by Cody Young
A rustle of papers – everyone turning a page at the same time. Yes, thought Ben. This was definitely some kind of training session, and he was attending it. Couldn’t remember how he got here, though, and he didn’t seem to have any of the paperwork the rest of them were holding. He struggled to focus his eyes and the face of the doctor came into view. A chubby middle-aged face with a halo of ceiling tiles around him. Oh, Jeez, I must be hung over. Not a good way to face morning rounds with Doctor Phillips. Yes – Phillips – that was his name. From his days at the Teaching Hospital.
That’s odd, thought Ben, he’d imagined he had moved past that, somehow…
Doctor Phillips picked on one of the weaker students, as he always did. A shy Chinese student with Harry Potter specs on – fearful of making a mistake. Phillips turned on him, smiling like a cruel assassin. “Check the notes, Doctor Wong, and tell me the situation?”
“He’s clear of all other drugs,” said the boy, flustered and struggling. Flapping the pages of the useless case notes. “The toxicology looks inconclusive…”
“So why is he comatose?”
The student stared desperately at the notes, which didn’t seem to tell him a thing. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know…”
“Wake up, Wong. You won’t last long around here if you don’t. Anyone else? Why is he comatose?
“Because he exceeded the recommended dose,” said Ben. “And it compromised respiratory function, aggravated hypotension and sent him into a coma. Are convulsions recorded in the notes?”
The students around the bed reacted first with surprise and then with laughter. “He’s awake.”
And that’s when Ben realized exactly where he was. In the Royal London, with that swine Phillips who used to be his supervisor. He was being observed by a bunch of inexperienced first years – and he was no longer a person, he was an Interesting Gunshot Wound with Complications.
“Ah. Benjamin. I wondered when you’d be joining us,” said Phillips, speaking as if Ben was indeed still under supervision and had arrived late for morning rounds.
Ben scowled. “Where’s Layla?”
“Layla? I don’t know anything about a person named Layla. Perhaps you’d better ask your nurse. Or your policeman.” Doctor Phillips smiled. He gestured sardonically towards a seat near the door, where a uniformed policeman was waiting.
Ben swallowed. When he went to sleep he’d had Layla in his arms – or at least he’d had his good arm around her. Now she was gone, and he was here with that bastard Phillips and his latest batch of willing victims. And he was under police guard. Fuck. “I didn’t give my permission for any of this...”
Doctor Phillips looked at him in mock disappointment. “Aren’t you able to assist us in our pursuit of medical knowledge?”
Ben exhaled sharply, in irritation, though it bloody well hurt to breathe. And for once, his sense of duty and responsibility turned rebel and said, Hell, no. Not this time.
“Get out.”
“As you wish,” Phillips said, with an amused smile. “We’ll leave you now, Benjamin. I’m sure you’ll soon be answering some tougher questions than any that I can throw at you.”
Then Phillips waved his own, fully-functional, right arm in a rather stagey way at his flock of medical students before leading them out of the room.
Leaving Ben and the policeman alone.
Ben looked at him and said, “Where’s Layla?”
* * *
The nurse ran down to the visitors’ kitchen – where Morrie and Sylvia were making themselves a cup of tea. Sylvia almost dropped hers, when the nurse came in, fearing she was about to hear more bad news.
“He’s awake – and asking for Layla,” said the nurse. “Is she in the hospital still?”
“No. She’s helping the police with their enquiries,” said Morrie. “Against my better judgment.”
“He’s very agitated about Layla – I think the policeman said something that upset him. Will you come and try to calm him, please. He keeps trying to get out of bed.”
* * *
Morrie was the one given the task of breaking Ben the news. “Yes. She’s with the police – they want her to help them do some kind of a sting.”
Ben gasped. “A sting? No! She could get herself killed.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do. I don’t like it at all. And I begged her not to go. But she’s trying to help you, Ben. They know everything, you see – the police. They’ve been questioning poor Layla for days now, ever since you first came in.”
