‘We’re definitely going to live in France for a while… That place we saw. We’re buying it. We’re going to renovate it. A joint project. Parental nesting, and all that good stuff.’
‘Brilliant! That old watermill? The one you put an offer on last month?’ Doc nodded and Jack tapped his glass to Doc’s. ‘Double congratulations then, mate! Cheers. When are you off?’
After all that had happened, Judy wanted to get away from England again, and Doc had agreed. Rather than rebuild their house after it had been wrecked by Billy Leech, they had sold the land to a developer and rented a penthouse apartment in the centre of Reading overlooking the Thames. It was a temporary arrangement, only until baby Jack appeared.
‘In a month or so. No hurry. Judy just…’ Doc struggled to find the words.
‘I understand, mate. You’ve had to deal with so many nutters, I wouldn’t blame either of you for wanting to get away from here.’ Jack quaffed his beer, wiped a foam moustache away with the back of his hand to smother a belch. ‘If it makes her feel better, safer, less worried, then why not?’
‘I’m still doing the TV series. We’ll be here at least a few months a year for that.’
‘I should bloody hope so, too. I’m your expert consultant, mate, and I need the dough!’ With an empty beer glass in his hand, Jack grinned, as if about to ask Doc if he would like a third, but suddenly shifted the conversation from light-hearted to serious. ‘Have you spoken to Mrs Leech about it, yet?’
‘A little… Calls herself Susan Connor now. Decided to change back to her maiden name not long after burying her son. I saw her again a couple of weeks ago.’ When she had first called him, shortly after they’d almost died in her kitchen, she’d asked him if he would help her come to terms with what had happened to her at her son’s hands. Much as Doc had with Billy, he agreed to see her on an informal basis for no fee. ‘She’s a whole lot better now. Taking her mother on a world cruise, and won’t be back for several months.’
‘So, do you think she’ll do it? When she gets back?’
‘We’ll see, Jack.’ Therapy had helped, and Doc’s more casual approach had supplemented the regular professional counselling sessions he had organised for her. There was a chance she would agree to being interviewed for his upcoming series too – talking about her experiences with the Leech clan. The therapist had recommended it, convinced it would be cathartic, and help her recover, but Doc was reluctant to press her for a decision.
‘Kids who kill… Hard to believe there’s so many of ’em.’
Their research for the series had boggled Jack’s mind, and he turned thoughtful, quiet, making Doc wonder what it was he was so reluctant to ask as they went back inside. Doc waited while Jack ordered their third and final beer, certain something important was bugging his closest friend.
As Jack handed Doc a pint, he asked, voice pitched low, ‘Do you worry about your boy?’
‘Of course!’
‘Not the normal stuff, mate. The other thing.’
Doc couldn’t be sure what the other thing was, though could guess, given what they had just been discussing. ‘What do you mean?’
Jack was a detective, and a bloody good one. He had sniffed out the one concern that had kept Doc awake for many nights since Judy had let him know she was pregnant with Jack Junior.
‘That brain glitch of yours. The thing you have. Like a bleedin pet psychopath lurking in the shadows at the back of your mind.’ Jack cocked an eye at Doc over the edge of his glass as he swilled some beer. ‘Your own family history? I know you don’t like to talk about it, especially your crazy old granddad, but… Well. Genetics and all that. Are you worried, about Jack Junior? That he might turn out like the Leech brat?’
‘I bloody hope not!’ Doc tried to laugh it off.
Unsuccessfully.
He had spent a lot of time thinking about his grandfather, a man he rarely acknowledged had even existed. He often thought about his father’s death too, and how his own life had evolved in response to that brutal event. In truth, he had already come to some disturbing conclusions about his family’s genetic make-up. His own potential to contemplate vicious murder, with his darkest urges chained in his subconscious, restrained there but always ready and willing to be exploited for the benefit of his career.
What of little Jack? How would he turn out?
