by Gary Baker
The software Trojans were doing their job causing chaos with The KOPALDA's finances and Roger had thought he would feel better after sending those anonymous emails to Meadhill and the Major. But he didn't. He felt hollow.
Meadhill's reply sickened him.
A failed kidnap attempt. If Harry had lived he could have been a kidnap victim?
Roger's nausea came from frustrated anger.
But what could he really do, other than inflict financial chaos on them? The reality of it was that there was no way Roger could inflict any physical harm on anyone. It was just not in him and besides, they were professionals. They'd beat the crap out of him as soon as look at him. And after their bank accounts had been demolished they would undoubtedly have murder on their minds.
The telephone rang.
Should he answer it?
People who knew Becky would know she was at work and so would not call. So it was probably Becky.
Roger lifted the receiver. 'Hello?'
'So you're still there.' It was Becky.
'Yes. I'm using your computer. I hope you don't mind. I was just checking my email and stuff.'
'No problem. Will you still be there when I get home?'
'I … ' Chloe purred on his lap. 'Chloe won't let me get up.'
'Good. There's some of mum's spag bol in the freezer. We can have that. Bye.' The line went dead. Roger replaced the receiver.
'Looks like I'm staying for dinner,' said Roger scratching Chloe behind the ears. She narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin and purred loudly.
Meadhill and The KOPALDA could wait. Roger felt tired. Nevertheless, he would make himself useful. When Becky returned Roger would be exhausted from … he'd think of something. Something thoughtful, the carrying out of which would put in jeopardy, or at least have the potential to set back, his recovery. He could get the Hoover out, plug it in and place it in the middle of the floor and then sit down and, as Becky entered, he could be bravely trying to get to his feet, fighting through the pain, determined to do his bit and Hoover the carpet.
That would do it. Roger shut down the computer. Now what. What would stop me thinking? TV.
*
Roger woke to a loud clattering and an exclamation from the kitchen, 'Shit!'
His neck was sore and a fog was slow to lift from his mind. The television was off. He'd been watching the news. Another hurricane had devastated parts of Florida. It had occurred to Roger that a tiny, inexpensive pressure and temperature sensor could be incorporated in every mobile phone. During each communication with a base station, the data could be stored for later analysis. The last thing Roger remembered thinking was: what a stupid idea. Then he must have fallen asleep.
That was Becky's voice cursing in the kitchen. So much for the deception designed to elicit sympathy. She'd returned home from a hard day's nursing to find him snoring in front of the telly.
Roger knew that if Harry had been there to hug him he would have complained about his dad's bad breath.
'You alright?' called Roger getting slowly to his feet.
'Just dropped a spoon.'
Becky was stirring the contents of a couple of steaming pots sat on the gas hob. She had changed into jeans and a black T-shirt. Her bottom waggled as she energetically stirred the contents of one of the pots. Roger leaned against the kitchen doorframe watching her. She looked small. Her flip-flops let Roger see the remains of a light tan gently staining her feet and ankles. Contrasting attractively with the white areas between her toes and under the curve of her heel. No veins. Nice feet.
'Sorry I woke you.'
'No problem,' said Roger. 'I must have dozed off,' he added unnecessarily.
'To be expected,' said Becky, turning and holding a wooden spoon heaped with a small sample of steaming sauce. 'Hope you like chillies,' she said taking a taste and cupping her other hand under the spoon's bowl to catch any drips.
'Love them.'
The conversation continued awkwardly. Staccato.
The spaghetti bolognaise was served with an 'impertinent Merlot'.
Becky asked, 'How can a wine be impertinent?'
Roger took a deep breath. 'This Merlot,' he held the glass level with his eyes, 'takes scant regard for any other sensations caressing my taste buds. It crashes through, assaulting my mouth left, right and centre, caring little for the careful constructions, the jigsaws, the dodecahedrons of supporting flavours I've carefully composed in order to extract the maximum amount of enjoyment from your mother's creation.'
Becky summarised. 'It's okay, then.'
'Yes,' said Roger.
