Reflux

by Paul Watson

  ‘Can I see your pass please?’

  ‘I’m here for the show; I must have got lost.’

  ‘No access through gate one tonight; no standing; this door is a crew entrance; how did you get in here?’

  Roberts felt fatigued from his day in the field and was glad the man was light. He reached out, grabbed the steward’s tie and pulled the man towards him; Roberts spun the guy around and stopped the blood supply to his brain until he passed out. The steward would be OK; he was even getting paid to be unconscious. Roberts dragged the steward through the door, relieved that the toilets were nearby. It was a risky manoeuvre, so Roberts walked in first and had a quick check; better to deal with anyone in there first, but the toilets were empty.

  Roberts bundled the steward into a cubicle and changed into his clothes; the clothes were a good fit. Roberts sat the man on the toilet and closed the stall; he could see the steward’s feet, in the gap below the door; the situation appeared normal.

  Roberts returned to the walkway; stone walls rose to his left and new blockwork to his right as he strolled on through a few more turns, descended steep steps, and entered the centre of the arena.

  A circus strutted the stage.

  A woman dressed as a Peacock flounced past Roberts and smiled; Roberts smiled back. Another steward brushed past him and nodded; Roberts fitted right in with the circus crew.

  A row of steps divided the seats and rose to the public entrance to the arena. Roberts figured the steps would lead him back to the building’s entrance at the head of the snaking queue. He was right. A few minutes later he was there, and the organisers had set out tables in front of the glass doors.

  ‘We’re opening in one minute,’ said a woman with a handheld walkie-talkie and no ear clip.

  Roberts scanned the staff and stood with two women, next to a bench, in the foyer’s centre. There would be more people passing through this channel.

  ‘All right If I help you out here, I’m at a loose end,’ Roberts said.

  ‘Please feel free,’ said the shorter of the two women. ‘We’ll do the bag checks. Now you’re here do you mind doing the occasional search, if any of the men look dodgy?’

  ‘My pleasure. How many are we going to get tonight?’

  ‘We sold around 8000 tickets.’

  The doors opened, and the waiting families entered. Roberts did a quick calculation. On average there would be a mum, a dad and two children, which would mean about 2000 fathers; more like 1500 as a few fathers would ditch the circus and give the ticket to the sister-in-law.

  Roberts looked busy. ‘Sorry sir, I must give you a quick pat.’ But Roberts wasn’t as thorough as usual; such a search would be inappropriate at a children’s event.

  Roberts counted two hundred men; most wore jeans, a few wore shorts and a few chinos. There were overhanging bellies, but the majority were in reasonable shape.

  A candidate approached.

  ‘I must give you a little check over sir.’ The man’s son seemed pleased.

  ‘I told you you’d get searched Dad.’

  ‘I always do, must have a guilty face.’ Roberts realised that this was not the man for him. The guy’s front teeth were missing. Roberts released the dentist dodger into the circus.

  Ten minutes later, a wiry man with expensive brogues and designer jeans approached with his wife. They had one child with them, about ten years old. The man’s hair was a little longer than Roberts’s hair, but his face had a similar shape.

  No need to make this problematic Roberts thought. ‘Hello mate, doing random spot checks, do you have any ID with you?’

  ‘Sure, will a driving license do?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Roberts meant it.

  The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone; he’d stashed his credit card and his driving license in the cover. The guy fumbled like a sloth wearing mittens to get the license out.

  ‘Do you mind if I help you?’ The question was rhetorical. Roberts took the phone and smiled as he did it. ‘Sorry, want to be as quick as I can.’

  The man didn’t look impressed to have his phone taken out of his hands, but there was no point making a fuss; he didn’t take his eyes of Roberts though.

  Which was OK, Roberts liked deception in plain sight; conjuring could have been another potential career for him. Roberts took out the driving license, held it up in front of the man and gave him his phone and case back. Roberts drew the guy’s attention by staring up and jerking, as if he had a twitch.