Well, in the years to come, Doc knew he would have more sleepless nights, and not just from filled nappies and a hungry mouth. With luck, he and Judy would keep their boy on the straight and narrow, despite the worst of the Powers’ genes.
Big Jack tried to lighten the mood again, laughing as he said, ‘Haha! Well, Doctor Psycho – you didn’t turn out so badly yourself, did you?’
Sometimes, Doc worried about that, too. But for now, the happily married husband and proud new father was on cloud nine, and planned to stay there for as long as he could.
‘Cheers, Jack. You’re a real lifesaver…’ He winked, clinked glasses with his old pal and grinned. ‘Here’s to the future!’
The End
###
FICTION ALERT!
Dear Reader,
Like young Billy, I MAKE STUFF UP…
This is a work of fiction.
Cough CPR should never be used by a lone individual.
You may have seen a recent internet meme suggesting you should do this yourself if you suspect you are having a heart attack.
This is a dangerous HOAX.
If you experience chest pain or feel faint or feel an irregular heartbeat, call the emergency services – don’t delay and certainly don’t try coughing as you could stop your heart.
Dead.
So why include this technique in this story?
Because it made for an exciting ending, in my most ’umble opinion…
Also, in reality, cough CPR is used in hospitals, but never for heart attacks. That's the internet hoax.
It is possible to cough to help force blood to the brain if the heart is in ventricular fibrillation/rapid ventricular tachycardia to maintain consciousness for about 90 seconds - Doc's 'fluttering and stuttering’ heart, not ‘beating and pumping'.
Even then, it is dangerous to do so and only recommended under strict medical supervision in a hospital.
However, Doc is a doctor, aware of the technique's proper use, and so uses it to save himself and others at the end purely out of desperation.
I hope this explains why my imaginary, medically trained character ‘decides’ to use this dangerous technique as an absolute last resort for just a few life-or-death minutes when he expects to die anyway – in the full knowledge that doing so could bring on a fatal cardiac arrest.
Also please remember:
I’m an expert liar(!) not a doctor, though I do a great deal of research for my novels. If you are interested, here’s a link to an expert’s view.
Hopefully my inclusion of the facts will also help broaden awareness of a very dangerous hoax.
Will Patching, Author
June 2017
***
By the same author:
The Hack
International Crime Thriller
(Hunter/O’Sullivan Adventure #1)
A fast paced international crime thriller set in the US, the UK and Thailand
George Simm, friend of the US President and well-respected international business guru, leads a double life... until he is viciously murdered in Thailand.
For Kate O’Sullivan, a freelance journalist, his death provides the scoop of her dreams when her brother discovers Simm’s dark secret – by hacking into the CIA’s confidential report on the killing.
Kate sells the story to a UK tabloid newspaper, setting in motion a bloody chain of events that destroys many lives, and threatens her own.
With an CIA serial killer on the rampage in Thailand, the US authorities on the hunt for Kate’s brother, and a ruthless VIP ring in London determined to do anything to prevent Simm’s death exposing their paedophile
activities, Kate’s world will never be the same again...
www.thehacknovel.com
Available in eBook and Paperback...
Read the opening pages below:
***
Hack
hack [hak] noun
A heavy cut, blow, or stroke
A journalist who writes mediocre material to order
Abbreviated form of hacker (computer jargon)
***
Chapter One
George Simm’s shirt was damp and rank with body odour. He could smell his own rancid musk as he mopped some drips from his multiple chins with his sleeve. He registered a flicker of disgust in the brown face of the man sitting opposite, and decided to screw the cheeky bastard.
‘I’ll give you one hundred US – final offer.’ He sipped his iced beer and grinned at the slim oriental. ‘Take it or leave it, Fan. I’m bringing a lot of business to Thailand and there are plenty of other suppliers just waiting to take your place.’ Simm took another gulp of Singha.
