Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  Nurse Becky Gets Shot

  Gary Baker

  '… one of the best thrillers I've read in a long, long time.' – ' … provides enough mysteries, clues, red herrings and twists and turns to last a life time.' … Editor, Writer's Workshop.

  All characters, situations and persons depicted are fictitious.

  The paperback is available here

  http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/nurse-becky-gets-shot/11383452

  Donations can be made via Paypal to gb@bramblingbooks.co.uk

  Copyright (c) Gary Baker 2010

  All Rights Reserved.

  2005002

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  Roger Peerson's mind let him focus on the reflection. A man dressed as a bank manager looked back at him. His tie blown over his shoulder.

  Is that me?

  He turned his head to the right, pulled the tie straight. The brown haired reflection did the same.

  That's me. Seventeen spots on the tie.

  People walked behind him. The reflection came from a chemist's window. He was in a shopping precinct. Lots of brick.

  The sun was low, still warm. His clothes stuck as he moved. Sweat cooled his forehead.

  He noticed a shabby figure squatting against a wall; broom handle legs folded impossibly tight, a dark cowl of dreadlocks, ancient boots.

  Looks so thin. Mr Thin, you look worn out.

  Roger patted his pockets, looking for change.

  Mr Thin's inner right forearm flashed a silver, red and blue dagger coiled about by a green and yellow serpent. Colours dimmed by dirt and time.

  Hints of dark blue whorls and words poked from under sleeves and torn trouser.

  The left arm, inner forearm, what does that say? Roger stepped forward, cocked his head, hard to read Gothic script, KOPALDA.

  Roger recoiled, staggered back into the path of a young woman explaining why she was late into her mobile phone: 'The bloody train was cancelled again.' Her elbow caught him in the ribs, the phone arced from her hand, smashing into three pieces on the concrete paving.

  Battery, phone body, battery cover.

  'Fuck!' The woman stopped, stood feet together, heavy chested body tilted forward at the waist, hands held as if she had just let go of a tray of hors d'oeuvres.

  Roger and the woman looked, unmoving.

  Battery, phone body, battery cover.

  A faint smell of garbage broke the spell. 'Sorry.' Roger stooped to retrieve the battery. 'Let me.' The phone.

  The battery cover had landed close to Mr Thin's begging bowl. Roger paused.

  The women said, 'I was on the phone?'

  Up-speak. So irritating. 'Sorry. Yes.' Roger handed her the two pieces. She pointed at the remaining part. Eyebrows raised.

  'Excuse me, I just … ' said Roger. He reached for the last piece, met a quick green gaze.

  'Nice tits,' whispered Mr Thin.

  Alcohol smell.

  'What?'

  It was coming back. The alcohol smell. Tits? No. Crudeness. The crudeness of the remark felt familiar. Roger's neurons itched with memories just out of reach.

  The Salvation Army. That's it. Lenny. Lenny with the dust bunny hair, sat on a creaky bed. He'd just sloshed whisky onto his lap. Too busy laughing at his own joke.

  Roger straightened up holding the final piece of the phone.

  The tattoo. KOPALDA.

  Roger thrust the battery cover into the woman's hands and ran.

  *

  Four weeks earlier:

  Roger looked up at the Salvation Army Citadel building dizzyingly framed by low scudding clouds. He hesitated before hammering on the double doors with the side of his fist. The noise hardly seemed to penetrate the cold layers of red paint.

  His feet hurt. He'd walked for hours. He'd left under a low, black sky which was now an uncertain grey. He'd left Harry. And the house. And Julia.

  There'd been a fight with Julia? Hard to remember.

  Roger had cried for the first fifteen minutes of the two hour walk. Stumbling along grass verges, past uncaring traffic, hard pavements and unforgiving curbs.

  Roger hammered again.

  No answer. Where will I go if it's closed?

  The door opened inwards. Movement to Roger's left grabbed his attention. A figure. Nothing. Roger turned back to the door.

  A woman stood and looked at him. Plump, white blouse, grey skirt, black stockings, grey eyes.

  'Yes?' She'd opened one side of the double doors completely. Stood square and full on.

  God this was difficult.

