Dead End

by Shirley Wells

  This letter was slightly less impressive because Lowell was drifting in and out of consciousness and Jimmy grew bored. It would suffice though.

  When he’d finished, he sat down in front of Lowell again. It fascinated him to see Lowell angry and defiant one minute and unconscious the next.

  As soon as he was conscious more often than not, Jimmy walked around the cellar floor, thinking.

  “So how do I stop you making noise down here? Ah, I’ve got it.”

  He hunted through his metal toolbox until he found his hammer.

  “If you can’t put so much pressure on your feet, you won’t be able to topple the chair, will you?”

  Lowell shook his head from side to side and made furious noises behind his gag.

  Jimmy ignored him. He lifted the hammer and slammed it down on Lowell’s right foot.

  There was a brief noise—bones cracking, Lowell’s muffled cry—before Lowell passed out, slumped over and would have tipped the chair again if Jimmy’s reactions hadn’t been so quick.

  That was the problem. Lowell was heavier than he looked and the chair wasn’t sturdy enough.

  It took him over an hour to get Lowell where he wanted him, jammed in the corner of the room so that the wall stopped him toppling to his right, and the old boiler protected his left side. Jimmy covered the boiler with blankets so that in the unlikely event of Lowell somehow managing to bash it, the sound would be muffled.

  Setting up the noose in the corner of the room proved tricky but, finally, all was as it should be.

  It was almost two o’clock. Time to go home.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dylan hated hospitals. The smell, a disturbing mix of disinfectant and overcooked vegetables, would cling to his skin for days.

  King’s ward was in the old part of the building where Dylan wouldn’t have been surprised to find that consumption and bubonic plague were still rife.

  “The last bed on the left,” the nurse said.

  Dylan strode along the ward, trying not to look at the sick men taking up beds, and was grateful to reach King’s bed. At least King looked healthy enough, apart from bandages around his bare chest. Given the way that bullet had floored him, he’d made an amazing recovery. In fact, he looked better than he had when Dylan had last spoken to him. He was relaxed. Perhaps he felt safe here.

  “Look who it is,” King said. “Have you brought money from your publisher?”

  “I don’t have a story yet. I’ve brought you some grapes though.” Dylan put them on the cabinet by the side of the bed and pulled up a chair. “What happened then?”

  “Dunno. I was off to the gym when two blokes—”

  “What really happened?” Dylan didn’t have time for the fictitious version. He’d already heard it. “I was there. I saw you waiting for them, I saw them hand over a holdall, and I saw the guy shoot you.”

  King thought for a moment then seemed to shrink a little against the pillows. “Weller said he owed me some money. I don’t know what he was talking about. It was a setup.”

  “You believed he was giving you money? Why would he do that?”

  King shrugged. “I dunno.”

  Dylan helped himself to a handful of grapes. Fruit wasn’t his food of choice, in fact there were times when he thought he was allergic to it, but he was starving and it was better than nothing. “What do you know about Sarah Rickman?”

  King visibly jumped at the question. “What does she have to do with anything?”

  “I’m curious. I’ve been doing some research for the book and I’ve heard strange rumours about the car that hit her and put her in a wheelchair being driven by her husband.”

  “That’s nothing to do with me. How would I know what happened? If she says it was a hit-and-run, then I take her word for it.”

  “I think she’s lying.”

  “So you reckon Max ran into her?”

  “I do.”

  “So what’s it to do with me?”

  Something about this conversation was making King edgy. “You tell me.”

  “Who’s saying it’s anything to do with me?” Oh, yes, King was definitely agitated. “They’re fucking lying, whoever they are.”

  “She was friendly with your wife, wasn’t she?”

  “So?”

  “I heard she was planning to leave Rickman, and that Rickman took exception and ran her down. Perhaps he’d been drinking. He’s fond of a drop, I hear, and a lot say he’s not a bloke to argue with when he’s drunk.”

  “Perhaps he had been drinking. Perhaps she had. I don’t know nothing about that.”

  Dylan helped himself to more grapes. He was convinced King was lying. “So what happens now?”

  “I get out of here—tomorrow, if I’m lucky.”

  “So soon?”

  “Yeah. It was just a graze. Nothing serious. The shock was the worst of it, but I’m as good as new now.”

  King was one lucky man. Dylan had thought he’d been heading to the mortuary. “What happens when you get out?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about those bent coppers who landed you in trouble in the first place?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get them.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. They’re fucking dead.”

  “I thought Rickman was dealing with them.”

  “It doesn’t matter, does it? Either way, they’re fucking dead men.”

  “What’s Rickman doing about it?”

  King frowned. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him.”

  Dylan finished the grapes while they talked but it was obvious that King wouldn’t tell him anything of interest.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Lenny. Meanwhile, keep dodging the bullets.”

  He was glad to escape the ward, and even more pleased to step outside into the sunshine and head away from the old part of the hospital, past the gleaming glass and chrome of the main building and to the car park.

  It was time he visited Bev. For a bloke with such a strong aversion to hospitals, he was spending one hell of a lot of time in the blasted places.

