ‘Yeah, but what if the Thing is the security?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Tony says.

  Marcus is still looking at me. ‘What do you mean, Alice?’

  ‘Well, this place obviously isn’t safe, is it?’ I look around for some support and I’m pleased to see Lucy and Ilias nodding. ‘You have a duty of care and you’re supposed to keep us safe. I mean, that’s basically why we’re here, right? When you’re more likely to get killed on a closed national health ward than you are in the arse-end of Hackney on a Friday night, I think something needs to be done about it. I reckon we deserve to have some decent protection.’

  Marcus looks at the bloke from the Trust.

  The bloke from the Trust seems a little uncomfortable, but says, ‘It’s certainly something we can discuss.’

  ‘There we are,’ Marcus says.

  ‘A couple of big bastards with tasers,’ I say. ‘Or even better—’

  Marcus holds up a hand. He says, ‘I think you’ve had your answer, Alice,’ and looks around for another question.

  I sit down again and put my earphones in and spend most of the rest of the meeting wondering why Marcus is being so off with me. I also spend a few minutes asking myself why Lauren felt the need to be such a bitch to Tony and thinking how much I’ll enjoy telling Ilias exactly how much blood there was. The look on the hairy little sod’s face.

  We all enjoy passing on the details of a proper drama, don’t we?

  A quarter of an hour later, when the meeting’s breaking up, I amble across to Malaika and ask if she fancies escorting me outside for a cigarette. She immediately feels for her own pack and lowers her voice.

  ‘God, I’ve been desperate for one of you to ask.’

  It’s drizzling a bit, so we stand close together beneath the overhang at the entrance to the unit. Malaika has crashed me one of her fags to save me the hassle of rolling my own, which is dead nice of her.

  Like I said before, she’s one of the good ones, and the Brummie accent always cheers me up.

  ‘Police are coming back tomorrow,’ she says.

  I nod and hiss out a stream of smoke. ‘They’ll be making an arrest probably.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Yeah, they’ll know who did it by now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’ She gives me a knowing look.

  ‘You’re fucking kidding me,’ I say. ‘Again?’

  ‘Graham put three different cameras out of action on Sunday.’ She holds up the requisite number of fingers. ‘The dining room one, the one outside the 136 and the one in the corridor that covers the women’s toilets.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘You were talking about making things safer?’ she says. ‘Back in there? First thing we should do is get Graham moved to another ward.’ She hunches her shoulders. It’s getting nippy out here. ‘The coppers who were here gave Marcus a real bollocking about it. Lecturing him about “serious lapses in security”, like it was all his fault.’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s because it’s made their job a lot harder.’

  I stand there saying nothing for a while and thinking about two murder investigations, both with massive spanners in the works thanks to the security cameras covering the scenes being buggered. Yeah, Graham pulls this shit a lot, but even so. Once is seriously unlucky, but for that to happen twice is a hell of a coincidence.

  I wonder if the police are thinking the same thing.

  ‘You weren’t very fond of Debbie, were you?’ Malaika says from nowhere.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Well, Debbie said something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No . . . nothing specific. Just that the two of you hadn’t really bonded.’

  I stare at her. ‘What does that even mean? Have you bonded with Lauren or with Bob? I’d be amazed if you had. You just hit it off better with some people than you do with others, right?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Malaika says.

  ‘To be honest, there’s times when I don’t know how you stop yourself giving most of the arseholes in here a bloody good slapping.’

  She smiles. ‘It’s a struggle,’ she says.

  I’m not sure Malaika’s being completely upfront about what Debbie said or didn’t say to her about me. Still, if she doesn’t already know about it, I don’t see much point in telling her what I’d said to Debbie a couple of days before she was killed. What I’d accused her of.

  I can’t change that, can I?

  Even now she’s dead, I certainly don’t take it back.

  We stub our cigarettes out on the wall behind us and Malaika says, ‘Come on then . . .’

  I don’t move, because suddenly all I can think about is meeting Billy out here a couple of weeks ago. Those spare joints I stashed inside a pipe, just a few feet away from where we’re standing.

  A quick hit would be lovely, and there’s never any harm in trying, is there? I don’t think she’d dob me in just for asking. Truth is, the evil bastards aren’t the only ones that can wear masks, and these past few months I’ve mastered quite a few useful expressions that I can plaster on pretty quick when the situation calls for it.

