‘Fuck no!’ Lassie said, adamantly, grabbing hold of Abi and giving her a kiss on the cheek. ‘That would kill me.’
Pascale still looked worried, Tom gave her a hug. He fancied her so much but at this point he didn’t feel like he had a sexual atom in his body. He was pretty sure they all felt the same, except maybe Abi who seemed to be up for it 24/7. He wondered again what had happened to Paddy and Razor.
‘Pascale, listen… don’t worry. We don’t want you two involved.’ Tom gave her a kiss on the lips. She had the most beautiful lips, he thought.
2.31 Both Vials Empty
Razor sat in his wheelchair. His food, largely ignored, remained on his lap on a scratched beige plastic tray. Since he had spoken to his dad he hadn’t really been able to function. It seemed that what had begun as a stupid idea had transformed into something terrible, and he felt he was largely to blame. He could have told Paddy it was a crazy idea and he had, the voice inside his head answered. He could have refused to be part of it then, maybe? He should have done something to prevent this fucking mess. He sat up and watched as the nurse pushed the medicine trolley up the ward. She stopped at the bed next to him.
‘Come on now,’ the nurse said calmly as she pulled the man’s pyjama top up. ‘You do this yourself all the time, seeing your belly is no great hardship and you’ll have your insulin then.’
He hadn’t really spoken to anyone on the ward but understood the bloke next to him had diabetes and had to inject Insulin every day. He knew about diabetes because he’d had a teacher who was diabetic. He would pop into the nurse’s room to inject himself and always had a little bloodstain afterwards. He’d always had a good stash of Twix or Mars bars too, which would sometimes become rewards if they had done any good work. He was a nice teacher, and he was definitely in the minority in that. It must be tough having to do that every day he thought.
The nurse had finished in seconds, and without any thanks, cleaned him up as other staff began clearing away the dinner things. He looked down the bed at the metal pins and plaster that decorated his leg. All he needed was lights he thought and he’d be like a twisted Christmas tree. He wondered how he’d end up. What about the money? Would their debt be transferred to him? Or worse still, his parents? What would be become? Wheelchair bound? Smack head? Drugs Mule? After all who would stop a cripple? He couldn’t stand the thought of his parents being dragged into this mess. That was even worse than being crippled; at least it was his actions that had got him in this position. He sat as he contemplated the thought that had been creeping around in the dark recesses of his mind all day. He began to cry again. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Is it pain your legs again, Raymond? Hang on and I’ll get you some painkillers.’
The nurse came back with two yellow and green capsules in a meds pot and a glass of water. He wasn’t in physical pain but any respite would do he thought and swallowed them quickly. She used the hoist to lift him out of the wheelchair and back into bed, fluffed his pillows, adjusted the back rest and then retreated off the ward. He lay back and was soon drifting about in a mash-up of consciousness. He hit the red button and soon received the items he has asked for. He had decided to write some letters and the nurse had brought him down some stationery and a pen. He wanted to say sorry to his Dad and he wanted to say something to Paddy that could go into his grave with him. He felt he wanted to say goodbye, and he had been robbed of the chance. This made him feel sad and so he wrote to Paddy first. This was tough, especially as he wasn’t sure who would read it, if anyone. As he finished he hoped it would go straight into the grave and wrote these instructions on the envelope. He felt so sad, he had truly lost a great friend and to lose him like that made him angry. It didn’t matter though, there was nothing he could do about it and it wouldn’t matter soon at all. He then picked up the pen and began, his next letter. ‘Dear Mum and Dad…’
He sobbed quietly to himself throughout. This was much tougher than he had anticipated. He was full of apology. For what he had embroiled them in and for the action he was about to undertake. He tried to explain that he felt there was no other way out and signed off with a single kiss. Any more may suggest he was unsure about what he was planning. He sealed that letter too and addressed it, like the other one to Liverpool. He put the pen, pad and spare envelope to one side. He hoped that he hadn’t made any mistakes. He had always been shite at English and his spelling was awful.
