Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  Marcus says nothing for maybe half a minute, lets his head drop back like he’s happy with a few moments of relative peace and calm. Then he turns to look at me. ‘What’s . . . all the rest of it?’

  Malaika comes out of the examination room and walks back into the nurses’ station. Ilias emerges from the men’s corridor and turns towards the TV room. He gives me a strange look as he passes and I watch him until he disappears.

  ‘I think I’m in danger,’ I say.

  ‘What kind of danger?’

  In for a penny, right? ‘Someone wants to hurt me. Wants to kill me.’ I see the obvious question on his face. ‘The same person who killed Debbie.’

  ‘Why would they want to kill you, Alice?’

  I’m not an idiot, so I know that Marcus could be the very person we’re now talking about. I don’t think it makes much odds. Except for the coppers and that psychiatrist they brought with them, I’ve thought the same thing, at one time or another, about every person I’ve spoken to since it happened.

  OK, so not all of them. Maybe not Lucy.

  ‘Because he or she was working with Debbie,’ I say. ‘Debbie was using Kevin to smuggle drugs out of here, which was why she killed him and why she was killed. The fact I know that makes me a target.’

  It feels a bit odd, saying all this to Marcus, being so upfront and matter-of-fact about what’s going on, but it’s not like he doesn’t know, is it? Debbie had told him exactly what I’d said to her before she was killed. He was the one who passed that information on to French and Saunders.

  ‘I don’t feel safe,’ I say. ‘Locked up in here, I’m a sitting duck.’

  I look around. A few more people are coming out of the dining room now and walking in different directions. Patients and staff. Heading to their rooms for a quick lie down before watching telly, outside for a smoke, to the toilets or the meds hatch.

  Colin is talking to Tony.

  Femi is talking to Donna and Lucy.

  Clare is talking to Lauren, the two of them thick as thieves all of a sudden.

  ‘I don’t think it’s very nice,’ Marcus says.

  I turn to look at him, thinking that’s a strange way of putting it. A massive fucking understatement, considering what I’ve just told him.

  ‘You talking about Debbie like that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘People I have worked with have died before,’ he says. ‘You know that. But not like this. Never like this.’ He looks at me. ‘I went to visit Debbie’s sister last night, to pass on my condolences. To see how she was coping. She has been destroyed by what has happened . . . the whole family has been destroyed.’ He shakes his head. ‘So no, what you are saying is not acceptable. Debbie was my colleague, but she was also my friend.’

  ‘Yeah, and Kevin was mine.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Alice, but the fact remains that it is wrong to attack a person’s reputation when they are not here to defend themselves.’ He stands up, because he doesn’t want to continue the conversation or he’s got meds to administer. Either way.

  ‘Well, she’s dead so she probably doesn’t give a shit!’ I shout after him as he walks away. ‘Anyway, she’s not the one who needs defending.’

  FORTY-NINE

  Suddenly I’m wide awake and I don’t have a clue what time it is, but it’s pitch black and I’m tangled in wet sheets and, far more important, I know there’s someone in my room.

  I know there can’t possibly be, because the door is locked.

  I know there can’t be, because I’d have heard them coming in.

  But I know that there is.

  The staff all have keys so they can make round-the-clock checks when they need to, and even if it’s not a member of the staff, someone might have found a way to get hold of a key. Someone managed to get hold of a knife easily enough, didn’t they?

  I told them. I told almost everyone, but they wouldn’t listen.

  I lie perfectly still and wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  I can’t make out a shape and I can’t hear anyone breathing but me. I’m not really surprised, though, because whoever’s in here with me, they’re good at this. I’m struggling to suck up enough spit to swallow, never mind scream, and even if I could, there’s always someone screaming about something, so it’s not like I could count on anyone rushing down here to help.

  Christ, it’s going to be so easy, because I’ve got nothing to fight back with, and now a voice inside my head is telling me, Who cares? There’s not a fat lot worth fighting for anyway, so what’s the fucking point?

  I’m not worth fighting for.

  So I relax, just a little, because there’s not much else I can do, and I think, This is you, then, you silly, soft cow. Lying here, giving Tiny Tears a run for her money and waiting for the Thing to do what it’s come for.

  FIFTY

  I’m having breakfast sitting on my own. I say having, I couldn’t eat a thing if you paid me, but I’m in here with everyone else because I was desperate to get out of my room first chance I got and now I want to be somewhere I can keep an eye on them all. See who’s matey with who all of a sudden and who’s giving me evils. Tune in to the chatter. Check out the alliances.

  I’m still shaking this morning, but more importantly I’m still here.

  Obviously . . .

  If I was being paranoid, I’d say there was someone in my room last night and that it was a warning from a person who’s clearly enjoying scaring the crap out of me. Someone there to deliver a simple message: Best stay on your toes, because I can get to you any time I want.

  If I was being paranoid.

  I think it was actually a warning to myself. Early notice that the threat level was being ramped up, the way the government does sometimes with terrorists or whatever. My subconscious mind, having processed all the evidence and read all the signs, laying out a possibility, a probability even, and showing me exactly what could happen if I wasn’t careful. Telling me, in no uncertain terms, while I still had a chance to do something about it.

