White Knight/Black Swan

by David Gemmell

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Sue. ‘I’ve seen him naked before. But never in that state. God he looks dreadful.’

  ‘Ta,’ said Bimbo. He stared at the two women from his one good eye and sipped his tea. ‘I look that bad, eh?’

  ‘Worse,’ said Esther.

  ‘I’ll feel better after a run.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Sue. ‘You’d never make the stairs.’

  ‘Don’t put money on it, sweetheart.’

  ‘But it’s stupid, Bimbo,’ Esther told him. ‘It won’t matter if you miss your programme for a day or two. Or even a week.’

  ‘It aint that, princess.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s Reardon, innit? I mean, the word’ll be out, won’t it. Bimbo’s bin done over. Well he’s in for a bleedin’ shock. I’ll be out there like normal, which is more than you can say for some of the buggers who done for me.’

  ‘And then what’ll happen?’ snapped Sue Cater, moving to sit on the bed alongside him. ‘Then they’ll have to come back at you again, won’t they?’

  ‘No, darlin’. Not again. Not ever again. I ’ad a mate wot played chess. He could a told ya wot this is now. This is the endgame. Cos I’ve taken all I’m gonna take. From now on, it’s my game, my rules.’ He turned to Esther. ‘Come on, help me get dressed.’

  ‘Oh, Bim …’

  ‘You promised, princess. And I’ve drunk me tea.’

  ‘You could kill yourself. You know that? One blood clot into your heart. That’s all it will take.’

  ‘And you can guarantee that won’t happen while I lie in bed?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘No. Come on then, girl. Get me shorts on. This is embarrassin’, you know.’

  Esther helped him into a pair of white shorts, then slid his old track suit trousers over his legs. While she was carefully easing his arms into the sweatshirt Sue Cater pushed his trainers on and tied the laces. At last fully dressed Bimbo lay back on the bed, breathing heavily.

  The two women left him and returned to the living room. They said nothing. The bed springs creaked, and Bimbo groaned as he made it to his feet. The women turned to see him looming in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame. His face was grey beneath the bruises.

  ‘I’ll be back in about an hour. Do me a favour and have an ’ot bath ready.’

  ‘This isn’t clever, Bimbo,’ said Sue Cater, sternly.

  ‘Nobody ever said I was clever, darlin’.’ The front door closed behind him.

  ‘He’ll never make it to the estate,’ said Esther.

  ‘I think he will,’ said Sue. ‘As he said, it’s important.’

  ‘I don’t understand it. Do you?’

  ‘No. I expect Shane would.’

  It was an ordeal for Bimbo’s stiff limbs, but he struggled down the stairs, holding hard to the banister rail, and paused in the open doorway, breathing deeply and readying himself. The pain was intense, but he forced himself to relax. A runner needed good lungs to supply oxygen to the blood, strong legs to carry him, and a sound heart. All three he had. Though his ribs and chest were bruised his legs were largely untouched. He shook his arms at his side and rolled his head, seeking to ease the stiffness in his neck. Pain thundered and settled over his right eye, lancing into his mind. He allowed anger to flow. Anger against Reardon, against Taggart, against Stepney for dying. Against himself for being weak.

  Opening the door he stepped out into the grey daylight. The first few steps were faltering and unsteady, but muscle memory took over as he pushed himself into his stride. In his belly the bile churned, but he fixed his good eye on the pavement before him and counted the steps in his mind, measuring his breathing against the pace.

  His calves were tight, and he realised he had not completed his stretching routine. His head ached, and he knew within seconds he had made an arrogant mistake. His body screamed at him to turn back. To lie down. To give in.

  NO!

  Never!

  Out past the tower blocks and on to New Street, which stretched ahead like a marathon course. Some early morning shoppers stopped to stare at the big man lumbering along his course. Most ignored him. Another man, with a black eye and a swollen nose, cursed and ran inside a shop, where he picked up a phone.

