Wicked Leaks

by Matt Bendoris

  Monahan played the part of the invalid perfectly, lifting and slinging his apparently useless legs out of the passenger side of the car after Kelly had retrieved the wheelchair from the boot. As she leaned in to help lift him, she whispered, ‘What a performance. You should get an Oscar.’

  They both giggled, relieving the tension of the moment. Their relaxed demeanour also gave the impression they had nothing to hide.

  ‘Let’s get a coffee and something for you to eat. You must be starving,’ Monahan said. He was right, but Kelly hadn’t even contemplated food up to this point. Now the mere thought made her very hungry.

  ‘Remember cash only – no cards,’ he warned as they took refuge in a sandwich bar and Kelly made her way to the till. Whilst the waitress was preparing her order, Kelly was suddenly struck by a feeling of guilt about her children. She hadn’t given them a second’s thought until now and she felt awful.

  She returned to the table with the food and drinks.

  ‘What’s up, Kelly?’

  ‘I need to speak to my kids.’

  ‘Not a problem. You can call them after you’ve made another call for me first. But like everything, this will require a little subterfuge,’ Monahan smiled.

  61: Fat bastard

  April had grabbed herself a chocolate éclair and a large caramel latte from the hospital’s ‘restaurant’. She thought the title was a little grand for the food they served. However, she appreciated that the hospital’s caterers still had plenty of stodge on offer and not everything had been replaced with health food. She definitely liked the look of the pie, beans and chips and would have ordered them had she not already eaten, not that that had ever stopped her before. Instead she settled for the takeaway treats, then waddled her way in the direction of the psychiatric ward.

  April had decided to get on with some old-fashioned legwork. Unfortunately, her short legs didn’t like to work too often and she was feeling the strain as she walked the seemingly endless maze of corridors. ‘This place is a labyrinth,’ she said to a nurse walking briskly past.

  The nurse gave a meek smile and stopped. ‘Where are you going to?’

  ‘The psychiatric ward. It’s to see a friend, but I actually don’t even know she’s there. Thought I’d pop in to check,’ April said, telling a half-truth.

  ‘It’s not much further. Just to the end of this corridor and turn left. You’ll see the ward entrance just on from there,’ the nurse replied, before walking off.

  ‘Thank you,’ April shouted at her back. ‘This place must keep you fit. Any further and I’ll need to call an ambulance,’ she added, which earned her a backward glance and smile from the nurse.

  April followed the instructions and finally found the entrance to Ward 29. There was an intercom system, but the door was open for visiting time. She walked down a corridor lined with private rooms on each side. Each had an occupant. She saw one woman walking around the perimeter of her room in what must have been a well-worn route. In another, a man remonstrated mildly with the ceiling. None of the patients made eye contact as they were too busy in their own little worlds. April also noticed all the door handles were no more than grips – so nothing could be attached to them, like a cord or a rope – to prevent these poor lost souls from harming themselves.

  April wondered why there was still such a stigma attached to mental health when a recent report revealed around a quarter of the entire country would experience some sort of psychiatric issue over the course of a year. One of the most common conditions was depression. April had been through that more than once in her life. A friend once asked how she could possibly be depressed when she was always so cheery. But that’s the real problem with mental health, you can’t see what’s really going on inside.

  April made her way along the corridor. She was hoping a kind member of staff might give her a description of who Kelly Carter had left with. It was a long shot, but worth a try. As she approached the nurses’ station she saw what could be unkindly described as a blob sitting behind the wooden counter. His badge said his name was Nurse Drury and his uniform was so dirty that he’d either had a hard shift or, more worryingly, had arrived for work in that state. He too was eating a chocolate éclair, even though he needed to lose a lot more weight than April Lavender.

  ‘Snap,’ April said, brandishing her own pastry, which was still in its paper bag.

  Her friendliness wasn’t reciprocated. ‘Can ah help you?’ Nurse Jim Drury replied, his forehead and cheek still sporting angry grazes from where he had tumbled down the motorway embankment, having escaped the car inferno on the M74 the day before.

