The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  Clive turned about to investigate this new space; took a breath. The room was west facing and sunlit. There was a breeze from large windows thrown wide. As his sight adjusted to intense natural light, he slowly distinguished the shape and the presence of a girl. She was wearing torn jeans and a Nirvana tee-shirt, while she was sitting up on a tall chair by the side of a metal frame bed. She seemed to be alert and relaxed, propped against several pillows, reading a manga book.

  She gave the idea of sensing a new visitor, but didn’t turn her eyes up to investigate. She presumed he was another member of staff, as he’d entered discreetly and was wearing a white coat. There was a feeling that she was dressed and ready to receive guests.

  Could this be Emmy Winchurch? There was a strong resemblance. Had he really blundered into her space? If so then Winchurch and his guests would be heading exactly in this direction. They would catch him in the room with her. There couldn’t be a more disastrous outcome. Did he have enough time now to slip back outside?

  Yet, for the present moment, the girl accepted his presence without moving or without looking up. There was a suspended peaceful atmosphere. She was too caught up in her book to take notice of interruptions. They were joined together anonymously by a moment of unreality; locked and detached.

  There was a chance he was jumping to alarming conclusions. There was no solid proof that the girl was she. Sunlight had dazzled him. For days his vision had been under an assault course. He struggled with the light, as if with the blinding spray of surf. But in this perilous situation he just felt dread, no mix of exhilaration.

  He listened to the pattern of her soft relaxed breathing, as his heart rate accelerated. He seemed to be stuck in a wait and see mode. There was a sense that she refused to look at him. It was a sign of her rebellion, her hostility or indifference towards staff, or the type of treatment she was receiving. If only he could ask her. Clive shifted position in an attempt to gain her attention and to finally identify her. Even though it was a nervous situation, he had broken into the hospital with an intention to find her and to talk. Here was an opportunity to question her about the events of the garden party; about his role in that dreadful crime, not only about her course of treatment or therapy.

  Minutes later (it felt like hours) the girl turned her eyes up from the page. Her gaze began to wander about the room and to explore. Finally her attention was drawn to that member of staff, a dishevelled blonde doctor in a white coat several sizes too small. The guy was leaning against the wall, staring at her without speaking and giving off a panicky feeling.

  The ideas and treatments at this place often frightened her. She wasn’t sure if the proposed operations were such a great idea or, as they all claimed, in her best future interests (whatever those were). She wasn’t thrilled to let them mess with her head. But the staff here would greet her when they came into the room. Nobody listened to her views, but they were polite and professional. They wouldn’t inject you and put you through a scanner, or any of the other stuff, without at least using your name. Just from loneliness or boredom, even isolation, she might return their empty sentiments.

  But when she set eyes on this doctor, she made a horrible recognition. She recognised this guy and she was completely alone with him. His presence caused a paroxysm of terror, hysteria, as if the most poisonous spider in the world was dancing on a string in front of her nose.

  She stood up and backed her chair noisily into the wall. Head splitting noises came out of a pouty mouth. The terrifying reality of Pitt’s presence cut into her memories. Clive gazed intensely at the oval of her freckled face, with the patched blonde/black hair, the large golden brown eyes. These were no doubt beautiful eyes, now wide in terror - just at the sight of him.

  There was not chance to speak to her. She was so frightened he wouldn’t be able to even calm her. Pitt shrank away beneath her screams, holding up his palms. All the time she fixed him with huge terrified eyes. Her gaze slid around with him. She emitted a shrill cry with every new step. He backed off blindly, circled the walls, bumping into a trolley and spilling glass instruments. These objects shattered on a hard floor, as if disintegrated into dust, with his thoughts and nerves.

  Pitt knew he’d seen her face before, not only in a photograph, if at all. His recognition was as unmistakable as hers. Her lovely face was not far away, suffused by the beams of sunshine. Suddenly he had an image of her, a terrible image, of her hanging from a low branch, twining about. Grotesquely somebody - Pitt didn’t remember who, perhaps himself! - covering her eyes, with a bag or a cloth or a garment.

  But he was shaken back to his senses; her piercing disgust placing him back into her hospital room. She had moved from the chair and pressed herself into a corner of the room; scrunched into the tiniest space, while pushing a fist into her mouth. Pitt forced himself to snatch back his gaze as if to keep his sanity.

  Fight or flight took over for him, as he sensed Winchurch charging towards them and standing behind the door. The medical group had surely heard her screaming, even through thick divisions. Inevitably they’d been alerted and would soon burst inside. Of course there was no inside lock to the room. It was a no-win siege situation even if he had time to block the door. Pitt saw that his only escape was through the open outside windows.

  There were voices from the corridor. They were gathering outside, because he picked up their concerned and shocked voices. What a nasty surprise the banker was going to suffer. Clive plunged across the room, by the girl’s shoulder - she raised her arms around her face - and he jumped out through the window frame. It should have been easy, but in panic he didn’t get a good take off step. One time he made a charity sky dive with Noreen. That had required a short countdown and a quick prayer.