“I’ve been here for days?” said Ben, incredulously.
“Yes. Fighting for your life, they said.”
“How ridiculous. Fighting for my life indeed. I had things under control. I’d taken some pain relief. There was no need to bring me here.”
“Benjamin, the pain relief you took almost killed you. You arrested twice in the ambulance and it was a miracle they managed to revive you. You owe everything to the team here at the Royal London. They’re wonderful people. And that specialist – Dr Phillips – he’s been absolutely marvellous.”
“Yes,” said his mother. “Dr Phillips has been amazing.”
Ben looked at his parents like they were both in the advanced stages of some kind of dementia. But his father just patted his arm, and his mother wiped tears from her face with a tissue, gazing at Ben like she was grateful to see him alive. She was also momentarily lost for words – and that only happened when the situation was deathly serious.
Morrie continued. “It looks bad for you, I have to say. They’ve found a dead man with his head blown off and a gun they think will have your fingerprints on the trigger. And they know all about those fake prescriptions you’ve been writing. And there’s a boy who says you jabbed him with a hypodermic and threatened him with a gun.”
“It was his gun. He’d have shot me, if I hadn’t taken it away from him”
Morrie sniffed, disapprovingly. “Tell it to the police, Ben. Let’s hope they believe it. Oh, and the clinic has got its knickers in a twist about you dating Layla – a breach of medical ethics, apparently, but in the scheme of things that’s probably the least of your worries.”
“I’d do it all again,” said Ben. “I’d do anything for Layla.”
Then Sylvia spoke. “Yes, I dare say you would. And she’s the same. She’s hell bent on trying to help you out of this mess. The police promised leniency if she agreed to help them. And of course she said yes, because that’s what she wants. Leniency for you. After all, poor little Layla’s done nothing wrong. It’s you that’s been running round London like a madman.”
“So what’s she doing, to help them?”
“She’s gone to a place called the Fizz club,” said Morrie. “To get some evidence against Terry Birch.”
Ben went into a panic when he heard that. “It’s too dangerous. I’ve got to stop her…” He tried to get out of bed again, but the nurse came and pushed him back down onto his pillows.
“No, you don’t. Lie down, please. You’ll be setting off your monitors again.” She was a bossy little Scot with piercing blue eyes and muscles like a part-time wrestler. “Look at the reading on that one now – just when we’d got it nice and stable.”
Ben’s temper flared. “You can’t tell me what to do! I’m a doctor.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Minister of Health, Dr Stein. While you’re a patient on my ward, you’ll do as you’re told, do you hear?”
Last Straw
Birch came out to see what all the fuss was about. He saw the dope and the gun on the green baize table. He saw Layla, holding a wad of money. And he flushed with anger. “You evil little snitch!”
She dropped the money. It fluttered to the floor – over a dozen shabby white notes – all in fifties. Most of the men let their gaze follow the money – thinking only of what if could buy – but Birch kept his eyes on Layla.
“Hello,” she said, and raised her chin, almost defiantly.
“I can see
what you’re doing, girl. You might fool these amateurs but I’ve been in business longer than you’ve been alive.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr Birch.”
“Did anyone check her for a wire?”
Layla flinched, visibly.
“See. Look at her! Guilty as sin!” Birch was sure now. Surer than sure. He went over to the table, where Glenn was sitting ready to receive the money. “She’s a snitch. And you, my son, will be appearing in court charged with trafficking in drugs and firearms. What kind of moron are you?”
Birch struck the boy’s head, almost playfully, like an old-fashioned schoolmaster.
Glenn whitened. He looked at the gun and the dope like he was wishing there was some way he could disassociate himself – but couldn’t see it. Then Birch looked at Layla and smiled.
The girl was trembling, uncontrollably. To him, this was irrefutable proof of her guilt.