  Roger felt the tightness round the back of his head; a closing in, squeezing, tunnel vision, tears. He swallowed the lump in his throat, placed a hand over his pounding heart, said, 'I'm sorry, but I … need help.' His legs gave way. He fell to his knees. Sobbing.

  The other Rogers, Roger's other minds, looked on as Roger A clutched his gut and folded under the pain, dripped tears and snot onto the sandstone steps. Roger B wished the silly sod had managed to stay on his feet. But it felt good to let go a bit. Wonder if she's wearing stockings.

  Roger C recalled when his mum had phoned telling him of the death of his brother from testicular cancer. His legs had given way in the hallway of that flat he used to live in. The one in West Hampstead. What was the number?

  Roger felt a hand under his arm. Heard words. Smelled buttered toast and Chanel Number 5. Julia used Chanel Number 5.

  Roger A sobbed, did more breathing out than breathing in, struggled to his feet. God it hurt. Roger B wondered how many coats of paint were on the door. Felt hungry for toast. Roger C searched for more memories.

  The woman was brusque. 'In here. Sit down. Are you going to be sick?'

  Now in a bright corridor. Roger sat on a wooden bench. Took a deep breath. 'It's alright, I'm not drunk,' he said at last, 'I'm just tired and emotional.' Surprising himself, Roger smiled at the political euphemism.

  'I'm Janice Deal,' she said, returning his smile. 'Just sit there for a moment.' Janice leaned forward, placed a hand on Roger's shoulder and held his gaze. 'I have to finish a phone call.' A gentle Geordie accent.

  The weight of the hand on his shoulder and held eye contact caused a quick unease in Roger. Very serious phone call, he thought dismissing the intimacy. 'Thanks. Thank you. I'll be fine. Really.'

  Janice walked quickly along the corridor, paused to glance back at Roger then turned into a room.

  Roger rested the back of his head against the wall. Closed his eyes. Deep breaths. Concentrate on the breathing. Deep breaths.

  God, what have I done.

  A chilly wind coming through the open door reminded Roger his face was streaked with tears and snot. He rose to push the door closed rubbing his face on his sleeve. The impression of a dark figure half in and half out of the doorway ducked outside and out of view. Mild surprise. Embarrassment. Had they seen him crying? Roger stepped outside. It was too early for pedestrians. The street was deserted except for one shabby car coughing by. He could go back. Julia would take him back, surely. He'd see Harry again. The thought of Harry brought back the tightness at the back of Roger's head. Harry wondering where his dad was. Why has dad gone? I want dad. Who will play Duel Monsters with me? Harry crying. Da-ad. His innocence cracking. His confusion. His tears.

  Roger felt it coming back.

  God, it hurts.

  Pull yourself together man. Roger B made him close the door then sit down. Wipe your face again. Come on, breathe deep. Close your eyes. Just breathe. Small steps. It will go away. One breath at a time.

  Hungry.

  One breath at a time.

  Roger felt a pressure on his arm. What was her name again? Janice.

  'Now, what's the problem?'

>   'I'm sorry,' said Roger.

  'Don't be.'

  'This isn't like me.'

  'I'm sure it isn't.'

  'I just didn't know where else to go.'

  Janice sat patiently by Roger's side perched on the edge of the bench. Ankles crossed beneath her. Wrists crossed on her lap.

  'This sounds so pathetic. I feel so stupid.' Roger pulled and wiped at his sleeves, conscious of the gooey coating, then launched himself into his explanation. 'I've had a fight with Julia. It was a big one. I have a son. Harry. It's become impossible. It's best, for Harry, that I leave before … Well, things were being thrown about, Harry was crying his eyes out. It really is the end. It's been going on like this for too long now. I had to leave. I've been walking for hours. All night. Town is deserted. I sat in the hospital for ages. In the waiting room. Nowhere else to go. I've left Harry.' Roger paused, unable to breathe in. 'It hurts,' he managed at last. 'I had no idea it would hurt so much.'

  'Take your time.'

  A memory surfaced of its own accord. 'She accused me of not trying hard enough.' Roger lifted his right hand. 'I swear to you it's not true.' Roger looked into Janice's eyes. 'I swear it's not true.'

  Janice nodded.

  Roger saw she believed him.

  Another memory. 'Someone, I don't know who, she wouldn't say, someone told her I'd been seen booking into the Holiday Inn in Middlesbrough with some young blonde.' Roger shook his head. 'It's just unbelievable.'

