Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  Sylvia shakes her head. ‘She’s not with us any more, bless her. Well out of it if you ask me.’ She opens her can. ‘The suffering bit’s right, though.’ She looks at me. ‘I can see it, love.’

  I don’t know what to say, so I just stare down at the scratched red tabletop.

  ‘I can’t even imagine what it’s like . . .’

  I finally look up and I swear she really wants to know. An old bloke comes in and she asks him if he wants his usual. When he says he does, she tells him to sit down and says she’ll be with him in five minutes.

  Then she turns back to me.

  ‘Sounds stupid, but a lot of the time you’re just . . . irritated,’ I say. ‘It’s so bloody infuriating when people don’t believe you.’

  ‘I know that’s how it must feel,’ she says. ‘But most people just don’t know how to react to that kind of thing, do they? I’m not sure I do, tell you the truth. You tell someone you’re . . . I don’t know, getting messages from God through the patterns on your wallpaper . . . I don’t mean you’re saying anything like that, love . . . but what are people supposed to make of it? It’s hard to go, “Oh, all right then”, because that’s only . . . reinforcing it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s also like me telling someone my name’s Alice and them telling me that it’s not.’

  She nods slowly. ‘Oh, righto . . . I’m with you.’

  ‘That’s how sure you are. You don’t just think these things, you know them.’

  She nods again. ‘Got it, love.’

  ‘So it’s like everyone’s basically saying you’re stupid or calling you a liar.’

  ‘Or telling you you’re mad.’

  I laugh, and it’s nice. ‘Right, but even if you are being a bit mad you don’t think you are.’ Now I nod towards the street. ‘Nobody over there thinks they’re mad. Not properly. Yeah, they might have gone off the rails for whatever reason, but—’

  ‘Everyone goes off the rails now and again,’ Sylvia says.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What use is bleedin’ rails, anyway? Just keep you going in the same direction and that’s no fun, is it?’

  ‘No . . .’ She’s trying to make me feel better, so I don’t tell her that I’d give anything to be back on those boring rails again. Facing the direction of travel. Moving forward . . .

  ‘So, what about you?’ she asks.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Never mind that lot over the road. How are you feeling? Now, this minute.’

  I look at her and it makes me think about my mum, so I start to cry a bit.

  ‘Come on, now.’ She pulls one serviette after another from a metal dispenser and hands them over. I snivel and splutter into them.

  ‘I’m in so much trouble,’ I say.

  She tells me everything’s going to be OK and puts one of her hands on mine. It’s warmer and softer than I expect. I don’t know if she’s forgotten about the old bloke and his ‘usual’, but after that we just sit there for a while saying nothing, while she glugs her Coke and makes shushing noises.

  And for a few minutes, it is OK. I forget about Kevin and Debbie and whoever’s after me. I forget about Johnno and all the blood that came out of him, because the woman I’m sitting here with is quiet and kind. Because she doesn’t make any assumptions. Because she doesn’t want anything, or think anything bad, and best of all, I know she isn’t judging me.

  And then it’s over, because I see George jog past the window with a policeman in tow. George glances in and a few seconds later they’re both coming through the door.

  ‘Oh,’ Sylvia says.

  For a moment or two, while everyone in here is turning to see what’s happening, I wonder if she’s called them. Could she have done it when I wasn’t paying attention or when she went to fetch her drink? Maybe she signalled to whoever’s in the kitchen.

  George walks over to the table, and even though he doesn’t look angry, I’m sure he is.

  He says, ‘Come on, Alice.’

  Sylvia stands up, so I do the same.

  Then I decide that Sylvia probably didn’t call anyone, because when the policeman – who looks about sixteen – puts a hand on my arm, she shakes her head and says, ‘There’s no need for that, son.’

  I promise her that I’ll come back to pay for the toast and she shouts after me as they’re leading me towards the door. ‘You can have a proper fry-up next time. You take care . . . OK, love . . . ?’

