by Lee Stevens
“Hello, boys,” he said, his voice deep and raspy due to the several cigars he smoked daily. There was a long, thick Cuban burning in the ashtray in front of him as he continued to leaf through some paperwork. For all Riley knew they could be the plans for a massive drug shipment or something as mundane as an invoice for the club. “I’m in a good mood so I hope you two aren’t bringing me bad news.”
Purvis went first. Despite the complications in his private life, he was always professional when it came to dealing with Nash and good at hiding what was on his mind. For both his and Sandra’s benefit, he had to keep things to himself and act naturally.
“Bad news? Not at all.” He handed Nash the two discs. “I’ve sorted the footage from last night and it’s all good. No fight on screen. The other one’s what you wanted me to do for the party tonight. I think you’ll like it.”
Riley frowned at Purvis, unsure what he was talking about. Purvis winked, as if to say, don’t worry, you’ll find out later.
“Excellent, thanks.” Nash then turned to Riley. “You’re not going to bring me down on my eldest’s twenty-first birthday, are you?”
Your only child’s twenty-first, Riley thought, but said, “Only if you don’t like money.” He placed the envelopes on the table along with the necessary paperwork. “Everyone paid up - apart from Moore.”
“I thought he’d be a problem,” Nash said. “So...?”
Riley tossed him the car keys and placed the log book on the desk. “Maybe a last minute addition to Michael junior’s presents. Nice little Nissan.”
“My son can do better than a Nissan,” Nash said studying the keys and Riley felt like punching him. Flash fucker. “I’ll get one of the lads to get shot of it down the auctions.” He then looked in Terry Simpson’s envelope. Raised an eyebrow. “How did the old boy come up with this lot?”
Riley shrugged, feigning innocence. “At least he paid, right?”
“What charges did you hit him with?”
Riley paused. Prepared himself. Then said, “None. I told him the debt had been repaid.”
Nash sat back in his seat and placed his hands in his lap. He gave Riley the eye of the tiger, his face not giving anything away. Nash was notoriously hard to read. At times you didn’t know if he was about to hug you or kill you.
“And you’re making those kind of decisions now, are you?”
Riley cleared his throat and guessed he was about to be killed. He wasn’t scared of Nash as a person. If it was a one on one fight Riley knew he would get the better of the other man. But Nash was the boss and Riley had worked for him long enough so that in a way he’d become institutionalised. What Nash said went. When he asked you to do something, you did it. Even though Riley had become more than a little disillusioned with life recently, it was hard to fully break from the shackles of gangland life. It wasn’t like he could hand his notice in and move on to another job. No, he was stuck in his position and he knew it. Playing along was the only thing he could do for now.
When he next spoke, the words came out quickly and confidently. And so they should. He had rehearsed them on the way here, after all.
“Simpson had nothing left in his house to take or sell. He has no car and no job. He’d managed to borrow the money from some family member in Liverpool to pay off what he owed. Plus” - this was the part of the lie that had to be good - “he’s due into hospital next week for an operation. Something to do with his heart. He didn’t look too well when we called on him. Anyway, I thought with this final payment you would’ve made a good profit already and under the circumstances decided to call an end to the loan. I figured if he’s ill he might drop down dead on us if we call on him in future or when he goes into hospital he might mention the debt to one of the doctors and then they might report it to the police or the newspapers and your name would be dragged though the mud. In the end I assumed no potential hassle would be best for you.”
There was silence for a few seconds as Nash looked in the envelope again.
Riley looked at Purvis.
Purvis winked again, this time saying, Good speech!
Riley wasn’t sure.
Then Nash put the envelopes containing the cash in his bottom drawer, as if it was nothing more than loose change – which to him it was. He didn’t need the loan sharking racket as he made enough money elsewhere, both legally and illegally. But loan sharking was his first love, the way he’d started out. Plus if he quit then someone else would move in to take his place. If there were any money making opportunities in Thirnbridge, then Nash not only wanted in, he wanted in at the top. That’s how people like him became so powerful. They had their fingers in as many pies as possible and would break other people’s fingers if they even reached for a piece of the crust.
“Good call,” he said and took a couple of puffs off his cigar. “That’s why I like you, Riley, you think ahead. I agree less hassle is best. Well done.”
Maybe a year ago those words would have filled Riley’s heart with pride, like when he got a star against his work back at school. But that was before everything had happened. Before DI Thornton. Before the boy.
Before Riley changed.
Nash slapped his hands down on the desk. Stared at both men in turn. “So, I’ll see you two tonight then, at the party.”
Riley nodded and turned to leave but stopped when he heard Purvis say, “I’ve got nowhere to go and I’m already dressed so I thought I’d hang on here. Is there nothing you want me to do?”
“Not unless you want to help the girl’s hang balloons and stuff,” Nash said, looking back at the paperwork on his desk.
Riley knew that’s exactly what his friend wanted. Any excuse to spend time with Sandra and Wendy.
“What the hell,” Purvis said, casually. “They’ll probably need a bloke to keep them in order. You know what women are like.
