If I Should Die (Joseph Stark)

by Matthew Frank

  Finally he smiled. ‘Piss off.’ He hopped to the bed and sat down with a grunt. ‘What did the guv’nor say?’

  ‘He wasn’t in. He’s with the CPS. He didn’t know, then? What about Cox?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘He’s a wily one, the super.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  There was still something distant, disconnected, in his voice. Not as bad as before she’d brought him here, but an echo. He looked bone weary. ‘The shrink spoke with me after I brought you in. How’s that going?’

  ‘Who can tell? She’s not best pleased with me.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’ She stared hard at him but that was all she was going to get, it seemed. ‘What about your hip?’

  ‘Nothing a metal plate and some nuts and bolts can’t fix. This afternoon. They’ve been starving me since yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t they know you bite if you’re not fed?’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’ll send someone round to pick you up some things. Uniform saw reporters outside your flat this morning. You’ll need somewhere to lie low when they kick you out of here.’

  ‘Is that an offer, Sarge?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Thanks, but forget the press. If I did a bunk we’d have my mum hunting us down.’

  ‘Fair enough. Christ knows how we’ll get you out. We’ll have to use a riot wagon.’

  ‘Maybe the crowd will have lost interest by then.’ He sounded unconvinced. Fran wouldn’t have banked on it either. ‘How’s things in the office?’ he asked.

  Not ‘How’s the case going?’ Fran almost smiled at the subtlety. ‘Oh, you know – same shit different day. DS Harper’s been in the wars again,’ she mentioned casually. ‘Poor thing has one arm in a sling. Nothing broken, thankfully. Took a tumble on the station stairs apparently.’

  Stark gave the barest laugh. ‘Will he sue, do you think?’

  Now Fran did smile. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ She was pleased to note a flicker of relief on Stark’s face. She asked what he needed from his flat and left him sitting forlornly on the bed.

  At the nearby nurses’ station a storm was brewing. Dearing was politely out-looming two Military Policemen while their female officer demanded access with increasing irritation. A senior nurse and a hospital security guard hovered uncomfortably while a girl with dark hair tried to be heard.

  Fran recognized her at once, and the officer. A copper never forgot a face, and both were blessed with faces to remember. The army officer who’d door-stepped Stark in the station reception and the girl … She’d been hanging around the nurses’ station on Tuesday evening when Stark was out for the count, she’d been in the Princess of Wales pub and she fitted Stark’s description to a T.

  ‘I’m his clinician,’ she managed to get in. ‘I have every right –’

  ‘Hospital staff only, miss,’ Dearing interrupted politely. ‘No excep–’

  ‘Never mind that,’ interrupted the officer brusquely. ‘This is a military matter, Sergeant. Now stand aside.’

  Dearing had stood in uniform too many years to be daunted by her ilk. ‘You’re welcome to take up the matter with my superiors,’ he replied calmly. The MPs stiffened ominously.

  ‘Perhaps I can help.’ Fran stepped in, smiling.

  The officer looked her up and down coolly. ‘And you are?’

  Fran flashed her warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Millhaven. Captain Pierson, I presume. This is a civilian hospital, Captain, and the sergeant here will stand aside when ordered to and not before. Rest assured, no one is getting in or out of Constable Stark’s room without a hospital badge. You will be allowed to see him during visitors’ hours if the nursing staff allow it.’ She turned away from the woman before she could voice the protest evident in her face. ‘And now Kelly, I presume?’

  The girl nodded in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’

  ‘I’m afraid the same applies to you, unless your urgency is indeed clinical, in which case you must take it up with the nurse here.’ To her credit she looked fit to object vehemently but the captain got in first.

  ‘Now look here –’

  ‘I have looked,’ Fran interrupted firmly. ‘I have seen, and I have spoken. And if you don’t like it you are both welcome to have your superiors speak to mine.’ Neither woman looked ready to back down one inch. ‘Or,’ Fran smiled, ‘we can sort this out pleasantly over a coffee, like the capable women we are.’