  ‘I hope so. I am trying to find a friend.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Oh, April Lavender.’

  ‘Nah, we’ve no patients by that name.’

  ‘Oh, silly me. That’s my name. My friend is called Kelly Carter.’

  ‘We’ve no patients by that name,’ Nurse Drury repeated in a bored and robotic fashion.

  ‘Here’s the thing. I know she was in here because her lawyer, Fiona McDade, told me.’

  ‘And I’m telling ye, we’ve no patients by that name.’

  ‘But I’m told she was in here under a different name. Kirsty Adams. All I’m wondering is if you had a woman in her late thirties, thin, pretty, with longish, brunette hair, who was admitted then discharged over the last few days.’

  ‘Even if we had, unless you’re a relative, I wouldnae gee you that information anyway. Got it? Now if that’s all, ahm busy.’

  April stared back at the ‘busy’ nurse and his half-finished chocolate éclair and knew a liar when she saw one. His raised voice had made April the focus of attention: an auxiliary nurse in her green uniform stared at the reporter, before suddenly remembering she had something else to do.

  ‘Well, thank you for your time, Nurse Drury. I hope you treat your patients with more respect than ward visitors, but I rather doubt you do.’

  She was met with a blank stare back from the man, whose rolls of stomach fat were resting on his workstation and even lolloping onto his keyboard. His reply was to finish off the remainder of his chocolate éclair in one bite, chewing open-mouthed like a cow, so April could see it all being mashed up with his saliva before disappearing down his throat.

  Defeated, she made her way back through the labyrinth of corridors, wishing she could have said so much more to the repulsive nurse. But causing even more of a commotion wouldn’t have done her any good and was also the last thing the patients needed, with their already fragile minds. She got into the lift that would take her down to the exit when a smallish woman in a green uniform dashed in beside her, just as the doors were closing. They had the lift to themselves.

  ‘I told that fat bastard I was taking my break, so I don’t have much time. You were asking about Kelly?’

  ‘I was,’ April replied gratefully.

  ‘You’re right, they had her registered as Kirsty Adams. Damn shame what’s going on with that lassie. There’s nothing wrong with her. They’re keeping her drugged up. That’s why I told her to try to speak to the lawyer. But she was taken away yesterday before lunchtime. Some guys came for her. They didn’t look like they were from another hospital.’

  ‘Any idea where they were headed?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. At least she’s away from him. One day I’ll catch him doing what he does to the lassies in the ward and when I do, I’m blowing the whistle.’

  ‘Here…’ April said, fumbling around in her bottomless bag, before eventually finding what she was after. ‘This is my card.’

  It stated: April Lavender, Senior Reporter, The Daily Chronicle. It also had her mobile number, direct line, email and Twitter handle on it.

  ‘I thought I recognised you from the paper,’ Cathy said, staring at the card. ‘You did a story on my cousin years back. She was a chef in one of those fancy London restaurants
who needed a heart transplant. You did a smashing piece on her.’

  April was pretty sure she hadn’t interviewed too many chefs in need of a major organ replacement during her career, but, despite that, the story failed to register.

  ‘You don’t remember her, do you?’ Cathy said, perfectly reading April’s blank expression.

  ‘Sorry, please don’t be offended. I can hardly remember stories I’ve written in the last week. My mind is like a sieve. How is your cousin doing, anyway?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Ah, sorry to hear that. I guess she didn’t get the transplant in time?’

  ‘No, she did. But she died on the operating table. It was just too late. She kept your article though. Used to show her visitors all the lovely things you wrote about her.’

  April felt terrible. Not only could she not remember this poor girl’s name, she knew she was just another story out of the thousands she had filed over the years. Like most reporters, she hardly ever stopped to think about the impact, both good and bad, her words had on real people and their lives.

  ‘What was her name?’ April asked as the lift reached the ground floor.

