Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  Becky folded her arms. A common stance among nurses. 'Roger,' she said. 'You seem to be an intelligent man. You've heard of transference, yes?'

  Roger scratched his head. 'Yes.'

  'Well?' Becky looked at Roger with 'stop being a pranny' written all over her face.

  'So you think, instead of just wanting to thank you for all you've done for me over the last five days, I have fallen in love with you and want to marry you, have six kids and live happily ever after? Is that it?'

  'Well, don't you?' Becky turned and starting strolling towards the car park. Roger caught up to her.

  'Not in the least,' he said.

  'Not even a little bit?'

  'Well, said Roger. 'Maybe a little bit.'

  They stopped walking and for two slow heartbeats Becky looked up at Roger with a smile that eclipsed everything. Then she became serious, looked over his shoulder focusing on a 'pay and display' sign.

  I'm losing her.

  Roger placed a hand over the area of his wound. 'I know you're thinking of the nicest possible way you can tell me this is all very inappropriate and I should run along so you can go home,' said Roger, 'but … ' He shook his head. 'I don't really want to go back to that empty house and you've been so kind and rather than just get you flowers or a box of chocolates and say a cold “thank you” I thought something a little more … personal? Personal is the wrong word. Something that's a bit more than just buying something. A nice meal, perhaps. A real thank you.'

  Becky looked into Roger's face. Left eye, right eye, left eye, right eye.

  'Roger,' she began, looking down at the ground.

  Roger interrupted her: 'No,' he said. 'I understand completely.' He held his stomach, hunched forward, looked pathetic, began to turn away.

  'Oh, for goodness sake,' said Becky. 'If you turn out to be some kind of mad axe murdering stalker type, I'll never hear the end of it. Mum will have a field day.' Becky turned and carried on walking further into the car park. 'Come on then,' she called over her shoulder.

  Roger, scanning the area and nearby parked cars, followed.

  *

  Becky had a small Ford Ka. She sat very close to the steering wheel and drove, as far as Roger was concerned, like a complete lunatic.

  She took them to the North of Darlington where she lived in a small black and white detached house on a modern estate.

  She was fond of cats. Two fluffy white specimens blinked at Roger when he entered the small, neat living room. He noticed that virtually everything in the room was trimmed with tassels.

  Becky tripped lightly up the stairs.

  'Back in a sec,' she called. 'Make yourself comfortable.'

  Roger lowered himself onto a be-tasselled easy-chair, and one of the cats immediately strolled over, jumped up, and sat on his lap.

  Becky was quick.

  The ponytail was gone. Her face, framed by her dark wavy hair, looked fresher, her lips plumper and she'd opted for denim. A denim shirt and denims. Matching her denim blue eyes.

  Roger looked up at her feeling a little like the James Bond villain Blofeld as he sat stroking his white cat.

  'Wow,' he said. 'You look great.'

  'Thanks.'

  'And you have a fondness for tassels, I see.'

  'Mother,' said Becky.

  'Ah,' said Roger needing no further explanation. Of course. The mother.

  'Come on,' said Becky, 'I'm starving.'

  Outside they stopped and looked at each other over the roof of the small Ford.

  'I miss the ponytail,' said Roger.

  Becky pulled something out of her pocket, pushed back her hair, did some kind of twist and snap and there it was. She grinned at Roger and disappeared into the Ford. That mysterious hand reached into his chest and gently paused his heart, leaving him feeling faintly queasy once more.

  They had pizza. And it was delicious. And they had red wine. And that was delicious. And Roger asked about Becky. Her childhood, her parents, her schools, her nursing, how many of her patients had she dated?

  'None!' said Becky scandalised. 'And this isn't a date.'

  'Of course it's a date.'

  'No it isn't,' said Becky playing with a small silver crucifix around her neck. 'A date has to be made in advance. The clue is in the name. You have to agree to meet someone on a particular date.' She put the crucifix between her lips.

  'So we're on a now,' said Roger.

  'What?' said Becky letting the crucifix fall from her mouth to hang against her shirt.

  'You agreed to go out with me as soon as I asked you. So, by your logic, we're definitely on a now.'

