A Bed of Scorpions

by Judith Flanders

  It’s barely twenty minutes’ walk to the market, but the twenty feels like two hundred once I’m carrying a week’s supply of fruit and veg, so I generally cycle. It’s all quiet back roads, but the quiet roads sometimes feel more lethal than the busy ones. Because there are few cars, people step out without looking, crossing entirely by sound. And the cars hate the narrow roads where they have to pull over if they meet another car going in the opposite direction, so they rev their engines and spurt past cyclists in some sort of revenge deal. I know, it’s the endless sob story that is the life of the self-righteous cyclist. All I’m saying is, I’m not a boy racer in Lycra, I’m a 43-year-old woman going to a farmer’s market, for the lord’s sake. I’m as careful on the back roads as I am in the centre of town.

  Even more so between the market and Frank’s house. I had my own shopping in a pannier on the back, but Lucy had replied that they needed desserts, and so I’d bought a big sheet of brownies, as well as flowers, to take to Toby’s. Those were balanced, just, on my front basket, on top of my handbag, and I was cycling slowly, and looking out for anything where I’d have to brake sharply: not just traffic, but pedestrian crossings, bumps in the road. I heard a car behind me, but I didn’t give it much thought. The road was too narrow for it to pass me, but the driver would be able to see that there was a gap in the parked cars less than twenty metres ahead, where I could pull in and let them pass.

  I didn’t get that far. Just as I was thinking that, there was a pinch point in the road, narrowing even further for a zebra crossing. There was no one waiting, so I kept going. The car, however, roared past, pushing me towards the railings that marked the edge of the pedestrian crossing. There was nowhere for me to go. The car was on my right, there was a car illegally parked up against the crossing, and I was going to end up smashed against the iron railings. I had, strangely, time to think of this, even though it could only have taken seconds.

  And then a rut in the speed bump that marked off the crossing snatched at my front tyre. God bless our cheeseparing government and its vicious local budget cuts, is all I can say. The road hadn’t been repaired in years, and that pothole definitely saved, if not my life, me from major injury, turning my front wheel away from the railing and pushing me to one side. I still flew off, right over the handlebars, but missed the barrier entirely. And just lay there.

  The street, so empty ten seconds before, was now filled with people. I heard them talking over my head, but I’d had the wind knocked out of me, and I couldn’t speak, much less move. Someone was phoning for an ambulance. I thought about protesting, but I knew they were right. I’d landed on my face, and then the rest of my body had continued on over my head. My face had scraped along the pavement, and I’d done something nasty to my shoulder, too.

  Several voices were urging me to lie still, which was the impetus I needed to get me upright. I sat up and flapped at them with my good hand, like a cross penguin. ‘I’m fine,’ I said, even as I felt at my face gingerly. Possibly a broken nose? One cheek and my forehead was cut raw by the pavement. And there was blood everywhere. I lowered my head to my knees, feeling queasy and, only now, terrified.

  Someone put a hand on my shoulder. I gasped loudly and pulled away. It was an older woman, with frizzy grey hair and worried eyes. The gasp had scared her, but the pulling away had scared me too, producing a great wave of pain. I put my head down again until I was sure I wasn’t going to be sick. Then the worst of it receded, and I heard her talking to me, ‘… do you want us to ring someone?’

  I realised she had been trying to tell me she’d found my bag, and was, sensibly, suggesting I arrange for someone to meet me at the hospital. Two other good Samaritans were chasing down the groceries that had rolled out of my pannier.

  I pointed one of them to the bike chain which had been thrown across the road. ‘Would you chain my bike up somewhere nearby? I’ll come and collect it when I can.’

  He looked at me dubiously. But worrying about my bike, and how I’d get it home, was good displacement. I dabbed angrily at my tears, although I hadn’t realised I was crying, and at more blood. ‘Please,’ I said, and gave him the key from my ring.