  ‘Agnes Anderson.’

  A lightbulb was suddenly turned on somewhere in April’s head. ‘Long, blonde hair. From Drumchapel? I remember now because the headline was something like, “From the Drum to the Dorchester”.’

  ‘Aye, that was Agnes,’ Cathy beamed, pleased April had finally remembered.

  ‘Please give me a call if you hear anything,’ the reporter said as she walked out of the lift.

  ‘I will. And I’ll let you know when we catch Fatty red-handed too,’ Cathy promised.

  62: Scotch Corner

  ‘Hello, I’m calling from PPI solutions. We believe you may be eligible for a big cash pay-out,’ Kelly said, adopting her best English accent.

  ‘Not interested,’ came the curt reply before the line went dead.

  There probably wasn’t a household in the UK that hadn’t been plagued by PPI calls, both automated and human. The PPI – Personal Protection Insurance – compensation industry had grown out of the billions of pounds bankers had been forced to put aside after years of mis-selling policies to millions of their customers. Eventually the Government regulator had enough and ordered the bankers to pay back the money plus compensation.

  ‘Hello, I’m calling from PPI solutions again. We appear to have been cut off. We believe you may be eligible for a big cash...’

  ‘Are you thick or something? I said I wasn’t interested.’

  The line went dead once more. Monahan, sitting his wheelchair by the pay phone, handed Kelly a scrap of paper and urged her to try again.

  ‘Hello, I’m calling from PPI solutions and no, I’m not thick – you must be the thick one as I’m trying to give you money.’

  ‘Are you absolutely insane? What’s the name of your supervisor?’

  ‘Kelly Carter,’ Kelly replied to silence down the line. She then asked Connor Presley if he had a notepad handy before giving him a series of coordinates.

  ‘Got that?’ she asked.

  ‘Got it,’ he replied before hanging up.

  ‘Okay, good girl. We need to move,’ Monahan said.

  ‘What about my phone call home?’ Kelly demanded.

  ‘We’ll drive to Scotch Corner for that. It’s about 100 miles south from here. They’ll think we’re heading to the Hull ferry to make our way to Europe. But we’ll then double back and drive north.’

  Gretna Green, Scotch Corner and the Hull ferry: it felt like Kelly was reliving her childhood all over again. She would have never imagined back then that she would now be visiting the same places as an escaped mental patient on the run from the law.

  ‘Think your reporter friend can be trusted?’ Monahan said, holding up the hard drive.

  ‘Elvis? I think so. As much as any reporter can be trusted, I guess.’

  ‘I mean, is he likely to hand it over to the police?’

  ‘I doubt it. He’s not the type to reveal his sources. All that old-fashioned journalist stuff.’

  ‘Well that old journalist stuff just earned him a 300-mile round trip,’ Monahan said with a sneer.

  63: What’s it like?

  Two hours later Monahan and Kelly were nearing Scotch Corner, the traditional watering post for travellers heading north and south. Now it was just a large service station for the junction of the A1 and A66, but Kelly’s folks would always stop there for their comfort break and some lunch before the final 100-mile dash to the Hull ferry. She smiled to herself, remembering how her mum always made sandwiches for the journey, refusing to ‘take out another mortgage to pay motorway services prices’. Kelly used to be annoyed at her mum’s apparent meanness. It was only when she became a parent herself she fully understood: the prices were outrageous. And she would rather her kids ate one of her homemade healthy sandwiches than a burger. Mum really did know best.

  Kelly’s eyes filled with tears, which ran freely down her cheeks as her childhood memories made way to her recalling her mum’s horrific last moments. That was no way for a good woman to die.

  ‘What’s it like to kill someone?’ Kelly asked Monahan.

  ‘What are you, a schoolgirl? That’s the sort of question I’d expect from a class of kids.’

  ‘It’s a good question, though.’

  Monahan eyed Kelly. ‘What’s it like to have a patient die in front of you?’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ve just got to make sure they are comfortable and pain-free.’

