by Mark Tilbury
He staggered up the steps and hammered on the door.
No answer. He kicked the door twice and almost toppled backwards down the steps. The handrail saved him. ‘Sarah? Open this fucking door.’
The bedroom window opened. A woman leaned out, her dark hair tumbling in front of her eyes. ‘Where’s your key?’
‘I forgot it. Lemme in.’ He turned around and flicked his cigarette butt in my direction. It landed in a puddle and made a little ksss sound as it went out.
‘I don’t want you starting on me. I’m tired.’
‘Hurry up! I’m fucking soaked.’ He muttered something under his breath as she closed the window.
Who the hell were these people?
As the woman opened the door, the man grabbed her by the hair and head-butted her. ‘Don’t you tell me what to do, you fucking bitch.’
‘Get off me. I’ll call the pol—’
‘See what happens, if you do.’ With that, he pulled her out of the house by the hair and shoved her down the steps. She landed on her back, her head smashing against the concrete path.
‘You can spend the night out there.’
I tried to get out of the wheelchair, and go to her assistance, but I couldn’t move. I thought she was dead. Her head was at a weird angle. Blood mingled with the rain.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I shouted. ‘Someone call an ambulance.’
The street remained eerily silent, save for the rain.
‘For God’s sake, someone help her.’
The bedroom window opened, and the man leaned out. ‘Sweet dreams, you filthy whore.’
The woman stirred. Her hand flopped onto her chest. Blood ran from the corner of her mouth.
He banged the window shut. There was something familiar about him. I searched my elusive memory. Blank.
The rain came down hard now, bouncing off the pavement and torpedoing the puddles. I reached up and touched my hair. Dry. My pyjamas, too. It was as if I had an invisible umbrella protecting me.
After a while, the woman sat up. Even though her face was covered in blood, and her hair was sodden and matted, I could still tell she was a pretty woman. No, pretty wasn’t quite the right word. Handsome?
She touched her nose with a shaking hand. ‘Shit.’
‘Are you all right?’ I called. The words seemed both inadequate and pointless, considering no one could actually see me or hear me.
‘I’m leaving him,’ the woman promised herself. ‘That’s the last time he ever hits me.’
‘Hello?’ I shouted.
The woman hauled herself up, holding onto the handrail for support. She hobbled out of the front garden and into the street, one hand clutching her injured face, as if trying to hold it in place. She came close enough to make contact, but passed right through me. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
I felt a sudden surge of pain spreading out from the bridge of my nose. Her words chanted inside my head like a mantra. I smelled a faint whiff of perfume, and the warmth of her body lingering on my skin.
I watched her hobble up the street to a house about five or six doors away. She banged on the door. She turned and looked right at me. You’re my little love-bug, Mikey. And then she was gone, whisked inside the house by another woman.
I wanted to fall to my knees and sob forever. Without warning, I was wheeled away from the street and back into the tunnel. On and on, a thousand questions burning my mind.
As the wheelchair butted open the emergency door, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All I could think of, as those invisible hands helped me back into that hospital bed, were the words the woman had spoken, You’re my little love-bug, Mikey.
I watched the wheelchair roll back to its place by the wall. The emergency door closed, and the rusty bolt slid along its shaft. A few minutes later, I fell into the deepest dreamless sleep I’d ever had in my life.
Chapter Four
Emily woke me up mid-afternoon the following day. ‘You’ve been out for the count.’
My mind felt like sludge. ‘What time is it?’
‘Half two.’
‘Jesus. I…’
‘What is it?’
I stared at the emergency door. Still there. Only now, written on the main body of the door in spidery red paint, were the words my little love-bug.
‘Michael?’
Maybe I was still asleep. Emily was just another part of the dream. I shook my head and averted my eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s nothing.’ I looked again. The message was still there. I wanted to ask Emily if I could touch her, just to make sure she was real.
‘How’s your pain?’
My head felt fit to burst. Or, more precisely, my nose did. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Okay.’
‘Is it possible to have a dream while you’re still awake?’
She fussed with the bedsheet. ‘Some people reckon there’s a twilight world where you’re neither asleep nor awake. I’m not so sure. The mind’s a funny thing. Can you still see the door?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I just wondered.’
‘You’ve had a traumatic head injury, Michael. It’s bound to affect you. Anyway, there’s someone here to see you.’
Please don’t let it be Carver. ‘Who?’
‘His name’s Jimmy. Jimmy Pearce.’
I didn’t recognise the name. At least it wasn’t Carver. I thanked heaven for small mercies.
‘Says he’s a friend. Worked with you at the hotel.’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you want to see him?’
I hesitated. What if Jimmy was the man from the street? The bastard who’d set about the woman and threw her down the steps. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Short and bald.’
Good enough. ‘Okay. I’ll see him.’
Emily’s description was pretty accurate. He ambled into the room and smiled at me. A nervous grin that revealed two chipped front teeth. ‘Hello, Michael.’
I tried to return the smile. My mouth refused to cooperate. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t remember you. Don’t take it personally; I don’t remember anything.’