  ‘Thanks for that, here’s your license back.’ Roberts handed back a license with the photo side down, and the man put it back in his case. The family walked off to enjoy the circus show.

  ‘Back in a second,’ Roberts said to his temporary colleagues.

  ‘No bother.’

  Roberts walked out the doors against the flow of people and carried on walking all the way to the Berlingo.

  Using his phone, he booked a foot passenger ticket on the ferry leaving at 9.00 p.m. to Liverpool. Roberts used Matthew Sykes’s credit card for the booking; he would be out in the Irish sea before Sykes rose to buy refreshments at the interval.

  Roberts had about an hour until check-in closed for foot passengers. He left the Berlingo in the lot, and walked North, and then East, with the sun now warming his neck.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Wold Cup final. The French striker had stood on the shoulder of the last defender close to the halfway line, for the last half an hour, then the ball he craved arrived. England lost the ball in the French box. A quick roll from the French goalkeeper, straight to their central midfielder who launched the sweetest pass the length of the pitch. It was a foot chase with only one winner. The French striker collected the ball and ran into the England penalty area with just the goalkeeper to beat. The striker pulled back his foot to shoot as the England goalkeeper clattered into his ankles and sent him flying into the goalmouth. It was the most obvious and most cynical foul he’d ever received. No problem though, as he’d not missed a penalty since turning professional, and the keeper would get a red card. England had no more substitutions left; the striker would take his time and make sure.

  Andy watched these events unfold over the shoulder of a guy in the Cork departure lounge, who streamed the match live to his phone. The man sensed Andy watching and looked around at him.

  ‘Take a seat mate, I’d rather not see this alone anyway,’ the guy said with an English accent.

  Rather not watch this alone. Andy’s thoughts turned to Max, and he boiled with frustration.

  The referee pointed at the spot and reached into his pocket for the red card. England’s goalkeeper walked to the tunnel, resigned to his fate, he wanted to get out of there.

  The man in the departure lounge unplugged his earphones so that the commentary came out of the phone speaker. A few others crowded around behind them.

  The referee didn’t get his card out but reached for his ear and then walked over to the video replay station, a screen in a clear box near the halfway line.

  ‘The video ref has seen something,’ said the commentator. ‘He’ll look at the replay. I don’t know what he’s seen. That’s a penalty all-day long and into next week. It’s a clear penalty and a red card, might as well put us out of our misery.’

  The replay of the goal came onto the phone screen, and the French striker surged into the area, the angle of the shot from behind the goal. The Frenchman flew into the air and tumbled into the goal mouth.

  ‘Can’t see anything from that angle but there was clear contact. You saw it in real time.’ the commentator said.

  Another angle this time, from a camera on the touchline with high zoom. The French player appeared to jump, before the English keeper arrived, and then executed a perfect forward roll into the goal. The ball rolled into the keeper’s prone form.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ said the commentator. ‘We heard the contact from up here.’

  ‘I’d like to view that again,’ said his si
dekick.

  The tv station obliged and showed the replay again in slow time. It showed the French player jumping and rolling into the goal. There was no contact from the English keeper who stood up and held the ball in his hands.

  The referee ran back onto the pitch. No foul. Three toots of the whistle and a penalty shoot-out to decide the winner of the World Cup.

  The gathering in the departure lounge had increased. One man left a queue from a gate that was closing and seemed happy to miss his flight. The group knew how to handle such a situation; they had experience.

  ‘I fancy our chances now,’ the guy with the phone said. ‘The French have lost it.’

  He was right. The French players were apoplectic. They surrounded the referee and were shouting in his face. It took five minutes for the referee to regain control; the big screen in the stadium showed no foul. The French striker wondered whether he’d suffered a concussion when he landed from the tackle. Was the pain in his ankles imagined?

  The man with the phone turned out to be a prophet. England won the penalty shoot-out 5-0, the French had lost their heads after the disallowed penalty claim.

  Andy felt a surge of energy and a determination to arrive at Max’s side as soon as possible.

