Very Nearly Dead

by A K Reynolds

  The cloud of depression grew thicker and darker. Somehow I rallied myself and pushed it out of my way.

  This is it, Jaz, I told myself, you’re getting to the bottom of things even if you kill yourself doing it.

  Then I texted her:

  Kylie, I think I know who’s behind all this. I reckon it’s Joshua – Charlotte’s brother. It’s some sort of revenge thing. I could do with your help to stop him. Please call back ASAP. Jaz.

  I put my mobile on a chest of drawers and took a cold shower in the hope it’d put some life into me. All it did was make me shiver and gasp so I turned the tap to warm and stood under the steaming jet for about five minutes. I got out, towelled off, and put on a pair of skinny jeans with a soft wool top. Then I fortified myself with a strong black coffee, drank two more for good measure, and sat on the sofa with my tablet doing searches on Joshua Hawkins and making notes.

  He had a Facebook account which was restricted so I couldn’t see much of it and what I could see wasn’t very informative. His profile picture was the standard blank silhouette you get when you haven’t uploaded a photo.

  By searching other social media I was able to discover he’d left college the previous June and was taking a year out. Doing what? Travelling or killing people? He planned to study medicine at King’s College starting in September. I wondered if his urge to become a doctor was the result of having a sister who was severely disabled and he was hoping to find a cure for her condition. But, pending that, he was eliminating the cause of it.

  If I could find out where he was living, I could stake the place out, find out what he looked like, follow him, and get a feel for what he was up to and how he aimed to get shot of me.

  I glanced at my mobile. It was half an hour since I’d sent Kylie the text and she hadn’t replied. It could mean she’d carried out her threat to leave and didn’t want to communicate with me for fear of giving away too much about where she’d gone, or it could mean she was Joshua’s latest victim. Either way, things were shaping up to pit me and Joshua against one another in a final face-off. I felt tired, too tired to fight. That was the depression getting to me again. I’d been too stressed out for too long, and my body and mind were in danger of caving in under the pressure. I fought back.

  Be strong, Jaz. If you can only keep going a few more days you might be able to save yourself. Your life is crappy but it’s worth living. Think of Mum and Dad, and Karl. Do it for them, as well as for yourself.

  I searched for clues as to Joshua’s whereabouts. I couldn’t find out where he lived but I discovered via a tweet he had a friend called Gareth Sumner who worked as an operating theatre porter at the Royal London Hospital.

  Joshua’s address was the thing I most needed. I decided on a plan of action to get it. The plan involved visiting The Royal London Hospital on Whitechapel Road. I could have telephoned but I reckoned I’d be more likely to be taken notice of in person.

  It took me half an hour to get there by train and a further twenty minutes to walk to the entrance. I went inside, made my way to reception, and spoke to the hangdog man who was on duty that day. He was balding and middle-aged and looked as if he’d rather be doing any other job than the one he had.

  ‘I need to speak to one of your porters,’ I said. ‘Gareth Sumner – he’s a theatre porter. It’s urgent. Would you be able to get him on your internal line for me please?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not so simple,’ he said. ‘This is a big place.’

  I adopted the look of a helpless female. It’s a pose I hate and don’t normally go for, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  ‘Please help me,’ I said, giving him a full-on sad puppy dog look. ‘It means so much to me.’

  ‘All right,’ he said with resignation in his voice. ‘I’ll do my best. What was the name again?’

  ‘Gareth Sumner.’

  He keyed it into a PC on his desk. ‘And who wants to talk to him?’

  ‘My name is Amy Foster. He doesn’t know me. I’m a relative and I’m only here for the day.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  He looked at the screen of his PC then dialled a number on his telephone and spoke into it. He smiled, gave me the thumbs-up, and passed the receiver to me. I turned away so he wouldn’t hear too much of my conversation.

  ‘Gareth?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, who is this?’

