Dead but not Buried

by Iain North

  ‘You’re speaking to me again,’ she glared.

  ‘Touchy,’ he whispered to George as they brushed past her table. They perched on stools at the bar and ordered drinks and sandwiches.

  ‘She was not a happy bunny when you left,’ George whispered.

  ‘I had a few things to do.’

  ‘She thinks you should have taken her with you. ‘

  ‘I needed some space. It was nothing personal.’

  ‘You should tell her that because she was in a bloody strop. It was an absolute nightmare.’ He glanced across the bar to the solitary girl. ‘Looks like she still is.’

  ‘I though she had the Bellboy to keep her company.’

  ‘She lost interest in him when you left. Anyway, he pissed off to interview those greenie bastards after he heard we’d been over there. I haven’t seen him since. Hopefully the dog got him.’

  ‘Or the bearded lady who served us the tea,’ Jim smiled.

  ‘That would be a fate worse than death,’ George concurred.

  ‘So Amber wasn’t off with him this morning?’

  ‘I was just trying to wind you up. She’s been mooching about the hotel like a little girl lost. A right pain in the arse.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘She’s a woman, she’s looking for an apology, what else? Buy her a drink. Just don’t get too close. Cordial, not over friendly.’

  ‘Come off it, George, she’s a mate, not the Duchess of Cambridge.’

  ‘Just a bit of friendly advice. I don’t want to see you making the same mistake twice. If, of course, it was a mistake last time. ‘

  Jim didn’t answer.

  *****

  Amber appeared at the door of Jim’s hotel room dressed in old jeans and a long, baggy woollen jumper.

  ‘How do I look?’ she asked.

  Jim scanned her from head to toe. For once it was okay not to complement a woman on her appearance.

  ‘Awful?’ he replied.

  ‘Cheers.’

  She ran some grease through her hair to take the body and shine out of it and removed all traces of make-up from her face. But, in truth Jim thought she still looked stunningly beautiful.

  She didn’t think so. ‘I feel horrible.’

  ‘You’re a heroin addict feeding a £100 a day habit,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Are you sure this is going to work?’

  ‘I hope so. Just come in with me and don’t say too much. She’ll be expecting you to look withdrawn. Yes and no answers should do the trick. I’ll tell her you’re trying to come off the stuff at the moment and you’re not feeling very well. You might want to rush out to the bathroom half way through, pretend you’re being sick.’

  ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘Nerves,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Is this right?’

  ‘Ethical?’

  Amber nodded.

  ‘Not really. But it should get us a cracking splash. Think about it, your by-line in the Sunday Mail.

  Amber dipped her head. She still didn’t look happy.

  ‘Don’t worry. I will be there with you, right by your side.’ Jim took her hand and held it tight.

  *****

  They pulled into the same space in Bank Street vacated earlier in the day, five minutes before 3pm.

  ‘Here we are.’ Jim pointed across the road to the door of the drug centre.

  ‘I didn’t fancy walking halfway round Inverness dressed like this,’ Amber said, stubbing a part-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. She swept her hands back over her forehead, through lank hair.

  ‘Disgusting,’ she murmured.

  Jim turned to George, who was a reclining in the backseat. ‘Good to be back in Inverness?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied without enthusiasm.

  ‘Have you got the camera ready?’

  George nodded.

  Jim and Amber got out of the car and walked over to the white door.

  ‘Hunch forward a bit,’ he suggested, ‘And don’t smile.’

  ‘That’s not likely to happen.’ Her scowl was convincing.

  Bob was sitting behind the computer in the waiting room.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said as they entered, smiling sympathetically at Amber.

  She stared blankly back at him.

  ‘Good stuff,’ Jim whispered in her ear.

  Bob flicked through a ledger on his desk. ‘You’ve an appointment with Siobhan?’

  Jim nodded, remembering that he too had a role to play.

  ‘Go through. Chap her door. She’s expecting you.’

  Jim did as instructed and led Amber into the tiny office where Siobhan had managed to clear some of her files out of the way.

  ‘This is my daughter, Amber,’ he said.

  Siobhan rose to her feet and extended a hand across the desk. Amber gave it the briefest of strokes and slumped down into the chair where Jim had sat earlier.

  Jim lowered himself into seat next to his adopted daughter.

  ‘So Amber,’ Siobhan asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

  Amber shrugged her shoulders and let out a little cough.

  ‘It’s not been easy for her,’ Jim said. ‘She’s trying so hard. But she just can’t shake it off.’

  ‘It’s not like a cold,’ Siobhan said helpfully, ‘She needs a lot of support, from you and your wife, and from people like us. You said she’s been taking heroin for...’ Siobhan referred to her notepad, ‘Two years.’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘And how many times have you tried to come off?’ She looked straight at Amber.