  34

  Various people came to see Stark. The consultant, the anaesthetist, a physiotherapist, then an orderly with a wheelchair to collect him for his appointment. It took him a moment to grasp that Doc Hazel meant to make good on her threat. Stark was wheeled into her office in his tatty hospital dressing-gown with only his hospital gown beneath. He felt exposed and embarrassed and hungry. Always hungry with Hazel. Two of his least favourite things. At least his appetite was resurfacing.

  ‘You have secrets,’ said Hazel, without preamble.

  ‘Not any more,’ he replied.

  ‘I find that doubtful. I take it you kept this one from your employer.’

  ‘I kept it from everyone.’

  ‘Do you wonder about your motive there?’ she asked.

  ‘I was under orders.’

  ‘Most people would confide in someone, friends, loved ones …’

  ‘Military orders don’t leave wriggle room.’ A convenient lie.

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘You think everyone had a right to know?’ Of course she did but she wouldn’t say so. She’d couch it in another question.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Stark made a pained expression. ‘Right doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘It’s bound to impact on –’

  ‘Of course it will,’ Stark interrupted impatiently. ‘But telling people sooner wouldn’t mitigate that. Nothing will. The only thing I could control was how soon I had to deal with the consequences.’

  ‘What consequences?’

  ‘The inevitable fall-out, the bullshit, the misinterpretation –’

  ‘Misinterpretation?’

  ‘Yes …’ Stark rolled his eyes. ‘How did I just know you were going to write that down?’

  Hazel laid her pen flat on her notes. ‘Because it’s an interesting choice of word, and you know it. One I find curious, as you probably knew I would. Do you mind if I ask you again about that day?’

  ‘I mind. I minded the first time I was asked and every time since.’

  ‘I wonder if you actually enjoy it.’

  Stark was stunned. How dare she?

  ‘Feel compelled to, is perhaps closer to the mark,’ she allowed.

  ‘I’m compelled by you, by this process!’

  ‘Consciously, perhaps, but there’s no disputing that unconsciously your brain takes you back there almost every night, when you’re not confounding it with medically unwise cocktails, that is.’

  So she knew, or had guessed. No doubt she couldn’t wait to start tugging at that thread. But that wasn’t where she was going for now. ‘We’re back to survivor’s guilt, are we?’ he said.

  ‘Were we ever away from it?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Stark.

  ‘Okay.’ Hazel counted points on her fingers as she spoke. ‘The nightmares; your visiting the dead men’s families; your fixation on the mother and boy; your unrelenting drive to recover faster than medically cautioned; your decision to move away from family, friends, colleagues, to start again alone against the advice of both your physio and psychotherapist; your refusal to face up to your spiralling debilitation since that point; and, my personal favourite, walking around on a broken pelvis.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was broken.’

  ‘You knew it hurt and that it was getting worse. Did you think you deserved it?’

  ‘Can’t you do any better than that?’ asked Stark, exasperated. Christ, he was weary of her fat-fingered fumbling!

  ‘We’ve talked about why you might be putting yourself
through all this. We’ve talked about guilt. You’ve acknowledged it. But you haven’t accepted it,’ said Hazel, bluntly.

  ‘Of course I have,’ replied Stark, in surprise.

  ‘Intellectually perhaps.’

  ‘You think I haven’t, what, taken it to heart?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Are you deliberately trying to provoke me?’

  ‘Perhaps it isn’t guilt,’ suggested Hazel. ‘After all, you’ve said yourself they weren’t friends of yours.’

  Stark’s rage exploded. ‘Sweet Jesus, woman!’ Tears were welling. ‘Can’t you understand? What fucking difference does it make whether they’re friends or you fucking hate them? You fight alongside them! You’d die for them! They’re not friends, they’re family, from the second they take the coin to their blood-choked last breath, you witless fucking cow!’ He was on his feet, spittle on his lips, fighting the urge to lash out, to kick the table over, pull down the shelves of unthumbed reference books on her stupid fucking head, to smash, to beat some sense into her.

  He stood there quivering, his fractured pelvis adding its top-note to the chorus of pain.

