Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  ‘I know she hasn’t, love.’ He stares down at his brown brogues for a few seconds. ‘Thing is . . .’

  ‘She gets upset,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  Twenty treacly minutes later, Dad says he’d best be getting off and I really like having his arm around me as we’re walking slowly towards the airlock. He says a cheery hello to Donna, like she’s some nice girl he chats to in the post office once in a while, and he even manages a thumbs-up for Ilias who’s repeatedly tossing a tennis ball six inches in the air and shouting Yes! every time he catches it.

  Dad stops when he sees Tony at the airlock with his suitcase. Tony waves and my father raises an arm in return. It’s a bit awkward, though, and looks more like a Nazi salute.

  ‘Why does he do that?’

  I tell him about Tony’s non-existent family.

  ‘Well, at least you’ve got me and Mum,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, but you can’t get me out of here any more than Tony’s made-up rellies.’

  He gets a bit upset again. He’s looking at me and, fuzzy-headed as I am, I know he’s thinking about that girl who could run really fast and do funny voices in daft plays. He’s thinking that he’s lost her.

  ‘It isn’t your fault,’ I say. ‘Everything that’s happened.’

  He blinks slowly and shrugs. ‘How can it not be, love?’

  ‘It was Grandad Jim’s fault.’ I shake my head, sadly. ‘Him touching me like that when I was little.’

  Dad stares at me.

  ‘Joke,’ I say.

  Tony is waving again, but now my dad is too stunned to wave back, so I just stand there with him for a bit and I know I’m the worst daughter in the world.

  FORTY

  I’m mooching around before dinner, bored and not quite sure what to do with myself, when my mobile rings. It’s the investigator bloke from Pindown, so I drop the call. I don’t really want to speak to him but I’m not going to turn my phone off – I would never do that – so when he calls back again almost immediately, I decide to answer.

  It’s something to do, isn’t it?

  He says, ‘First off, Miss Armitage, I’m not at all happy about the offensive language on the voicemail you left.’

  That makes me smile. A cuntathon I could remember. ‘It’s just a word,’ I say. ‘Get over yourself.’

  ‘It was abuse, plain and simple.’

  I laugh out loud. I’m glad I took the call, now.

  ‘I was in half a mind to report it to the police.’

  ‘Well, we both know you’re not going to do that.’

  That gives him some serious pause for thought. He might be an ex-cop, but he doesn’t know I’m one or that I’m well aware how dodgy his business practices are. His silence tells me he knows that he’s not dealing with an idiot, though.

  ‘Secondly, I’m still waiting for the second half of the payment.’

  I’d completely forgotten about it, but I’m not going to tell him that. I’d rather have a bit of fun. ‘Well I still haven’t decided if I’m going to pay it,’ I say. ‘I mean I wasn’t that pleased with the service. “Guaranteed to exceed expect­ations”, that’s what it says on your website, and that would only be the case if I’d had no expectations at all. I had very high hopes, I really did, but frankly, Howard, it was piss-poor.’

  There’s another pause before he says, ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, but I’m still expecting to be paid in full.’

  ‘What if I don’t?’

  ‘Then I might have to consider taking legal proceedings.’

  It’s so tempting to tell him he can whistle for his money. To say, ‘So fill your boots’, or ‘See you in court’. I’m seriously thinking about it.

  ‘So?’ he says. ‘Are you going to pay, or what?’

  I assume that if I was involved in legal proceedings of some kind then they’d have to let me out of here to do whatever’s necessary. That would be my right, surely. I mean, what if you get called up for jury service? Do people in places like this ever get called up for jury service? Yeah, I’m thinking it might be fun, taking Howard on, because it’s been a long time since I stood up in court, and don’t forget, the last occasion when I should have been there, I wasn’t deemed to be a fit enough witness. I always gave a good account of myself in front of a judge, everyone said that. I prepared well and made sure I did a good job. So if it comes to any kind of legal battle now, I’m damn sure I’ll win, and even though I know it won’t be the Old Bailey or anything, I decide that I might even be able to get a few other things off my mind while I have the chance.

  Bring it on.

  Then I see L-Plate walking towards me, and she’s usually up for a laugh, and suddenly I can’t even be bothered to talk to this bloke any more.

  I say, ‘Yeah, I’ll send it,’ and hang up.

  L-Plate’s about to walk right past me, but I put out a hand. She steps back a bit, obviously. ‘Hey, L . . . you want to do something?’

  She stares at me and her face looks a bit odd, like she’s trying to work something out.

  ‘I’m always up for thrashing you at Jenga if you fancy it.’ She doesn’t look keen. ‘Or we can play cards or something—’

  ‘You are joking, right?’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re un­believable, do you know that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘After the way you treated me at lunchtime? The way you spoke to me?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I don’t even want to talk to you right now.’

  ‘You’re going to have to help me out here, L . . .’

  I’m sure she’s about to storm off, but she’s clearly decided to stand her ground and let me have a piece of her mind. Not that she’s got an awful lot to spare. ‘Well, you certainly didn’t need any help at lunchtime,’ she says. ‘Not when you were calling me a “vacuous posh bitch” or leaning across to steal my food and saying it didn’t matter because smackheads don’t have a big appetite anyway. Flicking bits of it back in my face, then pissing yourself and telling me to grow up when I started to cry.’

