“Alfie handed over the cash; received drugs in return?”
I nodded.
“That’s an incredible amount of money for a kid in a care home.”
“It was in the bag. I’m sure about that.”
“This had happened before?”
“Yes.”
“Same couple?”
I nodded again. I remembered that I had new information. “It was a different park. I thought at first that I’d been there before but no, we never met at the same place twice.”
“How did it work?”
“We’d meet at a specified location. I never contacted them, it was always this couple contacting me. They gave me a pay-as-you-go phone and would text me the details of the meet. We’d do the exchange. Then it would happen again. They never used the same cell number twice when they contacted me. Always had the drugs on them, reliable to the end. The situation worked well.”
“This is obviously much bigger than a user-dealer relationship,” said Mrs Martel.
“Alfie Harris wasn’t a user. He was a hustler. He wanted to catch a break.”
Money would catch him a break. I thought about the drugs. Until now, I’d simply seen the man and woman as Angie’s parents, now it was shocking to think of them as drug dealers. The drugs had been stored in the pram, which was the perfect cover-up. Hiding in plain sight in a park.
“If the situation worked so well, how did everyone end up dead?” Mrs Martel, never far from the million-dollar question, always needed an answer.
“Someone wanted more,” I said.
Mrs Martel knew I was telling the truth about Alfie Harris. She was, for once, one step ahead with the paperwork. She reached into a drawer and dropped a file on desk.
I stared at it.
“Alfie Harris. Case file #439.” she said.
“How did you get his file?
She held up her hands. “Through legal means via a court document; ethical sharing of information that could help with a crime case.”
“You believed me?” I was astonished that she would follow-up on what must have seemed like images from an over-active, fevered imagination.
She opened the file. “The stories match up – incredible as it seems. Your knowledge of Harris is accurate right down to siblings being split up and removed from the family home.” She pulled out another file and laid it carefully on top of Alfie Harris. “Official police report.”
“That’s a lot of paperwork going on,” I said, half a smile.
“Story of my life,” she said, looking at the folders on her desk.
I stared at the police report.
“So, Lennox, I now have the official version of how everyone ended up dead,” she added. “It’s all in there in black and white.”
“Officially?” I looked up from the report. She was staring at me.
“Do you want to see if the stories continue to match up to the end?” Her eyes were locked into mine, an intense stare reaching into my mind. Probing.
“I think I’d like to hear the official version,” I said leaning forward.
Mrs Martel leafed through some papers, stopped, studied the type and got straight to the point: “Alfie Harris shot Jasmine Anderson and Davie Anderson. Police arrived on the scene; Harris wouldn’t surrender his weapon; a policeman shot Harris. Case closed.”
“What?” I shook my head in disbelief. She sounded unfinished. I waited.
“No drugs or cash were found at the scene. A gun was recovered; fingerprints on the weapon were matched to Alfie Harris.” She read out the address of the children’s home. “The same Harris you made the connection with?”
“Yes.” I confirmed. “Harris made the drop,” I insisted. I didn’t need a persistent re-occurring flashback to confirm this. “The deal went down. Definitely.”
“The police report contradicts this completely,” Mrs Martel said. “So,” she proceeded carefully, “either there were no drugs and no money, no deal going down, or…” she paused, “someone cleaned up…”
“And set me up,” I interrupted.
“You are Harris?”
I nodded. “Was,” I said, correcting the grammatical tense. “Now I’m Lennox Jones.”
“Who set you up?” asked Mrs Martel.
I shook my head. “I can’t go back there. We know what happens. Harris ends up dead.”
“But how did Harris end up dead? The couple went down first. Was he shot by the police?”
“Yes,” I whispered, bowing my head.
“Are you sure, Lennox?” questioned Mrs Martel. “Are you positive there wasn’t another person, another shooter on the scene, other than a police marksman? You said the Andersons looked frightened, desperate. You followed their gaze. What did you see? Who did you see Harris?” she asked, raising her voice.
I went back. I put my hands up to protect my face.
“Who did you see?” she repeated, softer this time.
One triggerman. He shot the Andersons first. No witnesses. So much screaming.
Then he shot me. There was no pain, although I was aware that the white noise, white heat explosion at the bridge of my nose had to be the moment the bullet entered my head.
22
Angie: truce
Viv and I sat next to each other on slate-coloured plastic chairs. The noise of a vending machine seemed louder than it needed to be. I considered unplugging it at the wall.
Her parents were in a nearby room, which was seriously overheated. It was also short on space and oxygen so Viv and I decided to decamp to the corridor outside the intensive care unit, or ICU as it was repeatedly referred to by the medics. There was nothing for us to do but sit and wait. Then sit and wait a little more. Above all, throughout all the sitting and waiting, we had to try not to think. No one needed to give head space to the worst that could happen.
I chewed at my fingernails, tasting the alcohol antiseptic handwash we’d had to use on entering ICU. The middle of the night slowly edged into the dawn. We’d stopped telling each other that Rob was going to pull through because it reminded us each time we said the words that there was a chance he may not.