  Hazel’s eyes were wide with fear and incomprehension, her face flushed, her hand on the panic-alarm button that hung around her neck.

  ‘Don’t,’ he managed to say, holding a hand up, palm outwards, the other clasping his hip. Slowly, jaw clenched, fists curled, chest heaving, he dialled it down. ‘Don’t,’ he said eventually, as calmly as he could manage. ‘I’m done. We’re done.’

  Her eyes were still wide; her hand still hovered near the button.

  As the fury ebbed away, the thought of having scared her left him sick and ashamed. Loss of temper was weakness, the selfish act of the child. This poor woman was probably one step closer to signing off long-term sick for stress because of him. Clueless, incompetent to the point of harm, she didn’t deserve that and, God knew, the public sector had too many already.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was out of order. Please don’t be scared.’ He took another deep breath, leaning on his good leg, teeth gritted, unwilling to move. ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere. I’m sorry to be blunt, but you don’t have a clue. You’ve never dealt with PTSD before, have you?’ She wasn’t about to admit it but she admirably managed not to avoid his eyes. ‘Look, why don’t you see if there’s someone you could refer me to?’ Dump me on, he thought privately. Had she the nous to seize the chance?

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, scribbling on her notepad to hide her relief. ‘Yes, perhaps that would help. A colleague … I could confer with my peers and find the best person … soon have you ship-shape, send you a new appointment … blah, blah, blah,’ she finished sarcastically.

  Stark was shocked. She wasn’t smiling, but she was holding his gaze and … there was something in her eyes. Triumph, almost.

  ‘Feel better?’ she asked. ‘I know I do,’ she continued, before he could think. ‘Though for a moment there I thought I might be looking for a decorator or even a dentist.’ Now she smiled. ‘Why don’t you sit down before you fall?’ Unbalanced, he complied. ‘I wonder if you realize that’s the first emotion you’ve ever displayed in this room?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘I also think it might be the first time you’ve told me the truth.’

  ‘Wh–? I’ve never lied to you! I’ve always answered your questions. Last week I sat here and unburdened my bloody soul!’

  ‘You sat and talked for a solid hour without telling me a single thing I didn’t already know.’

  Stark was gobsmacked. ‘How can you say that? I told you everything!’

  ‘You told me everything you thought I wanted to hear.’

  ‘And you sat and wrote it all down.’

  ‘I wasn’t writing what you said, Joseph, I was writing what it told me.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘That you think I’m an idiot.’

  Stark blinked.

  She cocked her head at his surprise. ‘That even after all this time you’re not ready to engage. That inheriting the role of man-of-the-house at a tender age fostered an imbalance in you, setting duty before desire as if that might forestall further tragedy. That to manage this you instinctively limit the number of people you allow close. But that in “taking the shilling” you unwittingly adopted new family, breaching your own barriers and exposing you once more to bereavement beyond your control. That the horrors you experienced, including the marketplace bombing you never mention, played a significant role in your SAS application and repeat volunteering. That physical incapacity has further undermined your sense of potency, forcing long-suppressed emotion to surface as simmering anger you would rather lose another finger than express.

  ‘That all this has left you resenting any help offered you, that you now link remedy with cause as if by holding the former at bay you can exert some control over events past and present. And that you’re in serious danger of sliding further into self-destructive behaviour simply to feel as if your life belongs to you and not the memory of those you think you failed.’

  ‘How dare y–’

  ‘You’re a bright man, Joseph, but a little too capable of knowing it. I may be an idiot in some ways but not in this.’ And suddenly she didn’t look it. ‘Your therapist at Headley Court warned me you were a tough nut to crack. He thought my experience with trauma victims would be useful.’

  Stark blinked again. ‘Your –’

  ‘PTSD isn’t always combat-related.’

  They locked eyes, appraising each other. For his part Stark saw for the first time that she had the upper hand completely. ‘You’ve been playing dumb, all this time. This has all been a wind-up.’

  ‘He also mentioned you had a discernible superiority complex that might prove useful.’

  ‘Christ! Whatever happened to doctor–patient confidentiality?’

