Stitched

by Taylor, Peter

  She smiled up at him as he sat down. He jerked a thumb at one of the security officers standing near the wall, legs splayed.

  ‘Big Brother’s always watching,’ he said, ‘and no doubt there’s a camera somewhere.’

  She leaned forward and he could see just how thickly she’d laid the lipstick on, the make-up too, which was nothing like the true shade of her skin. The dark mascara emphasized the blue of her irises. Bridge knew that the painted-doll look was a travesty of her natural attractions; the woman under the paint was another person physically. Of course, that deception was what his sister wanted to achieve. Like a consummate actress, she could switch character to suit appearance.

  With an amused twinkle in his eye he registered this current persona. ‘You should have been on stage, Bella,’ he said, remembering how he’d watched her employ her wiles and guises as a little girl when they were bounced around the orphanages and foster homes. Adapting to what they wanted you to be had been part of the game, if you wanted to gain advantages.

  Bella’s eyes wandered round the room. ‘This place,’ she said, screwing up her nose, ‘smells like the pits.’

  ‘It’s not home,’ he grunted. ‘I won’t be able to stand it much longer, Bella. I’m looking over my shoulder all the time.’

  Her eyes narrowed with concern. ‘You’ll have to be strong, Charlie. There’ll be the good life waiting when you get out.’

  He shook his head, side to side. ‘If you don’t hurry I’ll be coming out in a box.’

  ‘Poor Charlie,’ she said. ‘You didn’t deserve this.’

  His fists balled. ‘Never mind “poor Charlie”. I don’t need sympathy. I need action!’

  ‘Cool it, brother,’ she snapped back at him, her eyes swivelling to the watching officers. ‘Don’t let those bastards see you’re upset.’

  She leaned closer, fixed him with her eyes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The good news is it’s coming together,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I’ll speed it all up now. Don’t worry.’

  Bridge breathed in, held the air, blew out again. ‘Thank God! But don’t be too long about it.’

  ‘Did I ever in my life let you down?’

  He smiled. ‘Never! And you always said you’d find a way. Me and you against the world, sis.’

  ‘Wasn’t it ever so, Charlie? Wasn’t it ever so? Just be patient a little longer, darling, and we’ll have you out of here.’

  Chapter Five

  Alex was driving with the window wound all the way down. Even though he’d just had a shower, a sheen of sweat glistened on his skin as the headlights of other cars caught him in their glare. His Friday night five-a-side soccer was a weekly ritual rarely missed, the long drive into Middlesbrough worth it for the release of tension and exercise it provided. One or two of the players were friends from his youth. Unfortunately, since they all lived in different directions and Alex himself had that long drive, they didn’t bother with an after-match drink except on special occasions.

  Yet he always stopped for a quick one to relieve his thirst at the Gypsy, a pub on the road home. It had been one of his father’s haunts near Berwick Hills, the part of the Boro’ where he had been brought up. He supposed his regular visits were half nostalgia, a way of holding on to a morsel of the past. Certainly the pub had changed and nowadays he didn’t know any of the clientele. When it loomed up ahead he went down the gears, signalled and drove into the car park.

  He asked the barman for a pint. Sitting on a bar stool, he supped it and put it down again, resisted the temptation to swallow it in one to quench his exercise-induced thirst. He was glad the place was fairly empty and cool. A cluster of bodies around him would have been hard to bear in his overheated state. Later, it might be elbow to elbow in here but by then he’d be watching the late-night film at home with Gloria. He was thinking about her when he sensed a presence at his elbow and smelled perfume.

  ‘Get it down you, man,’ a female voice said lightheartedly at his elbow. ‘Don’t play with it.’

  He turned sideways. The black-haired woman standing by his side couldn’t have been in more than her mid-twenties. Her purse was in her hand as she waited to be served. She was attractive, Alex thought, probably could have made it in the modelling world with help, the long, lissom type like her were supposedly much in demand. Yet there was a hint of hardness in her young face too, as though the world had already used her badly and left its mark.

