Death & Back: (Charlie Cobb #2: Crime & Action Thriller Series)

by Rob Aspinall

  "What are you doing?" Malik said under his breath.

  The drivers looked on in curiosity. They laughed as the guard holding the door open spoke into a small radio on the collar of his blue tracksuit top.

  Amira watched as the man opened the driver's door to the people carrier. Finding no key in the ignition, he whirled around and made a run for the entrance. He shrunk into the distance, approaching the guard on the front gate.

  The guard seemed unconcerned, smoking his cigarette. With the merest of efforts, he lifted the barrel of his rifle and let off a quick burst of fire.

  Immune to such things, no one standing in line flinched at the sight and sound of a gun. Yet there were gasps as the man fell to the ground, face down on the tarmac. Even from a distance, blood could be seen from his wounds.

  The man who'd driven Amira and Malik to the barracks spat on the ground. "Come on," he said. "Inside."

  Marched at gunpoint, the line filtered into the building. It was dark and dank. The air stale and the permanent dripping of a pipe echoing down long, dingy corridors.

  Amira walked towards the back of the line, through two sets of heavy oak doors. The guard leading the refugees stopped in his tracks. He told everyone to line up against a wall to the left.

  For a moment, Amira thought they were going to execute each refugee, one by one. She stood with her back against the wall, trembling in fear—not the only one. They'd taken their money, passports and valuables—now they would kill them and dispose of the bodies.

  Amira pictured a handgun to the head for a quick, clean kill. Suddenly, death in Syria seemed like a comfort. She imagined the scene: reclining in an armchair, listening to music and drinking tea. A mortar shell drops through the ceiling. She doesn't even see it coming. It would have been an acceptable fate.

  But not here, not like this.

  The lead guard handed his rifle to another member of the gang. He reached inside his jacket for his handgun.

  22

  I don't know why I keep pulling at this bastard handcuff. It's not coming off. And the bedrail it's attached too won't budge either. Not because it's especially sturdy. It's just that I'm so bloody weak.

  I look around the ward, the bed propped up forty-five degrees. There's an old man with a broken leg, elevated in a sling. A young guy who looks like he's been in a car wreck: head wrapped in bandages and arm set in plaster. Another middle-aged bloke on a drip with a post-op dressing on his throat.

  Then there's me. Hooked up to a catheter bag

  It's not that I can't piss. The nurses say I can't walk far enough to the toilet.

  Here comes one of 'em now.

  "Nurse," I say, rattling the cuff against the bed rail. "Any chance of a mirror?”

  She's a short, tubby blonde with the bedside manner of a caged gorilla. She plants her hands on her hips. "Do I look like your personal slave?"

  "Just so I can see the damage."

  She tuts and takes a clipboard off the end of the bed. "Let's see, you've got a fractured skull, two broken ribs, multiple lacerations and several deep muscle contusions."

  "But other than that, I'm fine."

  She pauses and frowns at me. "You look like you've been to death and back.”

  "I'm out of the woods though. You can take off the piss bag and the cuffs."

  She laughs and shuffles on her way. "Fat chance."

  Southern cow. I reach for a plastic cup of water on a table to my right. I'm hit by daggers of pain in my ribs, my back, my skull. Every bloody body part you can think of.

  I stretch through the pain and grab the cup. Take a drink. The more I move, the faster I'll recover. No matter what the docs tell you, that's the secret. I've been through enough beatings to know.

  I sit up straight in bed and get a better look along the ward. There's a pig in uniform guarding the entrance. He sits on a chair with his back to me.

  Beyond him, I catch sight of a detective marching up the corridor. I can tell he's a copper from here. It's a sixth sense I've got. This one's a lanky bastard with floppy, sandy hair. A flat face with small features and eyes loitering close to a slim, freckled nose.

  In his early forties, I reckon. He looks older the closer he gets, striding up to the end of the bed and putting on the brakes.

  He takes a good look at me. "Charles Cobb?" he asks in a Home Counties accent. Posher than cockney, but still with a twang of London.

  "I might be." I say.

