by Phil Rowan
‘Oh, it was nothing,’ I tell her with a lying grin. ‘The authorities mixed me up with someone else.’
‘There are many problems here now,’ she suggests.
I agree. But I’m wondering if I can shift our discussion over to China or Bordeaux, or the joys of the Dordogne, when my mobile rings.
‘Rudy – it’s Grant Stevenson here from the Courier in New York. Can we talk?’
‘Sure … give me a few minutes and I’ll come straight back to you.’
He wants more on Jeremy Wagstaff and Islamic activists at the King’s Cross Academy. I can’t talk about any of this in Crowndale Square with Therese and her charges. We smile at each other and I tell the children that I’m looking forward to our next game.
‘Au revoir, Rudi,’ the boy shouts with a ‘bye, Ruby’ from the girl and a sweet wave from Therese.
I feel better for having spent a little time with them. Would Ingrid like kids, I’m wondering, or would they interfere with her art? I’m quite taken with the idea of smiling faces over breakfast, although I do appreciate that there are 24/7 aspects that could have me falling asleep over my supper in the evenings.
I’m thinking of boys and girls names when I see a car approaching. It’s a beige Lexus. Is this a coincidence or what? Am I looking at the same vehicle I last saw in Harley Street and before that in Manchester Square? The front passenger window is going down and an Asian guy is grinning at me.
‘Rudi!’ he shouts. ‘I’m going to kill you!’
Another car has come around the Square from the left and is partially blocking the beige Lexus. I start running and I’m about to dive between two parked cars when a shot shatters the windscreen of the one on my right. I’m still dodging between the residents’ vehicles when another car window is smashed. I can see a gun pointing at me and I’m ducking when the next shot is fired. There’s a sharp impact on my right arm. I’ve been hit, and as I fall, my head is crashing towards the pavement.
Chapter 17
It’s horrendous, but I’m not really there. I’m slipping away.
‘Rudi!’ Therese is crying. Then it’s ‘Rupy!’ from her youngest charge. ‘Are you all right?’
Not really. But she’s calling an ambulance and the police. She may be shy, but she’s very together.
‘You will be fine,’ she promises and the tiny hand of a child is resting on my forehead.
This light touch is reassuring. It then goes and I’m vaguely aware of sirens, blue flashing lights and large people in yellow jackets. Later, there’s a smell. I think it’s soap or cleaning fluid and someone has switched on a TV set. I’m falling off the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. My mother and father are with different partners. My mother has a small gift shop in Sausalito, while my father defends hopeless cases in a Los Angeles courtroom.
‘Mr Flynn?’ a female voice asks when I open my eyes. She’s smiling and I think she’s a nurse. There’s a game show on the television, which is mounted on a wall in a corner of the room. ‘And the prize this evening is for the team who builds the most attractive beach hut at our unique location in the Southern Indian state of Kerala.’
‘Where am I?’ I ask. ‘And my arm?’
It’s covered with a bandage and my head is sore.
‘You’re OK,’ Nurse Reilly tells me.
That’s the name printed on her uniform badge and I’m now aware of a cop standing in the doorway of my hospital room. He’s got an AK 47 slung over his shoulder and he’s speaking into a radio handset. ‘The patient has just come round, ma’am. He seems confused, but appears to be responding normally.’
‘We were worried about your head injury,’ Nurse Reilly says. ‘I’d say it’s just a bit of a knock and there was nothing on the X-ray.’
Great. But who was the bastard who grinned before he shot me? And what sort of state is my arm in?
‘Can you lift it up for me?’ the nurse asks.
Just about. But are there any other bullet wounds, and will it affect my typing?
‘Listen,’ she says, sitting beside me on the bed. ‘You’re grand. There’s nothing the matter with you. It’s just a shock, which you’ll get over in a day or so. Now do you want a cup of tea?’