  'I didn't agree to go out with you. I simply agreed to accept some of your hospitality as a thank you for the wonderful way in which I nursed you back to the peak of health.' Becky took a bite of pizza.

  Roger smiled, sipped his wine and saw that Becky had perfect white teeth and perfect pink fingernails with perfect pale lunula.

  Becky dabbed her lips with a serviette. 'So,' she said, 'You don't sound as if you come from Darlington.'

  'No, I suppose not. I spent quite a while in South Africa and a few years in London,' Roger said. 'But it's all very boring. When did you decide you wanted to be a nurse?'

  'Ah,' said Becky. 'Mum's favourite story.' Becky went on to explain that on her sixth birthday she had been bought two outfits: a nurses uniform, of course, and a Wonder Woman costume. The seven year old boy next door had responded to each outfit differently. When Becky was dressed as Wonder Woman the young lad would don his Superman outfit and crash into her demonstrating his superior powers. But when she dressed as a nurse, the lad would put on his cowboy gear and lay with his head in her lap demanding succour after having been injured while fighting cattle rustlers.

  The evening passed quickly and before he realised it Roger found himself being ushered from the restaurant to stand shivering with Becky in the cold night air.

  Roger tsked then said, 'Should have ordered a taxi.'

  'Do you mind?' said Becky. 'Barton's quite far and I have an early start tomorrow.'

  'Not at all. No. I wasn't -'

  Becky interrupted him, pointing, 'Look.' A black and yellow minicab had turned out of a side street. It looked empty.

  Roger whistled through his teeth and raised his arm. Which was a mistake. Pain took Roger's breath away.

  'Shit,' he gasped, holding his stomach. 'That hurt. I think something went ping.'

  Becky put her arm across his shoulders. 'Come on,' she said. 'Let's get you to the car. I should take a look at that.' The taxi accelerated past them.

  Roger didn't argue. Let himself be led.

  'Are you okay to drive?' Roger asked as they slowly approached her Ford.

  'I'll be fine. Come on, I'm freezing.'

  'I'm really sorry about this.'

  'Think nothing of it,' said Becky, unlocking the car. 'Now mind your head.'

  The drive back to Becky's house was done at a sensible speed.

  She made Roger lie down on the be-tassled couch after shooing away one of the cats.

  'Actually, I feel a lot better,' he said as Becky opened his shirt.

  After a quick examination Becky declared Roger as 'sound as a pound'.

  Roger struggled to his feet, grunting heroically. 'Thanks,' he said. 'You've been too kind, really.'

  'No problem.'

  'I suppose I'd better get home and see what the contents of my fridge have evolved into,' Roger said, carefully avoiding any hint of enthusiasm.

  'You might as well sleep here,' said Becky resignedly, pulling Roger's shirt closed. 'Hang on.' Becky left the room and jogged up the carpeted stairs.

  Roger stood in the living room blinking back at the cats while Becky made thudding noises above them.

  Eventually, she came down with a pillow, some sheets and a duvet.

  Pushing the bundle into Roger's arms she raised herself on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

  'Good night,' she said, leaving Roger alone wit
h the cats.

  *

  Becky woke Roger the next morning. For a moment he thought he was still in hospital.

  'Wake up sleepyhead. There's coffee in a pot in the kitchen.'

  'What? Thanks.'

  'I have to go to work and besides, I'd hate to come between you and Chloe.'

  'Chloe?' Roger could feel a weight on his chest. He looked up into the face of the friendlier of the cats. 'Oh. Morning Chloe.' Chloe purred.

  'Bye,' said Becky.

  The front door clapped shut and Roger sank back to doze. Chloe's purring made everything seem safe.

  Roger dozed for an hour before tentatively raising himself to a sitting position. Chloe walked up his chest and draped herself round his neck. She kept her claws retracted as he lifted her off his shoulders and to the floor.

  His stomach was sore.

  He washed, dressed and folded up his sheets and duvet then explored the modest house on tiptoe.

  The kitchen was small and the cabinets made from reclaimed pine. A tiny dining room had a four-seater table surrounded by cardboard boxes. Used more as a storage area than for entertaining and dining.

