‘Which doctor?’
‘How many do you know in London?’
Nine
‘WHAT IF I HADN’T shown up at your place?’ Acland asked Susan in the cab. ‘You all seem so interested in my affairs, what would you have done then?’
‘There’s nothing we could have done. None of us knew where you lived. Jackson thought you might contact Robert when you realized she’d put his card in a different slot, but Robert was less optimistic. He said you’d see that as loss of face.’
‘Did either of them phone my parents?’
Susan shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. The only information I have is that Jackson spoke to Robert at about eleven o’clock last night and he phoned me this morning to give me her number. You’d already left by the time I called her.’ She watched him withdraw into the corner of the seat. ‘We didn’t gossip about you, Charles. Jackson told me what had happened and asked me to reiterate her offer if I saw you. That’s all.’
‘You said she told you I needed a kick up the arse.’
‘I didn’t say she didn’t have a sense of humour. Would you rather she’d used a more PC expression like “Charles needs to refocus and learn motivational skills”? She strikes me as a very downto-earth woman – a straight speaker who dislikes touchy-feely waffle as much as you do. Or have Robert and I misread you on that?’
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘You’re making my decisions for me. The only reason Jackson’s happy to have me back is because she’ll make a profit on my room, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy to go along with it.’
‘So stop the cab and get out,’ Susan said reasonably. ‘You’re a free agent. Go back to your flat.’
He ignored the invitation and slumped deeper in his seat. ‘All I wanted was a bed for the night.’
‘You wanted help,’ she contradicted mildly, ‘and that’s exactly what I’m giving you. You attacked a man yesterday evening . . . and, from what you told me, came close to doing it again at the bank this morning . . . not to mention the neighbour who provoked you. You’ve given yourself a series of frights. That’s what brought you to my house.’
‘Then why are you taking me to Jackson? If I’d wanted her help I’d have gone straight to the Bell.’
‘Would you? That’s not the impression you gave her. She said she couldn’t see wild horses dragging you back unless I came with you.’ Susan smiled at his mutinous expression. ‘I’m doing what you want me to do, Charles. If I wasn’t –’ she nodded towards the driver – ‘you’d tell him to stop.’
Acland stared out of the window. ‘If you say that again, I might just do it.’
‘To spite me, or to spite yourself?’
He turned back with a sigh. ‘Have you ever met Jackson?’
‘No.’
‘Well, she’s pretty damn scary.’ He stretched out his arms. ‘Over six feet . . . this wide and looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger. She makes her girlfriend do all the work, eats like a hog and sits on piles of cash that she screws out of her customers after she’s bullied them into submission. Why would I rather be with her than with you?’
Susan made a pretence of thinking about it. She had put a similar question to Robert that morning. ‘Why are you so keen for Charles to go to this Dr Jackson? Shouldn’t I try to enrol him in one of my programmes . . . or, even better, persuade him back to Birmingham so that he can re-enter yours? What do you know about her?’
‘Henry Watson knows her from when he was at the Middlesex.
She was working as a GP in one of the poorer parts of the East End and she gave him some comprehensive data on the incidence of adolescent depression in her practice for his research paper. He was very impressed by her. She devised an early-warning system for kids at risk and persuaded the local schools to use it. The stats in her area showed a marked improvement afterwards.’
‘But Charles doesn’t trust women further than he can throw them. Does Dr Jackson know that?’
‘She seems to know more about him than we do, Susan. He talked incessantly for half an hour, apparently, although she says he probably won’t remember doing it.’ He paused. ‘I’ve always thought he might respond better to a woman . . . It’s one of the reasons I asked you to take him in when he was in London.’
‘And it didn’t work,’ Susan reminded him. ‘He was very suspicious of me.’
‘I know.’ Another pause. ‘Henry calls Dr Jackson “Jackson”. He says she doesn’t have a Christian name – or if she does, she doesn’t own to it – and looks as if she could have taken on Mike Tyson in his prime and won. He also says she’s incapable of mollycoddling anyone, tells it how it is, refuses to tiptoe around prissy sensibilities, and gains respect as a result . . . particularly from adolescent boys. Henry thinks she’s the bee’s knees.’