It wasn't very witty. It wasn't very funny. But it was enough. It signalled willingness. Willingness to recognise that there was 'something' there. They liked each other.
They drank and flirted and eventually, leaning hesitantly forward, kissed.
Roger's first serious kiss since his wife, Jennifer, had died.
Ten years. Ten dry years. What about Heather, the stocking-top girl? Oh, yes. But that was different. This was … normal.
Everything felt new and in atomic detail. Jennifer's waist was narrow and firm. The base of her back was exquisitely curved and her spine well-muscled. Soft lips, hot wet tongue, the zinc edge to her saliva which signalled her sexual arousal, all so new and alien and exciting!
'And guess what,' said Becky surfacing from a long kiss.
'What?' Roger realised that 'What?' was the only thought in his head. No comments from Rogers B and C. Nothing. They were silent. Roger frowned … wondering.
'It's not serious,' said Becky, tapping Roger lightly on his nose. 'It's my day off tomorrow.'
What was she implying? That she could have a lie in? Stay up late and …
'And I can't believe I'm doing this,' said Becky. 'I must be drunk.' She kissed Roger once more and held out her hand for him to follow. Which he did. Awkwardly. Up the narrow stairs.
Injury forgotten: Roger threw off his clothes; undressed Becky, giggling, on the bed; lowered himself carefully onto her. Kissing. Nibbling. Caressing. Sliding into her while she gasped gently against his neck, holding him tight. It felt so right. He felt so big in her, in control. Becky moaned and urged at his buttocks with her heels. This was not like Jennifer. Different. But still right.
*
Roger lay on his back, hands behind his head, not focusing on the ceiling. Becky breathed gently and rhythmically beside him.
Things were going well. Becky and her little black and white house would be very useful. He could avoid going home and possibly bumping into Julia or the KOPALDA nut-cases indefinitely. The plan was working. Is it really a plan or just series of events pointing at a preferred outcome? Anyway, she hadn't a clue … But Becky is really nice. I mean really. She's cute and sexy and sane and easy going and down to earth and funny and … did I say sexy?
Roger turned to look at the curve of Becky's cheek and the long, dark eyelashes that rested on them. Something reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.
*
By the evening of the following day, Becky's day off, they had made love five more times and between them consumed three, four-cheese pizzas with extra chillies and six bottles of Stella. Becky had at last repaired to the bathroom and Roger, wrapped in the smelly duvet, had signed onto the computer and called up his Yahoo account to check his email.
Shortly afterwards, hearing Becky exit the bathroom, Roger rushed in to use the loo.
*
Becky, enveloped in an oversized white towel dressing gown, with thoughts of checking her own hotmail account, sat in front of Roger's home page. Right there in front of her was the name John Meadhill. This was a new name to her but one that as associated with Roger. A friend of Roger's? A work mate?
The link with John Meadhill's name was to an email whose subject was Call me on 07571 555 555. Easy to remember number, thought Becky.
And she was right because she remembered it later.
Becky's thoughts turned back to her email so she closed
Roger's home page and logged onto her Hotmail account.
*
That night, Roger did not sleep well. His tossing and turning kept Becky awake. At one point Roger sat bolt upright shouting for Harry.
Becky knew that Harry was Roger's son who'd been killed in a car accident. But Becky still worried about Roger. Wondered about his past and any family or friends that would be worried about him too. Wondered who Roger really was. Deep down.
She had jumped in with both feet. A patient she hardly knew. A mistake? Perhaps. But he was very kind, gentle and seemed genuine. Though obviously injured, wounded by more than a mugger.
The next day, during Becky's lunch break, the telephone number came back to her. John somebody. A friend? Certainly sounded like it. Maybe he could tell her a little more about Roger and his family. Maybe pass on that Roger was well.
Becky went to the pay phones next to the small shop in outpatients and dialled the number. Two rings. Becky felt uncertain. This was a strange thing to do. Four rings. No there's no one there. Silly idea anyway. She should hang up.
'What!' said a gruff male voice.
'Hello.' Becky felt strangely nervous. 'I'm sorry to bother you is that John? Roger Peerson's friend?'