  Either way, the message was the same and I received it loud and clear.

  Wherever he is, Graham would be proud of me, because the moment the breakfast service is done with and the meds hatch opens, I’m out of the dining room and first in line to get drugged up. I take the three different doses that Femi hands over and signs off on – three, because I’m assuming the new Alzheimer’s pills are among them – and go looking for Malaika.

  Ten minutes later, I still haven’t managed to find her, so I collar George on his way from the nurses’ station to the MDR and ask him where she is.

  ‘Malaika’s not come in this morning,’ he tells me.

  ‘Really?’ Malaika was my best bet, same as always. I’ll need to find someone else fast.

  ‘Bit bloody short-handed, tell you the truth,’ George says. ‘I think Marcus is on his way in, and he won’t be best pleased having to give up his Saturday—’

  ‘Can you take me outside?’

  George rolls his eyes. ‘Morning gasper, is it, pet?’

  ‘Yeah, but . . . I just need some air.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to give me ten minutes. Something I have to finish, then I’m all yours. Just one fag, mind.’

  ‘You’re a star,’ I say.

  George carries on towards the MDR and I nip back to my room to grab my tobacco. I’m in and out as quickly as I can, but I still make sure the door’s locked while I’m in there. I lock it again when I leave, because the last thing I want when I come back is to find someone in there waiting for me, then hurry out to wait for George at the airlock.

  I’ve only just got there when Tony arrives carrying his suitcase. He sits down next to me.

  ‘They’re coming early . . . flown in from Detroit.’ He grins and pats his case. ‘So I packed as soon as I woke up.’

>   ‘I saw the Thing last night,’ I say.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In my room. Well, I didn’t see it exactly, but I saw what it would be like if the Thing was there. The shape and everything.’

  ‘That happens to me all the time.’ Tony lifts his case on to his lap, holds it against his chest and whispers, ‘What I’m hoping is . . . that when I go, the Thing might stay behind.’

  ‘I thought it always followed you.’

  ‘Yeah, so far. But I was thinking . . . maybe it’s getting tired of always changing into different things, or it’s stopped being angry with me. I mean it could have killed me by now, if it really wanted to.’ He looks at me. ‘Yours might give up, too.’

  ‘I’m not going to let it have the chance,’ I say.

  Why do I keep saying it? I know my Thing is walking around in here somewhere on two legs. Easier than saying he or she all the time, I suppose.

  Tony puts out a hand and says, ‘Good luck, Al,’ like we won’t be seeing each other again. I know he’s not going anywhere, but I shake his hand anyway.

  ‘Cheers, Tone.’

  Besides which, having seen all those stab wounds in Debbie McClure, he or she is definitely an it.

  When George comes ambling round the corner, I jump to my feet ready to go. He puts on a comical burst of speed and by the time he gets to me he’s pretending to be out of breath. He’s already got the keys in his hand.

  ‘Honestly.’ He looks at Tony and shakes his head, then mimes puffing on a cigarette. ‘Bloody addicts, eh?’

  I never smoked roll-ups before I came here. Didn’t smoke much of anything come to that. I was one of those annoying part-time smokers who just scrounged fags off other people at parties, but now I’m every bit the addict George was talking about, and it’s always roll-ups, because it’s cheaper and that’s what everyone else in here smokes. These days, I can roll a fag blindfolded and with one hand, but you wouldn’t know it. Not now, seeing me spill tobacco and tear two Rizlas while I struggle to stop my hands shaking.

  ‘Here,’ George says. ‘Let me.’

  ‘I didn’t think you smoked,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t, but I reckon I can make a better job of that than the pig’s ear you’re making . . .’

  I hand over the tobacco and the papers and lift my face to the sun until he hands me back the cigarette.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He lights it for me, steps from shade into sunlight himself. ‘Those new meds’ll kick in pretty quick,’ he says. ‘Sort these memory issues out.’

  ‘Hope so,’ I say.

  ‘Those blips.’ George looks at me. ‘That’s all they are, right, pet?’

  I’m trying to decide whether to tell him the truth when I remember what Bob told me on Thursday and decide it would be much more useful to ask George about his row with Debbie instead. I’m just working my way round to it when I spot a bloke walking quickly down the hill from the main entrance towards us.

  I stop and stare at him.

  ‘What?’ George asks, turning to look.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  He’s not a doctor, because he’s already close enough for me to see that there’s no lanyard flapping around against his chest, but he’s not a visitor, either. Anyone visiting this place is . . . tentative. Doesn’t matter if it’s their first time or if they’re old hands, nobody ever sets foot in the Shackleton Unit without a degree of apprehension or, more often than not, plain reluctance. It’s never going to be a picnic, is all I’m saying.

  You certainly don’t walk towards it . . . purposefully, like it’s something you’re looking forward to. Not the way this bloke is bowling down that hill, only a few seconds away now, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘No idea,’ George says.

  ‘Can you go and find out?’ George looks at me like I’m starting to take the piss and he’s done more than enough already. ‘Please . . .’