  ‘My name is Amy Foster. I’m a cousin of a friend of yours – Joshua Hawkins. I have some confidential news about his uncle and I need to tell him about it in person. It’s not the sort of thing you discuss on the telephone. Unfortunately my mobile was stolen and I’ve lost my contact details for him. Can you give me his address, please?’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t remember it, I’ll have to look it up. Is there any way I can contact you?’

  I turned to the receptionist.

  ‘Could you let me have a piece of paper and a pen please?’

  With a wry smile he reached down, fished a ballpoint pen and a compliments slip from his desk, and put them in front of me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to him, then I turned my attentions back to Gareth Sumner. ‘I’m afraid not. Please give me your mobile number and I’ll give you a call or text you later.’

  I was planning to get a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile phone which couldn’t be traced back to me, and use that to contact Gareth, so as not to risk having him give Joshua my mobile phone number.

  ‘Okay,’ he replied, and gave me his number. I wrote it down on the compliments slip as he spoke.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘I’ll wait to hear from you. I have to go now. My break’s just finished.’

  I handed the receiver and pen back to hangdog man, put the compliments slip in my bag, and left the hospital feeling that I was, if nothing else, spending my time constructively rather than merely waiting for the worst to happen. I didn’t yet have Joshua’s address and nor did I know what he looked like, but with luck and a following wind, I soon would.

  Now what? I thought.

  The answer seemed obvious: get a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, get Joshua’s address from Gareth, then stake out Joshua’s place, identify him, follow him, and see what he got up to. If he was the poisoner, what then? Would I be able to scare him off? Probably not, so what could I do? Tell the police? If Joshua had killed all the other witnesses to the incident I might be able to do it without risking my own freedom. But what if the police couldn’t pin the murders on him? He’d still be out to get me. Did that mean I’d have to kill him before he killed me?

  I couldn’t see myself killing anyone again – not on purpose anyway – and decided to cross that bridge when I got to it.

  I bought a mobile phone from a nearby supermarket and took it to Crystal Palace on the train, intending to activate it when I got home. After following the instructions to set it up, I texted Gareth and grabbed a bite to eat – a Heinz all-day breakfast. I was busy eating it when my mobile – my real mobile – interrupted me. A quick glance at the screen told me it was Jake. Presumably he was ringing to say he’d overreacted this morning, he wanted to apologise, and hoped I was willing to see him again. I was still in two minds about whether I should be dating a nineteen-year-old so I let it ring a few times, which gave me the opportunity to consider what my take on the call was going to be. Was I going to finish with him? Or would I be weak and prolong the life of the sick animal that our relationship surely was for a few more days? I didn’t know, couldn’t decide, and on the fifth ring I picked up.

  ‘Hi, Jake, how are you doing?’

  He didn’t answer right away which was unlike him. When he did reply he sounded out of sorts.

  ‘I’ve come down with something and I can’t get the doctor to give me an appointment,’ he said. His teeth sounded to be chattering so I guessed he had quite a temperature. ‘Could you come round here and help me, please, Jaz?’

  The thought of tending a sick person didn’t do wonders for me. I had pressing
things to do. What’s more, Jake had just inadvertently made clear one of the reasons I had for not wanting to date a young person – his lack of the savvy which comes with age. He had no idea how to do the basic task of getting an appointment to see a doctor on the NHS. I was willing to bet he lacked a lot of similar life skills and when he’d lived at home his mummy had always done that kind of thing for him.

  ‘Just ring the surgery and tell them you’re in pain, Jake,’ I said. ‘Be pushy about it and don’t let them fob you off.’

  He sobbed. He actually sobbed. ‘Please help me, Jaz, I think I’m dying,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got meningitis and I’m too ill to leave the house without help.’

  His melodramatic outburst shocked me. I hadn’t got him taped as a hypochondriac. I felt myself going right off him. I never have cared for snivelling types. I was about to say goodbye and hang up when I thought, Maybe he really does have meningitis. I knew what the disease could do. There’d been a promising young solicitor called Alison who’d joined Womack and Brewer LLP some years previously. She was sharp and obviously destined to go on to bigger things than Womack and Brewer LLP were able to offer. However, she’d caught meningitis and hadn’t received treatment in a timely manner. The doctors managed to save her life but she’d suffered brain damage and was left partially deaf, and unable to understand the legal documents she’d once effortlessly drafted. The firm had kept her on as a librarian and records-keeper, which was the most complex level of task she could carry out after her recovery.