He sat down. ‘You don’t remember the George?’
Only what Carver had told me. ‘No.’
‘You were the fastest washer-up in the West.’
‘Did I get a prize?’
Jimmy laughed. ‘Yeah, another pile of pots.’
‘How long did I work there for?’
‘Three years. Almost to the day before you—’
‘Went home and murdered my girlfriend?’
‘I don’t believe you did it. I really don’t.’
I looked at the emergency door. ‘I don’t know what to think, anymore. I don’t remember a single thing. It’s as if I’ve just read about it in the newspapers or something. Like it happened to someone else.’
‘It’s a bloody miracle you’re still alive.’
‘I wish I wasn’t.’
He looked away.
‘What do you do at the hotel?’
‘I’m a chef.’
‘How long have we been friends?’
‘Ever since you started working there.’
‘What did I do before that?’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘Don’t know. You never talked about your past. Said you didn’t want to go raking through shit. I respected that. Took you for what you were: an honest, hard-working guy who liked a laugh and a beer.’
‘And my girlfriend?’
‘Becky?’
‘How well did you know her?’
‘Pretty well. Me and Lucy used to come around the flat sometimes. Nice girl. Easy going. No airs and graces.’
‘Lucy?’
‘My girlfriend.’
I remembered Carver suggesting I’d found Becky in bed with another man. Could it have been Jimmy? ‘When did you last see me?’
‘Monday at work.’
‘The day of the murder?’
Jim
my nodded. ‘You were acting a bit strange, you know, like your head was somewhere else. But, that’s nothing new.’
‘Carver reckons I caught Becky in bed with another man.’
‘As in Detective Inspector Carver?’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Worse luck. For what it’s worth, I don’t reckon there’s any way on earth Becky would have slept with another man.’
I didn’t know whether I was pleased by that, or confused.
‘She loved you, mate. Really loved you.’
‘I still killed her.’
‘Like I said, I don’t believe it.’
‘But, what other explanation is there? She’s dead. Stabbed to death. Carver even showed me a picture.’
‘I reckon you’ve been stitched up.’
‘By who?’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s took the blame for something they didn’t do.’
‘But, why would anyone set me up?’
‘I don’t know. But I do know you’re not capable of killing anyone.’
I wanted to thank Jimmy for his kind words, but the truth was inescapable: my girlfriend was dead, and I had probably killed her. ‘What did Carver say to you?’
Jimmy sighed. ‘He kept trying to put words in my mouth. Told me I must have known how dangerous you were. Working with you. Friends with you. Then, he asked if—’
‘What?’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way. As far as I’m concerned, Carver’s full of shit.’
‘What did he ask, Jimmy?’
‘If Becky put it about... but I put him straight. Becky wasn’t like that at all.’
He looked uncomfortable. I changed the subject. ‘Have I got any family?’
‘You never said. Just Becky.’
‘So why the fuck would I kill her?’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘You seemed fine when we went to Brighton a few weeks back. Lucy was cribbing on about being pregnant, and you joked she could give birth in the sea. Like a water baby.’
‘Lucy’s pregnant?’
Jimmy looked down. ‘She lost it.’
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t—’
‘She’s miscarried twice before. We’ll try again.’
I wondered if Becky’s murder had contributed to the miscarriage. I changed the subject. ‘What else did Carver say?’
‘Nothing much. He kept putting you down. Over and over. Called you a low-life scum. Asked me to imagine how Becky’s mother must feel, losing her only daughter. It was as if he was trying to convince me you were guilty by playing on her grief.’
I wouldn’t have put anything past Carver. ‘Can I tell you something?’
‘What?’
‘It will sound stupid.’
He looked less certain. ‘Fire away.’
‘Carver threatened me.’
‘How?’
‘He grabbed hold of my balls and threatened to cut them off.’
‘Jesus Christ. What sort of fucking sicko is he?’
‘I didn’t feel anything. I’m dead from the waist down. But, well, it’s not the point.’
‘You should report him.’
I laughed. ‘Who will believe me? They’ll probably give him a pat on the back.’
‘The bastard.’
‘Do you believe me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But, why would he do that? He’s got enough on me to charge me with murder. It’s not as if he’s trying to get a confession out of me, is it? I don’t get it. It’s as if he’s playing games with me.’
Jimmy shook his head slowly.
I thought about telling him about my trip in the wheelchair. The invisible pusher. The man head-butting the woman. But it all seemed far too crazy to talk about. I didn’t want to scare off my only potential ally.
‘You’ve got to try to stay positive.’
‘How am I supposed to do that? I did it.’
‘But, it’s completely out of character.’
‘Does anyone really know anyone?’
‘I know you saved my life once.’
‘Saved your life? When?’
‘Couple of years back. We’d been to the pub. We were on our way home. We split at Shaftsbury Avenue. I don’t suppose you remember Shaftsbury Avenue?’
I didn’t.
