Rabbit Hole

by Mark Billingham

  ‘She’s remembering the sweet taste of freedom,’ Tony says.

  ‘It tastes like toast, apparently,’ Lauren says.

  Bob punches the air and shouts, ‘Freedom!’ like he’s Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Donna and Lucy do the same and Lauren starts singing that old George Michael song.

  Not freedom, I think. Safety. Then it strikes me that, much as a certain person must be chuffed to bits that I’ve come back – my anyone, my Thing – they’re probably loving the fact that I ran away in the first place. I remember what it felt like in my room the night before. As much as anything, I’m sure that whoever killed Debbie and now wants to kill me is getting off on the fact that I was scared enough to try and escape.

  So, I might be back here again, exactly where they want me, but I’ll be fucked if I’m going to show them I’m afraid.

  ‘It was good, actually,’ I say. ‘Getting out for a bit.’

  ‘How was it good?’ Donna asks.

  She seems desperate to know and I think it’s bonkers how quickly people in here have become institutionalized. Most of them are on a 28-day section, which means less time on the ward than me, but they talk like they’re lifers. As if going to a café or having a job or even walking about outside in proper clothes is something they can only ever dream about.

  ‘Yeah, do tell,’ Lauren says.

  Then I remember that, for some of them, this is their umpteenth time in this place or another one like it. That they’ve probably spent more time in those faded pale-blue pyjamas than they have in their own.

  Lifers . . .

  ‘Well, just spending a bit of time with normal people.’ I nod towards Ilias. ‘You know, talking to someone and not thinking they might suddenly take their trousers off.’

  Ilias grins and salutes.

  ‘Or just talking to someone who’s actually standing still.’

  Donna blushes.

  ‘Someone who isn’t singing all the time or talking about all the women they’ve shagged.’ I look across to the other table. ‘Someone who doesn’t burst into tears if you say the wrong word and someone who can finish a jigsaw when there’s another human being within a hundred bloody yards of him.’ I show them all a smile. ‘You know, normal people.’

  Lucy grins and lifts her paper cup like she’s toasting us all.

  I touch my own cup to hers. ‘Don’t get me wrong though, I missed you all like mad.’

  There are the predictable jeers and groans. Ilias says, ‘Balls’ and Lauren lobs a chip at me.

  ‘Right, it’s ridiculous I know, but I actually did. Look, I would have come back anyway . . . I was happy to come back. Happier than I was before I came here, anyway. I know being stuck in this place was never on anyone’s to-do list or anything, but it’s not that bad, is it?’

  ‘It’s awful,’ Bob says. ‘If you don’t think it’s awful you probably deserve to be here.’

  ‘OK, sometimes it is . . . but the best thing about Fleet Ward is, nine times out of ten, there’s something happening. Yeah, it’s seriously weird a lot of the time, but you’ve got to admit, there’s always stuff going on. Stuff to look at and talk about and get involved in.’ I nod towards the windows. ‘We all think everyone out there is living it up, having the time of their lives, but the truth is, most of the time it’s pretty dull.’ What use is bleedin’ rails, anyway? ‘Well, not in here, it isn’t. One thing this place isn’t ever . . . is boring.’

  ‘I’m bored right now,’ Lauren says. ‘Listening to this.’

  ‘I’m just saying, that’s why I’m OK with coming back. Because there’s going to be things happening.’ I look at everyone around the table, then up to give that camera lens a good hard stare. ‘And whatever happens, I’m ready for it.’ I sit back. ‘OK, speech over . . .’

  Tony smiles at me and winks while Lucy and Donna nod enthusiastically. Ilias actually claps and I want to kiss him for it.

  The legs on Lauren’s chair scream against the floor as she pushes it back and stands up. ‘Right, that’s enough shits and giggles for one day. I’m going to get a few pills down my neck, then it’s Pointless Celebrities, Casualty and Mrs Brown’s Boys.’