  Bimbo turned left at the baker’s, crossed the road to the common and pounded across the grass. His calves were on fire now as oxygen debt built up. This would pass, he knew, once his body stopped fighting him and accepted the inevitable. He could hear nothing above the rushing of blood in his ears, and the hammering in his head. Sweat leaked under the plaster that covered his stitches, burning into the wound.

  With only one eye Bimbo found his sense of perspective had gone, and twice he stumbled over kerbs, but he retained his balance and kept moving. He knew he was nowhere close to his nine-minute-mile pace, and roughly figured that his lack of speed would add twelve agonising minutes to the run.

  Stop, and rest. Lie down! Give up!

  NO!

  Out through the common gates and into the lane. In the distance he could see The Stag. It seemed to get no nearer and his heart sank. Stare at the pavement, he told himself. Don’t think of distance. Just one pace at a time.

  Jack Shell, the publican, was chatting to a lorry driver delivering barrels of beer when he saw Bimbo. Shell, a burly, grey haired ex-docker ran towards him.

  ‘Go on, my son!’ he yelled. ‘You show the bastards!’ Bimbo heard the shout and gave a feeble wave. The pavement slid slowly by beneath him. Other shouts of encouragement came, but he could not tear his eyes from the pavement. It was a far more personal battle now between Bimbo’s will and his beaten body.

  The phone beside Phelps’ bed rang. His head ached and he snatched the receiver from its rest.

  ‘What is it?’ he roared. ‘What? You’re joking!’ Hurling the phone aside he clambered from the bed, wincing as the bruised ribs reminded him of the night before. He moved to the window and dragged back the curtains. To his right he saw the crowds gathering, and then the lumbering figure of Bimbo Jardine, jogging without a care in the world.

  Phelps swore, and watched until the runner was out of sight. He picked up the phone and dialled swiftly.

  Bimbo cut through the alley and on to the High Street, his vision blurring, his chest encompassed by a band of searing heat. He crossed the estate and out past the station. On the bridge, out of sight, he stumbled to a halt and fell to his knees, retching violently. His stomach heaved and he spat the last of the bile from his mouth. Hauling himself to his feet he was forced to walk for a while. Then he lurched into his stride and turned into the canal path, and round the tree-lined corner and on to the estate. Windows were open everywhere, people leaning over balconies and clapping him. He waved and ran for the sanctuary of his home. Outside, Jack Shell and about a dozen others had driven to Maple Road, and they applauded as he ran through them and up the steps. Esther and Sue Cater were in the hallway. They helped him up the stairs and into the flat. Esther undressed him, but it took both women to ease him into the bath, where he lay for almost an hour, between sleep and dreams. He managed to climb out unaided and sat on the edge of the bath, weakly towelling himself dry. The effort was too much and he went back to his bedroom and lay down. Sleep took him almost immediately. Esther covered him with fresh sheets and a blanket.

  Two hours later Stan Jarvis arrived. Sue Cater had left for work, but said she would be back later, and Esther was nervous alone with the stocky video dealer. She could see from his eyes that he was a ‘ladies’ man’ and did not like the frank appreciation that showed in his gaze.

  Stan followed her into the bedroom, his eyes lingering on the rounded hips and long, sleek legs. But all amorous thoughts fled as he saw Bimbo’s wounded face. ‘Jesus!’ whispered Stan, backing out of the room. ‘He’s got more guts than brains. You’re the nurse, r
ight?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Esther. ‘And this nurse has to go to work. Will you stay with him?’

  ‘Sure. What do I look for?’

  ‘Any slurring of the speech. And check him every half-hour or so. You know how to take a pulse?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘His pulse rate is around 48–50. Any irregularity and you call the number on that pad by the door. Ask for Dr Simeon Abazul. There’s a phone in my flat and the key is by the pad.’

  ‘Okay. He’s very proud of you, you know. Talks about you a lot,’ said Stan.

  ‘Have you been friends long?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Stan. ‘We used to share a room.’

  ‘Why did he run today?’ Stan saw the concern in her eye, and shrugged.