  ‘But there’s no emotional attachment, right?’

  ‘Not really. Or I’d go home in bits every night.’

  ‘So it’s just a job, right?’

  ‘Yes, just a job,’ she conceded.

  ‘Ditto, it’s just a job for me too. I started off as a sniper. So if I’m shooting someone from a mile away, I’m concentrating on getting the maths right, considering the wind speed and even the Earth’s curvature. And when I get it right, the target goes down, it’s job done. Move onto the next one. There is no philosophy to it. I don’t sit and mope. As you said, you’d hardly be a great nurse if you went home in bits at the end of every shift.’

  Kelly let the silence spread between them before she asked, ‘Have you ever felt remorse?’

  ‘No, why should I?’ Monahan replied defiantly.

  ‘For killing so many.’

  ‘Nope. And you? Could you have done more for your patients? Given them another day or week or month of life?’

  ‘No. It was their time.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Monahan replied, his eyes suddenly burning with fire.

  ‘Who are you to play God?’ Kelly said, now thoroughly disgusted.

  ‘I could ask you the same. Aren’t you playing God by pumping patients up so full of morphine or prolonging their lives with other drugs?’

  ‘I am helping people, relieving them from their misery.’

  ‘Again, so am I,’ Monahan replied.

  ‘Now you’re just being flippant.’

  ‘I don’t think I am. Sticking a knife in the neck of a brainwashed jihadist is what I consider putting someone out of their misery.’

  Kelly changed tack. ‘Do you remember the ones you killed in close combat?’

  ‘Every one of them,’ Monahan said softly.

  ‘Do you remember the Princess?’

  ‘Of course. She still looked beautiful. Hardly a mark on her. But dead,’ he said bluntly. ‘You just know it when you see it. That they’re gone. But I hardly have to tell you that, do I?’

  They had arrived at Scotch Corner, and Kelly let herself out of the car to call her ex- husband Brian. But all she got was his voicemail. She left a short message assuring him and the kids that she was alright. She then called Connor Presley, giving him an explicit list of instructions.


  ‘Got that, Elvis?’ she asked, as she had no intention of repeating herself.

  ‘Got it,’ he replied, double-checking his notepad.

  Kelly sealed the hard drive in a watertight bag Monahan had handed her, along with some duct tape. She knew what she needed to do.

  64: Barefooted Bond

  Connor had always wondered what it would be like to be a real-life James Bond. But there was nothing exotic about the fifty-odd miles of road from the M6 across the north Pennines to connect with the A1 at Scotch Corner. Much of it was two lanes. The rest was perpetual roadworks converting the single carriageway – the product of the original road planners’ stunning lack of vision – into a modern dual carriageway. Connor found himself on one of the long stretches of single-lane road, stuck behind a convoy of articulated lorries, with no chance of overtaking without risking his life.

  The route was scenic enough, not that he took much of it in. He needed to retrieve the package Kelly had left for him before anyone else did.

  After three hours he finally reached the traffic lights of Scotch Corner, which slowly directed him to make a 360-degree turn and head back the way he had come. He now wished he’d stopped at the services to use their toilets as he desperately needed a pee. He wondered if James Bond ever had the sudden urge to ‘go’ while on a mission. He pulled into a large layby packed with lorries and managed to find a small space sandwiched between two of the massive transporters. Connor located the café Kelly had told him about and walked behind the building in as casual a stroll as he could muster, lest he was being watched. But he needn’t have worried as no one was interested. In his suit, he looked like just another sales rep, stopping off for a break.

  Connor walked over the sodden grass towards a picnic bench, which was an island in the middle of its own makeshift pond created by floodwater. He once again checked he wasn’t being watched, then tried unsuccessfully not to get his socks wet as he walked into the giant puddle that surrounded the picnic table and slipped his hand under the far end, patting around for the package Kelly said she had stuck to the underside. There was nothing.