  A distant mobile telephone started to play Jerusalem. Janice placed her hand on Roger's arm. 'Go on,' she said.

  'No. You'd better answer that.'

  Janice examined Roger's face for a moment. 'Yes, please excuse me,' she said gently. 'You just sit here and relax. I'll be back in just a minute. Then we'll sort you out, all right?' She stood and walked quickly along the corridor once more turning into the room. The mobile hymn stopped.

  Roger sat and nursed a dull ache behind his sternum.

  She said for him to sit and wait. She would sort him out. He didn't have to think. He closed his eyes. There were no memories before the walking. Only what he'd told Janice Deal. Shouldn't we be more concerned? They'll make themselves known when they're good and ready. Don't think now. Especially don't think about Harry. It hurts. Let things happen.

  *

  The Darlington Salvation Army Social Services were in a different building; five minutes walk along North Road's grey, uneven paving slabs from the Citadel building.

  Roger had fallen asleep where he sat so Janice had put on her plain black overcoat, gently woken him up and guided him along the pavement talking all the way. Roger took in nothing Janice said. Content to be guided. Not have to think.

  *

  Signed in and sat on a creaking cot in a room full of cots. This was more like Roger imagined the Salvation Army to be. A room full of cots. Not beds. Metal bed-like things with springs and thin mattresses. A smattering of them filled with grubby snoring lumps.

  Roger lay down trying, unsuccessfully, to minimise the creaking.

  Sleep.

  *

  '… Till we have built Jerusalem

  In England's green and pleasant land!'

  Roger woke with the last strains of Jerusalem fading in his thoughts. He felt stiff. Stretched.

  'Hey.' A coarse male voice greeted Roger as he squinted against the light. Where on Earth am I? Oh, yes.

  'So you're awake, like.'

  'I'm sorry?' said Roger trying to focus on the figure sat on the cot opposite. He grappled with the image: overexposed, underexposed, washed out, blurred, clear. A man sat facing him. Hugging one knee. Smoking. Beige, dirty beige clothes. Dust-bunny hair. The cigarette was a roll-up. It smelled good. Made Roger salivate.

  'You were snoring like fuck.'

  'Was I?' Roger sat up and swung his legs around to face the man. He stroked his chin. His new stubble made a satisfying rasp. Mr Dust-bunny opposite could do with a shave too, thought Roger.

  'You got any money?' said the man.

  Ah. A dilemma. How to react? Tell him no, risk his anger? Tell him yes, invite the next question? Ignore him? Be aggressive back? Roger looked him in the eyes. He was in a Salvation Army building. What could possibly happen in here? 'Yes, thanks,' he said, 'and I intend to keep it. Okay?'

  'Hey,' the man leaned back arms open, palms up, all innocence, 'fuck. I was only going to say if you've got ten pence I'll show you where you can get a better tea than the piss they serve here.'

  Roger stared at the floor. Unwanted thoughts were clamouring for attention.

  A heavy hand slapped his shoulder.

  'Come on,' insisted the man, 'let's go. Janice told me to keep an eye on you.' He stood gesturing for Roger to stand too. 'You're Roger. I'm Lenny. Lenny Ludhoe. Let me show you the fuck around. Okay?'

  This would be easier. Let someone else lead. He could just follow. Roger stood.

  'Okay,' said Lenny dropping his cigarette then crushing it under a scuffed boot.

  Roger followed where Lenny led. Tea here. Toilet. Newspapers. Introductions. The introductions were odd. 'This is Roger.' Handshake. How do you do. 'This is Roger.' But no reciprocating name. No, 'Roger this is Fred, Fred Roger.' 'Mary this is Roger. Roger, Mary.' Roger ended knowing their faces but not their names.

  Maybe I'm just forgetting. Maybe …

  Then there was sitting. Sitting on a bench while someone preached. Singing. Preaching. Tea. Coughing. Biscuits. Hard bench.

  At last, a coarse whisper from Lenny, 'Let's get the fuck out of here.'

  'Why not,' agreed Roger, standing and rubbing his backside.

  *

  Darlington's concrete-grey evening sky washed the colour and detail from the mismatched buildings, creeping cars and pedestrians.