  Lauren’s announcement of the evening’s scheduled viewing, as carefully selected by Lauren, is like a starting gun going off. If it was a race that involved standing up and sitting down again, pissing about in the doorway and, in Ilias’s case, polishing off everyone’s leftovers.

  I wander out into the corridor.

  Marcus and George are talking outside the nurses’ station. Marcus catches my eye and nods.

  I smile at him and take my place in the queue for meds.

  Once I’ve swallowed the three different lots of capsules and tablets, I stand around trying to decide what to do and where to go. I’m glad I said my piece back in there. I feel stronger, readier, but it certainly doesn’t mean I want to spend the evening bunched up with everyone in front of the box.

  I can sense someone standing close behind me and I presume it’s Mia, taking her WEO duties a bit too seriously. When I feel a hand clutching at mine I turn round and discover it’s Shaun.

  ‘All good, mate?’

  He starts to pull me towards the TV room.

  I say no and tell him I’m not up to it, that I’m ready to turn in.

  He grunts and keeps on pulling.

  Shaun clearly wants company, so in the end I stop fighting him and follow the herd. I’m remembering the safety in numbers thing and asking myself what’s the worst that can happen. Then I remember that Mrs Brown’s Boys is on, and decide that’s probably it.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  I don’t recognise any of the celebrities on Pointless Celebrities, but to be fair, I’m not paying too much attention to what’s happening onscreen. I’m watching the watchers. Tony’s gone to bed, but the rest of them are settled in good and proper.

  Clare and Colin are still sitting together, just behind Lauren who’s in pole position as usual, remote in hand. Donna and Lucy are next to one another, with Bob sunk into an orange beanbag I’ve never seen before on one side of them, and Ilias sprawled in an armchair on the other. Mia and Femi are keeping an eye on things from opposite corners of the room.

  I’m up at the back with Shaun, our chairs so close that you’d struggle to slip a fag-paper between us.

  He’s still holding my hand.

  Twice I’ve asked him if everything’s all right, twice he’s nodded and twice I haven’t believed him.

  There’s nothing much to report until Jigsaw Man – who’s clearly never been in the TV room before – speaks up and asks if there’s any chance Lauren could change channels. ‘Because Through the Keyhole’s on in a minute.’

  ‘There’s no fucking chance,’ Lauren says.

  Mia says, ‘Come on now, Lauren.’

  Lauren turns round and looks at Colin, making it clear that if he pipes up again, she’ll stick one of his jigsaws where the sun doesn’t shine, piece by piece.

  I look at Shaun. ‘Why is she always such a bitch?’

  Shaun has moved on from the screwed-up scraps of paper routine. These days, he carries a pen and a block of Post-it notes around. Puts what he has to say on paper, then tears off the note and passes it across. Now, he lets go of my hand and does exactly that.

  i know why she sings all the time.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  do you want to know why?

  There doesn’t seem much point telling him I don’t really care, because he’s already writing again. This time, it’s several Post-its’ worth, so I turn back to the TV until he’s finished. On Casualty, someone has fallen off a ladder. Shaun taps me on the arm and passes me the torn-off notes one by one.

  her dad killed her mum when she was a teenager. not sure how . . . (more)

  I look at Shaun, then I look at Lauren, then I read the next note.

/>   she’s been in and out of hospital ever since. she reckons there’s a voice singing in her head all the time. sometimes she sings to drown out the singing in her head . . . (more)

  sometimes she sings along with it if it’s a song she knows. now it’s just her thing.

  i think her mum was some kind of singer.

  in pubs or whatever.

  I stare at the back of Lauren’s head for a minute or so. I screw up the Post-its and put them in my pocket. ‘She’s still a bitch, though.’

  Shaun shrugs.

  ‘To you, especially. Remember that time in here, when she was screaming at you? Just before Debbie came in and . . .’ I stop because I can see that he’s starting to get agitated. It was stupid of me to mention it, but before I can say sorry, Shaun’s scribbling again.

  did you like the note i gave you on wednesday?