“Why do you think I’m in here?” Nash laughed, the sound coming out in a bellowing roar as his teeth squeezed down on the cigar.
You’re in here because you don’t really love Sandra and Wendy, Riley thought as he and Purvis left the room, both laughing along with Nash like the pair of arse-kissers they had to pretend to be.
“That wasn’t obvious, was it?” Purvis whispered as they made their way back along the corridor.
“You may as well have pulled out a paternity test,” Riley joked. A second later, they were back on the dance-floor, shaking hands. “See you tonight.”
“Yeah,” Purvis said. “I’ll save you a seat.”
“Just make sure it’s not next to Howden. I’ve had enough of him today.”
With that, Riley headed out to his car as Purvis made his way over to Sandra, with Wendy running at him shouting, “Uncky Dywan, Uncky Dywan!” as she always did, excited and happy to see him, as if she knew the truth.
And for a little while at least, they could pretend they were a proper family.
8
Riley was greeted by the usual silence as he opened his front door.
His apartment was on the top floor of the building. Expensive, spacious and in a decent area, it would make a perfect family home yet he shared it with no one. He no longer missed the company of others nor did he yearn for it. Perhaps it was cowardice, but he preferred to distance himself from as many people as possible rather than risk potential hurt by growing close and maybe losing them. Therefore there was no lady in his life. There had been in the past, many years ago, but not recently. He had the pick of one night stands at work to satisfy any sexual craving but as for a relationship, he had no interest. The same went for children. Sure, he could provide a decent life for them and would love and protect them until his dying day, but what kind of a father could he ever hope to be working the job he did and mixing with the people he had to mix with? No, he was better off alone. That’s how he saw it, anyway.
He hung up his leather jacket, kicked off his shoes and headed straight into the bathroom where he stripped from the rest of his clothes. He then climbed i
nto the shower and let the water wash over his body, cooling and cleansing him in equal measure, and he stayed under the jets for a good twenty minutes before having to force himself out.
As he worked the towel over his body he ignored the many scars crisscrossing his skin and as usual was thankful that the worse ones were on his back where he couldn’t see them and wouldn’t be reminded of the many operations and skin grafts he’d had as a both a child and young adult. He did, however, pay attention to the newer wounds; the cuts and bruises that occurred on a daily basis. He didn’t know where half of them came from.
The bruise on his inner thigh was healing. The scab on his right shin was just about ready to fall off and the new skin underneath looked shiny and healthy. The scratches on the outside of his left bicep (the result of a grappling match with some bloke high on drugs last Thursday night) were fading. He took care of the new cut on his right hand with a dab of antiseptic cream. Once the dried blood had been washed away he could see just how small the wound was – just a tooth mark - but he couldn’t be too careful. Who knew what germs that nephew carried in his mouth? Germs were his biggest danger. Infection was his arch-nemesis and he’d learned long ago that a small or hidden wound could prove dangerous if left untreated. Usually the first sign that something was wrong with the human body was pain, but Riley could only rely upon what he saw, that’s why he had to inspect himself every night before bed.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and crossed the landing into the largest of the two bedrooms.
Once the blinds were closed and the room was in total darkness, he lay on top of the bed and closed his eyes. He’d have to leave in half an hour or so. Half an hour before he had to put on an act and pretend he enjoyed the company he kept. Except for Purvis. He wasn’t like the others and despite what had gone on between Sandra and himself he was a good man deep down, dragged into his profession by fate rather than a lust for power and a thirst for violence.
And despite the years of violence and numerous casualties at the hands of the firm, Riley liked to think that he was the same.
He tried to clear his mind and relax but as usual there was always too much going on, too many thoughts and memories swirling around. And, at the forefront of those thoughts and memories there was the face of a small child, the image ripped from a newspaper photograph he’d seen for the first time six months ago.
A boy. Eighteen months old. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. He was smiling up at the camera from his pushchair, holding what may well have been his very first ice-cream on a warm summer’s day. His name was Jamie Hudson.
Had been Jamie Hudson...
Riley rolled onto his side and put both hands up to his face. The boy’s innocent smile lingered in his mind’s eye, haunting him.
It was at times like this that he wished his mind could be as numb as his body.
22 YEARS AGO
The 7th World Congress On Pain, held in France and sponsored by the International Association for the Study of Pain, had brought together over four thousand clinicians, scientists and healthcare providers from all over the world to learn and exchange knowledge regarding the understanding, treatment and prevention of this traumatic condition through workshops and lectures over a five day period.
Now into its fourth day inside the luxurious conference room within the Paris Marriott Hotel, Dr Robert Carter stepped up to the podium and faced the five hundred strong audience, all of whom were eager to hear his speech, as six months earlier the relatively-unknown palliative care consultant had published an article in the IASP’s scientific journal ‘Pain’, detailing a recent case of his that still continued to baffle the brightest minds within the medical community.
