No Further Action

by TL Dyer

  ‘Still got you on remand then, fella?’ I say.

  ‘Thought you’d come to break me out of here,’ he mouths, gaze flitting round the room to be sure no one’s listening. But the three beds opposite are occupied with visitors, and a blue curtain separates us from his roommates on the other side of it.

  ‘Now, now, Peg. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t ensure you were getting the treatment you needed?’

  ‘The best kind. Treatment, my left bollock. Waste of a sodding bed. I keep telling them that. Waste of expensive tests that all come back clear, and a waste of these poor nurses’ time and energy when they’re already stretched.’

  ‘Pull the other one. Bet you’re a breath of fresh air for them, they can’t wait to start their next shift.’

  My colleague glares at me with his chin dipped to his chest, and if nothing else, I can see he’s not lost his appetite since he’s been in here. If anything, he might have put on an extra couple of pounds around the jowls.

  ‘Seriously though, mate. What’s the prognosis?’

  Peghead draws in a sigh that pulls his head upright, and folds his arms on top of the bedsheet. ‘You want the medical one or the personal one?’

  ‘There’s more than one?’

  ‘Indeed there is. But one is strictly off the record. Confidential.’

  ‘Okay?’ I say, not sure I want to get tangled up in Don ‘Peghead’ Edwards’ personal affairs, particularly the non public knowledge ones.

  ‘The medical prognosis, by the good staff of City Hospital, is thus far I am as fit as a butcher’s dog. Well, aside from the out of sync ticker, which a jump start put right, and the extra poundage, but that’s ‘cause I’ve been stuck here on my arse for the past week.’

  ‘So there’s nothing wrong with you?’

  ‘Well...’ He draws out the word, batting his hand through the air, discarding the bits he’s not telling me. ‘Nothing that popping some pills won’t put right.’

  ‘No death sentence, then?’

  ‘Nope. Sorry to disappoint, Fuller. Much as I appreciate your visit and all that, but we don’t need to say our last goodbyes just yet. Hence my eagerness to be gone from here, and back to the arms of my beautiful filthy liar of a chain-smoking wife, our two Labradors, my sixty-inch flatscreen, brand new La-Z-Boy, and the WRU Challenge Cup, which is hotting up right about now, as I understand it from my acquaintance over the way.’

  He nods his head, looking across the room to an old fella in the bed opposite who’s sipping orange juice through a straw that his visitor, presumed wife, holds to his lips.

  ‘Came in to have his tonsils out,’ Peghead says, and I look back to see if he’s serious. ‘Ninety-two.’

  ‘Shitting hell. Might they not have just left them in at this point?’

  My colleague shrugs. ‘Could have another ten years or more going for him yet. Be a shame to have a couple of bollocks knocking around in your throat the entire time.’

  ‘Suppose.’

  ‘Course, you know what his secret is, don’t you?’

  I’m looking over at the old man trying to figure it out, when Peghead says, ‘Twenty years his junior.’

  The woman at his bedside puts the empty glass on the side table and wipes at his mouth with a tissue. The tissue bunched in her hand goes into her coat pocket, and her husband eases his head to the pillow. A perfect, wordless synchrony.

  ‘That’s where we went wrong, Fuller,’ Peghead says, with a level of wistfulness I’m not used to from him. His gaze is across the room, but his mind somewhere else.

  ‘Thought you loved your lying, chain-smoking wife, Peg?’

  ‘I do,’ he says, with a humph that snaps him out of his trance. ‘That’s the fucking problem.’

  I chuckle as I lean back in the seat and cross my arms. ‘Well, it’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, mate.’

  He humphs again at my sarcasm. ‘I have lost something though.’

  ‘Yeah? What’s that?’

  ‘My mojo.’

  The way he looks at me – half-cautious, half-challenging – tells me the mojo he’s referring to is not of the intimate kind. He nods to confirm that what I’m thinking is right.

  ‘Soon as I’m out of here, I’ll be drawing up the letter.’

  ‘Bullshit. You’ve got years left in you yet.’

  ‘That I have. And I’d like to keep them, thank you very much.’

