The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club)

by Richard Osman

  He watches the man turn and look around him, having seen the bed is empty. Douglas is not breathing. Might never breathe again, he realizes, as the man turns to face the wardrobe. If someone is hiding, then this is the only conceivable place. And anyone who can silently open a door without a key and cut through an MI5 padlock within a minute will know that.

  The man takes two steps towards the wardrobe, gun still raised. White, Douglas thinks, maybe forty? So hard in this light. What was his name, Douglas wondered. It felt like that was information he should be allowed to know. Had they ever met? Passed on a street like future lovers?

  Poppy wasn’t coming. How had she not heard? Unless? Oh, of course. Of course. Perhaps Poppy had not been with Elizabeth this evening at all. Perhaps there had been a briefing? Orders handed down. We want this problem to go away. Just turn a blind eye, no one’s to know. We’ll send in one of our men. Douglas doesn’t have any relatives, no kids to be asking questions. Poppy was junior enough to fall in line. She would be in her room now, cowering. When they found his body, would Elizabeth work out what had happened? A ridiculous thought, no one would find his body. A Special Ops group would be on hand to clear everything up. A military coroner would be waiting for him somewhere. All the paperwork done right. Probably a suicide. Elizabeth would never get close enough to know any different. Elizabeth really was looking good, Douglas had to admit it. He would have loved another crack at her. Will she find his other letter? Of course she will.

  The man hooks an outstretched foot under one of the wardrobe doors and pulls them open. He smiles to himself as he sees Douglas standing there.

  The man looks English. The gun isn’t Service issue, but sometimes they employed freelancers. ‘Worth a go,’ says Douglas, his hands indicating the inside of the wardrobe.

  The man nods. Douglas waits for an epiphany, a sudden flash of clarity about his life. Something to take with him on whatever journey he is about to embark upon. But there is nothing. Just a man with a gun, and the label of his pyjama top itching against the back of his neck. What a way to go.

  ‘Where are the diamonds?’ asks the man. An English accent. That brings Douglas some peace.

  ‘Afraid not, old boy,’ says Douglas. ‘You’re going to kill me anyway, and I’d rather someone else ended up with the diamonds.’

  ‘I might not kill you,’ says the man.

  Douglas smiles and raises a dubious eyebrow at the man with the gun. The man with the gun nods in concession.

  ‘This will sound ridiculous,’ says Douglas. ‘But let me solve one final mystery. I’d love to know who sent you?’

  The man shakes his head and Douglas watches as he squeezes the trigger.

  16

  Ibrahim can’t sleep.

  The air around him is still. How many people have died in this hospital room? In this bed? In these sheets?

  How many final breaths still hung in this air?

  When his eyes close he is back in the gutter. He feels the water, he hears the footsteps, he tastes the blood.

  The kick to the head now has a name. Ryan Baird. Where was Ryan Baird, he wonders. Where was Ibrahim’s phone? Who bought stolen phones? Ibrahim had a Tetris app on his phone. There were 200 levels, and he was on level 127 after playing for a considerable amount of time. All of that progress was lost.

  He looks at the red plastic tag on his wrist. The admin of death. There will be a drawer full of them somewhere.

  He has finally persuaded Ron to go home. Not that he isn’t grateful for the company. Each night so far Ron has stayed up with him and talked about West Ham and the problem with the Labour Party. And then, even later in the night, about his ex-wife and daughter, his son, Jason, and about leaving school at fourteen and never knowing his dad. Anything, really, other than talk about what had happened. They watched Die Hard, but only the first one. No point watching the others, apparently. Ibrahim has never had a friend like Ron before, and Ron has never had a friend like Ibrahim before. Ron will fill his water jug when it needs filling, will get him Frazzles from the machine, but will never make physical contact, no hand on his arm. Which is just fine by Ibrahim. It must be harder being a man these days, he thinks, being expected to hug.

  Ibrahim wants to go home, which he knows is a positive thing. It was positive to have a home in which he felt safe. To be surrounded by people who made him feel safer still.

  But he knows he will then never want to leave home again.