  He moves around the bed. Stands over me, hands in pockets. I realise he's the guy from the schoolyard. The same face. The same clothes. "I'm Detective Clarke, National Crime Agency."

  "Oh great," I say. "What are you here to finger me for, the stuff up north or the stuff down here?"

  "Can't say I care about your previous activities," says Clarke, taking a card from a grey trouser pocket. He hands it over. "Though I thought a man in your position would be keeping a low profile. What with all that bother in Manchester."

  "I am . . . Or I was. I've gone straight."

  "Well that's obvious," he says.

  "How was I to know there were people in the back of that truck? They told me I was shifting goods."

  "Well, one way or another, you've got yourself in a right mess. You're facing a lengthy stretch."

  I hand back the card. "I know where this is going. What do you want?"

  "The name of your contact would be a start. Who hired you?"

  "Funny, I don't remember," I say. "Must be the skull fracture."

  "You're gonna protect the guy?" Clarke says. "After the state they left you in?"

  "Look, I don't grass," I say. "Even if I did know the bloke's name . . . Which I don't."

  Clarke sags in the shoulders and shakes his head.

  A woman hurries in with a green cardboard file under her arm. She's younger than Clarke with olive skin, but in the same brand of sober suit all these detectives wear. Her dark hair tied tight to her head. "Sorry guv," she says to Clarke. "Parking was a nightmare." She hands him the file and looks at me. "This the driver of the truck?"

  "This is our man," Clarke says. "But surprise, surprise, he doesn't wanna snitch."

  "Why should I?" It’s not like you're gonna let me go."

  "I've seen your record," Clarke says. "You're a career criminal. But not that kind of criminal.”

  "Can I have that in English?"

  "You're not a trafficker," the female detective says.

  "Charlie, this is Detective Morales," Clarke says. "She's working with me on a case we've been building for some time now."

  "A case on what?"

  "The people who did that to you," Morales says, pointing to my bruised and battered face.

  "Well you're not getting very far," I say. "They've got a right little industry going. They’re bringing these people in by the truckload. Thousands a pop. Can't say I agree with it."

  "Then give us a name," Clarke says.

  "Newsflash pal. Me and the law don't exactly get along. Why would I help you?"

  "You don't care about the people you helped smuggle into the country?" Morales asks.

  "They got in. They'll be set up with houses. Jobs. So what? I don't give a shit who you chuck out of the country."

  Clarke opens the file. He spreads a few photos out on the bed. Grainy pictures of grim-looking digs behind barbed wire fences. "They keep them in secure compounds, under lock and key."

  "And at gunpoint," Morales says.

  "The people you've been working for are much more than smugglers," Clarke says.

  "Yeah, I got that impression," I say, wincing as I move.

  "These men run a slave ring," Morales says, tapping one of the photos. "They make money off the smuggle, then crowd them into compounds."

  "Disgusting places," Clarke says. "No heating or running water."

  "They feed them rations and force them to work for nothing," Morales says. "Fields and factories . . . if they're lucky."

  "Worse if they're young, attractive and female," Cl
arke says.

  "Or the traffickers are after a few organs to sell," says Morales. She parks her arse on the edge of the bed. "If anyone refuses, they threaten to send them back to where they came from."

  "If they're caught escaping—" Clarke says, running a thumb across his throat.

  I take a sip of water. "If you know all this already, why do you need me? Why not raid these shit-holes? Make some arrests?"

  "The law's not as simple as that," Clarke says.

  "The only information we've got is the testimony of an escaped migrant," says Morales. "Whoever's running the shop stays well out of sight."

  "And we suspect they might have someone inside the force, tipping them off," Clarke says.

  "Every raid has come up empty," says Morales.

  "I'm not surprised," I say. "These lads are proper pros. You won't get near 'em."

  "That's why we need you to give us a name," Clarke says. "A bit of traction. A foot in the door."

  I think about Amira and the others, stripped of their money, their stuff, their dignity. Forced to work and left to rot. "How long have you been after these arseholes?" I ask.

  "It's ongoing," Clarke says, "But this particular case . . . Four, maybe five years?"