He now had to put his plan into action. He’d watched the rounds for the last two days trying to work out who had what medication and what it did. From blood pressure pills to gastro-resistant pills, to painkillers and anti-viral, he just wasn’t sure what they would do to him or whether they’d have the desired effect. He did though, have a fair idea that if he could get his hands on enough of next-door’s insulin he could achieve his goal relatively easily. The problem was how to get it. The little glass bottles of insulin sat in a buff cardboard tray on the drugs trolley with the syringes. Razor thought his best opportunity had to be the last call for the night – sleepers, painkillers and insulin after a drink and a biscuit.
He woke from a light sleep and rubbed his forehead. He was sweating. He lay back and tried not to think about it. He’d had enough, of that he was sure. It should have been him with Paddy in that car, or them together in Morocco or somewhere away scot-free. Not here, stuck in hospital with nothing to look forward to except prosthetic limbs, or worse in the very near future. It felt stuffy, and as his bed was by the window he decided to try and open it himself, as the guy across the ward had done. He was able to do it relatively easily and he relaxed as the warm breeze entered the room, the smell of outside being a refreshing change from the smell of the hospital ward.
The evening began to close in and he began to think that he may not get the chance to carry out his plan while still in the hospital. Would he still do it? Would things be different outside? Would his injuries and the death of Paddy be enough to tip the scales of justice in his favour? His thoughts were playing games with him, games he didn’t want to play. Another wave of emotion hit him as his mind raced and he realised he wanted revenge. They had nearly killed him with that car! He wanted them dead now. The cunts. He also wanted revenge for his parents, for Paddy, and for Tom, who would no doubt be in all sorts of trouble at the moment. He struggled for ideas. He hated them all and wanted to hurt them, but how? Then, a broad smile broke out across his face as he remembered the A Team from when he was a kid. Hannibal always had a plan…
A while later he heard the wheels of the trolley approaching, he looked up at the clock. He must have drifted off, as it read 22.00. And the nurse was on the ward, attending to the troops. He watched as she made her way towards his end of the ward. The trolley, and his quarry, were in sight. He imagined it was going to speak, with its flaps on the side making it look like a metal mickey, but with special fizz bombs. He smiled to himself, was he happy? How could he be planning his own death if he was making fucking jokes? There, he thought, at least he’d looked at the words in his mind. His own death.
The nurse arrived at next-door’s bedside with a smile and a polished bedside manner.
Razor listened as the nurse carried on talking about the need to change his Insulin pump, this didn’t mean much to him as he lay looking at the trolley, wondering how he could get to it. She started to do something he couldn’t see but was immediately distracted by the sound of the alarm going off. A nurse shouted cardiac arrest the one attending to next-door’s insulin pump grabbed her keys and closed the trolley before running to assist in the emergency.
Razor had winced at the professionalism – even as she panicked she had closed the door of the trolley. He then realised that she had missed one flap through which he could see insulin vials and a syringe.
‘Now or never,’ he told himself and leant over to grab the trolley, it was too far away. He wanted to scream and realised he didn’t have long. He looked around and saw the pole he had used to open the window; he
grabbed it and swung it around so the hook was facing the trolley. He hooked the leg of the trolley and pulled it towards him. Should he take it all, or just some? His mind raced as he considered his position. All of it may make her think she had put it away; some of it may raise suspicions? He decided to take just some and a syringe, hoping that she wouldn’t notice. He hid them in his bedside cabinet and pushed the trolley back into position before closing the window and putting the window pole away. The emergency over, the nurse returned. She was now so behind with her rounds that she opened the trolley and carried on without a second glance.