  Things would get back to normal. The brain is tremendously clever, one of the reasons Ibrahim likes it so much. Your foot was your foot and would remain your foot through thick and thin. But the brain changes, in form and in function. Ibrahim has respect for podiatrists, but really, looking at feet all day?

  The brain. That magnificent, dumb beast. He knows that alien chemicals are currently racing around his brain, protecting him in this moment of crisis. In time these chemicals would fade, leaving nothing but a faint stain. When they say that time heals, that’s what they mean. Like most things, when you really drill down into them, it is neuroscience, not poetry.

  Yes, time heals, time heals. But what if time is the one thing Ibrahim doesn’t have?

  I don’t really believe in revenge. That’s what he had said to the others when they talked about Ryan Baird. And in theory he didn’t. Revenge is not a straight line, it’s a circle. It’s a grenade that goes off while you’re still in the room, and you can’t help but be caught in the blast.

  Ibrahim had once had a client, Eric Mason, who had bought a used BMW from a dealer, an old school friend, in Gillingham. He soon discovered that the car had a faulty clutch. His friend at the dealership refused to accept liability and Eric Mason, who, it should be said, had issues around emotional control and anger management, had replaced the clutch at his own expense and then driven the BMW straight through the window of the dealership in the dead of night.

  The car had then stalled – understandably, as it had just been driven through a large window – so Eric Mason was forced to abandon it and flee as alarms blared all around him. Unfortunately, he fell and impaled himself on a large shard of glass, and was saved from bleeding to death only by the arrival of the police.

  Recovering in hospital, Eric Mason received a huge bouquet of flowers from the dealership, but, upon opening the card, discovered they had attached a court summons and a bill for £14,000. A spell of community service and bankruptcy followed. His fury grew.

  Eric’s daughter and the son of the car dealer had also been friends at school. Eric forbade his daughter from ever talking to the boy again and so, as winter follows summer, they had got married two years later, with Eric refusing to attend the wedding. Another year later and Eric’s grandson was born. Neither side would give ground, so Eric was unable to see his first grandchild. All because of a faulty clutch.

  It was at this point that Eric felt perhaps he should take responsibility for his own actions, and decided to see a psychotherapist.

  Twelve months later, on his final visit to Ibrahim, Eric Mason had brought in his daughter and his son-in-law to say thank you in person. He had also brought in his infant grandson, and they had posed together for a photograph, smiles all round.

  Ibrahim could feel himself drifting off and decided to stop fighting it. Whatever was waiting for him in his dreams, it was best to just face it unafraid. Accept the damage Ryan Baird had inflicted on him without thinking. Not the ribs, not the face – they would heal soon enough – but his freedom and his peace of mind, snatched away for a phone.

  They say a man who desires revenge should dig two graves, and this is surely right. Then again, Ibrahim feels like his own grave has already been dug, so would there really be much harm in digging another for Ryan Baird? He wonders what his friends have in store for Ryan. Nothing physical, Ibrahim is sure of that. But freedom and peace of mind? Ryan might have a little surprise coming.

  The photograph of Ibrahim, Eric Mason and Eric’s grandson was in a special file Ibrahim kept at hom
e. A file filled with a few mementos, not too many, all reminding Ibrahim why he loved his job. The file is the only one on Ibrahim’s shelves that isn’t kept in strict alphabetical order. Because sometimes you had to remember that life wasn’t always arranged in alphabetical order, however much you would like it to be.

  Eric Mason, years later, discovered that nothing had been wrong with the clutch at all. He simply hadn’t understood the electronic controls, and pressing a reset button for five seconds would have cleared it up. So you do have to be careful with revenge, but, in all honesty, Ibrahim has spent most of his life being careful, and sometimes you had to do things differently if you wanted to grow as a human being.

  Ibrahim is certain that he could just press his own reset button for five seconds, and he could go on with forgiveness in his heart, go on doing the right thing, the correct thing, the boring thing. The cruise control.

  But he still remembers Eric Mason, for all of his regrets, talking about the sheer ecstatic thrill of driving his car through that dealership window.