  He landed in an undignified heap outside, eating gravel off the path. Wincing at the pain he hobbled away, but with increasing momentum. He felt the brutal thump of his heart muscle, like a misshapen foetus. He battled for momentum, to push his legs into movement. In his imagination, somehow, he was running towards his guilt, not so much escaping from his enemies.

  When he was confident of being safe (most staff remained in the orchard) he looked back around. The group must have entered to rescue or comfort the girl. He picked out the diminutive outline of Winchurch within. Even from there Clive noticed the frantic body language, as the banker moved about the space, apparently trying to comfort his daughter. Then another white coated figure joined him.

  Gazing out towards Clive from the open window, was the unmistakable figure of Pixie Wright. As soon as she distinguished Pitt in the near distance, she was stared out in an expression of frozen amazement.

  This was a bad outcome. She already had doubts. Whatever her feelings for him, she would think he was a liar. She’d almost been ready to join his team again, to accept him as her mentor, but she hadn’t fully signed up. Now she would adopt the official Winchurch line about his conduct. This wouldn’t make a good impression.

  But the lost year had not been revealed so clearly. There were many remaining shadows and pockets of darkness. He was linked to the crime and to harming the girl. The most favourable interpretation he could draw was that he’d been forced to participate.

  34

  Clive was shaken. His resolve was severely tested. He fitted a description of the odious guy they claimed him to be.

  His accidental encounter with the Winchurch girl had been a catastrophe. Not only did it plunge her back into a nightmare experience, it put him into the situation as well. But not clearly enough to know the exact circumstances.

  Should he continue to investigate the deal? Could he believe in himself, enough to exonerate himself? Did his bad or weak character undermine his case against the firm? Could principles be obliterated by emotional flaws and monstrous behaviour?

  He was tempted to share the view of his enemies.

  Pitt imagined that he understood hi
mself fairly well; at least as well as anybody does. But was that self-knowledge no more than a false belief system? Did he really know himself at all? This was the crux of it.

  He felt intensely ashamed of running away. He was conscious of his renegade isolation. Every breath oppressed him, through the cage of his chest. Apparently he didn’t have an emotional support system; any true friends or family. This was not self-pity, but a glance at shattered pieces left on the hard floor.

  Pixie would have to abandon him, delete her links to him, before it was too late. She was already leading a charmed life at the company. Clive had objected to cheating in the global casino, but he was a criminal himself. Her previous sympathy towards Clive had been dangerous. Any loyalty at this stage would be lethal, not simply hard to justify or explain.

  Was there any belief in his innocence, or any hope he was not culpable? If he was just running to save his own skin, there was no point. Maybe he should be done with everything by handing himself over at a police station in London. He could present himself and explain his involvement with the rape of Emmy.

  However this would only work if the police believed his story. They didn’t have any record of such a crime taking place. Septimus chose not notify them to start an investigation. His attitude was not going to change, as he still had the same motives. So what was Pitt’s incentive to talk to the police, or even to remain within the law? He didn’t think handing himself to the authorities would progress his case. Clive preferred to remain elusive rather than to surrender to private security firms or psychopaths with air miles.

  Was this the moment to relocate internationally? Why insist on his British life when powerful figures were hunting him down? He potentially had the information to destroy them, but where had he placed it? Apparently his files were lost, yet his enemies didn’t understand or wish to understand. But as soon as they tested this fact, they would dispense with his services altogether. It was much more difficult as a fugitive. They were surely alert to any move to the ports. Did he have any ideas? Any contacts?

  Pitt reached the edge of the grounds again and found a gap in the perimeter fence, as he read that dark legend again, The Sir Septimus Winchurch ZNT Research Hospital.

  What if his extreme behaviour was induced by drugs or hormonal injections? His mind was troubled, confused and under duress. He had absorbed information about his character and investigation. Amnesia made him biddable. As ZNT marked his cards his mental images and ideas had shuffled into a confusing sequence. If Emmy had been calmer she may have explained more. The picture was more complicated. Could she recognise other men who may also have been present?

  It was hard to contradict the firm opinion of other people. They formed convincing views about his character. Was it worth struggling to prove them wrong? Trying to roll back all those events?

  His enemies had induced this flaw. But unwittingly he had been participating. This began when he considered pulling the pin on ZNT. They had recognised the immediate danger of his insider subordination. They calculated his toxicity and decided he must be dumped, as if for drums of cyanide in an African landfill. He had to be quietly rendered harmless, through disgrace at home and work. They were skilled at removing executives who proved incompetent or undependable. It was better to expose a traitor than to contest openly with him (or her).

  But those guys in Geneva wouldn’t have tried this without good material to go on. They must have probed for his flaws, in order to reveal them, just as you can’t buy out a company that hasn’t a viable product or service, even if you are going to break them apart as soon as you acquire a majority holding.

  He could be the victim of brain washing here, or an equivalent intervention. They had messed with his head, just as they were doing with Emmy. They wanted to put him out into the dark, by persuading him to act against his own interests to undermine his own case. Unfortunately the case had vanished into hyperspace.

  Septimus and his clients needed to erase all evidence and protect themselves fully.

  Until then it was just one man and his missing memory.

