Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  Meadhill narrowed his eyes involuntarily.

  The Major, forced to look up, prodded the side of Meadhill's head. 'Need more resources up here do we?'

  Meadhill's jaw muscles writhed. The goon at the door tensed.

  'I have a man picking up Peerson as we … speak,' said Meadhill.

  The Major fatally mistook Meadhill's calm tone for a submissive one. 'Well make sure you don't -' and on the word 'don't' The Major slapped Meadhill across the face, 'lose him this -' slap! 'time'.

  The bulge under Meadhill's arm was gone. Its cause, a silenced automatic pistol, was pointed at the wide eyed goon.

  Chuck.

  The goon collapsed dead. Shot through the right eye.

  Meadhill could taste syrup on the back of his teeth. Treacle. The taste of treacle poured over a bowl of hot porridge. Odd that.

  The Major had turned white. Globs of sweat quivered on his forehead and upper lip as Meadhill pressed the silencer against The Major's huge belly.

  'Don't be a fool, John,' said The Major. 'You know it won't end with me. You know you'll never be able to stop running if … '

  Chuck.

  'Don't ever call me stupid,' said Meadhill.

  Chuck.

  The Major stood frozen. Agape. Unbelieving. Breath held.

  Meadhill sucked at the saliva as the taste of treacle grew stronger in his mouth and The Major leaned against him barely able to keep his bulk from falling.

  'Die you fat fuck,' hissed Meadhill pressing the business end of the silencer against The Major's chest.

  Meadhill's mobile phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out with his free hand and flipped it open. 'Yes?' he said looking into The Major's watery eyes. A woman's voice had him confirm he was the same John Meadhill whose mother was in Leeds Royal Infirmary. He was. She had bad news. His mother had passed away and 'arrangements' had to be made.

  'I'll have to get back to you,' said Meadhill. 'I need … a few moments.'

  'I understand,' said the woman from the Leeds Royal Infirmary.

  'Goodbye,' said Meadhill still looking into the Major's eyes. He flipped shut his phone.

  Chuck.

  Chapter 20

  It was raining. It should always rain at funerals. Not too much, of course. Just enough of an annoying drizzle to make a person narrow their eyes and hunch their shoulders as they scurry to the chapel.

  Meadhill neither hunched his shoulders, narrowed his eyes nor scurried. Unlike the vicar or parson or whatever the hell this weedy, thin excuse for a man called himself. Shakes hands like a fish, couldn't meet anyone's eyes and blushed like a schoolgirl whenever he talked to you. That, and his life revolved around a fucking fairytale.

  The priest and Meadhill stood silently under cover at the entrance to the chapel of Lawns Wood Crematorium, Leeds. A hearse approached along the black, slick tarmac road winding between old headstones and weeping willows.

  The priest cleared his throat.

  Meadhill watched the hearse stop and four black suited pallbearers got out, opened the rear and slid out a pale, wooden coffin.

  The pallbearers, two on either side, stood for a moment preparing to lift the dead weight onto their shoulders. Meadhill saw they ranged in height from about five feet six to about six feet two. The shortest had hair to his shoulders and the tallest sported a shaved head. They executed the manoeuvre with practiced ease and, despite the odd angle at which they carried the coffin, managed to proceed past Meadhill and the Priest with some dignity.

  That's my mum in there, in that box.

  The coffin was laid on a table in front of a pair of Royal Blue curtains which stretched up to the ceiling. The pallbearers retired to sit a few rows back. Spreading themselves out. There was one elderly couple stood, arms linked, in the third row.

  And, stood alone on the front row, Meadhill.

  The son.

  There was a small, brass plaque on the lid of the coffin. At that angle Meadhill couldn't read it but knew it would read Rosemary Jayne Meadhill.

  Mum.

  The woman who had said it was alright to cry when his hamster died. The woman who, when asked, 'mum, am I clever?' had answered, 'you're about average son.' The woman that, despite her only son making more money every month than she had made in a lifetime, still maintained he was just average. Like he was lying. The woman whose love-making with some greasy restaurant owner had kept her eleven your old son awake night after night after fucking night. The same greasy restaurant owner who had smashed a dinner plate in her face. The same mother who had cried in the dock when her only son had been sent down for stabbing a greasy, smelly restaurant owner in the neck with a fork.