  And it is that image, not the kick to the head, not Ryan Baird’s footsteps and not the taste of blood, that Ibrahim is thinking about as he falls into his first peaceful sleep since the attack.

  17

  Joyce

  It is two in the morning, but I want to write this all down while it is still fresh.

  My phone rang at midnight, and of course I thought Ibrahim had died. What else would you have thought, in the circumstances? Nobody rings at midnight. He had looked well when we left him, but I’ve seen all sorts. I must have reached the phone within two rings.

  It was Elizabeth, and the first thing she said was, ‘It’s not Ibrahim,’ so that was a relief. She can be sensitive when she tries. She said she knew that it was midnight, but I was to throw on some clothes and meet her at 14 Ruskin Court as soon as I was able. I wondered if I needed to bring a flask, but I was told there was already a kettle, and just to bring myself. It would have been quick to fill a flask, but you try telling Elizabeth that at midnight.

  I walked over to Ruskin, and it really is very pretty here in the dark. There are a few lamps lighting the paths, and you can hear the animals in the bushes. I could just imagine the foxes thinking, What’s this old woman up to? and I was thinking the same. It was cold, but I have just bought a cardigan from Marks, which was perfect for the job. They delivered a few bits yesterday. I didn’t mention it, because I don’t mention everything. For example, yesterday I was defrosting a lasagne and completely forgot about it. And that’s the first you’ve heard of it.

  At the door I was buzzed upstairs, heart pounding if I’m honest, not knowing what I was going to see. I pushed the door open and saw poor Poppy sitting in an armchair, shaking. Opposite her was Elizabeth, in another armchair, but not shaking. That was the only furniture in the whole place. The flat was where Douglas was hiding, I worked that much out. ‘Put the kettle on, Joyce,’ Elizabeth said, ‘Poppy’s had a shock.’ She sounded bossy, but I know she didn’t mean it; she was just being professional.

  You wouldn’t believe the kitchen, by the way. Two mugs, two plates, two glasses, two bowls, some Frosties, some white Mother’s Pride, then, in the fridge, some tofu and some almond milk. There was tea and coffee in one of the cupboards and I poked my head back round and Elizabeth and Poppy stopped their conversation, and I asked Poppy if she wanted milk and sugar and she said could she have a cardamom and lychee infusion and I nodded as if this was quite normal, which I understand it is these days, and ducked back into the kitchen. Goodness me, that was a long sentence to write. In a book they would tell me to put a full stop in there somewhere. After ‘infusion’?

  I filled and boiled the kettle, anxious to get back to the living room and find out what was happening. If this was Douglas’s flat, then where was he? I poured the water over the teabag, which was made of grey cloth, but each to their own, and was just thinking about whether you’re supposed to leave the bag in or take it out with herbal tea? If I left it in then I could be out there quicker, but what if that wasn’t the right thing to do? Joanna, like all daughters, would know. Anyway, that’s when I heard the toilet flush, so, to hell with protocol, I left the bag in and went into the living room.

  I knew it was Douglas straight away, you could just tell. Very handsome, if I do say so myself. I could see in an instant why Elizabeth had married him, and also why she had divorced him. I bet it was fun while it lasted though.

  He was straight up to me and, ‘Oh you must be Joyce, I’ve heard all about you,’ and, really, I almost curtsied, and then I caught Elizabeth rolling her eyes, so I said, ‘Yes, and you must be Douglas,’ and he said, ‘I imagine you’ve heard all about me too,’ and I said, ‘Not really, no,’ and I could see that Elizabeth liked that.

  I said let me go into the bedroom and find another chair but Elizabeth said to try Poppy’s room, as there was a dead body on Douglas’s floor.

  Well, that was more like it.

  I got a hard-backed chair from Poppy’s room and Elizabeth let Douglas tell me the story.

  He had been hiding in a wardrobe, which wasn’t cowardly, but basic training, and some chap had a gun aimed at his head. He took some time over this bit of the story, discussing death and perspective, and man’s moral duty and a life well lived. I wished Ron had been there, he would have told him to wind his neck in, but it was me, so I listened politely. He was ready to meet his maker, that was the gist of it, but as the mystery man reached for the trigger, his head was blown clean off, and there was Poppy, like the cavalry, gun in hand, cool as you like.