  It wasn’t that he was squeamish. He’d seen too many gun and knife wounds for that. He’d seen dead bodies and attended post-mortems. True, he’d fainted at his first postmortem and the smell was something he’d never forget, but he’d learned to cope with them. Sudden death didn’t bother him too much. What he found so unsettling about hospitals were the number of near-death people being moved around in wheelchairs or on trolleys, and patients strolling around attached to intravenous drips. He’d even seen one chap sitting in a wheelchair outside the main building, holding on to a bag of something being intravenously fed into his system, while smoking a cigarette. Madness.

  It didn’t take long to drive to Bev’s hospital but it took an age to get his bearings. The building was a vast sprawling place, and Bev’s room was on the opposite side to the car park. She had her own room, not because they were paying a fortune for it, but because all other beds had been taken.

  He collected his car park ticket and ventured inside, then realised belatedly that he was still wearing his Bill Williams disguise. He returned to the Morgan, removed his wig and glasses and shoved them in the glove box before going back to the building.

  Signs led everywhere—cardiac unit, urology department, X-ray, antenatal—and he was soon lost again. After walking what felt like miles, he finally found himself following the yellow arrows to the oncology unit.

  Hushed voices came from Bev’s room. He recognised his mother’s voice, then Bev’s, and another female was talking. He stood for a moment, gathering his breath and pinning a nonchalant smile on his face.

  “I don’t want Dylan told.” Bev’s voice wasn’t hushed now. In f
act, she sounded almost hysterical.

  He didn’t hear any response, but Bev’s voice came again, loud and harsh. “Because he’s bloody useless, that’s why. You know as well as I do, Vicky, that he’ll go into complete panic mode. The thought of coping with two kids on his own—God, he’ll be on the next plane to bloody Australia.”

  Dylan’s smile vanished. What the hell was she talking about? He’d coped with the kids loads of times. Bloody useless? He’d never heard such rubbish.

  He would have pushed open the door and said as much, but he heard his mother’s voice. “He has to be told, love. It’s not fair to keep it from him.”

  “And I will tell him,” Bev said, “but not now. Not yet. He’ll need to be told—carefully. He’s managed to convince himself that I’m young, fit and healthy and that, after a couple of sessions of chemo, I’m going to be running marathons for the rest of my days.”

  He wanted to move, either walk into the room or walk away, but he couldn’t. His muscles refused to obey the simplest of commands.

  “How can I can tell him that the bloody cancer has spread, that I might only have a couple of months to live? I can’t. Not yet. In fact, if anyone so much as whispers the bloody word terminal to him, I’ll kill them. He’s my husband, and I know how to deal with him. I’ll break it to him slowly and gently.”

  There was a brief silence until Bev said with feeling, “I could kill for a bottle of wine right now. Make that two bottles. I warn you, as soon as I get out of here, I am going to get totally and utterly wasted.”

  Dylan heard his mother start to cry.

  The sound, one he’d never heard before, galvanised him into action. He turned on his heel and strode back along the corridor, not knowing where he was going, only knowing he had to escape.

  He saw a door marked Toilets and pushed it open. Thankfully, it was deserted. He threw cold water on his face but it didn’t help. He dashed into a cubicle and spent the next few minutes throwing up. Sweat soaked into his shirt. His heart was thumping out a crazy rhythm.

  He couldn’t think straight. Nothing made sense. Somehow, he had to walk into Bev’s room as if everything were normal.

  He couldn’t do it.

  Christ, she was right. He was bloody useless.

  Dylan was throwing more water over his face when an elderly man opened the door and stepped inside. He frowned at Dylan. “Are you all right?”

  No. I’ve never been less all right.

  “Fine. Thanks.” He left the toilets, strode along endless corridors until, more by luck than judgement, he managed to escape the building and find his car.

  He was hunting through his pockets for change to pay for the parking ticket when some semblance of sanity returned and he knew he couldn’t avoid Bev forever. He might be bloody useless, but he wasn’t a coward. Not too much of a coward, at least.

  He leaned against his car for five or ten minutes, trying to talk himself into action, mentally practising the smile he’d wear and rehearsing the cheery chat he’d deliver when he walked into that room.

  This was crazy. He’d spoken to doctors, several of them, and none had so much as hinted at anything like this. If they were hinting at it now—well, sod it, he wouldn’t believe them. They’d get a second opinion. And a third and fourth, if necessary. Bloody National Health Service—they’d probably mixed her records up with someone else’s. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. Even if they hadn’t—they would beat this thing and nothing would convince him otherwise.

  Feeling slightly reassured, he squared his shoulders and aimed for a casual stroll into the building. The floor insisted on coming up to meet him and he collided with the wall twice. He couldn’t even walk straight let alone talk.

  He was soon lost again and had to ask for directions.

  “Follow the yellow lines,” a cheery orderly said.

  He did, and he was soon outside Bev’s room again. All was quiet. He opened the door and walked into the room. There, that wasn’t too difficult.

  Smiling—at least he hoped it looked like a smile, because it sure as hell didn’t feel like one—he sat on the edge of her bed.