Yes, please – and could I have a look in that mirror that’s on the top of my bedside locker? She passes it over before leaving and I hold it up cautiously. I need a shave and there’s a nasty bruise on the right side of my forehead. There are also two grey threads in what I had previously thought of as a decent enough mop of dark hair. I’m sure they weren’t there yesterday, and I’m also aware of dark circles under my eyes. I don’t feel like I’m thirty-two any more, and a man in a white coat has just come through the door.
‘Mr Flynn?’
I’m nodding and taking in a badge that says Dr Ahmed Zakir.
‘You are very fortunate,’ he tells me. ‘Do you mind if I switch over to the news?’
Anything would be better than the reality TV show from the beach at Kerala. The contestants are struggling with shaky looking huts that I think would collapse with even a moderate wind.
‘There has been an arson attack on a mosque,’ Dr Zakir says, and I’m tensing up under my hospital sheet when a serious BBC woman appears, followed by film clips of a smouldering building with the remains of a fine minaret.
‘The Regent’s Park mosque was attacked an hour ago,’ she says. ‘The people responsible appear to have used firearms to gain entry and hand grenades to blow up and destroy the building …the police have not released any further details. But the Muslim Council of Britain are claiming that Nationalist elements are responsible for the attack, and we’re going over now to Sir Hammad Biswas, who’s at the mosque site …Sir Hammad …’
Dr Zakir has his back to me and I’m trying to raise myself up in the bed when a frail, intelligent looking man in flowing white robes and a delicately embroidered kufi hat appears on the screen. ‘This is all so unnecessary,’ he says, pointing up at the smouldering ruins of London’s most prestigious mosque. ‘We have been trying for some time to improve relations between ourselves and other people in Britain …in spite of what has happened, we will continue to strive for friendship and co-operation …’
‘Thank you, Dr Biswas,’ the BBC woman says courteously. ‘We’ll have more on this incident later in the programme, but we’re going over now to another incident in Karachi, where our correspondent Robert Holt is waiting …Robert …’
The picture changes to a square in Karachi, where there’s a huge pile of television sets with a British flag sticking from a broken screen at the top of the heap.
‘Yes …hello, Victoria,’ a middle-aged reporter says. He’s surrounded by a small crowd of mischievous looking Muslims. They’re all grinning and one of them is holding a pole with a flaming rag on the end of it. ‘We’re assured that this is little more than a symbolic gesture t protest about the destruction of the Regent’s Park mosque and another yesterday in Bradford. The idea symbolised by the old television sets and the British flag is that we’re all rather decadent …and as you can see this gentleman is about to set fire to them …’
With that, there’s a loud shriek from the crowd, and the guy with the flaming torch throws it into the old TV sets, which have already been doused with cans of petrol. Suddenly, the bonfire’s alight, and we cut away as the Union Jack disintegrates.
‘It is most unfortunate,’ Dr Zakir says while he turns down the volume and switches over to a ‘Carry On’ film. ‘And I really did have the feeling we were all getting along quite well together … what do you think, Mr Flynn?’
Absolutely. I agree completely. But where am I, please?’
‘This is Homerton Hospital,’ he says. ‘And we have been asked to sign Official Secrets Act not to talk about you or how you received your injuries.’
‘I’ve been shot.’ And the bastard laughed as he pulled the trigger.
‘I know. But you are almost all right. Just a little shock – so maybe you stay overnight
… only there are police persons outside.’
Are they there to protect me or to stop me from doing a runner?
‘You must, I think, try to rest. Make your mind at ease. Have you any knowledge of meditation or yoga?’
Yes. I have a special, rather spiritual relationship with a giggling Maharishi who has now passed on. I am also familiar with various postures, which have been suggested by an Indian Yogi called Iyenger.
‘This is what you need to cope with what has happened to you,’ Dr Zakir says. ‘In fact, at this moment, I believe that we all need to meditate and do yoga postures whenever possible.’
I like this guy, and when he’s checked my blood pressure and waved a pen in front of my eyes, I sit up. I’m crossing my legs and trying to think the sound of a mantra that I paid fifty dollars for as a not too flush student at Berkeley in California at the end of the nineties.