  He called Mike Baker to tell him about PKL’s involvement with the brain drugs. No answer.

  Andy checked the flights to the UK. He’d missed the last one out of Cork, and there were none out of Dublin either that he would make. He considered getting a room in one hotel at the airport for the night, but the thought of an empty hotel room was not appealing. Andy wanted to be near people, near his family: Jess, Max and Sam.

  Getting drunk at a bar in the city was the next best choice. If he found one open late enough, then he’d save himself the room rate too. He worked his way out of departures and explained his missed flight at security.

  There were plenty of cabs lined up to take him back to the city; Andy tossed Rand’s holdall into the seat next to him and rifled through the contents.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the cab driver said.

  ‘Take me to a decent bar, one that’s open late.’

  ‘I know just the place.’ The driver pulled out of the airport and headed back into town; he retraced the route North up the N27 and back up to the river and crossed the bridge to Lapp Island when Andy spotted Rand’s girlfriend; she wore the same dress and sunglasses.

  ‘Can you stop here please?’

  ‘No bother.’ The taxi stopped. Andy stood on the bank of the river Lee and watched the woman walk West and then cross a bridge; there would be time for a snoop around Rand’s apartment before she got back.

  Rand had stuffed his wallet with credit cards, a driver’s license, a fuel card and two blank cards with no discernible purpose. The man at the lobby desk was different; there must have been a shift change. Andy tapped one of the blank cards onto the sensor at the entrance gate.

  The door to a lift opened, which made things easier. Andy entered the elevator and ten seconds later he was eleven storeys up, and out on a landing. He opened the only door on the landing using the other blank card.

  The penthouse was about 20,000 square feet with views across the river to the North, and along the river to the East and West. The décor was modern for a man of Rand’s age, and Andy figured that he’d had help.

  Andy searched the apartment; not much trace of Rand: no business documents or laptops; it was a place for Rand to escape. The only hint he lived there was a photo of him meeting a mayor somewhere, both with big cheesy grins and gold chains visible. They were on top of a building in a city that Andy didn’t recognise. Rand looked to be in his mid-twenties in the photo.

  A painting hung in the kitchen area and the walls were grey. The floor looked like Marble, but Andy knew it was concrete with a marbled finish, with underfloor heating too. There were rugs thrown over the floor near the sofa and tv.

  The holdall buzzed. Rand’s phone showed a new message. The phone required a pin. Andy tried 0000. Two more attempts. He tried 9999.

  Andy paused and thought; one more chance. His eyes flicked back to the photo on the wall, not a great picture, so the event must be important. He studied it; there were lots of men in the background, one of them wore a white baseball cap with a logo of a character juggling a football. There was writing on the hat that Andy couldn’t make out.

  He noticed that red, white and green blocks formed the character on the logo. Andy typed Italia 90 into his own phone’s browser and checked the images. The logo showed up on the third row. The other pictures on the page showed footballers with mullet haircuts and took Andy back to his childhood: when he was Max’s age, before he left for university. There had been friction with his parents, a struggle for independence but an unwillingness to accept the responsibility that went with it.

  He typed 1990 into Rand’s phone and the screen unlocked. The message was from Julia Matthews. ‘Meet Roberts from Ferry - Liverpool 5.30 a.m.’

  Andy replied: ‘Received.’

  He called Mike Baker again; there was no answer. He checked the ferries from Cork, but he could only get to France or Spain.

  There was a click, and the apartment door opened. Andy pushed himself back against the wall in the kitchen, hidden from view. The holdall was on the island in the kitchen’s centre. He put his phone, and Rand’s, in his trouser pocket; the girlfriend’s walk had been a short one.

  Andy crept behind the island. The woman came into the kitchen and turned on the kettle; she then switched on the radio and chuckled at a gag the DJ made. Andy smelled her perfume: light and floral to go with the dress. She walked around the island, about to discover Andy; he stood up and said, ‘That’s all sorted for you, tell Bill I’ll send the invoice.’