  Shame-faced, aggrieved, dangerous, sad, desperate, untroubled . . .

  Now, I do my best to look . . . winsome.

  ‘I don’t suppose you fancy taking a walk for five minutes?’

  Malaika grins and lays a hand in my arm. She says, ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  It’s quarter-past three in the morning, I’m wide awake and there’s blood everywhere.

  Or there was . . .

  I lie in bed and wait for my heart rate to slow a little, then try to regulate my breathing, the way I was taught after this happened the first time. Long breath in thro
ugh the nose, count to three, then slowly out through pursed lips. It’s hard to focus because someone’s shouting along the corridor.

  I take another long breath in . . .

  Early on, I said that I didn’t believe the recreational drugs I’d been taking before I got sectioned were the only thing responsible for me ending up here, and I stand by that. Equally, now that I’m clean-and-sober-ish, I don’t think the drugs I’m being fed by doctors four times a day – the good drugs – are the only reason for what’s happening right this minute. What’s been happening, on and off, ever since I got here.

  Something’s messing with my head, though.

  Awake or asleep, there’s something directing this horror show.

  I let the breath slowly out again.

  That’s one of the problems. Whenever this happens, I’m never sure if it’s a dream or not. I mean, I know it’s not real . . . but when it ends, I don’t know if I’ve woken up or if I was awake the whole time and it’s only stopped because my brain’s decided it wants to go somewhere a bit less scary for a while. Like a circuit breaker tripping when the current gets unsafe.

  Three-two-one . . . you’re back in the room.

  There was blood, like I said. There’s always plenty of blood. Thinking about it rationally – just for a minute – it’s all hugely predictable. Wherever I am – and that part’s always a bit fuzzy and vague – I can’t stop crying and thrashing around in a massive panic, and there’s no way I can get the blood off because there’s so much of it and when I do manage to wipe just enough of it away to remind myself what my skin actually looks like more comes bubbling up through my pores. Blood that isn’t mine, I mean. Like I’m living and breathing and . . . being the stuff.

  It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault . . .

  It’s Johnno’s blood, obviously . . . a fountain of it gushing from the wound in his neck. I don’t need Bakshi or anyone else to work that much out.

  Or at least, it used to be.

  Now, there’s even more to wade through, to wash off, to drown in, because Debbie’s blood is sloshing about in the mix as well; drenching everything in the dream or the hallucination or whatever the hell it is.

  There’s a difference, though.

  Before, it was all about guilt, of course. When it was over, I would lie awake, breathing like I’m doing now and feel it eating me alive, no matter how many times I told myself that I hadn’t been to blame for what happened to Johnno.

  I’m not guilty, I’m not guilty.

  Not. Guilty.

  Now though, I’m feeling something else and it paralyses me far more than guilt has ever done. It’s knocking on for half-past three and, if I’ve had any sleep at all, I know there’s no chance of me getting any more.

  I stare at the door. I look for a shadow moving beneath it. I listen for the noise of someone outside.

  I’m absolutely fucking terrified.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I told you how rubbish I am with names – back when I was on the Job, I had to write them down in my notebook – and, sitting there in the MDR, I forget what the two coppers are called almost as soon as they’ve introduced themselves. In my head and gone again. So, rather than sit there squinting at their IDs, I decide to go down my normal route and make something up.

  It . . . lightens things, which is good. For me at least.

  One of the women is shorter than the other and a bit on the dumpy side, while her mate strikes me as slightly posher, so it doesn’t take long to give them celebrity alter-egos. A different kind of double act. I just need to get that theme tune out of my head and stop imagining them both with fags on and enormous latex bellies, pretending to be blokes and trying to shag inanimate objects.

  Like a pair of fat sleazy Bobs.

  DC French looks up and says, ‘I understand you were the one who found Miss McClure’s body on Sunday afternoon.’

  I tell her that she’s spot on.

  ‘That can’t have been a particularly pleasant experience.’

  ‘I’ve had worse,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’

  I look at her, then watch as DC Saunders – who’s obviously done a bit more in the way of preparation – leans across and whispers something, then begins turning her colleague’s pages for her and pointing something out. I’m assuming it’s all there. The flat in Mile End. What happened to Johnno.

  ‘Oh yes.’ French looks up and nods sympathetically.