  The need to make short-term decisions – phone, bike – was taken out of my hands as an ambulance appeared. Two wonderfully cheery men stepped out, and without seeming to do anything at all, managed to reduce the group of milling people to order in seconds. They listened briefly, then one rang the police to report a hit-and-run and failure to stop. My bike was locked up and the key returned to me. My pannier was put in the ambulance, and after a brief check, so was I. The woman who’d spoken to me tried to hand in the flowers I’d bought for Toby, but I asked her to keep them for herself. I hadn’t been able to gather myself enough to say thank you for the help, and it was little enough for scraping me up off the pavement.

  The two ambulance men consulted briefly. Then, ‘Do you know what road we’re on, love?’

  I laughed, which five seconds before I would have sworn was impossible.

  ‘We’re from Southend,’ said the larger of the two, who was covered from his neck downwards with tattoos. ‘We’ve been brought in because of staff shortages. We got here via the satnav, but now it says that this street doesn’t exist.’ He was resigned, but not surprised.

  Swings and roundabouts. The government cuts had probably saved my life by preventing the council from repairing the road; the same cuts meant that the patients had to navigate their ambulances to the hospital. The younger, un-tattooed one, in the back with me, had been trying to get me to lie down. Now I brushed him aside so I could look out the front window over the driver’s shoulder.

  ‘Go to the end of the road and turn left. It’ll take you to the main road, and it’s easier to direct you from there.’ I paused. ‘You are taking me to the Royal Free, aren’t you? I don’t want to go to Essex.’

  They laughed. ‘No, we haven’t got time to take you to the seaside.’

  That was a mercy. I hadn’t thought to bring my bucket and spade with me to the farmer’s market. Mr Tattoo and I chatted across the back seat as I gave directions. Despite getting me picked up and into the ambulance in record time, he must have spoken to several of the bystanders. ‘No one got a car reg. Any chance you did?’

  ‘It was too quick.’

  He nodded, unsurprised. ‘Maybe the police will get more.’

  Un-tattoo took my blood pressure and did a brief cleanup of my face, but there wasn’t much point. My nose was gushing blood, and holding anything against it hurt too much. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, trying not to sound impatient. He couldn’t know it bled regularly, and I was entirely used to looking like a vampire after a particularly juicy meal.

  In barely five minutes we had pulled up to the hospital, and they unloaded me – literally, because I wasn’t allowed to walk. I’ve often wondered if hospitals use wheelchairs more for patient control than health. If you’re in a chair, you go where they want you to, not where you want to.

  The advantage of the vampire look is that you get seen very quickly. The Saturday-morning rush of small children with park- and football-related injuries was well underway, so A&E was seething with shrieks and scuffles and fights over Lego. And that was only among the parents. The blood on my face got me into a cubicle fast, although after they cleaned me off they realised it wasn’t as bad as it looked. I’d need an x-ray for my shoulder, which was now agony, and my nose would have to be cauterised and – I felt it again – seemed to be lopsided. But I was not, rightly, anyone’s priority. A nurse handed me a pack of swabs for my nose, and I was left to wait my turn.

  As soon as she went, I sneaked a quick couple of Nurofen from my bag. I pushed the curtain ajar so that I would be visible, and they wouldn’t forget to take me to x-ray at some point, and then I settled in, content to spend the morning reading on my phone, which is what I often do, wherever I am. Well, not on my phone, and the blood made turning pages messy, but as I say, that wasn’t a novelty to me.

&n
bsp; After an hour or so a text appeared: Might be free around lunchtime. The Indian place in Whitechapel? I could think of few things that sounded better than the Indian place in Whitechapel, and I reflected sadly on the diminishing odds of cumin-spiced lamb chops for lunch. I replied, Fell off my bike. Nothing serious, but waiting to see doc. I didn’t even have time to flick back to the book app before a WHERE was on the screen. Royal Free. But really, I’m fine. And then nothing.