  ‘A little of what you fancy does you good,’ she said, head to one side, flirting with him. ‘And you’re so hot and bothered, mate, you really fancy that pint.’

  ‘Like to savour it, pet,’ he responded, slipping easily into the familiar Teesside vernacular. ‘Besides, the wife beats me up if I have too many.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ she came back at him, pulling a face. ‘Here’s me thinking you had that certain air of savvy faire or whatever they call it and you turn out to be under the thumb. Where have all the real men gone?’

  Before he could reply the barman interrupted and asked the girl what she wanted.

  ‘Vodka and orange, please.’

  When he’d poured her drink she asked for a packet of nuts. He went away to fetch them and she opened her purse. A few coins fell out on to the floor.

  ‘Let me,’ Alex said and bent down to retrieve them.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, when he dropped them into her palm. ‘Can’t afford to chuck it away when there’s so many want it off you, eh!’

  After she received her change she made a point of catching Alex’s eye and nodded to a table in the far corner of the room. There was a man sitting there, his back towards them. He was dressed in a black coat and his head was completely shaven so that the rolls of fat on the back of his neck stood out.

  ‘Come over and join us if you like,’ she said. ‘My friend won’t mind a bit.’

  Alex made a pretence of considering the offer, then said. ‘Nice of you to ask but I’m off in a minute.’

  For a moment she looked offended but then just shrugged. He watched her go back to the table and sit down next to the fat man. They seemed an unlikely couple but, like the girl said, they probably were just friends enjoying a drink together. She’d seemed friendly enough to him. He hoped that that hint of hardness in her face wasn’t a precursor of worse times ahead for her.

  The place started to fill up with late-nighters, young people in for a preliminary drink before moving on to a nightclub. It was time for him to be leaving so he drained the remnants of his beer.

  He’d just put his glass down on the bar and started to rise when a combination of nausea and an almost overwhelming weariness hit him. He placed both hands on the bar to support himself, hoping the feeling would pass. Had he taken too much out of himself at the five-a-side was his first thought? More likely he’d just had a bad pint.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ He heard the barman’s voice but it seemed distorted, an echo squeezed down a long tube.

  Alex blinked, tried to clear his vision. ‘Just a bit queasy,’ he heard himself say, his own voice sounding to him like an echo from distant hills.

  Everything in the room started to lose focus, as though he was on a fast fairground ride that was out of control. When would it stop and let him off?

  ‘You sure you’re all right, mate?’ he heard the barman repeat. Then he felt someone grip his right arm.

  ‘We know him. We’ll take him outside, get him some air.’

  Vaguely, he recognized the voice as belonging to the girl he’d spoken to earlier. He wanted to tell her he’d be all right but he couldn’t form the words. All that came out was gibberish, yet he knew he wasn’t drunk.

  As though he had no will of his own, he sensed his body manoeuvring between the tables, his arms gripped tight. When the door opened a blast of cold air hit him but it had no effect. Then he was aware he was crossing the car park in spite of his body’s protests that all it wanted to do was lie down.

  He heard the car door open,
felt the pressure of hands thrusting him inside, hands which were careless of his welfare. It was a relief to sink into the softness of the seat and curl up like a baby. He was so drained it felt as though it was all he could ever want in the world.

  *

  The thumping noise in his head was relentless. He ran his tongue around his mouth and lips. Devoid of any moisture, they felt coarse and rough. Still only half-awake, he knew he either had the mother of all hangovers or he was ill. But where the hell was he? What had happened to him?

  He raised his heavy lids a fraction. A sliver of light penetrated, pricked his eyes like needles so that he had to close them instantly. Shading his eyes with one hand, he forced himself to try again. This time he managed to open them, peep at his surroundings.

  Gradually, the room took form and shape. He saw that it was dingy, sparsely furnished, the walls a depressing pea-green. The lightshade, in a misguided attempt at uniformity, was a deeper green than the walls, green like puke. He fought down the bile rising from his stomach. Then he noticed a chair next to the bed, neatly folded clothes lying across it. Could they be his clothes, he wondered?