  Now she tries to move past me and I put out an arm to stop her.

  She screams.

  George steps towards us from the nurses’ station and I hold up my arms to let him know everything’s all right. I keep my voice low and steady. I say, ‘Honestly, L, I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about. Why the hell would I do any of that? We’re mates.’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she says. ‘Because I’m just a pathetic junkie and you’re a full-on mental case?’

  I close my eyes and try to think. ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say. I’m not sure there’s anything else I can say.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Donna or Bob? They were both there.’

  I can’t do anything but watch her turn and walk the other way. Then I stand there, with George watching me, and desperately try to recall even a moment of what L-Plate’s just described. What I’m supposed to have said to her is bad enough, but I’m way more alarmed by the fact that I can’t remember saying anything at all.

  I can’t even remember having lunch.

  When my mobile goes off again, I snatch at it, desperate to let fly at that arsehole Howard with some properly abusive language, but it’s not him phoning.

  There’s no caller ID.

  I answer and grunt a hello.

  There’s a few seconds of crackle, half a breath, then the line goes dead.

  FORTY-ONE

  I try to talk to Lucy while we’re queuing up for dinner, but she ignores me and carries her tray across to a table as far away from mine as possible. Ilias wants to chat, but I don’t let him. I can’t bring myself to eat much anyway so I leave pretty quickly.

  I’m all over the place.

  I go to be given my final meds of the day, then drift into the music room while everyone else is still eating and grab a pap
erback. I’m hoping it might distract me a bit. Shaun is the only other person in there but I’m not expecting him to disturb me, and he doesn’t. I keep an eye on him though, just in case he’s got any other messages he wants to send, so with that and the whole Lucy business . . . I find myself reading the same page of the stupid book over and over again.

  Lauren saunters in, drops down into the chair next to mine and belches.

  ‘Reading’s a waste of time,’ she says.

  I’m in no mood to rise to her bait. ‘You reckon? And here’s me with you pegged as a bit of a bookworm yourself. You know, knocking out a few songs then relaxing with a bit of Charles Dickens or whatever.’

  She doesn’t rise to my bait. She just belches again and calmly gives me the finger. Says, ‘Twat.’

  I make a show of going back to my book, but I only manage half of that same bloody page before she leans across.

  ‘Anyway, I thought you’d be far too busy for reading.’

  I put the book down. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah . . . you’ve got another case to crack now, haven’t you, Columbo?’

  ‘Have I?’

  She leans even closer, heaving her fat tits across the arm of her chair. ‘I’m guessing your bedroom wall is like one of those . . . boards they always have in the police shows. You know, so the detective can keep track of the murder investigation.’ She’s on a roll now, enjoying herself. I glance across at Shaun, but he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. ‘So there’s probably a picture of poor old Debbie taped up right in the middle, with her name underneath, and loads of lines and arrows, all drawn in felt-tip on the wall, leading to the people she knew or whatever. To the suspects.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s exactly like that.’

  She shows me a few brown or yellow teeth. ‘Unless . . .’

  I look at her. Stupid thing to do, I know, but I can’t help myself.

  ‘Well, we all know you thought Debbie was the one who killed Kevin, don’t we?’

  I don’t know about all, but I’m not surprised that Lauren knows. Marcus would have discussed it with the other nurses and one of them was bound to let it slip at some point. Or found themselves unable to resist sharing a bit of gossip about one patient with another. George, maybe, or Malaika.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So . . . it must have been doing your head in that she’d got away with it. I mean the police obviously hadn’t worked it out or she’d have been arrested, right? I’m not as experienced as you with this stuff, but I think that’s how it’s supposed to work. So she’s just swanning around, free as a bird and all the time you know what she’s done. You’re the only one who knows that she’s guilty.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m just saying . . . if that was me I don’t think I could have handled it. I don’t think I could have coped, seeing that murdering cow every day, laughing and joking after what she’d done to poor old Kevin.’

  I glance over at Shaun again. He’s hanging on every word.

  ‘Is there a point to any of this?’ I ask.

  ‘Only that maybe, seeing as nothing was happening to her and that, you know, justice wasn’t being done . . .’ She shrugs as if she doesn’t really need to say any more.

  ‘Just spit it out,’ I say. ‘You can sing it, if it helps.’

  She slowly brings a finger to her lips like a naughty schoolgirl, stares at me for a few seconds, then hauls herself up and wanders out. Almost as soon as the door closes behind her I hear scratching and look over to see Shaun scribbling on a scrap of paper. Whatever he’s writing doesn’t take long and he scrunches the paper into a ball, then steps over to press it into my hand before hurrying from the room.

  I open it up and read the message.

  thank you

  FORTY-TWO

  French and Saunders are back for more interviews this morning, and according to Ilias they’ve brought a friend along, but before I’m called in to see them, I get a chance to say sorry to L-Plate. I know now that all the stuff she accused me of yesterday actually happened, because Marcus made a point of catching up with me before bedtime and asked me about the ‘bullying’ incident in the dining room at lunchtime. He was not happy. For obvious reasons – like not remembering any of it – there wasn’t a fat lot I could tell him, but he made it clear we’d need to address my unacceptable behaviour at Friday’s assessment meeting.