I feel it’s working. I think the sound until it fades and I drop down to somewhere I’m not even aware of. Then I start having thoughts again, so I think the sound of my mantra until my head’s floating in a glorious oblivion. It’s going good. There are, I’m sure, mental and other beneficial effects. After twenty minutes, I hear footsteps outside in the corridor. I’m blinking when the door opens and Nurse Reilly comes in with a mug of tea.
‘I couldn’t get you any biscuits.’
‘Don’t worry … I do appreciate the tea.’
A glass of red wine is what I’d really like, or maybe two or three fingers or a decent malt with a few cubes of ice in the tumbler.
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure – ’
There’s a twinkle in her eyes again and she’s sitting on the edge of my bed.
‘You’re not a gangster, are you?’
As in: ‘Hey, Mr Soprano …I know this may seem a little impertinent … but …well there are all of these armed police outside and they seem to have sealed off this whole floor …it’s never happened before.’
Maybe I should just keep stum or shrug my shoulders like I can’t say.
‘No – I’m not a gangster,’ I tell her. ‘But could I ask you a special favour?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’d really like a bottle of wine or whisky … and of course, one for yourself.’
She’s looking at me and shaking her head with amazement.
‘There’s no way I could do that,’ she says. ‘There’s no telling what effect the drink might have on you ... it would be wholly irresponsible.’
‘Right – ’
‘There is however someone downstairs who wants to see you.’
‘A visitor?’
‘Maybe … only she’s making a great fuss with the police and one of the hospital administrators. They don’t want to let her see you, but when I was coming up here, a receptionist said she was speaking to a Government Minister on her mobile.’
The tea’s great and I’m enjoying Nurse Reilly’s company. I don’t know many people who can make a noise with Government Ministers, but as I sip at me tea, I hear a familiar voice outside in the corridor.
* * * * *
‘Rudi!’
It’s Fiona Adler. She’s looking incredible in some designer suit outfit, heels most women would die for and a subtle array of bling. A senior hospital executive, who’s cowering in the hallway, has escorted her up to my quarters – even Nurse Reilly is backing nervously away towards the door.
‘What has happened to you?’ She asks when she’s given me a light hug and brushed each of my cheeks with her own. ‘You are, I’m afraid, the talk of the Square and I’ve had tabloid editors offering large sums of money for anything I can tell them about you.’
I need to call up my mantra again, but it’s pointless. Fiona’s eyes are like laser beams and she’s got me trapped up against the pillows.
‘I’ve never seen the person who shot me before in my life,’ I say with complete honesty.
‘Of course … he was probably hired specifically to do this job. But why, Rudi … have you stood on the toes of a Russian oligarch, or worse?’
That’s it. Someone I had interviewed or written a story about was displeased. They thought I needed a warning shot, and banging my head on the Crowndale Square pavement was a bonus.
‘I’m lucky to be alive,’ I say with a straight face. ‘But do you know what happened?’
‘No – ’
‘The guy grinned. He shouted ‘hi Rudi!’ and then said he was going to kill me. It was scary, and it was Therese the au pair who came to my aid and called an ambulance.’
‘Ah – ’ Fiona sighs wistfully. ‘She’s such a sweet girl. Alison says she’s the best person with the children she’s ever had … but I fear that after this incident she may need counselling. There’s someone I know in Harley Street who could be just the person, and we could do a sort of whip round in the Square to pay his fees.’
‘Fiona – ’
‘Oh, Rudi – sorry. I’m being pro-active when I should be hesitating … and Ingrid called last night.’
‘But you didn’t say anything, I hope.’
She’s looking at me with just a hint of disappointment. How could I have so misjudged her on matters that need discretion.
‘I told her you had to go somewhere unexpectedly and that you might have forgotten to take your mobile. However, I think it would be helpful if you could now find it, because she’s in Helsinki.’
With the Russian she had to see in Paris? Has he bought her entire collection of art works? Perhaps on the understanding that she might go snowboarding with him across fjords or whatever it is they have in Norway, or wherever Helsinki is.