  I decided I didn’t want that to happen to Jake and even though we’d fallen out. I was going to see to it he got treatment quickly, if it was needed. I’d never get over it if he died alone in his house and I could’ve helped him. So staking out Joshua’s place would have to be put on hold for a while.

  ‘All right, Jake,’ I said. ‘I’ll be over as soon as I can. What’s your address?’

  I wrote it down in blue biro on the edge of a newspaper I had on the kitchen table. 58B Cranella Street. I knew the area vaguely. At one time or another I’d probably helped a felon who lived near him to escape justice.

  ‘Please hurry,’ he blubbed. That did it for me. I made up my mind to finish with him as soon as I’d made sure he wasn’t in danger of dying any time soon.

  ‘I will,’ I said, barely able to supress my irritation at his whining. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour, tops.’

  Almost as soon as I’d hung up my mobile pinged. When I checked it, I saw that Jake had texted his address, presumably to make doubly sure I’d got it. He’d also helpfully pointed out that his door was unlocked and said I should walk right in without ringing the bell. He must’ve been desperate. He’d ended his text with a line of x’s – kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss – sweet but cloying. If his rampant hypochondria and self-pity hadn’t put me off him, the line of x’s surely would have done.

  I finished my meal and put the bowl in the sink, then got in my car, hoping that by this time the drinks from my last session had worn off.

  Cranella Street had modest terraced houses at one end, large detached homes at the other, and medium sized semis in the middle. Jake lived in a maisonette carved out of the basement of one of the semis. I guessed his rent was costing him more money than my mortgage, as the road didn’t look remotely like it belonged in student-land. It was well-maintained, so much so that it made a good impression on me in spite of the annoying drizzle which was falling from a grey April sky. Expensive cars were parked in the street, and a casually well-dressed couple were emerging from a house with their child in an expensive buggy.

  All-in-all it looked like hipster-land, the sort of place you came to live when you had money but not enough – yet – to buy or rent in the most affluent suburbs. I surmised that Jake’s parents were paying his way and were not short of a bob or two.

  Due to the number of four-by-fours and big Mercs taking up the available parking I was obliged to put my car a couple of hundred yards away from number fifty-eight in a space I could barely squeeze it into. After a deal of sweaty manoeuvring I got parked up and headed for Jake’s maisonette wishing I’d brought an umbrella. The rain wasn’t heavy but it was relentless and by the time I got to fifty-eight I was dripping wet and my hair was a complete mess. Still, I wasn’t visiting to impress him with my looks. I walked around the property looking for 58B and found a set of concrete steps at the side leading below ground. A brass sign on the wall above them said ‘58B’. An arrow beneath the sign was angled downwards.

  I descended the steps to a grey cement path. On my left was a window; dead ahead there was a porch over a grey door with a large door knocker on it. At the side of the door a brass doorbell was set into the stonework. Someone disabled must’ve lived there once because adjacent to the door there was a lift back up to ground level, big enough to accommodate a wheelchair.

  I chose the knocker over the doorbell and gave it three loud knocks. I waited but Jake didn’t answer and I remembered I was meant to just walk right in.

  I glanced back at the window – the curtains were drawn. That is a touch melodramatic, I thought. I pointlessly knocked again, the result of years of having it drummed into me during my childhood that you’re meant to knock before entering someone’s house, turned the brass handle, and pushed open the door.

  The hall was exactly how I expected it to be: small and square with a tiled floor and a door to my left giving access to the front room. I shut the outside door and pushed open the door to the front room. The place was dark because the curtains were closed. I fumbled on the wall for a light switch, found one, and pressed it down. Nothing happened. The bulb must’ve gone. After my eyes had adjusted to the conditions I could see a little way into the room.

