Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  'All you have to do.' Meadhill's stress of 'you' made Becky focus on his face. 'All you have to do is get Roger to Teesside airport, the Flight Club - it's signposted at the airport - by say, seven thirty tomorrow night. Gives me, well my secretary, all day to get things organised.'

  In Meadhill's pocket, the alarm function on his phone kicked the device into an insistent beeping. He pulled out the mobile, silenced it with his thumb and looked at the screen with some distress.

  'Damn,' he said, thinking his timing of the alarm had turned out to be pretty near perfect. 'I'm going to have to dash. Looks like a problem at work.' Meadhill stood and before Becky could ask anything further said, 'Nice to meet you Becky. Call me if there are any … problems, otherwise I'll see you tomorrow night. Good luck keeping it a secret, too.' He gave Becky a conspiratorial wink. She smiled weakly and held her glass with both hands.

  'Okay,' she managed. 'Bye.'

  Meadhill waved and left Becky all the while pretending to prod at his mobile phone anxiously. Feebleminded, sexy little nursey should deliver Mister Roger fucking Peerson right to me. Tonight would have been better but don't want to push the little dear too hard. Quite a delicious little mouth on her though. Might have a use for that after I've dealt with his nibs.

  Chapter 26

  Meadhill needed a hotel. He'd driven past a sign on the way into Darlington. The sign stood at a gap in an eight feet high sandstone wall. It was an entrance hung with two, wide open, wrought iron gates large enough for two cars to pass through. He'd glimpsed manicured lawns, a golf course perhaps, and a winding driveway leading to a building that looked like it might once have been an aristocrat's home. A stately home made from the same beige sandstone as the eight feet barrier circling its grounds.

  This turned out to be the Moat Corner Hotel and yes, they had rooms available.

  Would sir be eating in the dining room that evening? Dinner will be served from seven thirty until nine o'clock.

  'No. I'll be eating out.'

  'Very good, sir.' The grey suited receptionist snapped her small, almost childlike fingers, gesturing to a lanky youth dressed like an undertaker with no jacket.

  Meadhill waved him away from his bag, not taking his eyes off the receptionist's hands as she took down his room key from the hook. He touched her pale, slender fingers as she handed it to him. She had said the room number but her words had not penetrated his thoughts while he replayed the cool interaction between his skin and hers.

  It didn't matter, the number was stamped on the key ring and the lanky youth waited, poised to show Meadhill the way.

  Every inch of floor was covered with pale green carpet. Stairs where shallow and creaky. Walls were covered with all manner of pictures. None of them originals.

  In his room, Meadhill tossed the lanky youth a pound coin then shut the door with his foot.

  He hung up his black clothes, thought about closing the curtains, left them open and stripped to shower pausing to admire himself in the full length mirror. Once lathered up, Meadhill thought about masturbating but decided to save himself for later.

  'Tomorrow will be a good day,' he said out loud. 'Tonight we play.'

  The pale receptionist with the small hands organised a taxi.

  'Where do you recommend I go,' Meadhill asked the taxi driver, 'to have a … really good time?'

  'You'd have to stay away from my house, that's for sure,' said the driver. 'What you after?'

  'Good food, good drink, good company,' said Meadhill, after a moment's thought. The phrase triggered a memory in Meadhill. He had been a youth. Eighteen. There had been him and five of his friends. They were on shore leave in Cape Town walking along Long Street, one of the main streets running through the town centre. It was about nine at night. The chatty group had come upon a young coloured girl. In those days the South Africans referred to mix race people in the Cape as coloureds. In England, at the time, the term was half-caste.

  So it goes.

  The pretty young girl was nattily dressed and sported an Afro haircut, considered the height of fashion at that time.

  'Hello Bubbles,' said Meadhill, demonstrating his bravado for the other's benefit more than for the young lady. It turned out she was no shrinking violet and was probably high on marijuana and booze and, more than likely, a prostitute. She chatted easily with the group. One of the lads was not with the crew but was staying in the YMCA close by. Someone suggested she should let them smuggle her into the YMCA and into the lad's room where there was a hidden stash of Castle Lager. She was game and Meadhill's next memory was of being stuffed into a tiny room with five other young men with the effervescent Bubbles holding court on the narrow single bed.

