by Cody Young
Ben knew, almost before he heard the footsteps behind him. He didn’t even want to turn around and see. He tried to walk more rapidly towards the side street where he’d left his car. But before he got there – in broad daylight – against a brick wall where the words ‘Birch Boyz’ had been written – three men attacked him. He felt the first thump on his back – then his assailant overtook him and punched him in the stomach. The attack came like a blur after that – he felt it rather than saw it.
Beaten
He had nothing – no weapon, no skill with his fists. He hadn’t got to med school by fighting other boys at lunchtime. He was winded quickly, and slumped down where the brick wall met the pock-marked pavement. He put his hands up, instinctively, to cover his face, and felt harsh kicks landing all over his body.
“Enough!”
A loud, resonant voice. With an accent like Barbados and French Cointreau. Ben knew that voice. The barman from the Fizz. In his desperation, he felt almost pleased to hear a voice that had once spoken to him kindly. But the blows that rained down on Ben did not stop – so the voice and the footsteps quickened and came nearer.
“I said enough! Enough! Mr Birch said warn him. Not kill him.”
“Get inside, Jacob. You ain’t got the authority. Not since your boy turned bad.”
“Don’t you speak about my boy, God rest his soul. Don’t you dare raise the subject of my children here or anywhere else.”
Ben wanted to look up, but he was afraid to move a muscle. If he lifted his head from the ground or tried to get up, that might just be enough to trigger a second wave of violence, hailing down over him. So he stayed motionless, like he might be unconscious.
The three men skulked away slowly, back in the direction of the door of the Fizz Club.
Ben stayed where he was. Eyes closed. Ears open.
He sensed that Jacob the barman was standing over him now. He heard him sigh, deeply. And then he felt a hand on his body. He opened his eyes and saw the hand – black and bony – on his shoulder.
Jacob looked down at him with sad, dark eyes. “Dr Stein?”
Ben sat up, weak from the assault, and passed a hand over his face. Blood – from a cut on his forehead. And the rapid numb swelling of a bruised lip.
“Are you hurt bad, doctor?”
“No,” Ben said, touching his lip experimentally. “Thank you”
His rib cage and his stomach hurt like hell – but everything would have hurt much worse if the men had ruptured his spleen.
“They’ve gone back inside,” said Jacob. “Can I help you back to your car?”
Ben looked at the man, doubtfully. “Jacob. You work for Mr Birch.”
Jacob sighed. “I do. And there’s no escaping it.”
“Then…why?”
“I’ll tell you why. But not here. Get up and go and sit in your car. Wait there for me.”
“What?”
“I’ll go back inside. I’ll tell them you’re gone and you’re never coming back. I’ll tell them you listened when I said no police.”
“But−”
“No buts. I’m trying to help you and you’re not making it easy. I’ll tell them you agreed not to go to the police. They’ll all be so busy chewing the cud about you making a scene today, that I’ll get the chance to slip out and have a conversation.”
“About what?”
“About Layla. Is that a deal?”
Ben looked up sharply when he heard her name, and the movement jarred his whole body. “You’ve seen Layla?”
“Hush. Wait for me in your car. Where are you parked?”
“In Fort street. On the left by the petrol station. Black Audi.”
Ben sat in the car for nearly thirty minutes, wondering when he ought to pack in the wait and drive home. He looked in the mirror at his injuries. Yes – he was all cuts and contusions. They’d turn into horrible vivid bruises by the morning. And that wouldn’t look good when he was on duty at the medical centre. Questions would be inevitable.
Then he heard the man try the passenger door of the Audi. It was locked. After what had just happened Ben felt better sitting in a car with the locks on. But he saw it was Jacob so he reached over – a painful manoeuvre – and let him in.
Jacob got in and sat down. “I want to thank you. For what you did for my son.”
“Oh?” Ben was confused. “Is your son a patient of mine?”
“Yes. You saw him last Friday. He almost died in the medical centre, that’s what I was told. He had a stab wound to the chest.”
Now Ben knew. The stab wound. “That was your son?”
“Yes. That was my boy. The people at the hospital said you saved his life by sticking a tube into his body.”
“Yes. Well, I’m glad to hear that it worked. There was no guarantee when I did it. And my colleague was angry with me about it. But the boy was dying. I had nothing to lose.”
“If you hadn’t done it, then I would have nothing to lose,” said Jacob. “Which I suppose would have been worse than the present state of affairs. He’ll suffer for his sins though. We all will.”
“Did he kill someone?”
“I don’t know. But his brother is dead.”
Ben tried to believe that the man was using the word ‘brother’ in the sense that the gang-members used it. Every member of the gang was a brother. The Birch boys were all brothers. But it wasn’t so. The look in Jacob’s eyes told him this was not the case. Jacob was talking about his own son.
“Oh, no,” Ben breathed. “I’m sorry.”
“You can’t imagine the pain…the suffering…of my wife.”
“No, I can’t,” said Ben, shaking his head as if he could release himself from what he was hearing. He didn’t want to imagine. A whole family. Decimated. Cut to pieces with the flash of a knife.