  ‘I am your doctor. We are your doctors. What exactly did you think was in this file?’ she said, tapping the thick folder.

  Stark was still reeling. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be like the Magic Circle or something? You’re not supposed to show dupes how you dupe them.’

  ‘There’s little we won’t stoop to, Joseph, if it’s called for. And I think it’s time you and I showed each other what’s up our sleeves, don’t you?’

  35

  The post-operative nursing care was spookily attentive. Stark was a curiosity. He coasted through the first week in a depressingly familiar stand-by mental state: meds, meals, blood pressure, wound inspection, pay TV, books, naps, maternal visits. To avoid the misery of a full pelvic cast he was confined to his bed. Groombridge popped in with Fran on day two, talking about the case to avoid predictable awkwardness.

  Naveen had been granted bail with electronic monitoring, the rest remanded into custody. CPS were pressing them all to plead guilty. Nikki Cockcroft’s barrister had pressed hard for bail, claiming Nikki’s ‘pink-haired bitch’ comment was based on rumour circulating after the event, a thin lie but a canny one, and that everything else was circumstantial or the result of Kyle Gibbs’s action alone.

  ‘A dead accomplice is even better than a stranger in a pub.’ Fran laughed. ‘I honestly thought the judge might let her out. You should’ve seen her face when he refused!’

  Stark wished he’d been there but was too uncomfortable to share Fran’s mirth. ‘Still, a thin case. What will happen?’

  Groombridge shrugged. ‘It depends on whether Paula Stevens is perceived as a credible witness. CPS think they have it. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.’

  ‘And what about Paula?’

  ‘Murder looks flimsy, so CPS added manslaughter due to provocation to cover all the bases until the outcome of the sexual-assault case is known. In the meantime she was bailed into the custody of the local battered women’s refuge.’

  And in the meantime she faced the prospect of giving evidence against her attackers and the subsequent cross-examination. The cold eye of justice Maggs had tried to divert. ‘A
nd Maggs?’

  ‘That’s up to him, I reckon. Anyone else and I’d say fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Liam Dawson?’

  Groombridge pursed his lips in displeasure. ‘Naveen Hussein still won’t press charges – soils himself at the mere mention. SCD7’s racketeering project team have been talking to Dawson, putting pressure on, but last I heard they weren’t getting anywhere.’ Groombridge wouldn’t be feeling Dawson’s collar any time soon. Sometimes the big fish got away, but the pain in his eyes said those were the ones you never forgot.

  The following week Stark pleaded with his doctors to be allowed to attend the first of the hearings. They laughed at the notion, of course, and he had to wait for Fran to fill him in.

  On the first four assaults Harrison Collier, Martin Munroe, Paul Thompson and Tim Bowes had pleaded guilty to grievous bodily harm, Section 20, and assault without intent, and received sentences from six months to three years for each. The judge ordered that their sentences be served consecutively. Colin Messenger and Tyler Wantage had pleaded guilty to GBH Section 18, assault with intent, and got sixteen years apiece. Naveen Hussein pleaded guilty to Section 20 as an accomplice, claiming duress, and as a juvenile received only six months in total, with a concurrent six months for trying to board a plane with his cousin’s passport, for which his mother got three months suspended. He still faced charges relating to Internet crime when the much larger case came to trial, but he insisted Kyle and Nikki had forced him to upload the videos.

  All had pleaded not guilty to the murder of Alfred Ladd and sexual assault on Paula as joint principals. They would await that trial in their prison cells. Nikki pleaded not guilty on all charges and would await trial on remand.

  Other than that, the second and third weeks were a return to the bad old days of mind-numbing tedium and discomfort, plus awkward conversations with Doc Hazel.

  On the Friday of week three the cast on his hand was replaced with a removable splint and, after demonstrating he was an old hand on crutches, he was discharged. Late that evening Fran smuggled him out of the hospital via a secondary delivery bay hidden in the back of an unmarked van. The press had slithered away but there had been two further attempts to sneak past security. A nurse had been suspended for taking a picture of him on her phone and selling it to a tabloid.