Then, for the benefit of the policemen and women sitting in their cars outside, he said, “And how dare you do this in my club? I run a respectable establishment, and I will not have this wrong-doing in here.”
At the same time, though, he covered Layla’s mouth with his hands and nodded to his men. They knew, he thought smugly. He had them well-trained. He wanted them to strip her clothes off her and look for the wire.
She struggled and wriggled and tried to bite Birch’s hand. But he laughed loud to cover the sound. Yes, bite me, darling, my hand’s as tough as old shoe leather – and so’s my heart if you only knew it. When they’d stripped her of the bloody wire, he’d get one or two of the guys to take her somewhere and quietly kill her.
Glenn moved first. The boy was angry, Birch understood that, no one likes being called a moron. He came over and ripped open the front of Layla’s flimsy shirt, exposing a lacy black bra – but no sign of a wire.
Glenn frowned and grabbed the edge of her flirty little skirt. Pulled it up and ran his hand around her thighs, while her eyes flared above Birch’s fingers. Finding nothing, he repeated the manoeuvre, searching with increasing anxiety. “Nothing. She ain’t wearing one, guv.”
“She must be.” Birch sighed. If you wanted anything done properly you had to do it yourself. He flung Layla onto her back on the floor, willing her to be silent if she valued her life. He frisked her, with a kind of clinical professionalism. Searching for the bloody wire. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“Did she have a bag?” he snapped. “A purse of some kind?”
“No,” said Glenn. “She had the money in her bra.”
Birch was furious. The little bitch had made him look a fool. He had been so sure about the wire.
“Looks like she’s legit, then,” said Glenn.
“Legit?” Birch looked up. “Nothing about this is legit! Show a little respect, you piece of pond scum.”
But Glenn was smug now – he didn’t look like such a moron, after all. “Just sayin‘.”
Birch had to work hard to hold on to his temper.
Glenn sauntered over to where the fifty pound notes lay scattered on the floor. “Alright if I pick up my money now, Mr Birch?”
Birch didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. “Your money? Your money? Who gave you that gun, you fucking retard? And the goods? And what makes you think you can go selling it to the first pretty little tart who asks you to hand it over?”
* * *
Outside in the squad car. Naomi Wilks was getting worried. “I want to call it. She’s done her best.”
“No,” said the other detective. “It sounds like it’s just getting good.”
Naomi shook her head, sick with worry. “The girl’s in danger. And the men are on the verge of fighting each other. Someone’s going to get hurt.”
“So much the better,” breathed the other officer, callously. “She’s just a tart. And he’s a−”
“They’re people, not throwaways. I want to call an end to it now. I want to send people in and do the best we can with what she’s got for us.”
* * *
Layla lay on the floor hoping like hell the police would come soon. Nothing they’d said in the lead up to this had prepared her for the raw fear of this moment. Birch, kneeling beside her, had one hand on her throat to suppress any attempt to scream. Glenn a few feet away. The other men watching.
She saw Glenn walking towards her, still obsessed with the idea of getting his money. Birch released his hold on her throat – and she would have screamed if she had dared to . But she was too afraid, and no one out there seemed to be listening.
Birch pulled a gun on Glenn.
Glenn reached forward to get his own gun from off the table.
Then a third man said, “Don’t fucking shoot! What if she IS wired and we ain’t found it?”
So Birch shook her, violently, “You’re doing my head in, you little tart! Where is it?”
He rummaged violently through the remaining shreds of clothing she was wearing – still wanting to be proved right. As his hands roved over her body, Layla was acutely aware that he was still gripping his gun. Oh, God, what if it went off accidentally? She willed herself to do something to calm him down.
She forced herself to look up at Mr Birch’s gnarled sun-tanned face. Up close he was all lines and crevices like a craggy old headstone. “I… wouldn’t do that to you…really, I wouldn’t.” She even reached up and touched the side of his face. Hand trembling. Eyes locked on his. “I’m a rook. You said I was a rook just like you.”