Razor watched her finish and walk back out of the ward. The lights went out and he turned on his night-light. He lay on the bed, thinking. This was not the time to think, he had to be decisive. He really didn’t see that he had much to hang on for. This would seem to be the best for everyone involved. He was sad and would miss his mum and dad, but the shame he felt about involving them and the hatred he felt for the people that had hurt them and his best mate gave him no real option. He said a prayer for only the third time in his adult life, raised the glass vial and pulled the syringe down, taking in the entire contents. He carried out this exercise twice more, each time injecting into his cannula. He had watched with morbid curiosity as the nurses had done this to him on numerous occasions with antibiotics for his leg wounds. With all three vials empty, he relaxed back onto his pillow, his arms crossed, holding on to three letters, hand-written on beautiful cream Conqueror stationery that had been given to him so kindly by the same nurse that he had now taken advantage of to end his life, and probably her career.
2.32 Another Stakeout
Gary had read his magazine, drunk his lager and eaten his carrot cake. It looked to everyone there like he had been stood up. What he was waiting for hadn’t arrived and the waiter was giving him a look that said ‘Laugh it off mate, tomorrow’s another day.’ He’d paid his bill a while back and realised he’d passed his sell by date here. He needed to keep the house in his sights though and a slip up now would be catastrophic. In fact, he’d probably join them on the run! Much to the waiter’s relief, he was sure, he left the café and scuttled across the road to a small bar.
He went through a set of small double doors into a dark, wood covered space with only one other customer. ‘A large Amstel, please.’ Gary took in a window seat and hoped the barman would bring over his drink. He did and Gary gave him a note and waved away the change to a deep nod of appreciation. The stakeout recommenced, albeit from a different and more pleasurable location.
2.33 The Summer Evening
They all agreed with Tom’s suggestion that Tom and Lassie would stay with the girls that night and take the night boat to Harwich on Saturday. When they’d sorted out the mess they were in they’d return for a proper holiday with the girls, and head to the beach. They all toasted the plan with the remnants of a bottle of wine. ‘To end of a nightmare and a beautiful summer!’
‘Now for tonight?’ Pascale enquired, ‘What would you both like to do?’
Lassie dived in, ‘I’d like to just have a nice meal. I really don’t want to be hungover tomorrow.’
‘Totally agree. Let’s just have a nice relaxed evening and eat some good food.’
While the girls got ready to go out, Tom said to Lassie, ‘It’ll be over soon, mate, don’t worry.’ Tom could feel his own worry as he muttered the words to Lassie. Not only had he dragged Lassie into this fucking mess he was now staying in a flat with two utterly innocent, lovely Dutch girls. He fucking hated himself but couldn’t show it. If he did Lassie would smell it and then panic.
‘They know we’re here, Tom. They know we’re here somewhere.’
‘Yes, but they don’t know we know they know, Lass, do they?’ He thought about this and it didn’t seem to matter much either way. If they knew that they knew, they might think they would have fled, would that be better? If they didn’t know that Lass and he knew that may just take their time and watch the hotel? He told himself to shut up.
Lassie looked equally confused. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Fucking deep.’
2.34 A New Pair of Jeans
Seeing the group leaving the building, Gary gulped down his lager and left the bar. What bad timing! He was bursting for a piss. He made sure he kept a good distance from the group but had them well in his sights.
He tried to forget about it as he trailed them but couldn’t help but obsess about his increasingly swollen bladder. It felt like he was carrying a water balloon that was on the point of collapse. He followed, now bent over double and in growing pain.
As he waddled along, Quasimodo style, he was approached and asked if he was OK, he beat the concern away, trying to keep an eye on the group ahead.
‘I’m OK. I’m OK,’ he exclaimed, but then caught sight of his refection in a window. He had seen this before in Liverpool. People bent over from a bad hit, in agonizing pain looking for help or an ambulance. No wonder he’d been asked if he was alright! He struggled on and then waited as he watched the group go into a restaurant across the street. Staying on the opposite side of the road, he edged nearer until he could see inside. They were beginning to remove their jackets, a sure sign they were stopping, he heaved a sigh of relief.