  ‘Jake,’ I called, wondering if he might be in bed.

  There was no reply. He must’ve taken a turn for the worse. It was looking like he really was ill and I might end up having to call an ambulance. I took a couple of uncertain steps forward into the gloom intending to open the curtains.

  That was when I saw something unnerving – a figure sitting upright in a chair. He mumbled incoherently and my heart began to beat like crazy against my ribs. I stopped dead. What was going on?

  As my eyes grew more accustomed to the gloom I was able to identify the figure as Jake and I could tell he was tied to an old-fashioned bentwood kitchen chair. He was gagged and so scared his eyes were like truck headlights.

  Fear gripped my insides. I had to get out, fast, but the door I’d just come through closed behind me and an arm reached from behind around my neck while another arm reached slightly higher, the hand clamping a piece of damp fabric over my nose and mouth.

  Someone was trying to put me under with chloroform or something similar. In desperation I lashed out, tried to wriggle free, and at the same time tried to hold my breath. It wasn’t long before shapes swirled before my eyes, I felt weak, and an inner darkness began to swallow me up. I fought hard as I could to stop myself from falling into it.

  My efforts were to no avail.

  The darkness won.

  When I woke up I felt as if I was still asleep. I tried to open my eyes but couldn’t, tried to move my arms and legs but couldn’t. Then after a long struggle I managed to force my eyelids open. Above me was a white ceiling with an ornate pendant light dangling from it which was missing a bulb. By rolling my eyes to the side I could see curtains half-open and behind them a window. To the other side of me there was a charcoal grey door set in a light grey wall.

  Where was I? How had I got here? At first I couldn’t remember what’d happened. Then it all came back. Jake had called me, he’d told me he was ill, and when I’d gone to help I’d found him tied up and someone had attacked me. Hopefully my attacker hadn’t injured me too badly – I wasn’t in pain. As I came to my senses I discovered my hands were tied behind my back and my ankles were bound together. I was lying on the floor on a beige carpet. Whatever drug had been used on me, it was beginning to wear off. I was able to move
a little.

  It occurred to me I ought to make an attempt to escape from whatever peril I was in, but I was too drowsy to do much. I shook my head as best I could to bring myself around and wriggled my wrists, trying to slip my hands from their bonds. It was no use. They were tied too well. In fact they were tied so tight that as the effects of the drug wore off my wrists began to hurt. So did my ankles. I looked around for something to cut my bonds with but there was nothing which looked promising.

  Turning my head as much as I was able I saw I was in Jake’s front room. He was still tied to a chair, unable to speak because of the gag over his mouth. Behind him was a sofa. I tried to call out to him and found I was similarly gagged.

  A hissing sound emanated from an adjacent room. Someone was making coffee. The grey door creaked open and a woman walked in holding a steaming mug in one hand.

  She had dark auburn hair cut to just short of shoulder length. It got thicker as it got longer making it stick out from the bottom of her head in an ‘A’ shape. Her lips were emphasised with a bold red slash of lipstick, her cheekbones with a shadow of expertly-applied blusher. Somewhat incongruously she was wearing sunglasses, expensive ones by the looks of them. Who was this strange woman? What part did she have to play in all this?

  She sat on the sofa and removed the sunglasses. Only then did she speak. ‘I don’t think much of your boyfriend,’ she said. ‘It didn’t take much to get him to let me into his home on the understanding we’d have sex when he got me here. Too bad it didn’t work out for him the way he expected.’

  I knew that voice and now I recognised the face. It was Kylie. She was wearing a wig. She had great hair. Why hide it under an ugly wig?

  ‘I didn’t want it to end this way, messy and painful,’ she continued. ‘I wanted you to fall asleep without knowing what was going on, just like the others. But you somehow got lucky, or unlucky, depending on which way you look at it. That’s why it’s come to this.’

  I tried to reply but couldn’t. She came over and took the gag from my mouth. ‘Yes?’ she said.