He was confused now, and frustrated. “Then why the fuck does this feel like a set-up?”
“I don’t know…” she murmured.
He stood up, leaving Layla lying on the floor. He turned to stare at his men, who were all staring at him with a mixture of fear and loyalty. Except Glenn – always the loose cannon. She dared not move. Perhaps, if Birch turned his fury on anyone else, she’d crawl under the table – or better still, behind the bar – if she could do so without attracting attention.
But he had other ideas. “You’ve gotta go. I don’t trust you.” He came and stood over her and pointed his gun at her face.
“You said not here,” Glenn reminded him. “No mess in the club, that’s what you said.”
“Shut the fuck up!” said Birch. “Or I’ll shoot you first.”
He turned back to Layla and took aim again. “Sorry darling. You’re a liability.”
“If you do that, Mr Birch,” said a resonating voice from behind the bar. “You’ll go down for murder.”
Birch swung round. Jacob. The ebony barman. The one who used to be always smiling. Except he didn’t smile so much anymore. A bereavement in his family.
“She’s not the one with the wire, you see,” said Jacob.
“You!” Birch said and fired, out of pure, senseless anger. The first bullet whizzed past Jacob’s cheek, shattering the mirror behind the bar, sending smithereens cascading around him.
In the car, Naomi knew that had to be the signal. The force ran on protocol and fear of supervisory censure. Shots had been fired. She knew what to do. She picked up her radio and without even looking at her colleague, she said “Go, go, go.”
“Go on,” said Jacob. “Shoot me, Mr Birch. It will give me great pleasure, as I lay dying on the floor of your filthy club, to know that you’ll be locked up for my murder.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” said Birch.
“No. I’ve lost my oldest son.” Jacob stretched out his arms, as if to give Birch a bigger target. “You promised me and my family your protection. You lied. You never protected us from anything. You only took, you never gave. It changes a man – losing a son – it makes nonsense of everything I’ve ever lived for. It makes death seem very attractive. So shoot me, Mr Birch, please shoot me.”
Birch must have heard the police arrive. They streamed into the place from every available doorway. But his eyes were locked on Jacob’s – staring disbelievingly – until he pulled the trigger.
Jacob fell like a scarred m
etal target at a fairground shooting alley.
Layla closed her eyes, knowing who would be next. There was no escape. She was exposed – semi-naked and vulnerable on the floor. She should have run, but she was frozen. She kept her eyes tight shut and waited for the inevitable.
I’m sorry, Ben. I know I’ve let you down. I love you. I did it for you.
But the police shot Birch.
She heard the shot – and the dull ‘ugh’ sound as it winded him. Her eyes flicked open – against her will. These were images she didn’t want or need in her memory. But with her eyes wide open, she saw it all. It played out like a silent movie. Birch staggering like a drunken man – touching the lapel on his tailor-made suit – finding that his hand was marked with blood – looking up at the policeman with disbelief and anger in his eyes. Raising his gun to take aim and get his reprisal.
Then a blank look of surprise and the sudden slackness of death, as a bullet hole appeared on his forehead. The sound of the shot seemed to come too late – almost like an afterthought.
He fell back on top of her. Crossways over her. Mouth open, blood leaking, eyes staring. And that was when she started screaming. “Get him off me! Please, get him off me!”
“It’s alright, love, it’s all over now. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
An armed policeman in a dark, bullet-proof vest rolled Birch’s body out of the way, and reached out to help Layla up. She took the hand he offered and staggered to her feet. Her clothes were covered in Birch’s blood.
“What about Jacob?”
“Who?”
“The barman – what’s happened to the barman?”
* * *
The atmosphere at the police station was ecstatic. You’d think their football team had just won the Cup Final. People in corridors kept congratulating each other and saying they’d brought down the Birch ring. Which didn’t seem to be what had happened at all. Well, Layla didn’t think so, anyway.