  Looking forward to that.

  A few of us are in the music room waiting our turn, so I go and sit by L-Plate. She doesn’t immediately get up and move, which I take as a good sign. I’ve had the odd falling-out with her before and I know this is a bit more serious than arguing about a game of snakes and ladders, but she doesn’t normally stay angry for very long.

  If people bore grudges every time there was a cross word in here, none of us would be talking to anybody.

  ‘Listen . . . about yesterday,’ I say.

  She says nothing. She’s going to make me work for it, which is fair enough.

  ‘I’m really sorry about what I said. The food and everything.’

  ‘OK,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t think you’re posh and vacuous.’ Obviously I do, but you know, not in a bad way.

  ‘So, why did you do it?’ she asks. ‘Why did you say all those horrible things?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea, L. Just a wobble.’

  ‘Then you denied it, which made it much worse.’

  ‘I know.’

  L-Plate’s still waiting for me to explain, but I don’t want to tell her that I simply don’t remember. I don’t want anyone to know that. It’s not like I haven’t forgotten stuff in the past, going places and meeting people, whole evenings sometimes, but it’s always been booze- or weed-related. Just a woozy blank after a heavy session, where the memories should have been. This is different though, and I don’t have any ex­planation and it’s scaring the hell out of me. I have no way of knowing when I forgot it or if I was forgetting it even while it was happening. It’s not even like it was anything deeply unpleasant or traumatic. I’ve done far worse things about which I can remember every sordid second.

  I should probably talk to Bakshi about it, but if there’s something going seriously pear-shaped in my brain, I’m not sure I really want to know.

  It’s all a bit bloody scary.

  ‘I was ashamed,’ I say.

  L-Plate nods slowly, then beams, then claps to celebrate the moment. Like I said earlier, not a bad bone in her body. Not as many as some of us, anyway.

  She starts rattling on about something or other, but before she can get into her stride George comes in and says the detectives are ready for me. I tell L-Plate we’ll catch up later and follow him out.

  I’m about to knock on the door of the MDR when it opens and a woman steps out. I’m guessing she’s the ‘friend’ that Ilias was talking about and she’s certainly a bit more glamorous than French or Saunders. She looks a bit . . . Malaysian, or something? Long dark hair tied back with a red band and a snazzy skirt. I’m still wondering why three police officers have been deemed necessary when the woman holds out a hand and introduces herself.

  ‘I’m Dr Perera,’ she says. ‘Why don’t we talk outside?’

  I shake her hand. ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already spoken to the ward manager.’ She smiles and gently turns me round. ‘Come on, it’s a nice day.’

  We walk up towards the main hospital buildings and find a bench. The weather is pretty nice and there’s a few more people milling around in this part of the grounds than there are down where the unit is hidden away. We can see the entrance to A&E and, as you’d expect, there’s an old dear standing just outside the doors with an oxygen tank and a fag on. I think it’s compulsory.

  Makes me wish I’d brought some tobacco and Rizlas out with me.

  ‘What kind of doctor are you?’ I ask.


  ‘I’m a forensic psychiatrist.’ Her voice is quiet, but she’s very well spoken. ‘I work with the police now and again.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ I nod back towards the unit. ‘This must be tailor-made for you.’

  She smiles and she’s got perfect teeth. ‘You would think, right? Actually this is the first time I’ve been involved with a case like this. It’s normally crimes that are a little more . . . outside the normal range, shall we say?’

  ‘What, serial killers, that kind of thing?’

  ‘That kind of thing,’ she says.

  I’m instantly jealous. ‘I so wanted to catch a decent serial killer case,’ I say. ‘Never had a sniff. Oh . . . I’m ex-Job.’

  ‘I know,’ she says.

  I like that she’s done her homework and it makes me feel like we’re colleagues, so I can’t resist asking if she was involved in any of the big cases in London that I can remember. The killer couple from a year or so ago. The case with the cats from before that. I try to make it matter-of-fact so as not to sound like too much of a fan-girl.

  ‘Yes, I advised on both those investigations,’ she says.

  ‘Nice,’ I say.

  ‘Well, not particularly.’

  I look back towards A&E. I’m hoping there might be something exciting to see, someone rushing in with half their face missing maybe, just so I’ve got some stories to tell when I get back to the ward. The best I can do is a crying child and a woman with her arm in a sling. I watch the old woman stub her fag out and wheel her tank back through the doors.

  ‘I’ve read your notes, Alice,’ Perera says.

  ‘Al,’ I say.

  She nods. ‘But it’s always better to hear these things first hand. Can you tell me what happened just before you were sectioned?’

  I shrug. ‘I smacked my boyfriend over the head with a wine bottle.’

  ‘Right. When you had all the knives.’

  ‘Yeah, to protect him. Have you got a boyfriend?’

  She says that she has.

  ‘So you’d do whatever you had to if he was in danger, wouldn’t you?’