  Several bottles of Castle Lager later and they were discussing who, if she had the choice, would she have sex with. She looked round and pointed at Meadhill.

  Flattered and repulsed he said, 'You should be so lucky, Bubbles.' She laughed and took her top off. Extraordinarily, and the cause of much hilarity among the group, Bubbles had two round, red, fifty-per-cent-off stickers, covering her nipples. Meadhill couldn't resist them. And saying, 'This is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me,' ripped off one of the stickers. Bubbles laughed uproariously. Meadhill laughed and looked round the group. One of the lad's faces caught his attention.

  He was blonde, blue eyed and probably the shortest in the group. He was well spoken and seemed quite bright. His name was Peter or Paul – something beginning with P - Meadhill could not recall. But the look on his face silenced Meadhill's laughs like a needle being dragged across a record.

  The lad's pale blue eyes were transfixed by the sight of Bubbles naked breast. His teeth were bared into a humourless, animal grin. His back was bent forward and his shoulders hunched. The look of barely controlled lust on the lad's face offended Meadhill to his very core. To show such weakness, to allow this display of raw, naked, wanting, to such an extent as to allow others to see your thoughts in all their crudeness and vile intimacy was just unbearable. Animals displayed like this. Not men.

  Meadhill left in disgust pretending he needed the toilet. He found out later that Bubbles had been bedded by one of the others. Not Peter or Paul or whatever his name was. The 'lucky' lad, who Meadhill could barely remember, had used the phrase, 'Good drink, good shag, good night,' when relaying the story the next day.

  The taxi driver's words brought Meadhill back from his reverie.

  'Say no more,' he said manoeuvring his black and yellow Toyota Corolla Taxi along the dark, winding hotel drive. The headlights picked out rough hewn boulders laid at intervals of twenty or so feet along the drive which Meadhill had not noticed when he'd arrived.

  Must stay sharp!

  When they reached the main road, the taxi turned left towards the lights of Darlington. They passed groups of young people heading out for the night. Eschewing coats or jackets, girls folded their arms and young men thrust their hands deep into their pockets as defence against the cold night breezes.

  The taxi eventually pulled up outside a warmly lit restaurant. The window frames were British Racing Green and a sign, painted in gold, on the window proudly announced 'Verde Bros Sardinian Restaurant'.

  'You can get a decent value meal in there,' said the driver pointing to the restaurant, 'and when you're done you can cross over the road to this place here.' The driver motioned to a purple brick building with a double glass door and neon signs showing cocktail glasses being filled up from a Champagne bottle.

  'Thanks,' said Meadhill. The meter said three pounds twenty-five. He motioned to the neon signed with a twenty pound note. 'What time does it close?'

  'Two,' said the driver looking at the twenty pound note in his rear view mirror.

  Meadhill placed the note on the driver's shoulder. 'I'll see you here at two then.' And, slowly reading the license on the dashboard continued, 'Trent, Robert, Three, seven, seven, nine.'

  Meadhill didn't wait for confirmation, he left the car and headed for the r
estaurant.

  Inside, a short, dark, acne scarred man with a smile fixed by habit showed Meadhill to a small table at the rear. Meadhill ignored him opting for a large table set for four in the window.

  'I'll have a Bell's with ice,' said Meadhill sitting down and, not waiting for a menu, added, 'And a rare, peppered, fillet steak. Throw on some vegetables as well.'

  'Of course, sir.' The restaurateur cleared away the three extraneous place settings and, before getting the whisky, went into the kitchen and passed on the order verbally to his brother, the chef, adding, 'Assicurisi che è perfetto.' Make sure it's perfect.

  Gavino Verde need not have worried about this intimidating stranger. He was right to surmise that the man in black sitting in his window was not a man to be messed with. But what he did not know was that Meadhill did not care what his food tasted like. As long as it was a half decent steak and the vegetables were not rotten it was food. And food was not to be relished. It was a necessity. Eating was a duty performed in the cause of good health, strong teeth and energy.