We waited. We were at the top of the hospital and it seemed sound-proofed, insulated, cut off from the rest of the world. Just us and critically ill and injured people.
I must have dozed off because my head jerked up when Viv spoke.
“I’m sorry,” she said, using a small voice instead of her signature singsong one.
“Huh?” I looked at her.
“I was jealous.”
I thought I’d missed the start of the conversation but she continued after a pause. “I could see how much you liked Lennox Jones. It sent me into an Othello spin.”
I felt an abrupt lurching sensation in my stomach when Viv mentioned his name. Butterflies not fluttering but a reduction of blood flow.
“I thought, time spent with Lennox could be time spent with me,” continued Viv. “Act IV, scene III, Vivienne Lee never returns Angie Anderson’s messages and breaks up a beautiful friendship.” She finished the sentence with a theatrical sigh sounding much more like herself.
I smiled at her and said, “As my therapist used to remind me, ‘if it happened in the past, Angie, then leave it in the past, and move on.’ Let’s move on? Right?”
“Thank you,” said Viv. “When I got the call about Rob, I phoned you a second later. I didn’t think twice, it had to be you. I can’t get through this without you.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand, probably too tightly. “I’m not blameless,” I said. “I fell too hard, too soon, too determined to make him mine. I’m not that person.”
“We change,” said Viv.
“I don’t want to change,” I replied. “It is never a good idea to need someone. To totally need someone.”
“I heard about the fight outside Mrs Martel’s office. Fisticuffs on the floor, Angie, really?” I heard a small smile in her voice.
I groaned. “What the hell was I thinking?”<
br />
“So what happened?”
“He thinks he’s got some weird connection to the guy who shot my parents.”
“Connection?” Viv practically choked on the word. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I have no idea,” I said, rubbing my eyes, utterly exhausted. “He does seem to know stuff. He really does. About what happened, you know. But I can’t handle it. It’s too much, too intense.”
“Too I’m-off-the-meds weird,” added Viv.
We settled back into an anxious silence knowing Rob was somewhere behind those closed doors relying on adrenaline dosages to give him blood pressure and machines to give him a heartbeat.
I fiddled with my phone and pressed “send”.
Have I told u lately that I <3 u?
Viv replied without hesitation: Te amo.
The next text message to flash up on the screen half an hour later was from Lennox: I’m outside the hospital.
I showed it to Viv. She pulled a face.
“You going to talk to him?” she asked.
I shrugged. I had spared Viv the finer details earlier. It wasn’t the time or the place to explain that Lennox believed he was Alfie Harris in another life; convinced that his flashbacks were real. Absolutely convinced that he was there, he was the one. Viv, he thinks he shot my parents.
I can imagine all too well what she would have to say about that.
Or perhaps I knew she would never let me talk to him again once she’d heard his version of events, which was a selfish consideration, much as it killed me to admit it.
My phone vibrated again. Lennox with another message: Please, Angie.
Viv peered over my shoulder. “Go to him,” she said. “Now is not the time for fighting.”
She got that right.
I took the lift to Ground and straightened out the rules of engagement inside my head as I headed for the door. I marked out enemy lines. Truce for one night: love him now, hate him again tomorrow. Lennox Jones was more at risk from me.
It was still warm in the disappearing darkness. I strode through the exit doors and saw there was over 100 people hanging around. Rob’s friends didn’t give up easily or too soon. I looked around, the waiting faces turned towards me but I couldn’t see Lennox in the crowd.
But he saw me. He was there. He looked how I felt, drained. Double tired.
I cut straight to the truce agreement. He looked deflated but didn’t draw up his own conditions.
“How is he?” he asked. “No one seems to know what’s going on.”
“He’s in ICU,” I said. “He’s not good.”
This small piece of information rippled around the car park where the people had gathered. Some had stretched out on the verge, others were sitting on car bonnets. It looked like a festival without the music.
Lennox shook his head. He looked torn up, upset. I didn’t think, I just hugged him. He hugged me back harder, hands in my hair, pulling me into him. I don’t know how long we stood there. “This doesn’t change anything,” I said, muffled voice. “I will hate you again tomorrow.”
He kissed me to stop me talking. I kissed him like I was never going to see him again.
I had no idea of time but I knew it was time to go back to Viv. I wanted to be there when the doctors delivered the morning update after their assessment.
“I have to go,” I said.
“I need to tell you so much,” he said, an urgency to his voice, holding my face in his hands.
But I couldn’t bear to hear talk about losing people. Not now, not here. I changed the subject.
“Rob liked you,” I whispered. “He’d heard you were bad-ass good on waves.”
Lennox exhaled. “He was the one with the moves.”
“I have to go,” I said not wanting to go.
“Don’t hate me,” he pleaded.
“I don’t feel anything,” I lied.
“I need to see you again.”
“I need to go. Tell Rob’s mates I’ll keep them updated on his progress.”
Progress sounded positive but, as I walked to the lift, I realised Lennox and I had already started talking about him in the past tense, which sent a chill right through me.