  FIFTY-TWO

  ‘I’m really sorry you had to come in on a Saturday.’

  ‘I didn’t come in just because of you,’ Marcus says.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Malaika . . .’

  ‘Good job I did, though.’

  We’re sitting close together in one of the exam rooms. It’s warm in here and it stinks of bleach and puke and I remember the two of us sitting in exactly the same place almost a week before. Then, Marcus was the one who needed comforting; stammering out his shock and disbelief at what had happened just across the corridor to a woman whose body was still warm.

  Both of us with blood on our hands.

  I say comforting, but at a guess – bearing in mind the whole absconding and being brought back by the police thing – that’s probably not Marcus’s primary concern at this particular moment. Aside from a physical assault, legging it is about as serious as it gets in terms of patient behaviour. I know there’s going to be consequences, but I don’t have a problem with that and I’m not expecting to get anything you’d describe as a proper bollocking. It’s not like I took anyone hostage or went over the wall at Belmarsh or anything.

  To be fair to Marcus and the rest of them, even when they’re reading you the Riot Act in here, they tend to do it very gently.

  ‘So, why did you run away, Alice?’

  ‘You know why.’ He says nothing, like he’s forgotten or maybe he doesn’t think it’s much of an excuse. Either way, it’s annoying. ‘What I told you yesterday.’

  He nods. ‘You not feeling safe, you mean?’

  ‘Me not being safe,’ I say.

  ‘I understand,’ he says. ‘George says that you saw someone. Outside.’

  ‘Yeah. He looked well dodgy, and the way things are right now, I’m not taking any chances.’

  ‘So you ran.’

  ‘I would have come back.’ I can see he’s got that bullshit detector turned up nice and high. ‘OK, so I probably wouldn’t. Not straight away.’

  ‘Where would you have gone?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.’

  If I’d had the chance to walk out of that café in my own sweet time, I honestly don’t know where I would have headed. I’d probably have called Banksy in the end, maybe asked if I could crash at his place. Thinking about it, though, he might well have made the phone call I’d suspected the woman in the café had made, and I probably wouldn’t have held that against him.

  ‘It was nice,’ I say. ‘Just being away for a bit.’

  ‘Alice, listen to me.’ Marcus puts down his clipboard, the notes for a report he’ll have to write on the ‘incident’. ‘If you continue to take your medication and make an effort to stay calm, so that we can help you . . . you can be away for a lot longer than a bit. You can go home.’

  ‘Not sure that’s going to happen now,’ I say.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . things are coming to a head. I’m not saying that’s what I want, but I don’t think I’ve got a lot of say in it.’ I was thinking about this all the way back from the café and I’m almost certain of it now. The scary stuff’s getting really close and I can’t stop it because, actually, I’m not sure I’m supposed to. ‘After Kevin was killed and I started running round trying to find out who’d done it . . .’ I see his expression darken. He doesn’t want to listen to me bad-mo
uthing his ‘friend and colleague’ again. So I don’t. ‘It’s as if I started something, you know? Set a ball rolling. I’m not going anywhere until it hits and even though I’m not thrilled about what’s coming, it feels like I need it to happen.’

  I take a few seconds then look at him. ‘Does that make sense?’

  He picks up his clipboard again.

  So, clearly not.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Dr Bakshi,’ he says. ‘Of course, she was not happy to hear what happened, but she agrees with me that, in all probability, this was just another . . . blip. The panic is all part of the same PTSD, and if you continue to take your new medication, we should see some improvement reasonably fast.’ He glances down, scribbles a word or two. ‘Of course, we can’t allow any more time outside, for the time being at least.’ He smiles, trying to lighten things. ‘George tells me you were really fast . . .’

  I smile back. I was. I am . . .

  ‘And for the next few days we will need to put you back on Within Eyesight Observations.’

  WEO is fair enough and it’s what I was expecting. I mean, it’s a hospital . . . what else were they going to do? Make me wash my own pyjamas? Take away my Scrabble privileges?

