Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  ‘That’s really nice to know,’ I say. Things might be looking up, but I still don’t think it’s a good time to remind him that somebody on his ward is a killer. Or tell him that whoever that is wants to see me dead. ‘Safety in numbers, right?’

  As soon as I walk out of the MDR, I’m waylaid by Femi who tells me that I have a visitor. Before I have a chance to ask any questions, she’s opening the door to one of the small consultation rooms.

  ‘Everywhere else is busy,’ she says. ‘So I’ve put your friend in here.’

  My visitor is standing up as I step into the room.

  ‘Hey, Al,’ Andy says.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  It only takes a few seconds of me standing there and staring at him, before Andy looks away. I smile, because it’s such an unexpected treat to see how nervous he is. He says, ‘Oh . . .’ then reaches down to a paper bag on the table and lifts out the gift he’s brought with him.

  Now I stare at that instead.

  ‘I didn’t really know what to bring,’ he says. ‘I was thinking maybe a book or something, but I couldn’t decide what to get . . . and you know, people always bring fruit, right? I guessed you wouldn’t be short of fruit.’

  It’s a cactus. A fucking cactus.

  ‘I thought it would be nice in your room,’ he says.

  ‘Cheers,’ I say. ‘I’m grateful, obviously, but just saying I can think of a few other things that might have been more useful. I mean . . . a vibrator would definitely come in handy.’ I sit down then lean forward to study the spiky monstrosity on the table. ‘It’s the right shape, but I don’t think I’m quite that desperate yet.’

  There’s a dry, perfunctory laugh before he sits down again. Our chairs are uncomfortably close together. ‘It’s hard enough to know what to bring when it’s . . . you know, a normal hospital.’

  ‘This is a normal hospital. Didn’t you see the big sign at the entrance?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he says.

  His hair is a bit longer than it usually is and he hasn’t shaved for a few days. I think he’s lost a bit of weight, too. He certainly looks different from the last time I saw him; two months ago, when he came in a couple of days after I’d been sectioned. Remember what I said about people going to funerals just to make sure someone was actually dead? He was a bit pale and puffy back then, sweating through his cheap work suit and wearing those shoes I always hated. The ones that look like Cornish pasties. Oh, and he had a huge bandage on his head, mustn’t forget that.

  Now, I’ve got to be honest, he looks pretty damn fit.

  He’s still a massive cunt, though.

  ‘So, how’s things going?’ he asks. ‘I read in the paper about that nurse being killed.’

  ‘Did you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Pretty bloody mental.’

  ‘Yeah, it was nice of you to call,’ I say. ‘You know, to check I was all right.’

  ‘Come on, Al. I knew you were all right. It wasn’t like it was a patient, was it?’

  ‘Actually, a patient was killed two weeks before that, but let’s not split hairs.’

  ‘You serious?’

  ‘Out of sight, out of mind though, yeah?’

  ‘It’s not like that—’

  I sit forward suddenly and enjoy the fact that he recoils slightly. ‘You haven’t been calling me, have you? Calling from a different phone then hanging up?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, why would you do a lot of things? Why would you call the police on me? Why would you put me in here?’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ he says. ‘You know why.’

  ‘Why would you tell the doctors that I’ve been calling you all the time and leaving messages?’

  He blinks. ‘Because you have, Al.’ He sighs and reaches into a pocket for his phone. ‘Do you want me to play one of them to you?’

  I shake my head and tell him not to bother.

  He says, ‘No, I really think you should hear this.’ He dabs at the screen then holds the phone towards me.

  ‘Hey, fuckface . . . guess who? Yeah, it’s Crazy Alice with the word from the ward. Anyway . . . you’ll be horrified to know that I’m doing much better, no thanks to you, and that I’ll be out of here soon . . . very soon with a bit of luck. I just wanted you to know that. Hope your poorly broken head’s a bit better . . . fucking Humpty Dumpty with your broken head . . . but I’m not sorry I did it. I had to, because I knew what you were up to and I still know, but there’s no point you or your friends trying to watch me when I’m around again, because I’ll be watching you. OK? Hope you feel big and clever for putting me in here, but all I’m saying, it’s going to come back and bite you in the arse . . . because I’ve had a lot of time to think and now I’ve decided what I’m going to do and you aren’t going to like it one bit. Anyway, just wanted to let you know all that. So . . . sleep well and sweet dreams, Humpty.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, once he’s turned it off. ‘It’s the meds.’