Silence. And after what seemed an age to Becky the voice came back saying, 'Who is this?'
Becky took a deep breath and spoke quickly. 'Hi. My name's Becky Ketteringham. I'm Roger's … well friend I suppose, and I saw your number on one of Roger's emails and I was just wondering … ' What was she wondering?
'How is the old sod?'
'He's well. Physically he's well. But I'm a little worried about his … happiness, I suppose.'
'Why what's wrong? Has he gone downhill again?'
'I don't know about “again”,' said Becky, 'but he certainly avoids talking about the past and isn't - doesn't seem to be sleeping well. I was just wondering if you were, or knew of any, family. I imagine they'd be worried. I'm fairly certain he hasn't been in touch with anyone for quite a while now.'
'Yes, I'm glad you called,' said John. 'Where are you?'
'I'm in the hospital.'
'Roger's in hospital? Which hospital?'
'No, I'm a nurse, I work here. Roger's back at home.'
'Back at your home?'
'Yes.'
Becky waited feeling slightly foolish.
Eventually John said, 'I'm sorry, I was just thinking. You haven't told Roger you called me have you?'
'No.'
'Probably for the best right now. I tell you what … '
Another pause. Becky broke the silence. 'Yes?'
'How about you and I get together, have a chat and so on and maybe see what we can come up with. What do you think?'
'Umm. Well … '
'Where exactly are you?'
Becky felt slightly uneasy but not to tell would seem rude. 'Darlington Memorial Hospital.'
'No problem. What time do you get off?'
'Six.'
'Good I'll meet you outside. Tell you what. I'll even wear a red carnation. How's that?'
It was one of Roger's friends, and she had initiated the call, so it was bound to be alright. 'Okay,' said Becky.
'Six then?'
'Okay. Bye.' Becky replaced the receiver. She should have found out more about this John character. Still, he sounded genuine enough and he didn't know what she looked like so if he looked dodgy … anyway, she would find out at six.
*
Meadhill flipped shut his mobile phone. So the little shit was still alive. And back in his home town.
Within thirty minutes Meadhill was behind the wheel of a fully fuelled black Mercedes humming north along the M1. He looked at a red carnation on the seat beside him and up to the clock on the dashboard. It blinked 13:45 at him. It's about two hundred and fifty miles to Darlington if memory serves. At seventy miles an hour that's about three and something hours. Let's say four. That'll make it seventeen forty-five by the time I get there. Assuming no delays. Too close. Better up the average speed.
Meadhill set the cruise control to eighty-five and settled back.
Okay, we have four hours. Need a plan. Need to get Peerson to come to me. Otherwise he'll get spooked. Need to control the situation.
He caught sight of his own eye in the rear view mirror and moved his head to the left so he could see more of his face. Grey, almost white hair, dark eyebrows, and almost black eyes narrowed to reflect his grim determination. Good looking bloke. Those few wrinkles and the grey hair really look pretty damn good, if I say so myself.
*
Four hours after showing himself his gold tooth in the rear view mirror of the black Mercedes, Meadhill pushed a pound coin into the pay and display machine of Darlington Memorial Hospital's car park.
He placed the ticket on the dashboard, took the red carnation from the passenger seat, locked the car and went to wait outside the outpatient's entrance. He could see his tall athletic figure in the tinted glass of the automatic doors. The red carnation stood out like a gunshot wound against his all black attire. Stylish, thought Meadhill. White hair suits me.
He did not have to stand and endure the stupid, dirty hoi polloi who lurched in and out of this temple to diseases and all that was contagious for very long.
Why was it always the same people in hospitals? Why did they all dress in filthy grey clothes, have wispy, greasy hair and most of the old biddies had moustaches a Greek taxi driver would be proud of. They were all so grubby and … ill looking. Who in their right mind would want to work in such a place filled with air breathed by these barely human bags of garbage?
And suddenly a short, pretty hospital worker in stained white coveralls was waving and jogging towards him.
'John?' she called, obviously unconscious of the way her breasts moved under her uniform.