  When asked, I tell them exactly what I’d told the detective a couple of days ago. The body and the blood, the CPR until Marcus and Malaika arrived, the knife on the floor underneath the sink. Predictably, they ask me the same daft questions about anyone I might have seen going in or coming out of the toilets before me. I say much the same thing I said on Sunday, though I’m a bit less sarky about it.

  ‘It’s a shame you even need to ask,’ I say. ‘I mean, you’d know exactly who’d been in and out of the toilet if that camera hadn’t been buggered about with.’

  French’s chair squeaks as her arse shifts in it.

  ‘You’d be making an arrest by now, am I right?’

  Saunders clears her throat and says, ‘No, it’s not ideal.’

  She looks away, all set to move on. She doesn’t change her face, doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give any indication that they think a camera being put out of action again could be even the slightest bit suspicious. Not ideal? I tell you this for nothing: any faith I might have that this second investigation will be handled any better than the first is already being seriously tested.

  ‘There’s something we wanted to clear up,’ French says.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘We’ve been told by the ward manager that, a short time before Miss McClure was killed, you had accused her of being involved in the murder of a patient here just over a fortnight ago. Kevin Connolly?’

  So, that’s why Marcus was being weird with me at that meeting yesterday. Debbie had obviously gone running to him as soon as I’d confronted her, probably moaning about unacceptable verbal abuse or some such. Bleating to her boss about me having another one of my delusions or the need for stronger meds to control my fantasies about still being a police officer.

  ‘Well, I’d known she was involved in that murder for a while,’ I say. ‘I only told her to her face on the Friday. About forty-eight hours before she was killed.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And “involved” is putting it mildly, by the way. She was the one doing the murdering.’ I sit back and fold my arms. ‘I’m relieved that you’ve finally brought it up, as it goes.’

  ‘Why’s that?

  ‘Because it means that you’ve connected the two murders. I mean, they are connected. You know that, right?’ I wait. ‘Come on, how can they not be?’

  French and Saunders look at one another.

  ‘You working with the other lot, then? With Seddon’s team?’

  ‘The two investigations have been . . . merged,’ Saunders says.

  ‘Who’s running it?’

  They exchange another look. Finally, Saunders says, ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brigstocke.’

  I recognise the name but I don’t know him. ‘Is he any good?’ I wait some more, but neither of them seems awfully keen to discuss the capabilities of their SIO. The room’s getting seriously warm and I think about asking one of them to open a window.

  ‘You seem tense, Alice,’ French says.

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘A bit on edge.’

  ‘Well, of course I’m on edge. I’m shitting myself.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  It obviously needs spelling out for them. ‘I thought Debbie was running the whole drugs thing on her own, OK . . . but I was obviously wrong. She was clearly working with someone else on the inside and whoever that person is decided that Deb
bie couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut. Look, I didn’t make a huge secret of the fact that I thought Debbie was the one who’d killed Kevin, all right? Or that I had my suspicions, at least. So, maybe her accomplice reckoned it wouldn’t be too long before Debbie was arrested, and that when she was, she’d spill her guts about exactly who else was involved. So best to get rid of her. I suppose looking at it that way, I’m partly to blame for what happened.’

  Saunders is scribbling. ‘Right . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t the one with the knife though, was I?’

  ‘No,’ French says.

  ‘That’s something else . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told Seddon two weeks ago about how easy it would be to get hold of a knife in here and he didn’t listen. Wouldn’t even return my calls when I had crucial information. If I’d been taken seriously a bit sooner, Debbie might have been nicked long before whoever she was working with had the chance to shut her up for good. That’s what I’d call dropping the ball, big time. So yeah, I’m not exactly relaxed right now . . . because chances are whoever carved Debbie up in the bogs knows that I’ve put the whole thing together. Which means they might decide to come after me next.’

  Saunders puts her pen down. ‘Are you worried for your safety?’

  To be fair to the woman, she looks genuinely concerned. She might not give a monkey’s, of course, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to tell the difference.

  ‘Always,’ I say.

  Hang out the flags, Shaun the Silent has begun communicating again.

  Notice I don’t say ‘speaking’, because apparently that would be asking a bit much, but he’s . . . making himself known.

  Something, I suppose.

  So, quarter of an hour ago, I sit down next to him to have my lunch and, without looking at me, he scribbles something on a serviette, scrunches it up into a tiny ball and presses it into my hand. A special secret message, just for me. He doesn’t seem massively bothered when I open it up there and then, but that’s probably because of what it says.

  this mince tastes like dog-shit.