“He won’t tell us what really happened. They were both working for Birch. Both dealing. Both using. The older one started acting odd. Birch thought he’d turned informant. But I wasn’t so sure. Corey never liked the police, and Birch is a suspicious bastard. But some of his clients got wary and didn’t want to buy from Corey anymore. And Mr Birch can’t tolerate losing money. He’d rather get rid of one than let the police arrest a whole lot of them. He got Declan to spy on Corey to find out if it was true. This much we learned from a so-called friend of theirs – another dealer by the name of Glenn. There was a fight in a pool club not far from here. Declan was there. Corey was there. Glenn too, and a whole of lot of others. In the morning, we got a phone call. To tell us our boy was dead.”
Ben’s whole throat seemed to be closing up. He couldn’t speak.
So Jacob continued. “When Declan didn’t come home, we thought we’d lost them both. The hospital call was quite a revelation. Declan’s alive but he won’t talk. Some would say he doesn’t deserve to live after what he did to his own brother.”
Ben shook his head. To him, a life was always worth saving. “Whatever he did – it was out of fear, Jacob. Fear and desperation.”
Jacob let out a long, deep sigh. “I can’t even look at a photograph of him now. But, I want to say I’m grateful. Because if you hadn’t done what you did, I would have lost two sons on the same day.”
Ben looked at the face of the man who made this terrible admission. “Jacob. I can’t begin to say how sorry I am, about your boys.”
“Thank you. They weren’t always Birch boys, you know. They were good boys once.”
Ben’s heart ached with more pain than a man should ever have to feel. Especially a man who had saved a boy’s life – without question and without hesitation.
It almost seemed like a betrayal to ask Jacob about Layla, after this. But he had to.
“Have you seen her? My girlfriend?”
“Yes. I saw her the day they brought her in. I took her some food from the hotel bar.”
“Have they hurt her?”
“Not as much as they’ve hurt you.”
Ben glanced away. “I’m alright.”
“I suppose you know what they’re planning to do with her?”
“Yes. Tomorrow night.”
“Ben, I must beg you, if you don’t want them to hurt her, don’t go to the police. They won’t help you anyway, and Layla would be punished for it. So please, for the girl’s sake. Keep it to yourself.”
“But I have to stop it. If they raided that place and found Layla, then it would all be over.”
“For Layla it would. Yes. And even if she left the place alive. She’d never testify against him. No one ever does.”
Ben thought for a moment. He thought about the look on Layla’s face whenever Mr Birch’s name was mentioned. Thought about the fear in Eddy’s eyes when she spoke of the Fizz club. And he thought about Jacob’s dead son. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“She’s not there anymore, anyway. Mr Birch moved her to somewhere safer.”
Ben couldn’t think of anywhere less safe for Layla than a place chosen by Mr Birch.
They said goodbye, and Jacob got out of Ben’s car.
Ben drove home to Richmond. Only fourteen miles as the crow flies, but a tedious crawl through mid-afternoon traffic, especially after being taken down by the Birch Boys. His whole body was protesting about the beating. It was painful just turning the wheel. More painful still to turn his head when he had to check the mirror, and hell to try and look both ways. His head was throbbing, and underneath his coat, he could feel his shirt sticking to his body where the blood had seeped through. He’d need to soak off his clothes in warm water when he got home. And douse his injuries with antiseptic. And find appropriate pain relief.
Probably vodka, with optional codeine.
He parked within sight of the apartment building, and just sat there, for about five minutes, bracing himself for the pain of getting out of the car. He winced as he reached out and opened the glove box. The little box with the necklace in it was still there, waiting for Layla.
He sighed – a bitter, defeated sigh. This was not the way he’d planned to spend his day off.
* * *
Layla WAS still at the Fizz club. She’d seen Ben from an upstairs window with a grimy net curtain over it. She’d heard his voice downstairs. She’d heard the pain in his voice, too, when he called out her name and begged her to answer.
She hadn’t dared make a sound.
She was sitting on the bed now, with her back against the wall.
Jacob, the ebony barman, came in and brought her a meal. It consisted of a packet of crisps, a sandwich in a triangular wrapper and a glass of lemon and lime from the bar. He put it down on the end of the bed.
“Did they kill him?” she said, in a whisper.
“No, love. He’s gone home.”
Layla let out a sigh of relief and rested her head back on the scarred wall. These little rooms above the Fizz – they’d seen some service. And Birch didn’t bother about renewing the plaster and the paint. The only people who came in here were half-cut punters looking for an armful of tart. They wouldn’t want the light on – or they shouldn’t, that’s what Mr Birch said. The girls needed to retain their mystique. Either way, he’d had his staff come up here and take out all the bulbs.
She looked at Jacob and frowned. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“I just carry out orders, Layla. You’d be well-advised to do the same.”
“How long have you worked for Mr Birch, Jacob?”
“Oh, we go way back. To a time when I was new in London and needed all the friends I could get.”
“You call him a friend, do you?”
And Jacob nodded and left the room.
Old Geezer
“Oh, my God,” said Fiona, as Ben approached the reception desk to sign in the following morning.