  Cool according to Douglas, but you could see she wasn’t cool at all, still shaking, still quiet, both hands around her tea. She had said nothing about the bag still being in, so maybe it’s OK? Though I don’t think she was really in any state to, so it wasn’t a proper test.

  I went and sat on the arm of Poppy’s chair and put my arm around her, and she put her head on my shoulder and started to sob quietly. I don’t think Douglas or Elizabeth had put their arm around her, and that’s when I realized, of course, that was why Elizabeth had asked me there. Ron would have done just as well, but I bet Elizabeth isn’t ready for Ron to meet Douglas yet. Douglas is so obvious, Ron would have a field day.

  I told Poppy she had been very brave, and Elizabeth told her she had been a terrific shot too, and Douglas said amen to that. But Poppy was having none of it, just silently weeping.

  Elizabeth did her best to be comforting, saying it was hard to kill someone, but sometimes that was the job, and then Poppy finally spoke and said, ‘That’s not a job I want,’ and I had some sympathy with that. It must be fun doing all the training, I suppose, and creeping around with no one knowing, but blowing a man’s head off from four feet away probably doesn’t suit everyone. It wouldn’t suit me, and it doesn’t suit Poppy. Actually, perhaps it would suit me? You never know until you try, do you? I never thought I would like dark chocolate, for example.

  I asked what was next, and had the police been called, and Elizabeth said, ‘Well, after a fashion.’ I was hoping Chris and Donna might make an appearance, but apparently in these cases, national security and so on, these things take a different route. So Elizabeth, Douglas and Poppy were waiting for some spies to come down from London and the case would be theirs. Which is a shame because Donna, in particular, would have enjoyed the whole scene.

  Elizabeth asked if I would like to see the body, and even though I really wanted to, I felt I should stay with my arm around Poppy and so I said no, I was fine, but thank you.

  We only had to wait twenty minutes or so until the door buzzed and a woman and a man arrived. Sue and Lance. MI5, according to Elizabeth. Sue was in charge.

  They were both no-nonsense. Sue reminded me an awful lot of Elizabeth. The manner. She must be nearly sixty and would have been pretty if she wasn’t so angry. I know it doesn’t matter if she’s pretty or not, I’m just giving you an idea of her. Her hair was a lovely chestnut colour. Dyed, but
very nicely. I kept trying to make conversation, but I got nowhere.

  I could tell even Elizabeth was being respectful, so I followed her lead. They turned down my offer of a cup of tea, however. They both barged past me as I stood in the kitchen doorway. Not rude, as I say, they just had a job to do. Sue knew exactly what had gone on, and told Douglas and Poppy to pack whatever they needed. She was surly with them both, especially Douglas. I ended up feeling quite sorry for him.

  Lance was dealing with the corpse. Taking photos and so on. He looked like someone you would see in a DIY show on TV. Rugged, and good with his hands, but never quite the star of the show. Just sawing some wood in the background. I asked if I could take a look at his camera, because I am thinking of getting one for Joanna for Christmas. He said he would show me when he was finished up, but in the end he didn’t.

  Sue told Elizabeth they would need to speak to her in due course, and she said well naturally, but quiet as a mouse, not so much scared as knowing not to cause trouble. Sue looked at me at one point and said, ‘Is this Joyce?’ She told Elizabeth to ensure I told no one about the shooting and the body and so on. I said, ‘Sue, you’re safe with me,’ but she didn’t even look in my direction, just at Elizabeth. Elizabeth reassured Sue I wouldn’t tell a soul, and she nodded, unconvinced. To be honest, I think she had bigger fish to fry.

  MI5 know who I am now though, so that’s one for the Christmas newsletter.

  Presently there was another buzz at the door, and two men in overalls arrived with a stretcher. Paramedics wear green, of course, but these two were head to toe in black. They went into the bedroom and loaded the body onto the stretcher. Fortunately, I was able to get a quick peek before they zipped up the body bag and, yes, Poppy really had blown his head off. Or most of it at least. It took me right back to my days in A&E.