‘But Charles isn’t an adolescent, Bob.’
‘He’s showing all the hallmarks . . . alienation . . . rejection . . . distrust... reacting violently when he’s annoyed.’
‘All the more reason to put him into a programme. Supposing he turns on Dr Jackson?’
Willis hesitated. ‘I’ve given her as much information as I’m able to. There’s not much else I can do as he’s not my patient any more. Or yours. The only influence either of us will have is if he contacts us . . . and I’m inclined to suggest he takes up Jackson’s offer.’
‘What if I disagree?’
‘Just don’t make up your mind until you’ve spoken to her.’ Susan thought she could hear him removing his glasses for the inevitable polishing. ‘She’s says Charles is so undernourished he wouldn’t stand a chance against her, but she’s confident he’ll only reappear if he’s willing to accept her terms.’
Acland rephrased his question when Susan didn’t answer immediately. ‘What makes you think I’d rather be with Jackson?’
‘Off the cuff, because you’ll feel safer with her. She’s big enough and tough enough to keep you in line . . . you’ll do her less damage if you lose your temper . . . she’ll have no compunction about restraining you or calling the police if you take a swipe at her.’ She flicked him a mocking smile. ‘Plus, she’s uninterested in you as a sexual partner, isn’t the motherly type, cures migraines, sits with her patients, wipes up after them . . . even washes and irons their clothes. What more would you want?’
‘It’s Daisy who does all that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Jackson said she did . . . but it’s obvious, anyway. You only have to look at them. I can’t see Jackson wielding a mop. The only thing she’s interested in is weightlifting.’
‘So Daisy’s a kept femme?’
‘What’s a femme?’
‘A lipstick lesbian . . . a beautiful gay girl who’s attractive to both sexes. Heterosexual men find them confusing. When they’re not fantasizing about them, they demote them to the role of wife and confer womanly attributes on them such as a willingness to clean. It’s the opposite with butch lesbians. A butch looks like a bloke –’ she flicked him another teasing smile – ‘so she’s assumed to be the husband, with masculine attributes such as complete ignorance about where the cleaning equipment is stored.’
Acland didn’t say anything.
‘As I understand it, Daisy runs the pub and Jackson works as an out-of-hours locum. They’ve been together ten years and pooled their resources five years ago to buy the Bell. Daisy’s responsibilities are located front of house, in the bar areas and restaurant, and Jackson’s, because of her locum work, are concentrated back of house, in the private accommodation. They have staff, so they don’t do it all themselves, but I doubt Daisy had any involvement with you last night. If she was working the evening shift she wouldn’t have had time.’
‘Then why did Jackson pretend she did? It’s not as though I made any disparaging remarks about lesbians. I was careful not to. The only thing I said was that Jackson didn’t look like a doctor . . . and she doesn’t. She wears Lycra shorts and a vest, and bloody g
reat boots on her feet.’
‘What were you expecting? A white coat?’ Susan laughed. ‘God help you if a baker ever offers to medicate you.’
‘I wasn’t expecting a muscle-bound mountain who looks as if she injects testosterone twenty-five times a day,’ Acland retorted irritably. ‘How many female doctors do you know who look like Arnold Schwarzenegger?’
‘None,’ said Susan honestly, ‘so I’m guessing Jackson’s unique. It sounds to me as if she took exception to your prejudices and gave you some rope to hang yourself. You ought to know better than to judge a person on appearance alone, Charles. You’re deeply offended when it happens to you.’
‘I didn’t show her any prejudice. If she thinks I did, then she’s the one with the chip on her shoulder . . . not me.’
Susan shook her head. ‘You attacked one of her customers because he looked like a Muslim. You can’t show more prejudice than that.’