‘We have agreement, Khun Simm. Two hundred.’ Fan’s eyes narrowed as he spoke and Simm decided he was trying to look menacing. It was not working.
The local word for ‘mister’ bugged him too as it sounded like ‘coon’, and he did not like that one bit. He had been quite prepared to pay the full amount but this Thai spiv was getting on his nerves, with his bad English, his foul breath and stained teeth. This was a dangerous business and Simm felt highly exposed out here in this third world country.
Time to wrap things up.
‘Take it or leave it. I didn’t get rich by throwing money away.’ He finished his beer and motioned the waiter for the bill. ‘If that’s not enough, well, see ya around pal.’ He started to rise but Fan grabbed his arm.
‘You do business? Like this?’ His face flashed anger then melted back to a big Thai smile as he saw the look in Simm’s eyes.
‘Just keep your filthy paws off me.’ Simm shrugged the hand off. ‘Deal or no deal?’
‘Sit... Please. Talk more.’ Fan nodded at the chair. ‘Please.’
‘I’ll sit, if we agree the price. One hundred. Or I’m out of here.’ He let his eyes follow a speedboat carving through the bay, a tourist dangling from a parachute towed behind, a gaudy flash of colours against the cobalt sky. ‘There’re other things I could be doing right now. I’m supposed to be on vacation.’
Fan lashed out in frustration, the back of his hand cuffing the pretty young boy sitting at the table with them. The emaciated lad rocked on his seat as knuckles landed on his high cheekbones, the loud crack piercing the air, but he made no sound. Tears crept from the corners of his russet eyes, but he kept his head down, inspecting his bare toes.
As the waiter brushed by to serve the only other customer – a lone tourist at a corner table, well out of earshot – Fan called to him in Thai. ‘Another two beers. The fat white pig will pay.’ He jerked his scraggy goatee in the American’s direction, then continued in English to Simm, spitting words in anger but his voice low. ‘Okay. We do business. This first one I give big discount. Fifty percent.’
Simm grinned, and dropped back in his chair. ‘That’s more like it. If you can supply my guests with the right quality merchandise in the numbers I need, then we’ll have a long and lucrative relationship.’ He opened his wallet and slid a note across the table.
The bill disappeared into Fan´s pocket before the American had finished speaking. ‘No damage. No blood. Or you pay more.’ His hand slid to his belt buckle and Simm heard a faint click as a two-inch blade appeared to sprout from Fan’s fist. ‘Much more.’ He made a slicing gesture at his throat with the stubby dagger and added, ‘Remember, this Thailand. You just farang here.’ The weapon disappeared back into its secret home.
Simm disliked the Thai word for foreigner too. It sounded like an insult. He sat back and took stock of the man. He could hardly believe this runt was threatening him, but he had already paid so had to let it ride. It was probably bluster and bullshit anyway. ‘No problem.’
‘Nine o’clock, here, in morning. Bring back in perfect condition. Enjoy. Sawadee Khap, Khun Simm.’ Fan’s greasy ponytail bobbed as he mock bowed before strolling on to the white sand beach.
The American shook his head as he realised they even used the same words for hello and goodbye. Fucking simpletons! And they call it The Land of Smiles – what bullshit. The land of the crooked grin more like.
He chugged his beer, thinking how stupid the locals were. How easy it was to fuck them over. Like taking candy from a baby.
Or a baby from a candyman.
The thought twitched a wry smile on his lips.
He ordered another beer and forced himself to relax, to let his tension bleed away. As the red sun shimmered and started to melt into the turquoise sea he decided that life could not get much better. It was a beautiful spot, he had seven days to enjoy, and he planned to indulge himself to the full.
He rose, dropped a thousand baht note on the table, and smiled at the waiter. He was cooler now, his shirt dry.
A happy man.
Here he was, just one day in paradise and the first deal was done. So simple.
And so cheap.
He stood, touched the little boy’s shoulder, and led him away.