Dr Carter, his hair thinning and greying in equal measure as he approached his half century, shuffled his notes and cleared his throat before looking out at the seated men and women in the humid and dark auditorium. Quite a few were medical students eager to hear tales from seasoned professionals. Most, however, were respected doctors and professors. Some were world famous within the medical community for their skills and knowledge. And here he was, a humble consultant from the equally humble Thirnbridge University Hospital, asked to be one of the guest speakers at such a prestigious event.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into the small microphone fixed atop the stand. He almost jumped as his voice boomed back from the speakers in the four corners of the room. “It’s a lovely sunny day outside. I hope when I’ve finished you all don’t regret having been stuck indoors listening to me.”
That brought a few laughs and Carter relaxed a little. He hated presentations and avoided them as often as he could, but today he was honoured to have been given the opportunity to elaborate on the two thousand word article he’d written.
“So we have enough time for questions I’ll just re-cap the main points in my article.” He took a sip of water. His throat always dried up when giving presentations. His voice would probably start to go in the next few minutes. “The basis for ‘The Numb Mind’ occurred three years ago. On the fourteenth of March that year, a bright spring morning in England, a commuter train fell from a bridge just outside the city of Thirnbridge. There were over fifty fatalities and almost all of the survivors suffered some sort of injury. Of the survivors, one stood out. A young boy of ten, pulled from the wreckage of the first carriage – the most badly damaged – a full six hours after the incident. Amazingly he’d been saved from certain death due to some dislodged luggage that had cushioned his fall and also because of a small opening in the side of the crushed carriage in which he lay that allowed enough fresh air inside so that his lungs were not consumed by smoke. However, in those six hours between the accident and rescue, that poor boy was alone and awake, in a carriage filled with the dead and dying, which included his unfortunate mother and father.”
Carter took another sip of water and turned to the next page of notes.
“Now, as in my article, the child in question will be referred to as Boy D. Boy D is now in the care of his grandmother and only a handful of people and medical professionals are aware of his condition. For his own sake, we intend to keep it that way. After everything he’s been through, anonymity seems to be the easiest way towards a normal life for him. And what do I mean by a normal life? Well, I’ll explain...
“When Boy D was freed from the wreckage, the emergency services were horrified by the extent of his injuries, which included – amongst several broken bones and abrasions - a severe injury to his spine. The skin had been flayed from most of his back so that part of his spinal cord was actually visible through his shredded clothing. Throughout the rescue and subsequent admittance to hospital he remained conscious but in a state of complete shock, barely acknowledging anyone around him. He neither responded verbally or non-verbally as he was assessed and sedated before being rushed into theatre.
“During surgery it was discovered that his injuries were not as severe as were first suspected. His several fractured bones were clean breaks that could be fixed with simple casts and one or two pins. His many cuts were considered relatively minor with no damage to underlying muscle or tendons and were cleaned and stitched. Scans also showed no apparent head trauma; no bleeding on the brain and no embedded shrapnel. Despite the gruesome injury to his spine, there was found to be no nerve or disc damage and the spinal column itself hadn’t been severed. At worst the surgeons suspected spinal shock; where the nerves are compressed and movement below the trauma site is non-existent for a period of a few days before movement returns to normal. The boy was placed in an induced sleep for several days to save him from the pain of the major skin-grafting procedure he’d required to mend the trauma to his back but the surgeons were optimistic that he would make a full recovery.
“A week later the boy’s anaesthetics were gradually reduced until he finally regained consciousness. Once awake he did indeed regain movement of his legs and was recovering well physically, but mentally he remained... distant. He didn’t respond to anyone
or anything. He just stared blankly at the walls, lost in a world of his own. The doctors and nursing staff suspected he was suffering from a form of post traumatic stress disorder and a child psychologist was brought in to help but couldn’t find a way to get through to him. He just wouldn’t respond to anyone. He wouldn’t even eat or drink.”
Carter turned to the next page of notes. He was halfway through his speech already. He hoped there would be a lot of questions afterwards otherwise he’d never fill the allotted hour.
“Boy D remained locked inside himself for over three months until eventually – and suddenly – he came back into the real world,” continued the doctor. “One of the nurses got the fright of her life during one late shift when she heard a series of heart-stopping screams coming from the boy’s room and hurried in to find the lad in hysterics, sitting up in bed, yelling and shouting for help. He cried almost constantly for the following three days and suffered terrible nightmares when asleep. After that, the shock now out of his system, he appeared to begin recovering both mentally and physically. And as his body continued to heal it seemed that so did his mind. He began to communicate with the doctors and nurses as well as the other children on his ward. He responded well to physiotherapy and was soon able to walk unaided. He was a very strong young boy who flew through his rehabilitation. His recovery was going better than anyone could have hoped for, apart from one thing. He revealed that he was in no pain at all; not even the slightest ache.”
That was the main point and Carter took a dramatic pause to let it linger.
The room remained silent, all eyes still fixed on him. Everyone seemed intrigued and Carter’s confidence in his presentation skills grew as he continued with his story.
“The doctors and surgeons assessed Boy D again, performed scans and x-rays and found that the nerve endings in his spine were all in tact and that the boy had not lost any movement or sensation from any part of his body. He could feel touch. He could feel the healing skin knitting together. He could feel the stiffness in his injured limbs. He could control his bowel and bladder. There was just no recovery pain.