  He mutters something under his breath then sighs and starts to trudge up the hill.

  I’m still watching the mystery bloke, because there’s something far too easy and confident about him. A shape that’s familiar. So, as soon as George has taken enough steps towards him, just enough steps away, I turn.

  And I run.

  I’m wearing trainers and I’m fast. George isn’t and he’s a big bloke, so by the time I turn to look he’s already fifty yards behind me.

  He’s waving and shouting.

  I run . . . past humming generators and overflowing skips, then across a car park and now it’s all downhill towards the side gate. Two people are walking towards me, but they step quickly out of my way. They both look a little alarmed and a glance tells me they’re hospital staff who know it’s never a good sign when someone comes running hell-for-leather from the direction of the Shackleton.

  I run . . . and I can see my dad’s face light up when I come round that last bend and he’s jumping up and down and urging me on and, even though I’m knackered, I find a final burst of speed and sprint towards the finishing line where a couple of the other parents are holding up a tape.

  I dip at the last minute, like you’re supposed to . . .

  . . . out through the gate and then I stop. I’m bent double, panting on a quiet road that I don’t recognise, so I look both ways but I’ve not got the first idea which way I should go. It’s been a long time since I’ve run that fast and it feels like I’m going to be sick, but I know I need to keep running, one way or another, before George catches up to me.

  Left or right. Shit . . . I need to pick a direction, but I can’t, because I haven’t got a clue where I’m going.

  Just . . . away.

  For fuck’s sake, Al . . .

  Me and Johnno in Greggs, one lunchtime. Pushing the boat out. There’s a woman tutting in the queue behind us and Johnno’s getting tetchy because I can’t decide between a pasty and a sausage roll.

  Just pick one, Johnno says.

  So I do.

  FIFTY-ONE

  I really don’t want anyone to think that I was planning to do this when I talked George into taking me out for a fag. I swear I just wanted to get off the ward for a few minutes and get my head straight. It was only when I saw that suspicious-looking bloke that I knew I needed to get away. It wasn’t like I was regretting not having any breakfast and was suddenly desperate for the tea and toast that’s sitting in front of me right now.

  The café was the first place I came to, that’s all. I couldn’t run any further, and I wanted to be with people.

  With normal people.

  There was a reasonable crowd in here when I came in. There still is, but now they’re all eating, which I suppose is why the woman behind the counter can take a few minutes off. Anyway, that’s what I’m thinking when she waltzes round the counter and walks across to sit down at my table.

  She was friendly enough ten minutes ago, when I ordered. and whatever else has happened to me, I think I’ve always been a pretty good judge of people. So, when I finally find the courage to look her in the eye, I say, ‘I’m really sorry, but I can’t pay for this.’

  ‘I guessed that,’ she says.

  ‘I mean I can . . . but I haven’t got any money on me.’

  ‘It’s a mug of tea and a slice of toast,’ she says. ‘I think I’ll survive.’

  She watches me eat for a while, then turns to wave when one of the other customers leaves. They all seem to know her, so the place has obviously been here a while, and I wonder if she runs it on her own. There’s no sign of anyone else, even though there must be someone back there in the kitchen knocking out all the bacon and sausages or whatever. She’s wearing a wedding ring . . . so maybe her husband? I’m trying to work out her set-up, trying to work her out. I reckon I can still do that. I try to do it with newbies on the ward, same way I
did it back before things fell apart, with other coppers, and with suspects, obviously.

  I sip my tea and take another bite of soggy toast. I sneak looks at her. I’m not scared any more and I’ve got my breath back and I’m suddenly enjoying myself, putting flesh on this woman’s bones.

  She’s at least sixty, but she’s dyed her hair very blonde like she still gives a shit what people make of her. Or maybe she’s done it precisely because she doesn’t. Either way, it’s good. She sounds local, so I wonder if she’s opened a place in the area where she grew up. Or maybe there’s been a greasy spoon here for ever, like a family business, and she took it over from her parents. I wonder if that was what she wanted, what she’d imagined for herself when she was younger.

  I’m making suggestions to myself, trying to guess what her name might be, when she saves me the trouble.

  ‘I’m Sylvia,’ she says.

  I would never have guessed that. I’d been leaning towards Veronica or Madge. ‘Alice . . .’

  ‘So, what’s the story, Alice?’

  I look at her and she’s sitting there like she’s just asked me what the time is. She says she knows I’ve got a story, I mean hasn’t everyone, so the rest of the toast goes uneaten and my tea goes cold while I tell her. Everything. When I’ve finished, she doesn’t look as if she’s wishing she’d never asked, but maybe she’s just got a naturally kind face.

  She nods towards the door. ‘That place up the road?’

  ‘Hendon Community Hospital,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah.’ She gets up and walks across to a tall fridge against the wall, comes back with a can of Coke and sits down again. ‘I had a cousin went through the same thing as you. Years ago now. They didn’t really call it what it was back then, though. Didn’t give it a name. Everyone in the family just said she was suffering with her nerves. You know?’

  ‘Is she OK now?’