  I drop my folded arms and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. ‘You’re not serious, mate?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Good question.

  He drops his right shoulder further down the pillow to draw closer, and fixes me with a hard glare. ‘He could have fucking killed us, Steve.’

  ‘Like hell. We had it covered.’

  ‘Did we? How’s that slice to the head you took?’

  I’m not liking this Peghead much. The one trying to force his point.

  ‘It’s just a scratch.’

  ‘Yeah, alright,’ he says, straightening up again. ‘You got lucky. We both did. You damn well know it too. People get killed, Fuller. Officers get killed. We’re not invincible. We’re flesh and blood, same as any other. And for what? To be someone else’s hero after we’re dead? The ultimate martyrdom?’

  ‘Boucher was a one-off—’

  ‘Boucher was a fucking warning, is what he was. To me, anyway. A wake-up call.’

  ‘So that’s it? Your training, the years behind you, the hard work, your future?’

  ‘This is to insure my future.’

  ‘Your career, then.’

  ‘Who gives a fuck about career?’

  ‘A surprising amount of people.’

  ‘Then they’re as dumb as I always suspected.’

  Our voices have risen. I glance around the ward, but it’s only the couple opposite who are looking our way. They drop their heads and turn to one another to pretend otherwise.

  ‘Well, each to his own,’ Peghead says, pushing out the bedsheet creases with his palm. ‘This feels right for me, that’s all.’

  I could argue that it’s the fright he had, or the medication, or the time spent alone thinking, or maybe pressure from Mary, but he’s right. Each to his own. I’m not the one who’ll be able to talk him out of it, and who am I to even try? What if Boucher had clipped an artery? Mary might have been choosing her husband’s casket now instead of what chocolate bar he likes best.

  ‘What will you do instead?’ I ask.

  His lips press together before they thin into an attempt at a smile.

  ‘World’s my oyster,’ he says, with a gleam in his eye that to my mind looks more like fear than anticipation. The way you look when the rug’s just millimetres away from being pulled out from under your feet. It’s a disappointing answer too. If he knows what he’ll do, he’s not saying, but I’m inclined to think he hasn’t thought that far ahead yet.

  I hold out my palm, propping my elbow on the edge of the mattress. He grasps it, his hand hot, or mine is.

  ‘Whatever you decide, Peg, I wish you all the best. I mean that, mate.’

  ‘I know you do, Fuller. You’re a good ‘un, I always said that.’

  ‘But we’ll miss you. No doubt about it.’

  ‘You’ll be a man down, that’s all. Until you can recruit some other sucker, anyway.’

  I’m on my feet, but Peghead’s still got my hand clamped in his. He tugs me a little closer like he’s not done yet, there’s more to say. Which is around about the time I feel that pounding in my heart that makes me want to get away from here, away from him. I paste on the smile and hope he’ll make it quick.

  ‘Could have been you lying here, Steve. Ange feeding you juice through a straw. Think on that. That’s all I’m saying, mate. Think on that.’

  Outside in the forecourt, as I rush to the multi-storey where I left the car, sweat gluing the t-shirt to my back and every nerve ending firing in all the pores of my skin, I see Mary. She’s sittin
g under the pagoda, her bag gripped tight in one hand on her lap, and in the other a cigarette is propped between her fingers. We both stare at one another, unsure who’s catching who up to no good. It’s only when she drops the cigarette to the floor, where she grounds it out under the sole of her shoe, that I turn and hurry on to the pedestrian crossing, neither of us saying anything.

  *

  I can’t remember much of the drive home from the hospital, only that I haven’t stopped thinking of the old couple on the ward, Peghead’s words of advice, the sense of sad finality about it all that made me wish I hadn’t bothered with the trip out there to see him. When I pull up outside the house, I’m certain I won’t be visiting again.

  Taking my phone from the side pocket, I use my sleeve to brush away tiny slivers of glass from the cracked screen. Not too much damage, at least, just one long crack down one side. Ange’s car is in the driveway, and a glance to Dan’s room tells me he’s up, his curtains pushed back and window open. It’s only just gone two, but it feels like it should be five o’clock.