  She was in that box.

  Meadhill felt in his pocket touching the cool smoothness of a photograph. The black and white photograph showed Rosemary Jayne, eight years old, dressed as a fairy and posing with a wand.

  What a waste of fucking time this was. What was this skinny vicar bleating on about?

  Meadhill's mobile phone buzzed and played a tune in his pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open saying, 'Yes?'

  The priest fell silent.

  'In Leeds.' Meadhill's voice sounded harsh and alien bouncing round the chapel. A thin, unintelligible voice could be heard coming from his mobile phone.

  'I'll be in London by tonight,' said Meadhill. 'I'll meet you … ' He paused, looking with obvious distrust at the priest and, lowering his voice, continued, 'tomorrow morning, oh nine-hundred hours at The Hawkhurst Plaza.'

  Meadhill snapped shut his mobile phone, put it back in his pocket and looked at the priest who stood open mouthed and wide eyed.

  The chapel was heavy with silence for a few seconds. Meadhill was the first to speak. 'Any chance we could speed this up a bit? Busy day ahead. Lots to do.'

  The priest pulled himself together and continued with the service.

  Chapter 21

  The Hawkhurst Plaza stood tall and alone just off the Edgware Road to the North of London. The surrounding narrow streets, most lined with seven feet high brick walls, were all one way and traffic calmed by yellow striped tar humps stretching from curb to curb. Litter, broken glass and patches of sticky liquids lay in wait for the unwary. Road and pavement repair gangs had not been near the area in decades.

  The window of Meadhill's hotel room on the thirty-third floor looked south towards London. A magnificent view of the fruits of the labours of man. Man, whose blind, thoughtless hand had brushed away far more than William Blake could ever have countenanced. An observer, directing their gaze straight down, would see the lifeless warrens surrounding the hotel. Monuments to the brick maker's art.

  Meadhill looked at his watch. Where was that scum Lenny Ludhoe? He'd better have that prick Peerson in tow.

  Meadhill's phone buzzed and played its polyphonic party piece on the narrow dressing table.

  'Yes!' snapped Meadhill.

  'John Meadhill?'

  He didn't recognise the voice.

  'Yes. What is it?'

  'I'm calling from AZA On-line Gaming, the account number you specified appears to be void of funds. Do you have another account number or perhaps a credit card we could use instead?'

  'What?'

  'It's AZA On-line Gaming, sir.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about. I've never heard of AZA Gaming. You've … got the wrong number.'

  'Sir … ' The voice patiently quoted Meadhill's home address, his email address, and some numbers that were supposed to be his bank account and did sound familiar.

  'Listen,' said Meadhill, 'that is me but you've been … set up. I don't do gambling on-line. Okay?'

  'Sir, if you could just give me another account number or a credit card number we could clear this up right now.'

  'Are you fucking deaf? I don't do gambling on-line. Okay! Now I'm going to hang up and I don't want to hear your whiney little voice ever again. Okay!'

  Meadhill didn't hang up.

  'Sir, two hundred and twenty five thous
and pounds is a significant sum and I strongly recommend you give me some means of clearing this debt immediately. The consequences of your not paying are very serious and I'll be forced to despatch a collector to the Edgware Road straight away.'

  Two hundred and twenty five grand! Peerson's little software bunnies have taken to jumping all over my personal finances now! And how …

  'How do you know where I am?'

  'Your mobile phone, sir.'

  Of course.

  'You're bluffing,' said Meadhill. 'You'll know the general area but you can't pinpoint me that accurately.' Meadhill heard the defensive tone of his own voice and changed it. 'Anyway,' he hissed, 'listen to me: I will kill your collector, then you, then your family, understand?'

  'Sir … '

  'Stay away from me. This is good advice, son.' Meadhill flipped his mobile phone shut and tossed it back onto the dressing table making it bounce against his laptop. This is good advice, son. r, then you then your familyd immediatly.ard number we could clear this up right now."taurant owner in

  Three sharp taps on the hotel room door.