  Returning to Pixie’s wheels Pitt was astonished to notice somebody waiting on the passenger side. Drawing nearer Clive noted a handsome young guy. This character was looking sharp and relaxed. The dapper character reclined in the soft white leather, laughing crookedly through the windscreen. It seemed as if he was expecting Pitt, or even knew him. Far from looking nervous the character was super confident and mocking. He resembled a preening fashion gigolo.

  Clive pounced on the driver’s door - the security was disabled - tearing it back to reach inside and try to pull this fellow out of the car.

  “Hey, Clive! What kept you? Don’t mind me dropping in, d’you?”

  Pitt intended to get into the guy’s face, but instantly regretted it. He knew at once that he wouldn’t succeed. Like eyeballing a psycho in the rugby scrum, Clive felt that it would be a mistake to attack. Pitt wouldn’t come off best in such a tussle.

  “Calm down Clive!” the guy urged. “You intolerant sonovabitch! Your anger gets the better of you.” His swarthy handsome face creased into a sarcastic smile. “You’d better get out of here. Let’s burn some rubber, man. You can ask questions later!”

  “You’re coming with me?” Clive challenged. He leant into the ergonomic shell of the driver’s seat.

  “Here for the ride!” the guy jeered; twinkly eyes narrowed sarcastically.

  “Did you see security guards around here?” Pitt enquired.

  “Don’t take any chances.”

  Pitt’s metabolism was hammering. He was drenched in adrenaline. It was painful to remain still. He slammed the door, belted up and ignited the car impetuously. The Porsche’s back wheels screamed under stress and tossed up a plume of suffocating dust into the baked air behind.

  “Fucking way to go!” the intruder shouted.

  In no time the hospital site was behind them and he was snaking the lanes, sliding on gravelly corners.

  “Trying to frighten me? How fucking pathetic.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself? Who are you?” Pitt challenged.

  “I enjoy sharing the fast lane with you banker boys. You know how to live fast and retire early. I’m getting a kick out of this,” he said, punching Pitt’s arm.

  “What do you want?” Clive returned.

  “You know what we want, Clive,” he leered. He gazed into the driver’s mirror and perfected his quiff of jet black hair.

  “You belong to the ZNT board? Your face is somehow familiar.”

  “That’s excellent Clive,” he exclaimed, laughing disproportionately. “You gotta head for faces after all!”

  Pitt tried to concentrate on the road and also to observe his unique passenger.

  “How did you manage to get in here? Into the car?” he pressed, darting his glance across.

  “Are you for real?” the man scoffed.

  “You think you’re God’s gift, is that it?” Pitt scoffed.

  “Get back on the motorway,” he suggested.

  “You’re too big for your short breeches, mate,” Clive retorted.

  “Last time I was with Mr Di Visu. You lost track?”

  “You’d better start explaining yourself, pretty boy.”

  “That’s right, you’re not really handsome yourself.” At this the young guy thrust forward his jaw. “Go on then, Clive. Don’t like it? Be my guest! Violence brings strangers together. So let’s get close.”

  “Okay... don’t want to be unsociable,” Clive retorted, gathering his energy.

  Clive took a hand from the wheel forming a fist. But the guy grasped his wrist. Pitt suffered excruciating pain, as if all the nerves up his arm had been ripped. He was suddenly unable to do anything, other than wait for the agonising pressure to stop and to try to avoid crashing his girlfriend’s Porsche.

>   “Got that shit out of your system? You won’t pull any chicks with that face.”

  “Did you just give me an electric shock?” Clive asked, panicked.

  “I’m wired up,” the young guy explained.

  Clive threw a throbbing hand back on the wheel, to avoid slamming into an approaching bridge.

  “You want to get us both killed?” he demanded.

  “Who paid your fat salary and fatter bonuses? If you’re such a virtuous shit, me old marrow, why enjoy the rewards so much? Why wine and dine, travel and have fun?”

  As Clive was provoked a rough electrical current shot along his arm and gripped his entire body.

  “Give this shit a break!” Clive urged.

  “I think you’re going to come!” the man exclaimed. “Hey, look at you, you’re orgasmic!”

  The Porsche lurched; swerved, careened across lanes, ending up bumping along the slipway. Pitt was going into hyper panic, while his passenger laughed and had fun.

  Then the car practically stopped in the first lane. Effectively they were parked on the motorway, with HGVs bearing down on them from behind. Trucks screeched and snaked, loads slamming and sliding inside containers; drivers going apoplectic; blasting their sirens, shouting through windows. Until Pitt was shocked back to the present moment, scurried to fire the engine and gain speed.

  “Trying to take yourself out, Clive?” The guy rested his head and chuckled, as if he reminiscing on a sun lounger.

  “What the hell, why don’t you end this?” Clive said.

  “You’ve lost your memory. Don’t you remember?”

  “You were with me that evening? When we attacked Emmy? Is that it?” Clive accused. “I have a witness account.”

  “We have shared memories! How romantic.”

  “You are going to pay for this,” Clive replied.

  “You think driving fast can frighten me? In your girlfriend’s pink Porsche?” he mocked, with contempt in his voice.