  “Oh, you’re here,” she said. “I bet your mum ten pounds that you wouldn’t show up today.”

  “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

  She grinned. “I happen to know that the Arsenal game’s being shown on TV. A pity I lost my bet, but thank you for coming. So how’s your day been?”

  A voice, one that didn’t sound like his own, came from goodness knew where. “Pretty boring. What about yours?”

  “About the same. They’re letting me out tomorrow—well, assuming I pass muster when the consultant does his rounds...”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When Lucy breezed into her room, Bev wondered if she’d ever been so pleased to see anyone. “What are you doing here?”

  “Checking out the hunky doctors. What else?” She dropped her bag on the chair and hugged Bev. “Dylan said you were being discharged today. Is that right?”

  “Yes. Any minute now, with luck. I’m just waiting for the doctor to sign me off.”

  “So what happened?” Lucy sat on the edge of the bed, and held Bev’s hand. “How come you had to be brought here in such a hurry?”

  “Oh, I felt a bit off when I woke up and—” It was trying to smile and talk at the same time that did it. A huge sob stuck in her throat and her voice refused to do anything useful.

  “Bev?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. She lifted her arms, put them around Lucy’s neck and howled. She’d known that if she started to cry, she wouldn’t be able to stop. And she couldn’t.

  “Whatever’s wrong?” Lucy rocked her back and forth, as if she were a child. “Hey, come on, Bev, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “Oh, Luce, you’re a star!” A laugh escaped her, and she almost choked. She dragged in a couple of shuddering breaths. “It is the end of the world. My world, that is.”

  Lucy pulled back to look at her. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “The cancer’s spread. The operation couldn’t get all of it, we knew that, but we thought, hoped at least, that the chemo would—” She had to pull in another deep breath. “Anyway, it’s spread. It’s aggressive. There’s nothing they can do. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Lucy’s grip on her arms was painfully tight, but welcome. “Oh, Bev. God, no wonder Dylan looks a wreck.”

  Bev shook her head. “He doesn’t know yet. Until I can talk about it without going to pieces, I can’t tell him.”

  Bev felt awful now. Her best friend knew and her mother-in-law knew but her husband, the man who should be first to hear the news, hadn’t a clue.

  She couldn’t tell him, though. She’d have to be strong for him, pretend that she could cope, that they could all cope, and she couldn’t do it. Not yet.

  “They shouldn’t have told you,” Lucy said. “They should have told Dylan instead. Why would you want to know something like that? Why couldn’t they lie?”

  “Because I told them I wanted the truth. No matter how awful.”

  “Are they sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “No one knows. It could be months or even a year or so.” Said like that, it didn’t sound too bad. It wasn’t today or tomorrow, or even next week.

  Lucy began to cry and it was Bev’s turn to console her.

  “Look at the state we’re in,” she said. “God, if we’re like this sober, what will be like with a case of wine inside us? And I promise you this—at the very first opportunity, we’re going to get legless on wine from the best vineyard known to man.”

  “Absolutely.” Lucy sniffed, grinned and sobbed. “No more cheap plonk for us.”

  “Or
perhaps we should stick to champagne. Do you know, I’ve never been sick or passed out on champagne? Wine, yes. Champagne, no.”

  “Apart from at Acer’s wedding.”

  “Extenuating circumstances,” Bev said. “That was just plain weird, wasn’t it? I still can’t believe we’d been listening to his woes for almost three years. Three years! All those boyfriends, remember? They came and went and we had to pick up the pieces and tell him that, one day, he’d meet the right bloke.”

  “I know,” Lucy spluttered with laughter although tears still ran freely down her cheeks. “And do you remember how he turned up and handed us the wedding invites? And how we thought Susan must be a misprint for Fred or John?”

  “And it turns out she looks like a supermodel and is stinking rich. That was the poshest wedding ever, wasn’t it? A complete waste of money, and totally over the top, but just wonderful. Every time I paused for breath, a waiter poured me more champagne. Bliss.”

  “And Dylan had to carry you to bed.”

  “Yes, because I couldn’t master the stairs.” Bev smiled at the memory. “Happy days.”

  Lucy squeezed her arm. “We’ll have more of those yet.”

  “Of course we will.” She handed Lucy a tissue, and grabbed one for herself. “A lot more.” Although not nearly as many as she’d like.

  “And we’ll drink—hell, I know what we’ll do. We’ll have a weekend in Paris and drink champagne. My treat...”

  Chapter Thirty

  Dylan hadn’t slept. He hadn’t even dozed for more than a couple of minutes at a stretch.

  The kids had spent the night at his mother’s place—she’d offered and he hadn’t had the strength or inclination to argue—Frank had gone to bed early, probably because Dylan wasn’t in any mood for chat, and Dylan had rattled around in the house feeling more alone than he had in his life.

  Alone, and in a state of complete panic...

  Now, he was standing outside Goodenough’s building. He hadn’t rung the doorbell, there was no point because he doubted Goodenough would answer. Instead, he was hiding behind prickly green shrubbery beside the front door.