  ‘They wanted to ’urt him. Bad. Put him in traction. That was just his way of tellin’ ’em he couldn’t give a toss. Some of ’em are in hospital. Others aint lookin’ too comfortable. But Bimbo? Well, he’s out runnin’.’

  ‘Then it’s not over?’

  Stan stared into the beautiful eyes. ‘No, darlin’. They found Taggart this morning. Both arms and both legs broken, his fingers smashed. Reardon will go apeshit.’

  ‘And Bimbo is alone.’

  ‘He aint alone. I’m here. I aint much. But I aint no pussycat neither.’

  ‘If he is attacked again, they will kill him.’

  ‘There won’t be no gang. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘What then?’

  He toyed with the idea of lying to her, but there was no point. ‘It’ll be one man. His name’s Jackie Green,’ he said.

  Richard Kilbey sat in Pam Edgerley’s tiny office, trying to screen out the discordant wailing of a baby in the room alongside. ‘You look tired, Pam.’

  ‘I am tired. Bloody tired. No council grants, press harassment, and now they say we have to move out because we haven’t got enough fire doors, or some such rot. Why can’t we get help? Every one of the women here has been savagely abused, and there’s nothing they can do. Why does no one care, Richard?’

  ‘I wish I could answer that,’ said Kilbey, softly, wishing he could say something to lessen the despair in her eyes. ‘How much will it cost to bring the building up to requirements?’

  ‘The cheapest estimate is eight thousand,’ said Pam. ‘But it wouldn’t matter if it was eight hundred. We haven’t got the money. The well’s dry.’

  ‘If I had money …’ said Kilbey, then stopped. There was no point in going on.

  ‘I know, Richard. You’re a good man. But we close a fortnight on Friday.’

  ‘I’ll have another few words with the Boss,’ said Kilbey, his eyes flicking upwards. ‘He’s been known to work a miracle or two.’

  Pam smiled. ‘I don’t think He likes me. I’m some sort of abomination, aren’t I?’

  ‘I sometimes think He gets a little irritated by the people who claim they know His mind.’

  ‘I don’t believe in Him, Richard.’

  ‘But He believes in you, Pamela.’

  Pam stood and wandered to the window. ‘You have no idea what this place means to the women here. You know, there’s a young girl out there, deaf in her left ear from a beating she took. There’s another one who miscarried after her husband hit her in the stomach. We had one the other day whose husband, and another man, raped her. And she’s gone back home. Can you believe that? She was here, and he sent two men to bring her back.’

  ‘You should have called the police.’

  ‘What would they have done about Frank Reardon? He terrorises the town and they do nothing. Why should they care if he does it at home?’

  ‘The world is an evil place,’ agreed Kilbey. ‘Look, I’ll have another collection at the church.’

  ‘There’s no more time,’ said Pam.

  Kilbey felt depression hit him as he walked to his car. So many people lived in suffering, and so few were willing to help. He looked back at the old Victorian house, and the badly painted sign above the front door: ‘REFUGE’.

  His own wife had criticised him for getting involved with ‘those lesbians’, and one parishioner had written a letter of complaint to his Bishop. Kilbey started the car and drove to Maple Road.

  Bimbo’s door was opened by a stocky man with fair hair and a moustache.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m the vicar. I’m here to see Bimbo.’

  ‘He don’t need no last rites, mate.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Kilbey. The man stepped aside and Kilbey entered the flat. Bimbo was in bed. He was awake and sipping a glass of milk.

  ‘’Allo, Rev. Sorry, I couldn’t get round to ya.’ Kilbey was stunned by the big man’s appearance. His face was swollen and discoloured, and one eye was closed.

  ‘Good Lord, Bimbo, what on earth happened to you?’

  ‘Fell down the stairs, didn’t I? It’s better than it looks. Fancy a cuppa? Stan, make yourself useful.’

  ‘No,’ said Kilbey, swiftly. ‘I just came to talk about the funeral.’ He was about to go on to say that he could not, in all conscience, officiate, but Bimbo immediately brightened.