  ‘A few,’ Amber answered.

  ‘You’ve had methadone?’

  ‘It’s useless.’

  ‘It helps some people, but not everyone.’

  ‘Who prescribed you methodone?’

  ‘I got it when I was in prison.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘For prostitution.’ Amber was playing her part well. ‘I’ve been in a few times. For that, and shoplifting.’

  ‘I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before. I do the prison twice a week.’

  ‘She was in Cornton Vale,’ Jim interrupted. ‘We’ve just moved up from Dundee. The idea was to get her away from the drugs there. But it hasn’t worked.’ Quick thinking.

  ‘Ah, right.’ Siobhan paused to scan her pad.

  ‘What about HIV and AIDS?’

  Amber was indignant. ‘What about HIV and AIDS?’

  Siobhan kept her attention on Amber. ‘Have you been tested?’

  ‘It was clear,’ Jim added.

  Siobhan sat back and reviewed her notes once again. ‘Our best bet is to try you on a new programme. I’d like to give methodone another shot, see if we can make it work.’

  ‘Have you no’ anything better?’ Amber mumbled.

  ‘We’d heard about another treatment,’ Jim said.

  Siobhan raised an eyelid. ‘Another treatment?’ Amber continued. ‘One of the drug workers we saw in Dundee said something about a new drug. Something about a programme which lasts for a month and can get us right off the heroin.’

  Siobhan reclined in her chair. She looked straight at Jim. ‘Can you leave us alone for a few minutes. I need to have a word with Amber alone. ‘

  He paused for a moment, reluctant to leave her.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ Amber whispered.

  He paced the waiting room for 10 minutes. Through the window, he saw George fiddling with the settings on the car radio.

  ‘You can come back in now.’ Siobhan was standing in the hallway.

  He followed her and sat back down next to Amber.

  ‘Are you okay, love?’

  She smiled, nodded.

  Siobhan pulled open her desk drawer. ‘I’ve had a word with Amber. We’re going to try her on methodone again.’

  ‘What?’ Jim paused. ‘Isn’t there something better?’

  ‘There’s nothing else on the market at the moment. You mentioned some other treatment. If you know what it’s called
, I can look into it.’

  He was holding off on revealing his hand, but Siobhan was stubborn. ‘Something called Providon.’

  ‘Providon?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s not a drug treatment,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Jim was genuinely surprised.

  Siobhan shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re saying it doesn’t exist?’

  ‘It exists all right. But it’s not for drugs.’

  ‘What is it for then?’

  ‘Providon’s a fairly old drug. It was developed in the 1970s as an anti-convulsant for conditions like epilepsy, I think, but never got beyond the trial stage. Now it’s being investigated for use in treating HIV,’ Siobhan added as she scribbled out a methodone prescription.

  ‘You’ll need to come in here every day so I can keep an eye on your progress.’

  She handed the slip of paper over. Amber nodded, keeping up the pretence.

  ‘That should be no problem,’ Jim said, despondently.

  ‘Good,’ Siobhan said. ‘Now, come back here every day at two.’

  She took some personal details, name and address, that sort of thing, and then they left.

  Back in the car, Jim slumped into the driver’s seat. ‘Fuck.’

  *****

  Chapter 14

  It was the early hours of the morning when they arrived back at the Travel Inn. George slumped on to one of the twin beds and closed his eyes, as if he hadn’t seen a duvet for months.

  Jim’s head was spinning. It was probably the six pints of lager consumed with George and Amber to dull the pain of a major upset in his bid to land a national tabloid scoop. He dug the methodone prescription out of his pocket, looked at it for a second or two, then scrunched it up and threw it across the room.

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  ‘It’s open,’ Jim muttered.

  Amber appeared, still dressed like a junkie. ‘Can I have my old life back now?’

  ‘I think that kinda suits you,’ George laughed.

  She threw him a friendly glare. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Jim’ll give you a hand, if you like,’ he smirked.

  ‘Don’t listen to him.’ Jim walked over to her. ‘I know things didn’t quite go according to plan, but thanks.’

  ‘I quite enjoyed it.’

  ‘And I’m sorry about earlier.’

  She smiled and gave him a little peck on the cheek. ‘Goodnight.’

  George tutted. ‘I can make myself scarce if you like.’

  Jim ignored him. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  *****

  Amber slipped out of the bathroom dressed only in bra and white panties. Jim reclined on the bed, relaxed, his eyes drinking in every smooth curve of her young body. She switched the light off and moved slowly across the room, almost floating on air.

  ‘Are you sure you want this?’ she whispered softly.