  Andy doesn’t look convinced. I watch him put his phone away and try to scramble my way back up on to my sliver of moral high ground. ‘Those emails you’ve been helpfully sending haven’t done me any favours, by the way. But I’m guessing that was the point.’

  ‘I was worried about you,’ he says.

  ‘Course you were.’

  ‘I’m still worried about you. That’s why I’m sitting here, with a stupid cactus in a bag.’

  Through the small window in the door, I see L-Plate walk past, then step back and move to stare in. I presume she doesn’t know it’s Andy I’m talking to, even though I’ve told her all about him, but either way she clearly likes the look of what she’s seeing. She nods approvingly, then raises her hand to her ear to make a comedy call me gesture.

  Andy sees me looking, but by the time he does the same, L-Plate’s gone.

  ‘So when do you think you’ll be getting out?’ he asks.

  ‘Depends on how many more of those emails you send to my psychiatrist,’ I say. ‘How worried you are.’

  ‘Come on . . .’

  ‘Four more months, all being well.’ If I survive that long. If I can work out who the enemy is. If my head doesn’t get any more messed up than it already is, so I can manage to avoid them or take them on. ‘Why? You worried I might just turn up on the doorstep one day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to bring a bottle.’

  He’s probably trying to smile, but his mouth just . . . twists. ‘I think it’s only fair that I know,’ he says. ‘That’s all. There’s still all your stuff in the flat, obviously.’

  ‘You didn’t chuck it out? That’s really sweet.’

  ‘Seriously, Al—’

  ‘No, it is.’

  ‘Where are you going to go?’

  ‘Is that an invitation to move back in?’

  For the first time, there’s the tiniest twinge of guilt at seeing him look so uncomfortable. My head must be even more messed up than I realise. ‘It’ll probably be a halfway house kind of place,’ I say. ‘Just for a bit, then hopefully the council can find space for me somewhere. There’s no way I’m going to live with my mum and dad.’

  ‘That all sounds . . . OK,’ he says.

  ‘And, you know, I’m still hoping to get my job back. So . . .’

  Lucy must be spreading the word, because now Donna is taking time out from pounding the corridor to peer in. It’s like a skull looming at the window. I wave her away.

  ‘Listen, Al,’ Andy says. So I do, because he says it in such a way that I know it’s going to be good. ‘When everything happened . . . you said some weird stuff to me, you know? Accusing me of all sorts. Saying I was involved in what was going on or what you thought was going on . . . that I was doing things to try and hurt you. Like I was part of s
ome big plot or something. And I wasn’t. I promise that all I was ever trying to do was help you.’ He leans towards me and he’s actually wringing his hands. ‘You do know that, don’t you, Al? I mean . . . you know that now, right?’

  I say nothing. I just stare at him until he looks away again.

  He really wants an answer. He wants the answer that will make him happy, at any rate. I’m certainly not going to give him that, but I don’t particularly feel like telling him what I do think, either.

  I reckon I’ve told more than enough truth for one day.

  ‘Trust me, Andy,’ I say, eventually. ‘I’ve got far better things to worry about at the moment. Fair enough?’ Blimey, I couldn’t help myself. I told him the truth anyway.

  He seems OK with that, or at least he accepts it’s the best he’s going to get, so for the next fifteen minutes or so it’s just chit-chat. He asks how my mum and dad are, and how Sophie is. What the food’s like in here and if I’ve made any friends. He talks a bit about his job and how he’s been finding it hard, but all I can think is boo-hoo and it doesn’t sound like it’s got any less tedious.