  When he lifted the sheets his body was naked. Yet, his mind still hazy, he couldn’t recall undressing and going to bed in this strange room. How had he got here?

  He forced himself through the mist in his memory, came to a clearing, remembered being in the Gypsy. A girl had spoken to him at the bar. He’d felt ill. He’d been helped out of the pub into the back of a car. Then the curtain of mist descended again and, hard as he tried, he couldn’t recall anything.

  Suddenly it struck him that he didn’t even know the time. How long had he lain here? He’d have to get up, get moving. Gloria would be wondering where he was. Maybe she’d reported him missing.

  He manoeuvred his legs to the side of the bed, slid them out on to the floor. Using his arms as levers, he pushed himself upright. Though he felt weak, his legs held his weight. On discovering they were indeed his clothes on the chair, he dressed himself. His wallet was still inside his jacket pocket and nothing was missing. His watch was in his trouser pocket. It was one o’clock, not too bad, he thought, until he realized he had no idea whether it was night or day.

  He rushed to the window, opened the blinds. It was dark outside and on the street below cars were moving, their headlights weaving desultory patterns on the building opposite, which seemed to be unoccupied. He figured it must be an office block so probably he was in town somewhere. God, this was surreal! What had happened to him?

  Steadier on his feet, he went to the door. It opened on to a long corridor, badly lit and as tastelessly decorated as the bedroom. With all the charm of a factory conveyor belt, a threadbare carpet, an expanse of wooden floorboard on either side, stretched to the top of a stairway. Alex walked along it and descended the stairs.

  At the bottom was a fair-sized hallway, in one corner a desk with a reception sign hanging over it. A thin, hatchet-faced man, black, lank hair contrasting with a pasty face which suggested too many days out of the sun, sat behind the desk. With an air of bored insouciance, he watched Alex approach.

  ‘Help you, sir?’ The man rubbed at a stain on the sleeve of his red jacket, his eyes dropping away from Alex’s even as he spoke.

  ‘How did I get here?’

  The man stopped his rubbing, looked up at Alex as though he was mad.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve just woken up in one of your rooms,’ Alex said, making no attempt to hide his impatience and bewilderment, ‘and I’ve no idea how I got there.’

  The man’s chin tilted in a superior gesture. His tone reflected the adopted pose.

  ‘I’m afraid you were the worse for wear when they brought you in, sir.’

  ‘When who brought me in?’

  ‘A man and a woman, sir.’

  Alex considered for a moment. ‘A bald, fat man and a younger woman with dark hair.’

  ‘That’s it, sir, precisely.’

  Possibilities spun in Alex’s head but he couldn’t settle on anything that made any kind of sense. That thumping noise, though muted now, was still there in his brain and a sense of bewilderment pervaded all his attempts at logic.

  Hatchet-face was watching him with that patronizing air. ‘They paid for your room and left a package for you, sir.’

  He reached below the desk, brought out a large sealed envelope. Alex, mystified, reached out and took it.

  He turned away and opened the package. Two photographs slid out into his hand. His senses reeled. The whole room seemed to close in on him trying to crush him. He forced himself to look again, half-hoping his eyes had deceived him. But there was no doubt about it. The first photograph showed him and a girl naked on the bed. It was the girl from the Gypsy. The second was a close up of himself leaning over a table snorting a line of white powder like a pig at a trough. An arm, its owner unseen, was around his shoulder like a tentacle.

  Alex closed his eyes, felt shame and anger burning his cheeks. The photographs were so sordid. The girl and her fat partner must have drugged him, engineered the whole affair. He allowed himself to look at hatchet-face. The man was craning his neck to view the photographs. Alex bundled them into the envelope and stared him down.

  He snapped, ‘How long have I been in that room?’

  Glancing a his watch, the man answered, ‘You came in at ten. It’s just after one now. Three hours, then, sir.’