  It couldn't be, could it? 'Who is it?'

  'Lenny.'

  'It's open,' said Meadhill. 'But don't bother coming in if Peerson's not with you.'

  Lenny stepped into the room. 'He's dead,' he said.

  Meadhill took a few moments to absorb the information.

  'How?'

  'The dickhead grabbed my fucking gun and shot himself with it.'

  Meadhill sat down on the chair facing his laptop. The waving, coloured lines of the screen saver annoyed him so he prodded the mouse with his index finger. His Yahoo home page, showing the news items he had been browsing earlier, surfaced on the screen.

  Meadhill looked past the screen into the mirror beyond and clamped onto Lenny's eyes.

  'You killed him.' Meadhill's voice made Lenny flinch.

  'Saying I fucking killed him is a bit strong. He grabbed my fucking gun. What was I supposed to do?'

  'What you were supposed to do was to bring him back here so we could make him stop his little software bunnies from hopping all over The KOPALDA's finances causing me a lot of personal grief from our Lords and Masters.'

  'Bunnies?'

  'Which reminds me … ' Meadhill ignored Lenny and started tapping on the laptop's keyboard. Lenny circled the room and averted his eyes.

  After a few seconds Meadhill cursed. 'Bastard.'

  He stood, turning to face Lenny. 'Not only is your friend responsible for siphoning off millions of The KOPALDA's funds but … worse still, he's managed to empty my own, personal, private bank account.'

  The growl of Meadhill's voice and his menacing, almost panther-like, stance caused a rush of adrenaline to surge through Lenny's body. He quickly pulled out his hand gun from under his arm and pointed it, quivering slightly, at Meadhill.

  'Now listen … ' said Lenny. But his brain couldn't form any more words. Meadhill relaxed. His shoulders lowered and his arms hung loosely by his sides.

  'Lenny,' said Meadhill, 'I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at that Peerson character. Arguing about … responsibility is a waste of time. Granted. What we have to do is find someone capable of stopping these software-bunnies, Trojan, virus things, or whatever you call them, from doing us any more damage and, hopefully, reversing the processes too.' Meadhill turned back to his computer on the dressing table and picked up a small black hairbrush. 'Any suggestions?' he asked.

  Lenny lowered his gun and swallowed hard. 'I don't know,' he said. 'There's that woman he used to work with. Julia something. She'll probably … '

  The hairbrush caught Lenny on the bridge of his nose and was instantly followed by the crushing weight of Meadhill who pinned him down with a knee on each arm and grasped about the throat.

  Meadhill swallowed a surfeit of saliva. That treacle taste again. He looked down at Lenny whose face was already turning red.

  'I wouldn't normally do this,' said Meadhill. 'Normally I like to make it quick.' Lenny bucked and thrashed his legs ineffectually. 'Steady on, lad. As I was saying, normally I make it quick but you leave me no choice.' Lenny's face was turning purple, his protruding tongue was turning the colour of blackberry juice, his eyes watering and bulging. 'It's a question of … respect, you see.' Meadhill leaned down hard, his thumbs pushing deep into Lenny's neck crushing his larynx. 'What would people think if I let you point a gun at me and live?' He held his position until Lenny was almost motionless, then released his grip letting Lenny gasp for air through an agonising, crushed throat. Meadhill allowed Lenny three painful gurgling breaths then clamped his thumbs down on Lenny's throat once more.

  In this way, Meadhill kept Lenny barely alive for three long minutes before he grew bored and ended the torture by throttling Lenny one last time.

  Meadhill stood and walked to the cupboard where his jacket hung on a wooden hanger. He pulled out the picture of his mother, eight year old Rosemary Jayne dressed as a fairy, and held it up at eye level.

  He poked the picture with a stiff index finger. 'Your fault,' he said.

  Chapter 22

  Roger's head pulsed painfully with every heartbeat. There was an enormous pressure behind his eyes. For a moment he thought he was going to vomit and tried to sit up. A pain that originated in his stomach slammed through his body subsiding slowly to a dull ache extending into his back, up to his chest and down to his testicles.