  He watched her eyes, unblinking, twinkling in the soft ray of orange lighting creeping in through a gap in the curtains from the car park outside. ‘I do.’

  She nodded, just once, tanned legs stroking the edge of the mattress. Jim shimmied across, lifting the duvet to allow her in. Amber slipped under and snuggled in beside him, naked flesh touching. She rose up, her hand stroking his chest and their lips meet.

  ‘I’ve waited so long for this,’ she whispered.

  Jim closed his lips over her mouth. His hands wandered over her smooth round shoulders, down her back, unclasping her bra. He felt her thin fingers tickle his tummy, shifting lower, losing themselves briefly in the tangled undergrowth of his public hair, lurking teasingly there before finally emerging to wrap themselves around his pulsing erection, holding him.

  Jim flinched at the warmth of her touch, dragged in a gasp of hot night air. Amber smiled. She remained perfectly still for a tantalising moment, an aching moment too long. Then she caressed him in agonisingly slow strokes, up and down his shaft. And he came.

  Jim woke. The waistband of his boxer shorts was clinging to his tummy, sticky and cold. He lay back, closed his eyes. Whispered: ‘Fuck it!’

  George was snoring away like a baby, one with a 40 a day smoking habit. Jim eased himself out of bed and padded through to the bathroom. He cleaned himself up and splashed a cupped hand of cold water over his face.

  He found a clean pair of pants and sifted through the pockets of George’s tweed jacket in search of cigarettes. George smoked Winfields, cheap Australian cigarettes with a much harsher taste than the Marlboro Lights he was used to. He lit one up, coughed, then opened the window and stared out into the car park. The sky was clearing, soft light gently erasing the dark edges, eroding their presence. Birds were twittering in the trees over by the restaurant, willing another new day to get it’s arse into gear.

  He looked up to the heavens. An optimistic tinge of pink streaked the navy blue sky. Jim hoped today would be more productive. Behind him, George spluttered, stealing Jim from his private thoughts. He flicked the stump of his cigarette out of the window on to the dew laden lawn below and felt sure he heard a faint sizzle as the red hot tip struck the wet grass, so quiet and still was the early morning.

  He filled up the baby kettle at the bathroom tap and plugged it in next to the TV. There were some sachets of coffee on the tray of upturned cups you always found in travel lodge rooms. Sometimes they even gave you a couple of packets of biscuits, but empty wrappers in the waste bin below indicated George had beaten him to the punch.

  Jim discarded the impotent pouches of decaff and stirred himself a strong cup of black caffeine.

  He sat down at his laptop, opened a new file and keyed in a few thoughts. Providon may have nothing to do with opiate withdrawal, but it was still a link between Samantha O’Brien and Maurice Bennet. It also suggested that O’Brien, Bennet and Katrina McBurney must be HIV positive. It was perhaps not surprising, he conceded, given that both Samantha and Katrina were, or had been, intravenous drug users. Bennet may also have been injecting, given he spent time in prison where drugs seemed to be epidemic these days. He may have been HIV positive when he attacked Katrina and her little friend, adding a new dimension to the events of that tragic day in the woods.

  Jim pinched another of George’s cancer sticks and made a second cup of coffee. He switched the TV on, lowered the volume to the level of a whisper, and flicked between Sky News and GMTV while he dressed. He was taking a leaf out of Amber’s book, he’d bought himself a Reebok T-shirt and shorts and retrieved an old pair of trainers he knew lay lurking in a far recess of the Mazda’s cavernous boot.

  They last saw the light of day when he almost gave himself a hernia in a fun at the kids’ school to raise money for Meningitis Research. It was held in memory of one of the pupils, a 16-year-old girl called Alison. She was one of Kirsty’s friends. The speed with which the disease stole her young life was frightening. One day she was fine, the next she was in intensive care. The day after that she died.

  He remembered praying nothing like that ever happened to his two.

  Jim laced up the running shoes and paced up and down the room a couple of times, loosening the muscles in his tense legs. George was still snoring away under a hunched up mountain of duvet. He considered waking him. But the prospect of a fist in the face first thing in the morning wasn’t appealing.

  He left the room and chapped the neighbouring door. Initially there was silence, but then she appeared, a white terry-towelling nightgown draped over her shoulders, unkempt locks of hair sleeting across her creased face. The shoulders he remembered from his dream. The face was never out of his thoughts.

  Amber yawned, pulling the back of her flopping hand over her screwed-up eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just wondered if you fancied a run.’

  ‘It’s...’ She looked at her arm but realised her watch was on the bedside table.

  Jim finished the sentence: ‘Six o’ clock.’

  ‘I didn’t know you ran.
’

  ‘Sometimes. When I need to clear my head. How about it?’

  ‘Give me a minute.’