*
The cabbie drew over as two police cars roared down the middle of the road, sirens blaring. Shortly afterwards, they joined the back of a long tail of stationary cars, with flashing blue lights indicating a blockade about four hundred yards ahead. ‘It looks like an accident,’ he said through the gap in the security window. ‘Do you want to walk from here? The traffic’ll be just as bad if I try the side streets. Both lanes are blocked, so it could take hours to shift.’ ‘How far away are we?’ Susan asked. ‘Half a mile max. About the same distance again after the
accident. Just go straight ahead. The Bell’s on the corner of Murray Street.’
They opted to walk. Acland paid the fare and watched the cabbie perform a U-turn after another police car had passed. ‘I can’t seem to set foot in the place without the police being called,’ he said wryly as he slung his kitbag over his shoulder.
‘Perhaps it’s a meaningful coincidence. You seem to have had one or two in the last twenty-four hours.’
They set off up the pavement, Acland matching his long stride to Susan’s shorter one. ‘Like what?’
‘Falling sick in a pub where one of the landladies is a doctor . . . finding yourself homeless on the same morning you were offered a bed . . . knocking on my door after I’d spoken to Jackson on the phone.’
‘The first two might have been coincidences, but the last one wasn’t. You’re the only person I know well enough in London to ask for a bed . . . and you’re a friend of Doc Willis. It was odds on he’d have put you in touch with Jackson.’
‘Have you heard of Jung’s theory of synchronicity?’ she asked, stepping off the pavement to avoid people coming the other way.
‘No.’ He joined her to walk beside the stationary cars.
‘It proposes the idea of meaningful coincidences, as when you come across a word for the first time, then meet it again a couple of hours later. Why have you never noticed it before if you come across it twice in two hours? And why do you meet it again a week later?’
‘Because your eye passes over it until you discover what it means. Once you understand it, it becomes part of your vocabulary.’
‘That’s the logical explanation. There’s a mystical element to synchronicity that talks about people, places and things being attracted to a person’s soul and acquiring significance as a result.’
Acland was immediately suspicious. ‘I’m not attracted to Jackson.’
The rubber-necking crowd around the accident was getting thicker, and Susan slowed to search for a cigarette pack in her bag. ‘Not on a conscious level, perhaps, but subconsciously you’re immensely attracted to her.’ She opened the pack and popped a cigarette between her lips. ‘I could be wrong,’ she said, flicking her lighter, ‘but I’d say she’s earned more respect from you in one night than you’ve felt for anyone since you were injured. You may not like her, Charles . . . you may find her ugly and grotesque . . . but you do admire her. She had the balls to wade into a fight and there aren’t many women with the courage to do that.’
‘What if I do? Where does synchronicity fit in?’
They came to a halt. ‘It depends how you interpret meaningful coincidence. You gave me a thoroughly logical explanation for the chances of the same word recurring twice in two hours – a causeand-effect explanation – which argues that an individual has some influence over what happens to him. But synchronicity argues the other way – from effect to cause – and says if a person looks for meaning in a coincidence, he’ll probably find it.’
Acland was looking over the heads of the crowd towards the flashing blue lights, trying to spot the accident. ‘It sounds like a pile of pants. Are you telling me Jackson’s my soul mate?’
‘No, just that the coincidence of rowing with your neighbour might mean you were destined to take up Jackson’s offer.’
‘Is that why you refused me a bed . . . because you believe in stuff like that?’
‘Not necessarily. Shall I give you a more logical explanation for why we’re here?’
‘Sure.’
‘Consciously or subconsciously, you picked a fight with the woman upstairs to give yourself an excuse to leave your flat, then came to me on the pretence of wanting a bed for the night because you knew I’d be able to put you back in touch with Jackson.’
‘I wouldn’t need help with that. I know where she lives.’
‘But this way you don’t lose face. Having me along puts the arrangement on a professional footing.’
Acland glanced down at her. There was a small curve at the side of his mouth, which was the closest she’d seen to a smile. ‘Why couldn’t it just be that shit happened, and you were the only person I could think of to take me in?’
‘You’re too resourceful,’ she told him. ‘You’d have slept in a shop doorway if it had suited you better.’