‘That’s where you lived. In the Evenlode flats. I lived a few streets away. Anyway, we were both pissed. Not staggering, but singing and larking about. I got about a hundred yards up the road when a guy jumped me. Came out of nowhere, like a fucking alley cat. He had a knife. Wanted my wallet. I sobered up in five seconds flat. I thought about how hard I’d worked for the money in that wallet. How many hours I’d toiled in that hotel kitchen to get a few bob in my pocket….’ Jimmy paused, looking at his hands.
‘What did you do?’
‘I told him to fuck off and get a job. That’s when he stabbed me. At first, I didn’t realise what had happened. I didn’t even feel the blade go in, just something warm running down my stomach after he pulled the knife out. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes; like he was a fucking zombie.’
‘Jesus.’
‘He stabbed me again. In the top of my left thigh. That’s when you appeared. Not to put too fine a point on it, mate, you beat the crap out of him. Some old guy in the house opposite saw the whole thing and called the cops. You ripped off your shirt, tore it into strips, and bandaged the wounds as best you could until the ambulance arrived.’
I recalled none of this. It was as if Jimmy was describing someone else. Someone in a novel or a film.
‘You risked your neck for me, Michael. I owe you big time.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘You always were a modest bugger. I spent a week in hospital. Lost about five pints of blood. You visited me three times a day, without fail. Lucy joked that me and you were having an affair.’
‘I was just doing what mates do,’ I said, not relating to my words.
‘Above and beyond.’
We fell silent again as I tried to imagine tackling a knife-wielding thug; it was beyond my comprehension.
‘I was off work for a month. On sick pay. You could say the bastard robbed me, anyway.’
‘What happened to the mugger?’
‘Got six months and a fine. Heroin addict. As if that makes it all right. But, you and Becky were great. Helped out with the rent when we fell short. Ran errands for me when Lucy was at work.’
‘What does Lucy think about all this?’
Jimmy looked away. ‘She’s in shock.’
‘Does she think I did it?’
‘She only knows what people are saying. She doesn’t want to believe it.’
‘Don’t let it drive a wedge between you.’
‘It won’t.’ His eyes contradicted his words.
‘If I was looking at this from the outside, I’d be certain I was guilty. My flat, my girlfriend, my kitchen knife, my attempted suicide.’
Jimmy seemed thoughtful for a while. When he spoke, his words were measured, ‘So would I. But, I’m not looking at it from the outside. I’m looking at it from the point of view of someone who knows you. Knows the real Michael Tate. The guy who would give you his last penny. Put his life on the line for you.’
‘People snap.’
‘When they’re at breaking point. But, you were talking about getting married at Christmas. This whole thing just stinks.’
‘Doesn’t it just.’
‘Things have a habit of working out, Michael. You’ve got to keep believing that.’
I wanted to. Wanted to with all my heart. But, I still couldn’t see past Carver reading me my rights, and telling me he’d be back. Smiling that lopsided grin, like a broken puppet.
Jimmy stood up. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m working four ‘til midnight. I’ll come back in the morning.’
‘You don’t need to—’
‘I want to.’ With that, he walked out of the room
and left me with tears stinging the backs of my eyes.
Chapter Five
I’d spent a reasonably sane night. No trips out in the wheelchair. The emergency door was still there, along with the strange, spidery writing, but at least it had remained closed and locked.
Emily changed my catheter. ‘You look brighter today, Michael.’
Relieved, more like. ‘I slept better.’
‘How’s the pain?’
My neck, shoulders and head all screamed for attention. ‘Not too bad,’ I lied. In truth, I wanted to come off the morphine. Especially if it was responsible for the emergency door and the amazing self-propelled wheelchair.
‘I’ve spoken to the doctor. He says we could take you off the morphine and try you with aspirin. See how it goes.’
Good old, common as muck aspirin. Pain relief without the trips – literally. ‘Okay.’
‘Your friend seems nice.’
‘He is. Shame I can’t remember him.’
‘It’s early days.’
‘Will my memory ever come back?’
Emily straightened up and took the empty water jug off the bedside locker. ‘It might. It’s a good sign you’re forming new memories. At least you’ve got a certain amount of function going on in there.’
More than I cared to admit. ‘Is there anything I can do to help it?’
‘I don’t follow?’
‘Like mental exercises.’
‘You’ll just have to be patient. I’ll have a word with the doctor.’
‘What about old newspapers? Could I have some? See if I can recognise anything?’
‘I’ll ask. Is your friend coming back to see you today?’
‘He said he would.’
‘There you go. A fresh memory.’
I didn’t want fresh memories. I wanted old memories. Ones which would tell me what I had done in the hours leading up to my attempted suicide.
A head peered around the door – Carver’s unmistakable, leering face. ‘Am I interrupting?’
Emily’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Not really. But I don’t want you upsetting the patient. He needs to rest as much as possible.’
Carver walked into the room. ‘He’ll have plenty of time to rest, once the courts have decided what to do with him.’
‘He’s in the hospital now, so we’ll decide on what’s best for Mr. Tate.’ She walked out, leaving the door wide open.