  ‘Yeah, so about that,’ I say. ‘As far as which member of staff is keeping an eye on me all the time, is there any chance I can choose?’ Even as I’m asking, I’m trying to decide which of the nurses I trust the most. Or which one I distrust the least.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Marcus says. ‘It wouldn’t even be possible under normal circumstances, and you already know that staffing is a major issue at the moment.’

  ‘So, when’s Malaika coming back?’ If Marcus had agreed, she would probably have been my first choice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Unfortunately, she isn’t answering her phone at the moment.’

  The tiniest of alarm bells rings at the back of my brain, but it’s drowned out by the clattering of a trolley outside as Marcus gets to his feet.

  ‘Remember what I said, Alice.’

  I walk to the door, and for a few seconds before opening it I just stand there and do the deep-breathing thing. Because I have to and because this is the way it’s going to be from now on. I hate it because they’re my friends, but I’m scared to death about stepping outside and having to greet whichever member of the crazy gang I run into first.

  ‘You said a lot of things.’

  I curl up in the corner of the music room wearing my headphones and a Do Not Disturb expression and, thankfully, there aren’t too many comings and goings. The Jigsaw Man wanders in but just mooches for a few minutes, pretending he’s not looking at me, and then wanders out again. L-Plate spots me through the window and comes bursting through the door like we haven’t seen each other in weeks. It looks, for a moment, like she might overcome her phobia and actually hug me. Nice as that would be, I tell her I’m a bit down in the dumps and ask if she’d mind sodding off and giving me a bit of space. L-Plate says no sweat, babe, no sweat, but makes me promise that we’ll see each other later, because, you know, she really needs to catch up with me.

  I watch her scamper away and think she’s not the only one.

  I stare at my phone for a while, then find myself firing off a text to Sophie: Wassup byatch?

  She doesn’t reply straight away like she normally does, so I sit there and wonder where she is and what she’s doing on a fine Saturday afternoon. In the flat, probably, watching one of those old black and white films she loves, or doing a massive clean which she loves almost as much, or out buying overpriced tat in Camden Market. Sitting in the pub, maybe. Not looking at the other drinkers like they’re aliens or boring her mates rigid trying to describe the funny music she keeps hearing. Lying in bed with her boyfriend, and not staring out of the window at the lights she can see at the end of the garden. Not telling him she knows he’s ‘in on it’, while he pats the mattress next to him and tells her not to be so daft.

  The phone pings.

  Sophie Mob: hey you! how’s the madhouse??

  Same as usual.

  Sophie Mob: what you up to?

  Not much. I’ve been a bit up and down.

  Sophie Mob: want me to come and see you?? i can bring chocolate!!

  It’s fine, don’t worry. I was thinking about you that’s all.

  Sophie Mob: thinking about you too. LOTS xx

  There’s nothing for a minute or so. I think that’s probably it, then the phone pings again.

  Sophie Mob: just so you know, camilla is WAY cleaner than you but not as much fun

  She knows all about what had happened with Andy, but I can’t decide if the bottle of wine emoji is a joke or not. Nice, either way.

  I am Queen of Fun!

  Sophie Mob: US when you get out!!

  I hope it’s a bigger cake than that!

  Sophie Mob: seriously though. cannot wait. not the same out here without you.

  It was stupid, I suppose, to think that Sophie was going to make me feel better. She almost always does, like she’s got a gift for it, but all I’m feeling is sad, until the switch goes and suddenly I’m raging. Because none of this is fair and what’s happening is not my fault and now I’m scrolling down to the emojis myself and I’m getting busy.

  I send the message and immediately feel guilty, so I quickly shoot a smiley face off, but the damage is done.

  Sophie Mob: WTF Al??