Morning rolled in to the sound of rattling cups. Someone was pushing a trolley into ICU offering tea or coffee to those who wanted a hot drink. The doctors started their rounds at 09:30 so there was still more sitting and waiting to do. It seemed to go on and on.
Viv had been in and out to talk with her parents but I stayed in the corridor, staring at murals and other striking artwork that aimed to give people something beautiful to look at during their desperate situations.
Doctors dressed in blue entered and exited the unit. I attempted to read facial expressions and then realised it was pointless: these people were professionals when it came to a poker face.
Viv had filtered through more information to me in the small hours. As stabbing injuries go, it wasn’t the worst. It was surprising how readily we could give a terrible fact a positive spin: that’s how desperate we were.
Rob had lost a great deal of blood but the depth of the wound had not been sufficient to penetrate vital organs. Major arteries were intact, despite the degree of the initial blood loss.
This should have been the best news we could have hoped for but I could tell that Viv was holding back.
“What?” I urged.
“He fell badly after he was stabbed,” she sobbed, holding her hands over face. “He cracked his head. It has caused a swelling on his brain.”
I closed my eyes abruptly and cursed furiously. The stabbing wasn’t enough? The world always wants more.
We were told it would be another hour until the doctors completed their rounds so I tried to persuade Viv to come outside. She insisted that she wanted to stay with her parents so I gave them some space.
I was almost disorientated in the sunshine; it had a stronger force than the artificial hospital lighting. The crowd had fallen in numbers as the demand of work routines kicked in but I didn’t doubt that they would return.
I scanned heads, searching for him but there was no sign. It was a bitter disappointment but I had made the demands of the truce clear. Lennox was never going to hang around so I could hate him. Now I hated that he was gone.
Standing there, blinking in the bright sunlight, I forced myself to remember that I was one of the lucky ones – I had an outer shell to deflect blows.
Back upstairs, other outer shells were being tested to the limits. Rob was in an induced coma, the doctors said, which meant he was receiving a controlled dose of drugs to keep him in an unconscious state. It seemed wrong. We wanted him back not gone. The coma, however, was supposed to be a positive move; to give his brain time to rest and, hopefully, help to reduce the swelling, which would ease some of the pressure on his brain. These words and explanations came out of the mouth of the doctor. Viv and I stared at him dumbfounded as though he was speaking in a different language.
Viv’s mother walked out into the corridor and sat next to Viv and I. She seemed quietly in control while we could hear Viv’s distraught father sobbing inside ICU.
We have to prepare ourselves for the worst,” she said using words that we understood all too well, “because Rob might not make it.”
I pulled on the headphones, turned up the volume until it hurt. Instead of catching a cab from outside the hospital back to Primrose Hill, I walked or, more accurately, pounded the pavement until the soles of my feet ached. I pictured a serious of imprints, like those wet-cement footprints, behind me. In times like this, I needed my skateboard, protection, support, action, quick getaway.
The plan was to shower, wash the antiseptic hospital smell out of my hair, change my clothes and grab a little sleep. Then return to my Viv.
I’d no sooner put one foot through the doorway when Louise appeared and hauled me into the house, both hands locked around my arm, nails digging into my skin. I screeched. Tiredness had reduced me to jitters and Louise j
umping out at me made me worse.
“Where have you been?” she screamed, dragging me into the living room where I noticed the curtains were pulled across the windows.
“The hospital!” I protested, indignant and confused. “I sent you a text. Rob, remember?”
“We n-need to get out of here,” she stammered.
“Not good. He’s in a coma,” I answered the question she should have asked. The prognosis was bleak. Rob could be in a coma for months.
“Oh. I see.” This information stopped her short for a second, then she was back on a wild one, eyes rolling in her head.
“It’s not safe here,” she shouted tightening her grip on my arm. I attempted to wriggle out of her grip but her plump hands were surprisingly strong.
I looked around the room and saw two suitcases.
“What’s going on?” I asked. I was so tired I couldn’t work out the luggage status but knew that Louise and I didn’t take spa breaks together.
“I need you to go upstairs,” instructed Louise with exaggerated slowness, “and get whatever you’ll need for over the next week or so.”
“How about some sleep?” I snapped, finally shaking her off my arm.
“Angie,” she screamed, making me jump again. “You’re not listening to me. We need to leave.”
“Yeah, like I need a snakebite.” I was shouting now. “I’m going to my room.”
Louise looked so desperate that I faltered. “Has Lennox been here?” I asked. “He’s in a weird place at the moment.”
I didn’t think she could handle a more detailed explanation, such as: he thinks he shot your sister.
“You need to speak to him,” whispered Louise.
“Oh I plan to,” I said exhaling wearily. Lennox needed to shut his stories down because they were obviously freaking everyone out.
Louise stepped towards me, she was taking so many shallow breaths I thought she was hyperventilating. “Tell him he’s not safe either.”
“Not safe?” I was confused and tired now; a lethal state of mind. I passed on the “either”.
“And you, listen to me Angie, no more internet searches on Alfie Harris.”
You Again Page 16