  A strong smell of perfume hangs in the hallway and Ange’s bag is on the side table. I drop my keys into the drawer and go first into the kitchen to fill the kettle, then into the sitting room where she’s perched on the edge of the sofa applying lipstick with one hand while holding up her compact with the other.

  ‘Alright?’ I say, when I receive only a cursory glance.

  She snaps the compact shut. ‘I’m going out with Lisa for a few hours. That okay?’

  ‘Course.’ I drop into the armchair opposite her. ‘You don’t have to ask, Ange.’

  ‘Just checking, that’s all.’ She gets up, crossing the room to put the bag in the sideboard drawer. ‘Been somewhere nice?’

  ‘Not really. Went to see Don.’

  ‘You were up early.’

  In the kitchen the kettle clicks as it finishes boiling. She doesn’t ask how Don is.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  She pushes the drawer closed with her hip.

  ‘Where are you two off, then?’ I ask, before she leaves the room.

  She stops and turns. She looks good. Green fitted blouse, white trousers, sandals, her hair hooked behind her ears but falling soft and clean and natural around her shoulders. She’s made up her eyes to bring out their colour and match the blouse, but when they come my way, they’re guarded in a way that suggests I don’t live up to what they hoped to see.

  ‘Cardiff. Lisa says there’s a new bistro opened up on St Mary’s Street we should try. Bit of shopping too, that sort of thing.’ The sort of thing you’d hate, she doesn’t say. ‘She asked where you were. Freddie was trying to get hold of you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I sit forward in the chair, looking to my palm and the scuffed skin, spots of dried blood. ‘I messaged him.’

  ‘Right.’ Her sandals peel over the laminate floor.

  ‘Actually, Ange, before I forget. I’ll be out tomorrow.’

  She pulls her top lip into her mouth, waiting for me to explain.

  ‘Could be most of the day, but I’ll try to be as quick as I can.’

  Her hand clutches the edge of the door, her nails tapping against the wood. ‘Well that’s a shame. I thought we could have gone out. The three of us.’

  ‘Gone out where?’

  ‘Anywhere, Steve.’

  I sigh, knead at my right hand with the thumb of my left. ‘Shit. I can’t get out of it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘If you could tell Dan that, then. I told him to keep tomorrow free.’

  She disappears out into the hall, leaving only the scent of her perfume and the weight of her disappointment behind.

  ‘Ange,’ I call.

  ‘What?’ she calls back.

  ‘It’s work. I’ve got to be there.’

  ‘Well if it’s work...’ she mutters, but not so quiet that I don’t catch it, nor subtle enough for the sarcasm to not cut right through me. I get up from the chair and yank open the door, taking her by surprise so her eyes flash up to mine.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  She huffs a laugh. ‘What’s wrong with me? What kind of fucking job has you working on a Sunday when your shift doesn’t start till Tuesday?’

  I didn’t tell her what day my shift starts, I only told her it was next week. Which means Freddie’s been talking again.

  ‘So now it’s my fucking job? Didn’t hear you complaining about it when you wanted me to go for promotion.’

  She stares at me as if she doesn’t even know where to start. But there’s something else too, like maybe it’s not worth the effort.

  ‘What’s got into you lately, Steve?’ she says, quieter than a moment ago, putting me on the back foot.

  ‘Nothing’s got into me. Just found my fucking voice, Ange.’

  I stride down the hall to the kitchen, slamming the door behind me. A second later, she does the same with the front door. And for a while after, her question replays in my head, and all I can think of is why I said nothing, when what I really meant was everything.

  Chapter 28

  ‘Steve, doesn’t your wife mind you taking a stranger halfway across the country on a Sunday like this?’

  ‘You think a different day would have been better? Honestly, it’s fine. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered.’

  Tricia shifts in the passenger seat, and much as I’ve tried, nothing I do seems to put her at ease, not even my pathetic humour.

  ‘Anyway, it’s not halfway across the country,’ I say, flicking the indicator and overtaking a motor home on a long quiet stretch. ‘It’s only Redditch.’