Unfortunately, as he relaxed he felt his bladder join in and in a blind panic he struggled to release himself from his jeans in time to piss behind the bins next to him. But his body had taken over and before he could get his fly undone he felt hot piss begin to flow with some power into the crotch of his jeans, seconds later he was free and was aiming at the bin and wall but the damage had been done.
He was still squeezing the remnants from himself when he saw two policemen turn the corner and make their way towards him... He finished with seconds to spare and nodded a hello.
‘You do know it is an offence to urinate in the street in the Netherlands, don’t you?’
The two officers now stood in front of him, staring. Both were showing off their pistols and pepper spray in the shiny evening light. One reached for his torch and spot-lit the offending area.
Gary Sparks nodded. If he got nicked now it would be a fucking disaster.
‘I dropped something, I was just looking for it,’ Gary said, apologetically while pointing at the area where there now was a large puddle of urine.
‘Really?’ The policeman smiled, turned to his colleague and pointed at Gary’s puddle. ‘What were you looking for? Your fucking nappy?’
Both policeman then spoke in Dutch before laughing at Gary Sparks.
Gary stood, telling himself to suck it up while wanting to batter both of them with their own torch. He needed to be able to move on and get to a phone. He had to suck this up.
He shrugged again. ‘Sorry, I was desperate.’
The policemen laughed and one wagged his finger at Gary. They were clearly enjoying themselves.
‘Go back to your hotel and change, Sir, it’s a hot evening and you will soon be smelling like a, how do you say it? A tomcat?’
With this they both laughed and walked off down the street. Gary Sparks’ first instinct was to throw both of the cunts into the canal but he managed to rein himself in, after all, they were right. He could smell his piss already.
He made a note of the restaurant and the street name, now all he had to do was call George at the hotel and wait. He wondered how George would take his request to bring him a spare pair of trousers. Not well he imagined but he hoped he would see he was in a desperate spot and needed to keep eyes on the situation. He walked up the road and soon found a phone box. He called the hotel and was put through to George’s room.
‘Gary?’
‘Yes, George, got the little fuckers cosied up in a restaurant with the two girls we saw them with earlier, I’m across the road.’
‘Well done, Gaz, great fucking work. Let me grab a pen. OK, name of restaurant and street name.’
Gary told him where he was and asked George to bring him his shell suit bottoms, which he also had to
explain. Luckily, this brought laughter from George.
‘You dirty bastard. That’s fucking disgusting! But, it does show true commitment to the cause. See you shortly.’
Gary put the receiver down and shuffled back to his vantage point and the humid summer air began to cook his jeans.
2.35 Beirut Delight
‘What are you having then, Tom?’ Pascale asked, touching his hand.
He looked up to see the friendly face of the waiter. ‘Hi, may I have a beer? Is Almaza a Lebanese beer?’
The waiter nodded. ‘It is, Sir, and very good if I may say so.’
‘OK, one of those, the shish taouk and a fattoush salad, please, oh and a hummus snawbar. Thank you.’
Soon, they had all ordered and bread, breadsticks and a selection of dips were on their table along with four Almazas. They each raised a glass and toasted a lovely evening. The food brought a thumbs up from Abi and everyone agreed. Lassie looked at Tom and smiled.
‘Things will work out, squire, they always do!’
‘I hope so, Lassie, I truly hope so.’ Privately Tom was worried. The Scousers had caught a whiff of them at the hotel. Surely they wouldn’t be giving up that easily?
2.36 Have A Look
The porter had been happy to open Gary’s room for George when he had heard about the need for it. Carrying the shell suit trousers and a brown A5 envelope he went down to the hotel foyer and asked the doorman to get him a cab. He sat in the back seat, trying to remain calm. He was feeling very excited, in a very dark way.
The voice of the cab driver brought George out of his twisted meditation. He pointed across at the Beirut Delight and said, ‘Is that it?’
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