  Half an hour later, I heard Jake’s voice at the desk, which, if I shuffled down to the bottom of the examining table, I could see from my cubicle. There he was, looking official and – could it be? – showing his warrant card. He was pulling rank to get me seen more quickly? That was a terrible thing to do, and I was so grateful. He headed down the corridor towards me led by an orderly with a wheelchair, and then stood at the end of the bed, face impassive, arms crossed. No How are you feeling, just a nod and ‘You’ll be taken down to x-ray now. I’ll wait for you here.’

  We were barely around the corner before the orderly stopped and crouched down in front of me. ‘Are you OK?’

  I tried not to look too abused. ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Thank you.’

  He didn’t believe me. He knew the police were waiting to interview me, even if I was too stupid to be worried. ‘Do you want me to slow this down?’ he offered. ‘Often I can’t find a technician.’

  ‘Really, there isn’t a problem.’

  He still looked doubtful.

  ‘I just need to …’ I cast about, and then realised that being truthful was the answer. Which was a surprise. ‘It was a hit-and-run. They want me to give a statement, that’s all.’

  Appeased, he stood up and moved behind me. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure. Everything’s fine.’ Then I thought about Jake, arms folded, face grim. And his earlier silence. Pretty sure.

  Back upstairs, I found Jake standing where I’d left him, but now talking to Mr Tattoo and his friend. He nodded towards a registrar, whom he must have shanghaied in the meantime. ‘He’ll do your nose now.’

  The registrar moved away my hand holding the swab, and great gouts of blood followed. We both jumped as Jake cursed under his breath. ‘It’s fine,’ I said, ostensibly to the doctor. ‘It just needs cauterising. This happens a lot.’

  He looked slightly revolted, and I agreed, but it was part of life’s rich tapestry. Or something. Jake put his hand on my elbow. The registrar looked at me again. He hadn’t thought I looked the type to do a runner. I knew Jake had done it for reassurance, but I still felt like a felon. The procedure was no big deal, and in three minutes it was over. The x-ray had come up in the meantime. My collarbone was bruised, and the ligaments had been wrenched, nothing more. My nose wasn’t broken either, although it was leaning hard to starboard.

  The doctor looked casual. ‘You can wait for orthopaedics, or I can just straighten it. If orthopaedics do it, you can have a local.’ He offered the anaesthetic like a treat for a very good child, but I knew the way hospitals worked.

  ‘You’ll do it now, right?’ He wasn’t keen – I could see his eyes flicking over to the desk where, no doubt, more interesting patients awaited. So I spoke quickly, before he could move off. ‘Go for it.’

  He went for it. For a brief moment I thought he’d punched me, as everything sucked in and went black with the pain.

  ‘All right?’

  I nodded. I couldn’t speak yet.

  ‘Get her some water,’ said Jake, in the icy voice he might have used to an office junior. An office junior he didn’t like. An office junior he didn’t like and was going to sack in the morning.

  The registrar thought he was going to point out that that wasn’t his job. Then he looked at Jake again and realised that what he most wanted to do was get me some water. So he did.

  Jake didn’t move while we waited. I leant back against him, and he swore again. Then, ‘Have you finished bleeding? Can we get you home?’

  I nodded again. Jake wasn’t any more talkative. In fact, he didn’t say a word on the way out. Or in the car. By the time I was tucked up on the sofa and he’d brought me some tea, I was willing to confess to anything – murdering Frank, being Lord Lucan, or keeping the Loch Ness monster in a bucket beside the bathtub. Anything to end the silence.

  So, finally, I did it myself. ‘I’ve never come off my bike before. I was overdue.’

  He didn’t answer. I was about to try again, when, ‘Who do you know who drives a dark blue or green car, possibly a Volvo?’

  I blinked. ‘You think the person knew me?’

  He stared at me with the same stony expression he’d had ever since he arrived at the hospital.

  ‘And you think I’d recognise a Volvo?’

  That brought a small smile. I don’t know what kind of car Jake drives. Or my mother. Or anyone. I am officially registered Car Blind, and am eligible for a handicapped parking permit for the ailment. Or I would be, if only I drove. And would have been able to recognise my own car.