  "Then I'll make you a deal," I say, seeing a window of opportunity. My ribs catch fire as I lean forward. "Give me what you've got and turn me loose on 'em. I'll do more in an afternoon than you lot could do in another five years."

  Morales laughs. "Come on, look at you."

  "They caught me by surprise, that's all. I'll be right as rain in a few days." I cough up some blood as I say it. I swallow it down. "If you're so bloody familiar with my record, you'll know this is what I do."

  "Oh, and what do you get in return?" Morales asks. She seems amused by the idea.

  "I give you the people who are doing this. You let me walk."

  "If you could walk," Clarke says.

  Morales shakes her head. "You must think we came down in the last shower."

  Clarke sighs and looks at Morales, then at me. He gathers the photos together inside the file and closes it. He fastens the file with two large paperclips over the top. "Tempting as your offer might be, Charlie, I don't have the authority to sanction that."

  "It was worth a try," I say with a shrug. Damn, shrugging hurts too.

  Clarke rests the file on my bedside table. He leaves his card, too. "Think it over," he says, tapping the card. "Give me a call when you're ready to talk." As they turn to leave, Clarke stops mid-stride. "Oh, and in case you're thinking of doing a runner, we've got an armed guard out there. Six-hour shifts around the clock."

  The detectives walk out of the ward. I rest back against the bed. I glance at the file on the table. At the paper clips fixed on top.

  23

  They finally take the piss bag off me. The narky blonde nurse does it. And she's not the delicate type. She pulls the catheter out of my chap: more painful than a kick in the bollocks with a steel boot.

  "Oh, don't be such a softie," the nurse says.

  I'm about to say something back when I see the police guard giving me the eyeballs.

  He stands at the side of the bed.

  "You enjoying this mate?" I ask him.

  "A little bit, yeah," the smirking shit-bag says.

  I pull at the cuff on my right wrist. "Do the honours will you? I need to get out of this bed."

  "Don't get any ideas," he says, removing the cuff.

  "Does it look like I'm going anywhere?" I say, easing myself out of bed. I put both feet on the floor, rising with the help of the bed rail.

  The copper removes the handcuff. He strolls slow behind me as I stagger round the ward. I down a jug of water and go for a proper slash. Holy shit, the burn. The nurse didn't warn me about the burn.

  I cry out in pain.

  The copper thumps on the other side of the toilet door. "Everything okay in there?"

  "What do you think, dickhead? I'm pissing razor blades here."

  "Good," the copper says. "Just wanted to make sure."

  "Yeah, yeah. You're loving it now. But you won't be when I make my move and your head's on your sergeant's chopping block."

  I hear him sniggering behind the door. "Dream on you sack of shit."

  I emerge from the toilet and head back to bed, every step unsteady, body wanting to collapse and sleep. But I wanna get it used to moving again. ASAP. I force myself to stretch before I get back in bed. It's brutal, but good for the joints.

  Day two in hospital and they serve me up some food. I say food: a defrosted square of white fish with some white jizz on top. A handful of tiny cubed potatoes and carrots they didn't even bother pulling the roots out of. I push the plate away.

  "You've got to eat something," the nurse says. "It's good for you."

  "They once said that about cigarettes."

  "You won't get your pudding," she says.

  "Thank Christ for that," I say, handing her the plate.

  "You know, you won't recover if you don't eat," she says, expressing her complete lack of knowledge of how these meat-suits of ours work.

  See, when you've spent half your adult life extracting information out of people, it pays to learn a thing or two about the human body.

  Pudding and square potato bits are full of sugar. So's the jizz sauce. And the last thing you need is sugar.

  Besides, the body heals much quicker in a fasted state. Spiking your blood sugars only increases inflammation. And when your body's trying to digest food, it's not healing fractures and cuts and fighting infection.

  So I ignore the rumbling in my belly and the nonsense spouted by the nurse. I continue to refuse food the rest of the day and focus on chugging more of that water.

  The water flushes the burn out of the old chap and the toilet trips loosen me up a little each time.

  I go to sleep early. I wake up at nine the next morning. Breakfast is bacon and scrambled eggs, which is fine. High fat, low sugar. The preferred energy source of the brain and body. I wolf it down. Not 'cause I can't wait to eat it, but 'cause I don't wanna taste it.