Meadhill replaced the curled lip of contempt with a bright smile.
'Becky? Hello. Was just thinking how … rewarding it must be to work in a place such as this.'
'Really?'
Had she picked up his insincerity? No. He was too good.
She was short. Short was sexy.
'I noticed a pub on the way in,' said Meadhill. 'The Otter and Fish. Perhaps we could have a … chat there?'
'Sounds good,' said Becky.
They agreed to take both cars and meet in the bar.
In his car, Meadhill set the alarm function on his mobile phone for ten minutes time.
*
Meadhill had a Bell's whisky with ice and Becky accepted a diet coke.
'There you go,' said Meadhill, placing her coke in front of her and sitting down. He noticed Becky had small hands lightly stained with the remains of a tan. He watched as she gripped the straight sided tumbler and raised it halfway to her lips.
'Thanks, John,' said Becky. 'I meant to ask, how do you know Roger?'
Meadhill had used his four hours of driving time to prepare himself. But it did depend on what Peerson had told sexy little nursey.
'We first met in the support group, shortly after Roger's first … breakdown,' said Meadhill, nonchalantly taking a sip from his whisky. 'That must have been, let me see, about eight years ago. Though I'm not much good with dates.'
'Oh.'
'You sound disappointed,' said Meadhill.
'No, no. Not at all. I was just hoping you would be related in some way.' Becky's lips where moist from the diet coke and Meadhill could just make out the tips of her perfect white teeth as she spoke.
'No, not related,' he said. 'Though we did become good friends. I kind of … stuck by him during some of his worse times.'
'You mentioned a breakdown?'
'Yes, after his wife died - Jennifer I think her name was, yes, Jennifer - he felt responsible. And then when Harry was killed in a similar way … ' Meadhill took another sip. Tried to gauge the little nurse's reactions. 'You know it's Roger's birthday in a few days – though he'll probably deny it.'
'Is it?'
'Yes.' Meadhill si
pped his whisky. 'You haven't … mentioned me have you?'
'No.'
'Oh, good. In that case I was thinking about a surprise birthday party. It really did the trick last time.' Meadhill chuckled, ostensibly to himself.
'Oh, really?' said Becky. 'That might be a bit … '
'Overwhelming? I know what you mean, but Roger's just a lad at heart – aren't we all – and it really brought him out of himself last time. Really did the trick.'
Becky looked uncertain.
Meadhill continued, 'I'd organise everything of course. Surround him with friends, loved ones.'
'Well … '
'You'd have to keep schtum, of course. Mum's the word, as they say.'
'Yes.'
'Good. I can't wait to see the look on the old sod's face.' Meadhill relaxed. He was in control. The sexy little nurse was walking on eggshells and didn't want to put a foot wrong. She didn't want to delve too deep, just yet, into what was obviously a very sensitive past.
'Roger has a lot of friends in the area,' said Meadhill, 'and I was thinking about a venue.'
Becky took a breath. 'Do you really think a party is the best thing for Roger right now?'
'Without a doubt,' he said, dismissing Becky's question with a wave. 'I was thinking,' Meadhill took another sip of his whisky, 'Roger loves planes and flying, as you probably know … '
Becky took a sip of her diet coke, said nothing.
Those small, pretty hands gripped the straight, shaft of the glass tumbler like - Meadhill dragged his mind back to the conversation. '… so I'll arrange a band, drinks, buffet, the lot, at the Teesside Flight Club's hangar out at the airport. The guys there all know me.'
Becky's eye's widened.
Meadhill responded quickly to her look of alarm. 'And,' he said, oozing enthusiasm, leaning forward and placing a hand on Becky's sleeve, making sure to avoid touching her skin. 'I can get a special deal on a test flight in one of their Learjet 23s. Roger will love it! So after he's had … a little play in the jet, you can go for a spin too of course, we can have a few drinks, bite to eat, bit of a party. What do you say? It'll be great. You'll meet the crowd.'
Becky took another sip of diet coke. Taking it in.
Her eyes defocused, lips slightly parted, white teeth just in view.