  I’m not sure which note he means, then I see him put a hand over his heart and mouth thank you. The message he’d passed to me in the music room, after Lauren had as good as accused me of stabbing Debbie to death.

  ‘It was nice.’ I lean so close that my lips brush his ear as I’m whispering into it. ‘I know what you think I did . . . what lots of people seem to think I did . . . but you’re wrong.’

  He leans away and stares at me like I’m talking nonsense, then starts writing again.

  serious??

  ‘Serious.’

  Shaun thinks about this for a while. Now the man who fell off the ladder has had some kind of heart attack. Bob is asleep on his beanbag and Clare and Colin are talking quietly.

  Shaun passes me another note.

  i’m glad she’s dead anyway.

  I nod and squeeze his arm. It’s understandable, I think, as Shaun continues to write. Considering that she’d turned the man Shaun loved into a drug smuggler, then suffocated him when he didn’t want to play along any more. If I was Shaun, I wouldn’t just be glad, I’d be delighted.

  doesn’t matter who killed her.

  doesn’t matter why.

  she was horrible.

  I stare down at the pink square of paper and something about what’s written starts to nag at me. It’s . . . the middle bit. Not knowing who is fair enough, but how can Shaun not at least have a basic understanding of why Debbie McClure was murdered? He knows that she was passing drugs to Kevin to sell. He knows that she killed him.

  I point at that underlined why and start to ask Shaun what he means, but he shushes me and shakes his head. He’s agitated again. He’s poised to write something else, but he seems uncertain. No, he’s scared, just like he was that night in this same room, right before the am-I-going-to-die business kicked in and he stopped talking.

  I watch him write something, then cross it out. He tears off the note and screws it up. He glances at me, then at others in the room – I can’t be sure who – then starts again.

  He finally tears off the note and passes it to me, low down, like he really doesn’t want anyone else to see. It’s an odd feeling, being frightened for someone else suddenly, but the look on Shaun’s face makes me think that whatever the note says, writing it might be the bravest or the stupidest thing he’s ever done.

  there’s something i need to tell you.

  I start to say that we should probably go somewhere else to talk, but then my phone rings, and when I see who’s calling I say, ‘Later’ and stand up fast because I need to answer it. Shaun looks bereft as he watches me leave with the phone still ringing. I’m aware of some sarcastic tutting and catch the look of naked hatred from Lauren at having her peaceful enjoyment of Saturday night TV so rudely interrupted.

  It’s still ringing as I try to find somewhere quiet to take the call. Or at least somewhere I can’t be overheard. I settle for the chair next to the airlock.

  ‘Hey, Banksy . . .’

  ‘I’ll have to be quick,’ he says. ‘I’ve only got a minute.’

  He sounds very serious. ‘OK . . .’

  ‘I’ve just found out. They’re going to make an arrest in the morning.’

  It’s a few seconds before I can say anything or even breathe again. ‘Who is? Which—’

  ‘It’s only the one team now. An arrest in connection with the McClure murder.’

  I stare through the airlock towards the lift. The doors open and I watch a young couple step out and move towards the door of the ward opposite mine. They look nervous. ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘That’s literally all I’ve heard. The forensic results are in and everything’s apparently lined up, so they’ll be coming to the hospital first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘Just thought you’d want to know. Listen, I’ve really got to—’

  ‘No worries. Listen, thanks, Banksy . . .’ I wait, but he’s gone.

  I put my phone away, walk back into the main corridor and turn towards my room. This is exactly what I’ve wanted since the moment Debbie came screaming out of Kevin’s room. Since I started coming back to life and feeling like a copper again. This is validation, isn’t it?

  So I wonder why I barely register that George is talking to me as I pass him, why my heart is dancing so hard that I can see my T-shirt move against my chest and why it feels like I might be sick.

  What have I got to be frightened about now?

  I open my bedroom door thinking that I don’t want to know the answer, but by the time I’ve locked it behind me, I know full well that I don’t have a lot of choice.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  I haven’t slept. I know I haven’t. How could I?