  There were many more things in life to be relished, and it was some of these things that went through Meadhill's mind as he methodically chewed on his steak.

  The stupid, sexy nursey had played straight into his hands. Peerson would be coming to him the next night. It would be no problem to persuade the freak to put his software bunnies into reverse and have them return the money. He would enjoy convincing Peerson that it would be far, far better to cooperate with him than resist. That would be fun.

  And when that little job was done he could give himself a little reward. The nurse. It would be easy to hold her down with one hand. Judging by the way her mouth parted when she talked she'd probably enjoy it anyway. She'd be screaming for him in no time. The little tart would be too pleased to die with him inside her. Convulsing and squeezing and jerking her little life away.

  '- sir?'

  Meadhill looked up at Gavino's pockmarked face.

  'What?'

  'Anything else, sir? A coffee perhaps?'

  'Yes. Coffee. Black.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Meadhill looked through the window across the street to the nightclub entrance. From this angle Meadhill could see the sign above the shiny black double doors read, 'Le piège de souris'.

  Meadhill translated: The trap of mouse. The mousetrap? A trifle pretentious for Darlington, don't you think?

  People were starting to queue to get in. They looked very young. He would be a man among boys.

  *

  In the context of a nightclub, Meadhill is attracted by, and attractive to, a very easily identifiable female type. The type is defined almost completely by the way the girl looks: old enough to get into the establishment, appears younger than twenty-five, plenty of tanned flesh on display, blonde or brunette, red lips, white teeth, good figure, not ugly. Add an unmistakable attitude of availability and the picture is complete.

  Two young ladies standing at the bar inside the club glanced at each other as Meadhill walked tall into view. The blonde wore a short black sleeveless dress. The brunette wore a similar silver number. Both garments clung like paint. Lips were red; limbs were tanned and bangled; and hair was big.

  Mirroring each other's movements like a pair of sleek dolphins, they picked up their Pina Coladas, looked into each other's eyes, pursed their red lips around their respective straws and sucked, all the while gently tapping a heel in time to the thudding music piped from the dance floor in the adjoining space.

  Meadhill stopped briefly when he saw them. Stood legs apart pulling gently at his lapels and smiled. The gold from his tooth shining a beam to herald his arrival.

  He approached, arms outstretched, encompassing and inviting them both to share in him, to partake of his irresistible manliness.

  Boys dressed as men stood back and ducked their heads with respect for this real male, this fearless conqueror entering that dread region of dry mouths, fumbling words and humbling blushes to harvest the treasures they could only lay back in their sticky beds and dream of.

  The communication between Meadhill and the girls was communication at its purest level. All parties knew each other, recognised the spirit within and allowed themselves to be dissolved into the solution of three.

  Meadhill smiled and complimented the girls, letting them see his fat wallet while he paid for the house's best bottle of Champagne. In returned they turned up their chins and laughed at his quips, brushed their firm breasts, hips and thighs against him, tossed their hair and exchanged unveiled knowing glances with each other from under over-manicured eyebrows.

  They were his and he was theirs to the exclusion of all others.

  When people know the desires of others and don't disguise their own needs, it seemed - to the boy-men and others outside pretending not to watch the triangle - that life could be a whole lot simpler, and a whole lot sweeter.

  And they danced and drank and sang until some blind hand brushed their wings … a face on the other side of the dance floor. Andy M? The contractor! Dear God! I'm full of alcohol! Unprepared!

  No, it was just some local. Not even a close resemblance, now I look properly. Besides, I have plenty of time.

  Though I am tired. Ready for some sex. Time to go.

  The taxi was waiting outside. The driver shooed away others drunkenly demanding to be taken home and held the door open as Meadhill and his two new friends collapsed giggling into the back seat.