  ‘You’re a mate,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it. Look in my coat there. He left me a letter. That’ll give you some idea of what he was thinkin’, you know, towards the end. He mentions God a coupla times.’

  Kilbey removed the letter and read it through twice. There was warmth in the words, and compassion. Kilbey smiled.

  ‘Who is this Jackie Green he writes of ?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Rev. The old boy got the wrong end of the stick there.’

  ‘I see. Do you have any money, Bimbo?’

  ‘Some. Why? You need payin’ for the service?’

  ‘No. The funeral parlour put all that in the bill. No, I was thinking of the refuge. They’re being closed down. But don’t worry if you’re short.’

  ‘Nah, thass all right. Twenty be enough?’

  ‘That would be handsome.’

  ‘I’ll give it ya Friday. Okay?’

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ said Kilbey.

  The vicar returned to his car. There were several black youths lounging by it. One of them walked up to him. ‘We bin lookin’ after it for you, man,’ he said.

  ‘That is very thoughtful of you, my boy,’ said Richard. ‘It is good to see people who care for one another.’ He patted the youth on the shoulder and climbed into the car.

  How nice, he thought, as he drove away.

  At the upstairs window Stan chuckled. ‘You oughtta have seen that, Bim,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That priest. Gang of louts by his car. You know the scene – sting him for some cash for lookin’ after it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He just patted the leader on the shoulder and drove away. You should see the geezer’s face.’ Stan laughed. ‘They’re all arguin’ now. Dunno ’ow he got away with it.’

  Stan walked back into the kitchen and emerged minutes later carrying a tray, on which sat a plate heaped with overdone eggs and underdone bacon.

  ‘You aint no cook, Stan.’

  ‘No, and I aint no nurse neither. Get it down ya. I gotta go to the shop. You gonna be all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks for stayin’.’

  ‘No trouble, son.’

  ‘And don’t forget me Shane film.’

  ‘I’ll get it. I’ll be back tonight.’

  Stan did not go straight to the shop. First he called on an old flame named Elsie. She invited him in and offered him a beer.

  ‘You do those leaflets all right?’ asked Stan.

  ‘Yeah. Me and Tracey delivered ’em around 1 a.m. Nobody saw us.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. You don’t think I’d want Reardon to find out, do ya?
What a pig, eh? Doin’ that to children. Deserves hangin’.’

  ‘Don’t he just? The second lot go out tomorrow. Okay?’

  ‘Sure. Where’s my hundred?’

  ‘Don’t you trust me, girl? After all we’ve been through?’ he asked, putting his arms around her and pinching her ample backside.

  ‘No, Stan, I don’t. Especially after what we went through.’

  He grinned and pulled a wad of cash from his jacket, peeling off ten £10 notes. ‘Be careful, Elsie.’

  ‘And you,’ she replied.

  Next, Stan went to his lock-up behind the shop and took an old AYA side-by-side twelve bore shotgun from the hidden rack. In his garage workshop he carefully sawed away the butt, leaving a pistol grip which he sanded smooth and taped. Locking the weapon in a vice, he took up his hacksaw and reduced the barrel lengths by eighteen inches. He filed them clean, and pressed the release lifting the weapon clear, then armed it with number six loads before snapping it shut. With a length of leather he fashioned a sling which he attached to the pistol grip, and hung it over his shoulder. It nestled against his hip. He put on his jacket and checked in a mirror to see if the gun bulged. It did, but not enough to arouse suspicion.

  ‘You come for me, Jackie, and you’ll be walking on stumps,’ he said.

  Mac sat staring in disbelief at the A4 sheet before him, his face white, his mind racing. Phelps said nothing.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ asked Mac, pushing it away from him across the desk, as if it carried some alien germ.

  ‘It was pushed through me door. Everybody in the street got ’em. Bit rich, innit? I never knew none a that.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ snapped Mac. ‘I’ve known Frank Reardon for years. He came out of the army with an honourable discharge. And he served with distinction in Malaya and Germany. I was with him. He got a bloody medal, for Christ’s sake.’