  It doesn’t matter though, because there’s still blood.

  The bedroom light is on because I didn’t want to lie here in the dark and it’s about as quiet as it ever gets in here. Just the rise and fall of an indistinct voice which I presume is coming from the nurses’ station and the distant hum of those generators I ran past yesterday.

  It’s almost three in the morning and I’ve been awake the whole time.

  But there’s still blood.

  ‘It’s not just mine,’ Johnno says. ‘You know that already though, right?’

  I nod. To Johnno, to myself, to the mirror on the wall that’s opposite my bed. ‘Not even sure you had that much in you.’

  ‘It’s hers.’

  ‘Well, course it is, why wouldn’t it be? I was covered in the stuff. Down on that toilet floor.’

  Johnno sighs and says, ‘Come on, Al . . .’

  ‘Come on what?’ He says nothing. ‘Listen, if you’re just trying to put the wind up me, Phil Johnston, you’re doing a bloody good job.’

  ‘Look at the evidence,’ he says. ‘It’s what we do.’

  I’m shaking, but it’s all right, because I don’t think he can actually see me. Mind you, I was shaking last time he did see me. Last time he saw anything. ‘Come on then, smartarse, help me out.’

  ‘You found the body.’

  ‘Nobody’s denying that.’

  ‘Just a fact that’s worth bearing in mind,’ he says. ‘A supporting fact.’

  ‘Supporting what? Where’s this so-called evidence?’

  ‘They’ve got evidence, Al, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘This is getting on my tits now, Johnno.’

  ‘You had a motive,’ he says. ‘Several motives actually, if we’re really going to get into it. You thought she’d killed Kevin who was a friend of yours and you thought she was going to get away with it. You felt ignored, and I mean, why wouldn’t you? You felt like your opinion was worth nothing. That you were worth nothing. I’m not saying all this just to be horrible . . .’

  Fuck it, I’m crying now. ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘Oh, and we shouldn’t forget that the camera covering the crime scene had been conveniently disabled.’ He smiles. ‘You and me have got a history with ca
meras, haven’t we, Al?’

  ‘Graham did that,’ I say. ‘Graham always did that.’

  ‘And talking about forgetting . . .’

  ‘Right.’ I’m very cold, suddenly. ‘I was wondering when we’d get to this.’

  ‘What did Bakshi say, and Marcus? That these blackouts are all perfectly normal. What did Dr Perera say?’

  ‘I know what they all said, but you’re going to tell me anyway.’

  ‘It’s understandable,’ he says. ‘When something like this happens. Just because you’re not the victim of a crime or even a witness to it, doesn’t mean you wouldn’t want to wipe it out. Or that the crime wouldn’t wipe itself out.’

  My head aches and my guts are churning and I just want to see that smile again and hear him tell me that everything’s going to be all right. I want to make him smile. I screw up my eyes and sniff back the snot. ‘Isn’t this the point where you produce the gruesome photograph?’

  ‘Some things are just too terrible to remember,’ he says.

  ‘I remember you!’ I think I’m probably shouting now. ‘I remember every second of what happened that day.’

  ‘Yeah, but that wasn’t your fault, was it, Al?’

  ‘It feels like it was.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he says. ‘Back then, you hadn’t done anything . . .’

  Johnno’s clearly said his piece, because he starts to fade and I know that when he’s gone, all I’m going to be left with is his blood. Sloshing around in my head. His blood and hers. I’m crying and shivering and I still can’t remember, but whatever’s locked up in some part of my brain which I’ve lost the combination to, there’s one thing I’ve never forgotten.

  I lean towards the shadow of him that’s still left.

  ‘You were always a better detective than me,’ I say.

  I don’t know long it is – probably just long enough for me to stop being quite so bloody hysterical – before I pick up the phone and dial my parents’ number.

  ‘Alice . . . ?’

  ‘Hey, Mum.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ She’s reaching to turn the lamp on and looking at the clock-radio on the bedside table. ‘Nearly four o’clock in the morning.’