  The woman screamed and said something that Andy didn’t hear, and he strode to the door. He left the apartment, descended in the lift and walked back out, through reception and into the street. He got around the corner as fast as possible without breaking into a run.

  Andy saw Higgins’s Caddy van parked on the street and read the advertisement on the side panels; underneath the phone number were the words:

  Higgins Rib Rides

  Sligo

  Galway

  Cork

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Amy clicked the link that Tim had emailed and downloaded the video file. At home, Jamie would protest if Amy looked at screens while in bed, the blue light would stop them sleeping. Screens never affected Amy; she could sleep on demand, but not in her hospital bed.

  Amy’s frustrations with Jamie included his 3 a.m. waking. Jamie was the most restless sleeper in the world, obsessive about getting to bed by ten on his rest days. He’d then roll around all night before getting up at the crack of dawn when the faintest peep of light entered through the curtains.

  Viewing CCTV would not be the most exciting evening’s entertainment, but at least it kept Amy involved. She felt closer to Jamie working on the same case. Mike had telephoned earlier to say they were both ok. Jamie’s phone had died, but he would call when he’d got a charge. Amy yawned and watched the footage.

  The video clip showed a street around the rear of the pub in Covent Garden on Friday evening. People walked, chatted and laughed. A man on a bike came into view and stopped by the corner. Another man arrived, walked up to him, got out a sheet of paper and something else, a small piece of card, perhaps. The walking man pointed at the piece of card.

  Amy recognised the youth on the bike as Jake Mcguire, but she’d never seen the other guy before. The video played on and Jake disappeared around the corner on his bicycle. Nothing more of interest for thirty minutes, and then Amy saw herself on the screen, in the passenger seat of the van, as it came into view after the arrest.

  The recording stopped.

  ‘I’ll leave this here. Now I’ll go, so you get to rest,’ Janet said, and put Amy’s keys on the table, next to the bedside.

  After the football had finished earlier, Amy had mentioned t
hat she wanted a few things from home; Janet had fetched them for Amy.

  ‘You should put that down now and sleep.’

  ‘Janet, you sound like Jamie. There’s not much on it, anyway. The clip shows Jake Mcguire and another man before the robbery on Friday night. Amy rewound the recording back to the part where Mcguire and the other man were talking.’

  ‘That’s Josiah Taylor. He’s not changed much.’

  ‘Would you mind getting Rob in here please Janet?’

  Rob came in and yawned. ‘Night shift will be here in a minute Amy, I don’t like to leave you in here but I’ve got to sleep. I’ve switched shifts, so I’m back on in the morning. The Sarge has made sure you’ve got a capable guard tonight; Frank will be back soon.’

  ‘I appreciate it Rob. Jamie will appreciate it too. I’ve seen something on the CCTV from outside the pub we should tell Mike Baker about.’ Amy played the clip again. ‘Janet says the man speaking with Jake Mcguire is Josiah Taylor. Taylor disappeared twenty years ago.’

  ‘Well he reappeared on Friday night; that’s the man who gave me the CCTV from the theatre.’

  Janet said, ‘If you know where he might be Rob, I’d arrest him.’

  ‘I guess I’d better get back to the theatre.’

  ‘I’d take backup.’

  ‘We’re getting thin on the ground. I’m not leaving Amy here alone and can’t see there being many spare tonight.’

  ‘I’ll come with you and sit in the car.’

  ‘Frank can come with us too; Frank would be my second choice after Jamie if there’s trouble.’

  ‘Give me a few minutes.’

  Janet pulled the curtain around Amy and passed the bag she’d brought from Amy’s flat. Amy got dressed on the bed.

  When Amy pulled the curtain back, she saw a pair of crutches leaning against the table. Amy could see Janet, Rob and Frank through the window in the ward door. They were waiting outside letting her get ready in her own time.

  Amy had used crutches before when she’d broken her leg in childhood. She’d not wanted to climb the tree, but her brother had goaded her, and she was doing well until the branch snapped.