  I sit back, then remember what I forgot, and now I feel terrible because I never got around to saying ‘sorry’ like I’d meant to. It was why I texted her in the first place, because I should have said it a long time ago. I look up to the camera in the corner of the room and give everyone a big, smiley wave. I’ve got no idea who’s watching, or if they’ll appreciate just how hilarious I’m being, but it doesn’t much matter.

  I’m not going anywhere until it hits . . .

  The damage is done.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Forever ago, just after Kevin was killed, but before everything got properly dark, I walked into this room and was greeted like some conquering hero or whatever because I’d scored a bit of weed and been rumbled. Today, though, I don’t want to sit and make nice with them all. I don’t want to pretend everything’s fine and listen to them talking at me, but what I want doesn’t seem to count for much any more. I’m not given any choice in the matter. As soon as I set foot in the dining room, Lucy jumps up and I’m all but dragged across to sit down and eat with everyone else, just because I did a bunk and got escorted back a few hours later by a constable with acne.

  Jesus, they want to know everything. What I did and how it felt. They want me to relive every moment of my great adventure.

  You’d think I’d tunnelled out of fucking Colditz.

  ‘Did you put up a fight?’ Bob asks.

  I tell him that there wouldn’t have been much point.

  ‘Didn’t you even struggle a bit?’

  Ilias seems outraged, as though I’ve somehow let the side down. ‘You should have given that copper a good hard kick in the nuts,’ he says. ‘Got a few decent punches in, at least. They wouldn’t do anything because this is a hospital, right?’

  ‘Special hospital,’ Donna says.

  ‘Because we’re special,’ Bob says.

  Ilias is nodding. ‘Yeah, of course, so what are they going to do?’

  ‘They could take away my Scrabble privileges,’ I say.

  Tony laughs, hurr hurr hurr, and Ilias laughs, eventually. Even Lauren seems to think it’s pretty funny and I wish I was in the frame of mind to enjoy the moment a bit more. Or at all.

  ‘George says you were in some café.’ Lauren waits, stabbing at chips.

  ‘Is that right?’ I don’t much like the idea of George saying anything to anyone. ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘You were eating toast.’ She se
nses my unease and pounces on it. ‘That a big secret, is it? Another one?’

  ‘What other one?’ Lucy asks.

  I pretend I didn’t hear Lauren’s last comment and that it’s all a bit of banter. ‘Did he tell you what I had on my toast?’

  ‘Like I give a toss.’ Lauren is furious, suddenly. ‘Dogshit?’

  You ask me, there’s been a bit too much telling people things in this place and I should know, because back when I was still trying to solve the first murder, I was the one doing most of it. Now, though, every conversation makes me tense and jumpy. The ones I’m part of, or the ones I overhear, and most especially the ones I’m not around for but know damn well are happening. The whispers and the knowing remarks and the double meanings. Why did you run?, Marcus asked. Now I’m asking myself, why I didn’t keep running. If I had my way, everyone here would be made to shut up right now. Let them pop their pills and do their puzzles and scoff their burgers and chips with their traps firmly shut.

  Same as Shaun.

  Shaun. Even though he’s got more reasons than most to want Debbie dead, he’s actually the only one I really trust. Yeah, I considered him as a suspect, but only for like . . . five seconds. Shaun wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  Lucy says something, but I don’t take it in. I’m watching Colin, the Informal, who’s sitting on an adjacent table with Clare. I’m wondering what the two of them have suddenly found to talk about.

  ‘Al?’

  I’m just a link in the chain of it. This . . . watching. I’m watching them while Mia sits at a different table and watches me and we’re all being watched by the camera in the corner. Up to now it’s not something I’ve really thought about too much, but suddenly I understand what poor old Graham used to get so worked up about. Why he chucked mash at the cameras and banged his head against the wall.

  I suppose there’s a difference because I’m only really worried about one person, while Graham didn’t like anyone watching. Trouble is, that one person could be anyone.

  ‘Alice . . . ?’

  I look at Lucy, who stares at me and says, ‘You’re miles away, babe.’