‘Not a doorway,’ he said. ‘Anyone’s easy meat in a doorway. I saw an old fellow being kicked by a gang of drunken teenagers not so long ago. It was about two o’clock in the morning and they all had a go at him. One of the boys urinated on him.’
‘What did you do?’ she asked curiously.
‘Walked him to the twenty-four-hour Gents in Covent Garden so that he could clean up a bit. He wasn’t too keen to go on his own in case they came after him. Then he asked me to take him to a bar in Caroline Street. He said there was a hot-air vent at the back which would help him dry off. I gave him a leg-up over the railings at the side of the building.’
Susan’s curiosity deepened. Such a show of friendship seemed very out of character for Charles. ‘Who was he?’
‘No one.’ Acland shrugged abruptly. ‘OK, he was someone ... an old soldier, I think – he kept saluting and calling me sir – but I didn’t have much choice. He was drunk as a skunk himself, stank to high heaven and wouldn’t let go of me.’
‘What did you do to the yobs?’
‘Gave them a scare,’ he said shortly.
‘How?’ She studied his unresponsive face, then changed the subject when she realized he wasn’t going to answer. ‘So why have we stopped? What’s happening?’
‘The road’s taped off, but I don’t think it’s a car accident. I can’t see any wrecks.’
‘I heard they found bomb-making equipment in one of the flats,’ said a woman beside Susan. ‘They’ve cleared the road in case it goes off.’
Acland shook his head. ‘We’re too close. They’d have pushed us back five hundred yards.’ He jerked his chin at the surrounding houses and offices. ‘There are people at all the windows. The police would have evacuated the buildings if they were worried about an explosion. Imploding glass causes more damage than shrapnel.’
‘It’s a crime scene,’ said a young black guy who was leaning on the roof of his BMW. ‘I’ve seen this shit on TV. The cops wear white overalls when they’re collecting evidence. I’m betting there’s been a murder.’
‘How do we get through?’
‘I don’t know, mate,’ he said amiably, ‘but you’re better off than me. At least you’re on foot. I’m stuck with the motor.
’ He pointed across the road. ‘You can hang a right just before the tape . . . but you’ll have to push a way through. This gig’s drawn a bigger crowd than the Live 8 concert in Hyde Park.’
‘Cheers.’
‘De nada. If you see some cops, do me a favour and tell ’em to pull their fingers out. I’ve got a lady waiting for me and she’ll smack me around if I’m late again.’
‘Do you want to give her a call?’ Susan asked as Acland steered her between the BMW and the car in front. ‘I’ve a mobile you can borrow.’
‘Already done it.’ The man opened his palm to show his own cell phone. ‘She called me a mother –’ he broke off to grin at Susan – ‘liar,’ he amended. ‘Not too trusting, my lady. I’m hoping this thing’s big enough to make it on to the news.’
Susan waited until she and Acland reached the other side of the road before she laughed. ‘He’s living in cloud-cuckoo-land if he thinks his lady will accept the news as an excuse. She’ll say he heard it on his radio and smack him around even more.’
Acland paused at the kerbside. ‘You think that’s funny?’ he asked curiously.
Susan dropped her half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and ground it out with her heel. ‘I suspect the cheeky grin meant he was joking.’
‘Not necessarily. Five of the drunks who were kicking the old soldier were girls . . . and they were bloody vicious. The most the boy did was piss on the poor old sod, and he only did that because the girls told him to. It was sick.’
‘How did you scare them off?’ Susan asked again.
‘They didn’t like the look of my face when I took off my eyepatch,’ he said, surveying the crowded pavement. ‘You’d better hang on to the back of my jacket. That guy wasn’t joking about the need to push.’
>>>Reuters wire service to UK broadcasting stations
>>>BREAKING NEWS>>>BREAKING NEWS>>>BREAKING NEWS >>> Friday 10 August 17:17
Bermondsey man viciously attacked
Elderly London pensioner Walter Tutting, 82, sustained life-threatening head injuries from a vicious attack in broad daylight today. He was taken to intensive care at St Thomas’s Hospital after collapsing inside the doorway of an empty shop in Gainsborough Road, Bermondsey.
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