‘No, actually,’ Fiona says dismissively. ‘Her mother has apparently got some relationship problem with her father who – if you can believe it – has become involved with a female church pastor.’
Well at least she doesn’t know that a dysfunctional Asian gunman has taken a shot at me in Crowndale Square.
‘I will call her,’ I tell Julia. ‘Did she mention that we might be spending time together on a Greek island?’
I’m not sure if I should be saying this. I could be tempting fate. Ingrid might take a fancy to her Russian art patron, which could extend beyond his roubles. Julia, however, is blinking back a few tears.
‘You are a romantic young man,’ she says. ‘And I envy you.’
What? Why? Am I hearing this correctly? Fiona Adler is a self sufficient and very together woman. She is, I think, a millionairess several times over and can have all sorts of goodies just by clicking her fingers or picking up the phone.
‘That’s not the point though, Rudi – ’
‘Right – ’
‘You see, I do have regrets.’
Of course. I can take a glimpse behind the tears on her cheeks. There are no Adler children, and although she’s an emotionally vibrant woman, there hasn’t been a really significant other her life since Mr Adler slipped away with an actress from the fringe who wrote poems.
‘Sometimes, I let go,’ she says, ‘and think about what I might have done.’
Hang on. I’m doing calculations here. She can’t be more than forty-two. Giving birth is still possible, provided one is careful. But she’s shaking her head and wiping mascara from underneath her eyes.
‘I thought about it when Nathan left,’ she says. ‘We had a young photographer who wasn’t gay. He was handsome and bright. We had dinner one evening, but I honestly couldn’t take it any further.’
She’s married to her work, I know that. A magazine empress courted by media moguls, and I think she empathises best with attractive younger women.
‘I’m sorry about leaving your do so early the other evening,’ I say. ‘I was exhausted after the riots in Brixton and I needed to see Ingrid.’
‘Of course – ’
‘But did Carla join you?’
I’m being prurient. It’s none of my business what my Controller and my neighbour might get up to, either in Claridges or
elsewhere. I have, however, lit a fuse. It’s burning slowly but relentlessly, and there’s an angry red flush ascending from Fiona’s neck to her cheeks. Her eyes also seem to be getting fired up, and it’s unnerving.
‘I don’t know how you came to have any sort of association with that woman, Rudi.’
Oh lord. It’s a little complicated, and I’m prevented by my President’s Patriot Act from revealing the circumstances under which I was arrested and taken in to the awesome presence of Miss Hirsch.
‘It’s just work,’ I say lamely. ‘You know how it is with journalists. We have to play ball all over the place … Carla’s just a contact.’
I think the Spanish priests would have welcomed my neighbour as a probing member for their inquisition. Her eyes have locked onto mine, and I think she’s checking out each cell in my addled brain.
‘Let me tell you something,’ she says after a long pause. ‘We all have to find our own way with people, men and women, Rudi. Sometimes the journey is agreeable, but there are occasions when one wishes it had never happened.’
I’m not ready for this. Could Nurse Reilly please come and take my blood pressure. I would even welcome a long and serious discussion with Dr Zakir about relations between Islam and the rest of us. I need a diversion.
‘Would you mind very much if I popped outside for a moment?’ I ask.
‘You must be tired,’ Fiona says sympathetically. ‘I should go.’
‘No – not yet … I won’t be long.’
There’s a white hospital towelling robe to slip into. Fiona’s looking out over what I assume is a dodgy part of Hackney while my cop guard cradles his belly in the corridor.
‘Do you need somewhat?’ he asks.
‘Just the gents – ’
‘Straight over there, mate … only I’ll ‘ave to come wif you.’
Fortunately, there’s a cubicle I can disappear into. I don’t actually need to be here, but I sit on the disinfected seat and hold my head in my hands. It’s not the best place for a break, and my arm’s hurting where the Asian guy’s bullet hit me. It’s weird up here on the deserted top floor at the Homerton Hospital, and I’m not sure where I’ll be going when they let me out. But the cop’s coughing. ‘All right, mate …you gotta be done by now. So if you don’t mind, could we please get outa ‘ere.’