  ‘Yeah, but still...’

  The road opens up before us, clear of traffic and framed on either side by trees. A picture perfect Sunday drive. It’s another bright day, and the roads have been a breeze so far. I’ve chosen the more scenic route rather than the motorway, hoping that might put her at ease and we can enjoy the ride. I want to make this as easy for her as possible, this thing she doesn’t want to do, but I’m not sure it’s working.

  ‘Everything will be fine,’ I say, confronting the elephant in the car head on. ‘Don’t worry.’

  She squints out of the passenger window, hands clasped in her lap. ‘Sorry. He makes me tense.’

  ‘I understand. But it’ll be okay. I promise.’ I’ve dealt with shits like him before, I want to add, but keep it to myself. In the same way I keep to myself the baton in the inside pocket of my jacket on the back seat. A shit he might be, but he could also be dangerous, unpredictable. I’m not stupid enough to go in there with nothing.

  ‘Well, I apologise to you and your family for stealing you away. I promise to be as quick as I can.’

  ‘Tricia, say you’re sorry one more time and I’ll be forced to turn around and take you back home.’

  She clamps her lips together and yanks an invisible zip over them.

  ‘That’s better,’ I say, looking back to the road, wondering what she’d say, what she’d think, if I told her Ange couldn’t give a stuff right now what I was doing today; if I told her that Ange didn’t get back home from her day out until late, and when she did it was to go straight to bed while I sat in the armchair in front of the TV thinking about how her conversation with Lisa might have gone. Thinking about how Ange’s vitriol would have been relayed word for word, and maybe with a little extra spice on top and undoubtedly a few opinions of Lisa’s own, to my old buddy who just happened to also be my boss.

  And then what if I told Tricia about Simons, that he was the boyfriend that kept messing Anna up all the time so that she’d come to work in tears? What if I said he was married with two daughters and lived in a beautiful house with a mid-life-crisis car, and how I dreamt last night that my hands were around his throat which was bloody from a knife wound I couldn’t remember inflicting but was sure I had. But worse than that, what if I told her on other nights I dreamt about Anna, and I wish I didn’t because they weren’t good dreams, they weren’t decent, the way a decent man should
be, the way I’d thought I was. What if I said that I sometimes woke with Anna’s voice in my ear and goosebumps on my arms from the way her fingernails had scratched over my back? What would she think of that? What would she think of me?

  ‘Steve?’

  I jump at her voice over the soft drone of the engine. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is there any chance we could... Only I really need to...’ She winces the rest of the sentence, features drawn into a pained apology that makes me laugh.

  ‘Far be it from me to get between a woman and her bladder. What level are we talking? Bush? Or a diversion into Worcester?’

  ‘Borderline. But let’s head for Worcester first. Only, when I’m nervous...’

  ‘Worcester it is.’

  I catch her eye for a second, and she’s looking at me with an expression I usually only ever see on the faces of those I’m called out to. Sometimes it’s gratitude, other times relief, but never is it me they’re really seeing. It’s the uniform. The loaded utility vest, the black polo shirt, the cap, the sure expression, it’s all a signal that they’re safe now; even when inside that uniform I might be the same as them – shit-scared and no less vulnerable. But they don’t know that. They don’t need to know that.

  ‘Next time though,’ I say, irritated at where my head keeps taking me. ‘Make sure you go before you leave.’

  ‘Road trip 101,’ she says, voice softening, and easing some of the tension she’s carried with her since she’s got in the car

  *

  We do more than stop for a toilet break in Worcester, calling in at a Tudor-style pub on the edge of the town. The heady smell of years-old polished oak, hops, and lager-soaked carpets hit us the moment we open the door. And above the bar, stapled across the dark beams, are rows of beer mats depicting ales most people will never have heard of. While Tricia uses their facilities, I order something non-alcoholic for myself and a lager for companion, taking them into the lounge and finding a small round table between an empty fireplace and a frosted glass window letting in barely any light.

  ‘Nice here,’ she says, when she returns, the tension creeping back into her voice and her shoulders despite her best attempts to hide it.