  I wait until he does a funny shift in his chair and clears his throat. Until he thinks he’s done an ex-boyfriend’s duty. Until he’s about to say, ‘Well, I’d best be off’ or ‘OK, I’ll leave you to it’.

  ‘So, you been seeing anyone else?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Getting any action, now I’m safely out of the way?’

  He ums and shakes his head. I can’t tell if he means no or if he’s just finding it hard to believe I’m really asking. It doesn’t make a lot of difference.

  ‘Don’t panic, Andrew,’ I say. ‘I’m only making conversation.’ I’m not.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I don’t really give a shit.’ I do.

  There’s that shift again. ‘Listen, I think I should probably—’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m the one who decides when it’s time for you to go.’ I manage a pretty decent impression of the woman who saw impostors on EastEnders and enjoyed slicing up her arms. I roll up the sleeves of my shirt to make the poor sod’s predicament even clearer. The woman who fought him over possession of the kitchen knives and smashed his head open with a bottle.

  ‘Yeah, that’s . . . no problem.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’m not in a rush.’

  ‘Great,’ I say.

  I see him glance at the door, like he’s praying a nurse might come in and give him the chance to make a dash for it. They don’t, so I sit there and say nothing, watching him squirm and hoping that, if these stupid blackouts do carry on, this doesn’t turn out to be a moment I forget.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  At lunchtime, I eat crisps in my room and think about my conversation with Andy. I can still remember every wonderful moment, thank God. It’s obvious that I’m not the only one thinking about it, because by dinner time the Fleet Ward bitches are all a-twitter.

  They want details and they want dirt.

  It’s like we’re back at school and they’ve just found out I was fingered behind the bike sheds by the captain of the football team.

  Which I was, obviously . . .

  ‘You didn’t tell me he was that good-looking,’ L-Plate says.

  I try to look offended. ‘So what, you think I’d be shacked up with some munter?’

  ‘No, but he’s still a bit out of your league,’ Donna says.

  Big Gay Bob is the token bloke at the table. ‘With birds, I always prefer it if I’m the one who’s out of their league,’ he says. ‘There’s way more chance of getting your leg over.’

  Everyone ignores him, though I can’t be alone in trying to picture the unfortunate woman who thinks that Bob is a step up. A blind pensioner with low self-esteem, at a push.

  ‘This the ex, is it? The one whose head you smashed in with a wine bottle?’ Lauren asks the question nice and casually while she mops up gravy with a slice of bread.

  ‘Yeah, that’s him,’ Donna says. She helpfully picks up the plastic ketchup bottle to demonstrate. ‘She brained the bastard.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t something expensive,’ L-Plate says. ‘Such a waste.’

  I reassure her that the wine in question wasn’t one she’d think was expensive, which seems to mollify her. ‘Doesn’t matter if it’s Château Ponce or Château Lidl, does it? The bottle still weighs the same.’

  ‘Why did you hit him?’ Clare asks.

  Tiny Tears gave me a nod at breakfast, but this is the first time she’s actually spoken to me all day. Not a word about her knocking on my door last night and my refusal to let her in. It feels like she’s got a game plan of some sort that I can’t figure out yet. Same with Colin, aka Jigsaw Man, who’s conspicuously ignoring me, which is exactly what I’d expect an undercover officer to do.

  ‘None of your business,’ I tell Clare.

  Lauren nods slowly. Mutters, ‘History of violence.’

  ‘Yeah, and you should probably remember that,’ I say.

  She laughs. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done, love,’ she says. ‘I’m not scared of you.’ She says the word like the very idea of it is ridiculous. ‘I’m not scared of anybody.’

  ‘What does that mean, anyway?’ I turn to stare at her. ‘What I’ve done?’

  She shrugs, because she doesn’t need to spell it out, then she definitely gives Clare a sly look and I’m pretty sure I see Donna and L-Plate exchange a glance, too. I look across at Colin, who’s making out like there’s nothing more interesting than his dinner, then over to Mia and Femi who are apparently deep in conversation on a table at the far end of the room. I catch Tony’s eye and he winks, as if to let me know he’s still watching out for my Thing, that he’s still got my back. After our conversation yesterday, I’d decided that he was more or less the only person I could trust. Now I’m not even sure about that.