  I nod off for an hour after brekkie. When I wake up, Cassie, and her mother, Mandy, are sitting next to the bed.

  "What are you two doing here?" I ask.

  "Hello to you, too," Mandy says, pulling a face. She wears tight blue jeans with rips in 'em. A pink top under the same leather jacket she's had for twenty years. And her dirty blonde hair pinned up, which makes her face look older. Not that I'd ever dare say it.

  "You okay, Dad?" Cassie asks in a frayed blue jumper, sleeves pulled over hands. Light blonde hair styled messy as usual. Her blue eyes welling up as she stands up and looks over me.

  "Never better," I say. "Why are you here and not studying?"

  "Why are you in a hospital bed?" she says, glancing at the file Detective Clarke left on the side table. "What are they gonna do to them?"

  "The immigrants?"

  "Asylum seekers, Dad," Cassie says. She chews her lip. Deep in thought. She stands and picks up the file. Flicks through and shakes her head. Sad Bambi eyes staring at the photos. "Those poor people. You should do something."

  "What am I? The Bleeding Heart Foundation? Besides . . . " I rattle the handcuff against the bed rail.

  Mandy folds her arms and pulls a face at me.

  "Okay, I'll think about looking into it. In a few weeks. Once I get rested.”

  "They haven't got weeks," Cassie says.

  Christ, since Cassie hit university age, these two have become like a bloody tag team.

  "Listen Cass, chances are I’ll be in a prison cell. Not much I can do when I’m under arrest—“

  "Who are you talking to?" the copper guarding me asks. It’s a different one this time. Shorter and wider. With his rose-red cheeks and a shaved head, he looks like an overgrown choirboy.

  The guest chair by the side of the bed is empty. The file exactly where Clarke left it on the table. Cassie and Mandy nowhere to be seen.

 
Shit. Having imaginary conversations. Always one of those two, or a combination of both. I need to try and realise when it's happening. But the extra bangs in the head are hardly gonna help. A baseball bat to the skull is what triggered 'em in the first place.

  Still, imaginary or not, Cassie might have a point. I grab the file from the bedside table and open it up. I'm not much of a reader, so I flip through the papers, looking at the pictures and scanning the key info.

  As I do, the image of Amira forced into slavery invades my head. I snap the file shut and dump it on the bedside table.

  The guard sets off back to his post at the end of the ward.

  "Hey," I say. "Couldn't get them to bring my clothes, could you?" He eyes me with suspicion. "I wanna feel human again. I'd rather be in the nick than here." I can see the pig isn't budging. He's a real by-the-book type. "Look pal, the sooner I'm back on my feet and behind bars, the sooner they'll pull you off babysitting duty."

  He looks around the ward. Mumbles under his breath. "I do hate hospitals."

  Half an hour later, he comes up with the goods. A porter drops off my laundered clothes in a white plastic bag. The copper removes the cuff from my wrist and escorts me to the toilet.

  I'm walking better now. Stiff as hell but steady. I get changed in the toilet. It's hard work. Especially pulling my jeans on and my t-shirt over my head.

  I look in the mirror. The swelling above my left eye is going down. My cuts are beginning to scab and my bruises are yellowing out already.

  See, what did I tell you? Fasting, water and high-fat meals. Works wonders. Next time you take a beating, follow Dr Breaker's advice.

  Though, having said that, it's not all sunshine and rainbows. My limp is still there and my open fracture will take weeks to fully heal.

  The copper walks me back to the bed. I leave my boots and jacket in the bag on the floor. I sit in bed and watch the TV. Twenty-four-seven news. It has the time on the bottom-right of the screen. I watch the hours tick by until 2pm.

  That's it. I've been watching 'em change every six hours. One guy comes and the other leaves. The new guy always arrives with food: a flask of coffee, a packed lunch and a newspaper. Sometimes a donut, a McDonalds or Subway bag. They'll settle down on a chair outside for an hour or so. They'll drink the coffee and scoff their food and then after a while they'll need a piss or a shit.