  Roger held his breath not daring to move in case that nightmare hurt returned. Very slowly, he settled back, relaxed, allowed himself to breathe.

  He was in a bed. His head rested on soft pillows and cool sheets and a light blanket covered him.

  His eyes stuck together. Scared of the pain, Roger dare not move his hand to his face. He tried opening his eyes by raising his eyebrows and lowering his cheeks. It was working. Left eye open. Right eye open. Everything was blurred. Some rapid blinking and Roger could make out diagonal stripes on the ceiling. It was night and lights outside were illuminating the room through Venetian blinds.

  That distant sound. Sensible shoes on hard, vinyl tiles floors. Tin things rattling against each other. Mumbling. A constant hum.

  That smell.

  He was in hospital.

  A black, liquid curtain seemed to close over his brain and Roger fell back into a deep sleep.

  *

  'Roger.' … Someone wants me. Soothing voice … 'Roger.' … I'm in that hospital room … 'Roger. Do you know where you are?'

  It's very bright. She looks nice. 'I'm … I'm in hospital, aren't I?'

  'That's right. Do you know your surname?'

  'Peerson.' I'm alive. 'I thought you were an angel for a second there.'

  'Feeling better are we?'

  The pretty face, blue eyes, and tied back dark hair of the young lady fussing around Roger - straightening his covers and plumping his pillows - didn't look like a nurse. No hat. Nurses wear hats, don't they? This one wore a white trouser … thing. Had a ponytail.

  'Are you a doctor?' asked Roger with a little difficulty. 'Oh. Could do with a glass of water?'

  'Nurse. Becky. Becky Ketteringham.'

  A plastic beaker of room temperature water appeared before Roger's lips. He drank eagerly, wincing at the pain as he tried to sit up. Nurse Becky held Roger forward as he drank, managing to insert another pillow behind him. 'That's better,' she said. 'Hungry?'

  Roger sat back holding his stomach. 'Actually … yes.' Despite the sharp pain in his abdomen, Roger still felt an emptiness.

  'Toast?'

  'Sounds good.'

  While Nurse Becky went off to get his toast, Roger surveyed his surroundings. His bed was in the middle of a pale green room, set at a jaunty, almost negligent angle. It didn't look like a ward but was unmistakably a room in a hospital. His was the only bed and there was too much equipment. He was surrounded by trolleys and machines on wheels. It was a large space and curtain runners suspended from the ceiling marked out positions for beds which, had they been presen
t, would have been arranged as a small, six bed ward.

  Two double doors with round, portal windows allowed for access, while Venetian blinds, covering two large windows, did little to block out the bright sunlight.

  Roger could see he was wearing a hospital gown open at the front. Small cloth ties lay undone on his chest mingling with his chest hairs. He ventured a look under his covers and saw a large padded bandage had been placed high on his stomach. Almost on his chest.

  Christ. How much damage did the bullet do?

  He then realised that a hospital towel and been folded and placed over his genitals and between his legs. The towel had obviously been pressed into place quite firmly. Why? Had he wet himself? Got an erection? Probably best not to ask.

  Nurse Becky returned with two slices of perfect, golden brown buttered toast and a cup of tea which she placed on a small table expertly rolled into place with her foot.

  The warm toast crunched between his teeth. Sweet butter swam in his mouth threatening to ooze out onto his chin.

  The tea was pale and milky and way too sweet, but today it was the best tea Roger had ever tasted.

  He finished his tea and toast quickly and wanted more but Nurse Becky had disappeared.

  He was slipping down the bed. Roger took the weight on his hands and tried to push himself back up onto the pillows but his injury complained. 'Ow. Shit!'

  'Are you alright?' Nurse Becky had been behind the bed.

  'Yes,' said Roger. 'Sorry. Just trying to get comfortable.'

  'You sit still. I'll be done in a second then we'll get you onto the ward.'

  'How … am I?'

  'Very lucky. The bullet missed all your vitals. Lot of blood lost but you are going to be fine.'

  'Great,' said Roger with little enthusiasm.

  'You're probably feeling groggy from the anaesthetic. They gave you one while they removed the bullet and stitched you up.'