  Lauren’s already moved on, they all have, and now there’s some aimless chat about people’s first pets.

  But I’m not really listening.

  There was a time not so long ago when I’d strut round this place like I still had handcuffs in my pocket and a taser on my belt. I wasn’t looking for trouble, I’m not stupid, but I wouldn’t back away from it. Lauren never put the wind up me like she did a lot of people, because I’d dealt with plenty like her on the Job. Women who hate themselves so much that they have to take out their frustrations on other people. On their kids, more often than not. The likes of Lauren in a place like this didn’t bother me at all.

  I’m not the same person any more.

  It’s been a long time since I recognised myself. The Alice I was two years ago, I mean. Now I don’t even recognise the person I was two weeks ago.

  Suddenly, I’m scared of everybody.

  ‘Not going in to watch TV?’ Marcus asks.

  I’ve taken my meds and now I’m sitting in the main corridor, my back to the wall outside the nurses’ station. It’s brightly lit and I’ve got the widest field of view I can think of anywhere on the ward. I can see people coming from any direction and, if it’s someone I don’t like the look of, I’ve got enough time to make myself scarce or get a nurse to sound the alarm. Truth is, I don’t much fancy sitting in front of the TV with everyone else, but I don’t particularly want to go back to my room, either. Not until I have to, anyway. It’s started to feel even smaller than usual, like it’s shrinking night by night and if for some reason I let the wrong person through the door, I’ve got nowhere to go.

  ‘Can’t be arsed,’ I say.

  ‘There’s usually something good on a Friday night, isn’t there?’

  I don’t answer, so Marcus sits down next to me.

  ‘It was a good session this morning,’ he says. ‘Your assessment.’ He waits, but I don’t say anything. ‘Didn’t you think so?’

  ‘I suppose.’ I watch Ilias come o
ut of the dining room and start walking in our direction.

  ‘You’re actually very lucky, Alice,’ Marcus says. ‘It might not feel like that now, but it’s always so much better when you know what the problem is. These issues you’re having are clearly PTSD-related, so now we can deal with them properly. With some patients you never know. They never know. Months go by, years even, and there is no explanation for why they’re the way they are.’

  Ilias walks past without even looking at me and turns on to the men’s corridor, presumably heading for his room.

  ‘Is there anything else bothering you?’ Marcus asks. ‘Aside from the blackouts?’

  Malaika comes out of the nurses’ station carrying a cardboard box. She takes it into one of the examination rooms. The corridor’s empty, so I glance at Marcus.

  ‘Just the not sleeping,’ I say.

  ‘OK . . .’

  I can tell Marcus isn’t quite buying it. He’s too good at his job and he can smell bullshit a mile away. I’m wondering how much I can tell him. I mean, normally I’d say sweet FA about what’s actually going on, because the minute I open my mouth about anything like this they just presume all my craziness from before has dropped in for a visit and I end up rattling with all the extra anti-psych pills. Now, though, they’ve given me an . . . explanation. It’s like this new diagnosis they’re all so pleased with themselves about has given me a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  It can’t hurt to test the water a little.

  ‘You quite sure about the PTSD?’ I ask. ‘What’s causing it?’

  His grunt is emphatic. ‘Your symptoms are very common.’

  ‘I do know about PTSD,’ I say. ‘It’s why I’m in here, remember?’

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t as severe as last time, but as Dr Bakshi explained—’

  ‘It’s not enough though. I found a body. So what?’

  ‘I think for most people that would be traumatic enough. So soon after Kevin’s death, too. Let’s not forget that.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not most people, am I? I saw far worse things than that when I was a copper. Plenty of bodies . . . kids and whatever, and none of that stuff screwed my memory up and all the rest of it. Just saying, it feels a bit . . . convenient.’