He knew he looked awful. The bruises. The swollen lip. The half-closed eye. And they couldn’t even see what he had seen in the bathroom mirror this morning. His torso had reminded him of a police morgue photo. Glimpses of pale skin between contusions of every shade of black and blue. Not pretty. He had one hell of a hangover, too.
“Don’t ask,” he said.
Fiona shrugged. “I won’t. But everyone else will.”
Sally swivelled round in her office chair for a look. “What happened to you?”
“As I said to Fiona, I’d rather not discuss it.”
Ben squiggled his signature, dismissing the fact that they were bound to be curious. The new doctor all bruised and battered and smelling of antiseptic gel. Of course they wanted to know. He sighed. “It was nothing, really. I just walked into the wrong kind of bar.”
He hoped that would suffice for now. He walked away before they could ask any more.
By lunchtime, he’d got the same questions from every patient who had come to see him. Every single one. And there was no escape – he was trapped in his consulting room with each one of them for a full seven minutes. By lunchtime, he was heartily sick of it. He sat opposite Mr Holloway, an old fellow who had come in for his emphysema check-up, and waited for the wry observations to begin.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” said the old man. “That does look nasty.”
Ben decided there was a definite danger he’d start administering lethal injections soon. “Shall we do your blood pressure first, Mr. Holloway?”
“You want to put a cold compress on that eye, doctor. To take the swelling down.”
Ben gave the man a hard stare, with his good eye. “Who is the patient here today, Mr Holloway? Is it you, or is it me?”
“You’re in a far worse state than I am, sonny. Why d’you come in to work looking like that? You could’ve rung in sick.”
“I don’t get sick,” Ben said, pathetically. Today he felt like death warmed up.
“I suppose you went to one of them gay bars last night, did you? Got bashed up on the way home?”
Ben rankled inside and scowled at Mr Holloway. “No. I was supposed to be meeting my girlfriend. She lives not far from here.”
“What, round here? You’re never seeing a girl from the Rook’s Nest? Are you?”
“Yes.” Ben was safer with one-word answers. The cut on his lip was threatening to open up again. He touched it, tentatively. Still just holding for now.
“You silly bugger. You can’t get mixed up with a girl from round here. Not unless you’re asking for trouble.”
“Apparently not. Have you urinated recently, Mr. Holloway? I think I might send you through to the nurse to do a sample.”
Mr Holloway wasn’t interested in urination. Not when there was juicy gossip to be had. “Was it the firm that did that to you, then?”
“What? What firm?”
“The firm – Birch Boys and Co, they used to call them. Back in my day. Of course it was Tommy Birch then, the old geezer, not this new one, who thinks he’s too much of a fancy-pants to have a first name.”
Ben would have liked to ask more about this, but that would mean saying more about Layla. “I really can’t discuss my private life with you or any other patient.”
“No need to get shirty with me, sonny. Just trying to give you some friendly advice.”
“Yes, well, please don’t,” and then Ben sighed and touched his face, sensing that the cut on his lip had opened again and he’d have to stop and see to it before he bled on Mr. Holloway’s case notes. “I’m able enough to look after myself.”
“No you ain’t. You’re as green as a cabbage, Doctor Stein. And they’ve sorted you out, good and proper. Now you listen to me. I’m eighty-five years old, and I’ve seen what happens when silly rich boys get mixed up in Rooks’ business. It ends badly. You’ve got to avoid the Birch boys like they was the Black Death. Of course, you might be able to buy your girl out, if you talk to the right people. You might not. Depends on how deep she is in all their shit. But you’ve got to understand they only listen to money – not reason. But, please. Take the advice of an old man who knows a thing or two. You don’t want a Rookeries girl. She ain’t worth the aggravation. If you’re loo
king for a pull, can’t you ask one of your doctor friends if he’s got a sister?”
Ben said nothing, but inside the privacy of his heart he could have cried. He didn’t want a doctor’s sister. He wanted Layla. He had to have Layla.
“Go home, Doctor Stein. You’re in no fit state to be here. You look terrible, you know.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that…” Ben reached for a tissue to blot the blood welling on his lip.
“You could try steak on that eye. But it’s a waste of a good piece of meat, in my humble opinion.”
It always took Mr Holloway a couple of attempts to get to his feet – even with Ben’s assistance.
Ben grabbed the old man under the shoulder and helped him rise into a standing position. It gave him a moment to think. “Have you thought any more about a Zimmer frame?”
He willed himself not to ask a more pressing question.
“No, no. no. I can manage well enough.”
Why do people who need help refuse to accept it? Ben thought. Pride seemed to be the only thing standing in the way. Pride. Plain and simple.
Pride.
So he swallowed his. “Mr Holloway? Before you go…”
“Yes?” said the old man, turning rheumy grey-blue eyes on Ben.
Ben swallowed. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to help me, but I really need to ask you a question. One that’s very difficult for me to ask.”
The old man was flattered. “Ask away.”
“Well, Mr Holloway…” But Ben’s question died on his lips.
“My name’s Arthur,” said the old man. “Come on, spit it out, son.”
“Okay, Arthur, I’ll try.” Ben took a breath. “Can you give me an idea how much money it would take to buy a girl from Mr Birch?”
Hard Sell