  *

  Andy M was waiting for Meadhill in his hotel room. He had made himself comfortable in a soft armchair, facing the door, his back to the window. He sipped the whisky he had poured himself from the mini-bar and listened as Meadhill struggled to make the unfamiliar key unlock the reluctant door. Rattling key, shuddering door, soft masculine curses, girlish giggles.

  Andy M grew impatient. Was this clown the same person he'd heard so much about? The great and dangerous John Meadhill, spoken of with such awe? He'd taken him in the warehouse. The roundhouse stab and been slow and telegraphed. He'd take him again. Now.

  Andy M's muscles propelled his bulk from the chair and across the room to the door with the grace and speed of a black leopard. He grabbed the polished brass handle and pulled open the door standing slightly to one side in case Meadhill got taken by surprise and was dragged into the room.

  Meadhill's .45 automatic pointed unwaveringly at Andy M's left eye from eighteen inches away.

  Andy M noticed two things: the very tip of the barrel was slightly fuzzy, he had the urge to lean back slightly to bring it into focus; Meadhill's finger on the trigger was not out of focus and he could see quite clearly that the flesh was white as the pressure Meadhill exerted pushed the blood away from the skin's surface.

  Andy M then came to two conclusions: he needed new contact lenses; Meadhill was not a clown and Andy would probably die if he tried to grab his arm.

  Silently, Meadhill backed him into the room until Andy M's calf muscles came into contact with the chair he had recently vacated.

  Andy M stopped moving backwards.

  'Sit,' said Meadhill.

  Andy M sat down slowly, relaxed and picked up the whisky glass he'd left on the side table by the chair and casually took a sip.

  The girls had vanished.

  With the gun continuing to point unwaveringly at Andy M's left eye, Meadhill walked backwards until he reached the hotel room door. He kicked it shut.

  'You frightened away my … friends,' said Meadhill.

  'Think you could have managed two, do you?' Andy M replaced the whisky glass on the table adding, 'At your age, Sergeant?'

  'Explain to me why I shouldn't kill you.' Meadhill sucked excess saliva through his teeth.

  *

  Andy M said, 'My orders are to find out how close your are to resolving the Peerson problem.'

  Meadhill believed him. Believed that was the only reason he was there. The subtext, which he thought Andy M would be oblivious to, was to apply pressure. If he'd been intent o
n killing him there had been plenty of opportunities from the time he entered the hotel. He tucked his gun back under his arm.

  'I have a … meeting set up with Peerson tomorrow night,' said Meadhill.

  'What makes you think he'll turn up?'

  'Oh, he'll turn up alright. Don't you worry about that. He knows I can … bring pressure to bear on his girlfriend. He won't risk that.'

  'Where are you meeting him?'

  Meadhill narrowed his eyes at Andy M. The man's tone was getting irritating. There was no respect in his voice. Or his eyes. Maybe he should just take the fuckwit out right now. But if he did the consequences could be even more irritating. The KOPALDA would simply unleash a whole pack of Andy M's on him. End of story. 'Teesside airport,' he said. 'Don't get any ideas.'

  Andy M stood, buttoned his black jacket. 'I just do what I'm paid to do,' he said, walking past Meadhill and out of the hotel room.

  Chapter 27

  Roger had managed to coax Becky's washing machine and drier into cleaning his clothes. Her iron was awkward to use but he seemed to get better results than with his own. Was somebody else's iron always better? Like greener grass.

  It was just about time for Becky to be arriving home from work and Roger had the delivered pizzas keeping warm in the oven.

  Altogether a successful day.

  When Becky eventually arrived Roger had to hold himself in check as his instincts were to behave like an excited puppy, hopping about, pawing at her and demanding attention and encouragement. Look what I've done. Aren't I clever, aren't I? Aren't I?

  He felt a little embarrassed at the tone of his own voice when he shared his successful washing experience and pizza ordering with Becky. But Becky, God love her, though distracted, probably tired, didn't stoop to patronising him. Her day at the hospital had undoubtedly involved numerous life and death decisions, after all.

  Becky changed into her jeans and T-shirt, went back down stairs and hugged Roger, putting the side of her face against his chest.