  Jake knew this, too, but I reminded him of the facts of life nonetheless. ‘Honey, I’m the girlfriend who knows about dead artists in Vermont. Did you think you were speaking to the one who spends her time at Brand’s Hatch?’

  His voice warmed. ‘My mistake.’ He rubbed his hand fiercely through his hair. ‘The paramedics say the witnesses thought it was deliberate.’

  I thought about that. ‘It was deliberate, in the sense that someone saw me as a cyclist in his way—’

  Jake broke in. ‘Her. Everyone who saw agrees on that.’

  I swallowed. ‘Her, then. She saw me as a cyclist in her way, and didn’t want to wait. We all know there are drivers like that. But deliberate, by someone I know?’ My voice had skittered up a few octaves. Minnie Mouse Does Helium. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a good question. Frank Compton killed himself, most likely. You met with his business partner and his business partner’s solicitor to discuss the death, the three of you.’ He looked at me levelly. I might have managed to brazen it out under normal circumstances, but my defences were down. I shifted and looked away. He nodded. Point made. ‘That Aidan Merriam is a friend, and his solicitor is your mother …’ He turned this around in his head for a moment, then continued: ‘You also had a meeting with Celia Stein, the daughter of an artist Frank Compton and Aidan Merriam represented.’ He turned that over too. ‘There’s been no follow-up to that?’ I shook my head, mutely, but he persisted: ‘You haven’t been asking questions?’

  ‘Questions about what? I don’t know what to ask. Or who.’

  ‘When you visited Toby, did you discuss Frank’s death with anyone?’

  ‘Apart from condolence chat? Of course not.’ What kind of question was that? Sitting in a room with his partner? What kind of person did he think I was? Then I realised, he would have asked those questions. That’s what the police do. ‘The only conversation I had there that was anything except the kind of thing you say when someone dies was with Frank’s niece, the one who worked for them in her holidays. I told you about her. She was the one who told me that the gallery represented Stevenson.’ Jake made a rolling gesture with his hand – keep talking. ‘That’s all. What did you think, that I’d march up to Toby and say, “Where were you at 7 a.m. on the morning of …”? Speaking of which.’ I sat up. ‘Someone must have confirmed Toby’s whereabouts?’

  Jake’s lips twitched. ‘He was with seventeen civil servants at a paintballing away day in Buckinghamshire.’

  ‘You’re making that up.’ I laughed, which reminded me of how much my face hurt. That sobered me. ‘Paintballing at seven in the morning?’

  ‘A few of them went the night before. He and three others went for a run at six. They got back just before seven, and were identified by the hotel porter. Compton’s car park pass in central London was used at 6.25, and we’ve checked the CCTV footage. It was him. Merriam’s call to report the death came in at 7.05. Stafford’s out of it. So.’ He shifted. Physically and mentally. ‘Who
else have you spoken to?’

  I threw out my hands. Which reminded me that my arm and shoulder hurt too. I didn’t care. I’d fallen off my bike because an arsehole driver wanted to save three seconds. I glared at Jake. ‘I told you, I haven’t talked to anyone about anything because I don’t know anything about anything.’

  He considered smiling, but didn’t. ‘That covers it.’

  ‘I can’t invent things to tell you.’ I slid into a generic American accent. ‘“Oh, yes, Officer, you see I was Nancy Drew in a previous existence, and so I got into my little roadster and …”’ I stopped. I’d emailed Jim Reynolds about Stevenson. So what, said my sensible self. People didn’t kill themselves over museum souvenirs.

  ‘What.’ It was a demand.

  I told him about the email, vigorously adding my thoughts on the lack of mortality figures connected to museum souvenirs.

  ‘In the normal course of events I’d agree with you. And I agree with you that this is most likely a hit-and-run. Common sense, and statistics, would say that’s what it is. But I don’t like coincidences, and I especially don’t like coincidences when they involve you. I’ll keep an eye on the reports as they’re filed, see if anything stands out, although it’s unlikely.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going back to the office. I’ve got a deskful of paperwork.’