  Lenny turned right heading north along North Road. The pair walked past a bed shop, its window placards pleading for their custom, an empty tool shop, pizza, insurance, on and on. Lenny was the eyes, the guide. Roger followed.

  Down a side street. Bricks, litter, cans, bottles, dirt. The smell of rubbish made Roger realise an old theory he had about all towns and cities smelling the same, was wrong. The alleys of sunny Cape Town had smelled of rotting vegetables, hot tar and urine. As had Johannesburg. And London, when the sun shone. Hence the theory. Here, trudging a back street in Darlington, there was no smell of urine or hot tar. Just rotting rubbish.

  A low flying jet startled Roger into looking up. It had already gone, leaving only a low rumble and an elevated heart rate.

  Lenny had gone, too.

  Ahead, a dark green door with frosted windows creaked and banged shut.

  A pub?

  Lenny was already at the bar when Roger joined him.

  Without asking Roger what he wanted, Lenny ordered two pints of lager and two whisky chasers. 'I'm twenty pence short,' he said turning to Roger.

  Roger fumbled in his pockets, found some coins then handed them to Lenny. Lenny picked out twenty pence then handed the remainder back to Roger.

  Lenny downed his whisky in one. Roger felt he should followed suit, coughed like an adolescent and felt himself redden.

  When was the last time he'd blushed?

  They picked a corner table and sat facing each other.

  'So what's your fucking story then?' asked Lenny pulling a pack of ten cigarettes from his pocket.

  'Are you really interested?' What happened to the roll-ups?

  'Not really, but I've cancelled my booking to see Tosca tonight so I might as well listen to your tragic story in-fucking-stead, like.' He offered Roger a cigarette. Roger declined.

  'I simply,' said Roger, 'find myself … temporarily … homeless.'

  'Row with the missus?' Lenny asked quickly.

  Too quickly, thought Roger. 'Something like that,' he said.

  Roger took a sip of his beer. 'And you?' he asked Lenny wanting to change the subject.

  Lenny sucked hard on his cigarette. 'Janet said you were pretty fucking upset when you arriv
ed.' Smoke left Lenny's mouth with every syllable. 'You all right now?'

  Janet? 'I thought it was Janice.'

  Lenny snorted, 'Yes, I'm always getting her fucking name wrong. Janet. Janice. What the fuck. Listen,' Lenny stood, helping himself up with his hands on the table top, 'I'm going for a piss, all right?'

  Roger sipped his lager. The comfort of the familiar. Lenny's fingernails were spotless. Long healthy tanned fingers and pink nails contrasting the dark, distressed-wood tabletop.

  He watched Lenny head for an archway marked 'Gents'. That dust-bunny hair looks filthy. Spotless fingers though.

  The world didn't seem authentic. Roger tried to think beyond Julia. A narrow memory-door cracked open. Roger had lived in and around Darlington for years but had never noticed this pub before. A pub for vagabonds and vagrants? He'd thought many times, half jokingly, he'd end up at London King's Cross carrying plastic bags and wearing trousers tied with string. Looked like it was happening. Don't think about Harry. Julia would manage. Don't think about Harry.

  A male baritone bar-laugh went off like a canon somewhere out of site and degraded into wheezing coughing. A high-pitched female machine-gun bar-laugh, which hurt the back of Roger's eyes, followed close behind. Fresh cigarette smoke from unseen smokers drifted across to Roger, oblivious to its bad press. Smelled good. Could start smoking again. Stopped when Harry first came along. Don't think about Harry. Roger noticed the music for the first time since entering the pub.

  'Hey mambo! Mambo Italiano!' Rosemary Clooney. Nineteen fifty-four.

  Harry likes this tune. It was on a free compilation CD that came with the Sunday papers.

  A heavy-set man and a mini-skirted blonde entered, crossing straight to the bar. 'Pint an a half of Carling,' he ordered pulling out a wallet from his back pocket. He looked round the bar.

  Shaved head. One eyebrow had a piece missing. Fake scar?

  The woman tugged at her skirt, trying to stop it from riding up. Chubby thighs. Slightly knock-kneed. Thin calves. Cherry red lips. Curly mock-blonde hair flat at the back and over-spruced at the front. Didn't she realise there are more views than just front on?