  A steep, carpeted staircase climbed through the centre of the house.

  The front bedroom, with not a tassel in sight, had a very busy dressing table and a double bed with a cream duvet.

  The second bedroom at the rear overlooked a tidy lawn. A diamond mesh wire fence separated Becky's lawn from a school's playing fields. The room was used as an office with a computer and a wireless broadband connection to the Internet.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 23

  Meadhill got a mobile phone call. The little screen said it was 'Andy M'.

  Auntie M, he thought, unconsciously making the fearsome ridiculous.

  Most names come complete with baggage. For Meadhill, the name Andy, was no exception. For him, all Andys where tall slim, probably blonde and always pliable and accommodating.

  This Andy took that baggage, emptied it on the floor and jumped all over it.

  This Andy was an evil tempered, shaven headed, concrete plinth of a man. He was a very experienced and determined mercenary, had fought successfully all over the world and never asked why, just how much. Very useful to The KOPALDA on a number of occasions. The M did not stand for mercenary. It stood for MacDonald. Andy was called Big Mac by those he liked.

  Meadhill flipped open the phone. 'Yes?'

  'We have to meet,' said Andy.

  'Who is this?' said Meadhill. A pretence. Why let Andy think his number's important enough to be recognised?

  'We have to meet now.'

  'Andy? Is that you?'

  'One hour. At the warehouse.'

  Meadhill's mobile phone clicked in his ear. He looked at the little screen. It read, 'Terminated By Caller'.

  *

  The warehouse was really a corrugated roof on twenty-foot stilts surviving at the forgotten end of a rusting trading estate. The only windows which overlooked it belonged to machine shops and derelict engineering sheds. Their glass made opaque by grime and green slime.

  Two cars were already angled under the roof when Meadhill arrived. Seven men dressed in black stood around. There didn't appear to be anyone else in the cars.

  Meadhill stopped his car, pocketed the keys and got out.

  Seven men stiffened and approached slowly. Six stopped after a few paces and one continued. Andy M. Six feet high in his black socks and two hundred and twenty three pounds of battle-scarred meat. The muscles of his arms prevented them from hanging straight down and they bounced gently forward with each step, their bulk dragging at his heavy shoulders.

  'It's nothing personal,' said Andy, stopping six feet from Meadhill and fixing him with grey, narrowed eyes. 'We just want the money we're owed.'

  'You mean you haven't got it?' Meadhill was incredulous. 'It hasn't gone through? Is that all?'

  'Don't, Meadhill!' Andy's voice boomed around the warehouse. He was a big lad, alright. 'Don't pretend. Not to us. Tell us what's gone wrong and when we'll get our money.'

  'You have absolutely nothing to worry about.' Meadhill, a thoughtful expression on his face, turned at a slight angle. 'Perhaps … ' he began, 'Perhaps you should learn some fucking manners.' A black stiletto slipped from his sleeve into his right hand. Meadhill aimed a deadly, arching blow at Andy's neck.

  Andy avoided the blade by moving back three inches. He caught and clamped Meadhill's swinging arm with two huge hands, leaned back, and used Meadhill's own momentum to spin him around and throw him back towards the semicircle of six men standing behind him. Meadhill struggled to remain upright, realising with genuine admiration that Andy had somehow managed, by twisting his arm before he let go, to hang on to his knife.

  'Nice move,' said Meadhill.

  Andy threw the stiletto forcefully at Meadhill's right foot. The blade easily penetrated Meadhill's black leather upper and sliced through the flesh between his second and third metatarsal.

  Meadhill dropped to one knee with a gasp, grabbing at the blade. He let go immediately. Moving the blade was almost intolerable. Anger blacked his eyes further. He reaching inside his jacket but stopped short of pulling out his gun. Six silenced automatic pistols pointed at his head.

  'You're alive because you owe us money,' hissed Andy. 'You and your KOPALDA friends have twenty-four hours to move the money into every last one of our accounts.'

  The seven men climbed into the two cars. Two men always faced Meadhill. Andy rolled down his window. 'Plus twenty-four per cent interest,' he added. 'For the trouble. Tomorrow that will be forty-eight per cent interest.'