  ‘Do you know the pair who brought me in.’

  The receptionist stared at Alex. His bored expression had gone now and he looked puzzled.

  ‘Never seen them before in my life. They paid for your room, helped you up there, came down, told me to let you sleep it off. I thought they knew you, sir. It seemed to me they were doing a friend a favour.’

  Alex said nothing and a silence developed until the receptionist, uncomfortable now, felt the need to fill it.

  ‘Are you able to drive, sir? Or would you prefer to return to your room?’

  ‘Where’s my car?’ Alex said, asking himself the question as much the receptionist. His first thought was that it must still be in the car park at the Gypsy, his second that it was probably stolen.

  Hatchet-face reached under the desk, brought out a set of keys. He dangled them in front of Alex as though he’d found a trinket to please a troublesome child.

  ‘They left your keys with me, sir. Your car is parked right outside.’

  Alex took them, thinking the sooner he got out of there the better. But was he all right to drive? He remembered he’d only had one pint but he was nearly sure somebody had put something in that pint. Then, there was the photograph, showing him snorting. Those considerations were overcome by his need to get out of that grubby little hotel, distance himself from a place where someone, for some reason, had dragged him down into their gutter.

  Gripping the package containing the photographs as if it were his life in his hands, with a curt nod he turned away from the receptionist. Then he headed for the door and, without a backward glance, walked from the building on to the street, where he gulped in the fresh night air as though it had the power to cleanse his soul.

  He noticed his car parked at the kerb and hurried to it, pleased that he was able to walk straight, if a little lacking strength in all his limbs. The familiarity of the driver’s seat was like a haven after his harrowing experience. Before he set off he looked over his shoulder, noticed that the sign over the hotel read, ‘The Grand’. It struck him as a total misnomer but he knew he’d seen it before and that the hotel was in the centre of town.

  His first desire was to go straight home. But what could he tell Gloria? Would she believe what had happened? Something, pride maybe because he’d been duped, made him decide it might be best not to tell her. Yet he felt he had to talk it through with somebody and he could only think of Eddie. His old friend didn’t live far away and he made up his mind to go there and unburden himself.

  Chapter Six

  Eddie lived alone in Marto
n, one of the better parts of Middlesbrough where the famous Captain Cook had been born. Alex rang his doorbell repeatedly until a light went on in the hall.

  He heard the bolt drawn back, a key turn in the lock. The door opened a fraction. Eddie peered through the gap. When he recognized Alex, he opened the door wide.

  ‘Good God, man!’ he exclaimed rubbing at his eyes, ‘What brings you here this time of night. Thrown you out, has she?’

  ‘Not that simple,’ Alex said. ‘Need to talk to you, man. Sorry it’s so late.’

  ‘Haway in then,’ Eddie said, stepping back. ‘Go in the front room while I make us a brew. You look like you need one.’

  Alex entered the room. It was typical Eddie, a bachelor’s room, no decorative flourishes but, as a legacy from his army days, neat and tidy. There were no pictures hanging, just photographs of their old platoon. For Alex, it was like looking at a gallery of scenes from a former life and a lump formed in his throat, remembering how many had died. He wondered how Eddie lived with those youthful faces reminding him every day; he supposed everybody was different.

  Suddenly, he remembered Gloria and shouted, ‘Can I use your phone, mate?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ Eddie called from the kitchen. ‘Give somebody else a fright in the night why don’t you?’

  Gloria answered on the third ring. She sounded worried. He tried instantly to put her at ease.

  ‘It’s Alex, pet. I’m all right but—’

  She interrupted before he could say more. ‘Alex, what’s happened. Where are you?’

  He was relieved that he could only hear remonstration in her voice, no hysterics.

  ‘I’m at Eddie’s, pet.’ He breathed in, lowered his voice, tried to sound subdued, conscience stricken. ‘I fell asleep. Can’t understand it.’

  Gloria was silent for a moment. He figured she was letting him feel her displeasure, calculating the slow burn of her silence was more potent than words.