  Each car reversed out in turn and sped off down the back road leading through the industrial estate and away.

  Meadhill held his breath and took hold of the knife. One, two … Because he was alone, Meadhill allowed himself a gasping cry as he pulled the blade from his foot.

  He stood, looking down, feeling his shoe fill with blood.

  'Ruined,' he said. 'Almost brand new and fucking ruined.'

  *

  Meadhill got an email.

  He was sat on the edge of the bath admiring his bandaging skills when he heard the ping.

  If he was careful he could walk without limping.

  He sat at his laptop and double-clicked on the image of a small envelope.

  From: served.cold@anonimoose.com

  Subject: Your imminent demise

  Hello Meadhill you murdering monster. I know you are responsible for the death of my son and trust me when I tell you that this is just the beginning. You and your vile superiors are about to suffer beyond your wildest nightmares. The filth that run your precious organisation will soon wish they had never heard the name Roger Peerson and you will die with me laughing over your broken body.

  You are scum.

  Kind regards

  Roger

  The freak's alive, thought Meadhill, and that email is a minus one on the scary scale.

  Meadhill clicked on 'reply'.

  Subject: RE: Your imminent demise

  Roger,

  I'm so glad to hear you're still alive. I understand your anger but you have to believe me when I tell you I did not know the full extent of The Major's plans. In fact, when I found out about the plan to use your son as leverage and the failed kidnap attempt I got so angry that we fought and I ended up killing him.

  Christ, I can't say that in an email. Scratch that last sentence.

  I would never stoop so low as to use a child to manipulate someone. I do my job and that occasionally involves difficult decisions, granted, but it is always for the greater good and it only happens to those who deserve it.

  Please contact me and let's get together and sort out our differences so we can move on. I don't like the thought of there being bad feeling between us.

  John.

  Meadhill deleted the subject line - RE: Your imminent demise - generated by the email program and changed it to: Call me on 07571 555 555. He clicked send. Da
mn. Forgot to do a spell check. Too late.

  *

  Roger read Meadhill's email.

  Bad feeling, thought Roger. I'll show him bad feeling.

  Chapter 24

  Meadhill got another phone call.

  The little screen read 'Andy M'.

  Auntie M!

  Meadhill looked at his watch. It had only been four hours for Christ's sake.

  Meadhill flipped open the phone. 'It's only been four hours for Christ's sake.'

  'We've been paid,' said Andy.

  'I … ' Meadhill was at a loss.

  'We now have two new commissions.'

  'I'm really thrilled for you. What does it have to do with me?'

  'The first is from your masters in The KOPALDA.'

  'Oh, yes.' The bastards had gone around him. Just because he killed the fat Major?

  'You have forty-eight hours to find Peerson and make him reverse the bank transactions.'

  'I'm on top of that one,' said Meadhill. 'Peerson will be sorted. Though, quite why I have to report to you is beyond me.'

  'Please,' hissed Andy. 'Please, fuck up with Peerson.'

  'You'd like that wouldn't you, son.'

  'And secondly,' Andy paused.

  For effect? More than likely he was looking it up, the thick shit.

  'Secondly, AZA On-line Gaming. A very nice man says you owe him a large amount of money, Meadhill.'

  'A nice man?' Meadhill snorted. 'He's … deranged.'

  'Anyone who gives me two commissions in one visit is a nice man in my books.'

  The line crackled its silence as Meadhill took this in.

  'You have the same forty-eight hours, Meadhill. Then we're coming to get you.'

  'I'll look forward to it.' Meadhill snapped shut his mobile phone and threw it onto the table next to his laptop.

  'Fuckwit!'

  Meadhill limped to the bathroom. Looked closely at himself in the mirror. Smiled to show his gold tooth.

  'Peerson,' he said to his image. 'You're dead.'

  Chapter 25

  Roger realised his eyes were sore. Becky could do with a new monitor. He'd been staring unseeing at the files in his Yahoo briefcase, an area of computer storage accessible from anywhere on the Internet. Roger's secret depository.