***
The only other customer in the beach bar was also American, lounging at a nearby table apparently engrossed in a Lonely Planet guide. His attention was not on the book – his exceptional hearing had allowed him to eavesdrop on enough of the conversation between his compatriot and the skinny Thai to clench his guts and set his teeth grinding.
He also knew his extended vacation was at an end.
He rose, his face a rigid mask, his attention focused on the fat middle aged man and his ‘purchase’ as they made their way down the beach.
The waiter appeared at his elbow, apparently worried that he might leave without paying his bill. The man was not surprised as his carefully cultivated appearance was that of an ageing hippy, a scruffy backpacker in desperate need of a shower. As he left he shoved a wad of notes into the waiter’s hand and got a wide grin as thanks for the unexpected tip.
He trailed the odd couple, blending in with the other tourists and travellers strolling along the palm fringed beachfront, keeping some hundred metres behind his target, his attention never wavering.
***
Later that night in Simm’s hotel room the local Chief of Police, Major General Lee, struck the concierge with an open palm and left angry finger marks across the man’s chubby cheek. A feeble arm was raised in defence way too late, ensuring the blow had the desired effect, loosening the reluctant tongue.
‘I remember now. There was a boy... I think he was with him, sir. A street child. Just a beggar. I thought nothing of it.’ He nursed his cheek and flinched as the policeman drew back his arm, ready to strike again. The concierge hunched and jabbered. ‘The boy waited by the lift while the big American came to the desk for his key.’
‘So you did nothing? An urchin? A possible thief? Maybe a murderer? In the foyer of this grand hotel,’ Lee gestured the suite, luxurious by any standard, ‘and you did not throw him out?’
The words tumbled out now, eager to avoid more punishment. ‘I was alone, the bellhops busy. The young boy disappeared when the man entered the lift... He went with the American I think – but I did not see. Another customer came in and – ’
The policeman nodded as he interrupted. ‘The boy. You saw him leave?’
‘Yes. About fifteen minutes later he came screaming down the stairs, running for his life. His back and shoulders, they were covered in blood.’
The concierge had been avoiding eye contact, but now glanced up at Lee. The policeman, perched on an impressive teak desk, leaned forward, bringing his face level with the man’s shifting eyes.
The concierge squirmed, as if something was branding his buttock through his seat. A movement noted by Chief Lee as he hissed, ‘Continue.’
‘Sir. I was conc
erned for the American and immediately came to the man’s suite. The bedroom door was open. I... I did not... I could not go in...’ He waved towards the room, eyes everywhere but there. ‘I returned to the front desk and called the police. I swear I never saw this boy before.’ He rushed on, but the Chief did not miss the deception. ‘Maybe the taxi drivers outside saw him flee, sir.’ He licked his lips, eyes flitting over the policeman’s face and then desperately darting away. Fear drenched his voice again, as he pleaded, ‘Sir... My family. This job is our livelihood.’
The policeman’s eyes missed nothing as the concierge wriggled his rump once more, obviously close to soiling himself with terror.
Lee pushed himself off the desk and stepped behind the man’s chair. With his lips brushing the concierge’s quivering ear, he whispered, ‘If you’re lying to me...’
At that moment, the door slammed open and a portly man wearing an immaculate Versace suit stormed in. Spittle flew as he barked at the policeman.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lee? Your bloody men are all over my hotel. My fucking five star hotel full of rich farang tourists. Have you lost your mind? This will cost me a bloody fortune in lost trade!’
The concierge shrank into his chair, thankful for the respite.
Lee’s nose twitched. Over-strong perfume on a man. Something else he did not like. Along with being bawled out by a civilian. Especially a spoilt rich kid, a privileged luk krung – a mongrel, half Thai and half farang.
‘Sorry Chief,’ Lee’s driver spoke from the doorway, ‘I tried to stop him coming up.’ The man was panting from exertion. ‘And I’ve just had a call, the Commissioner’s at your office – apparently he wants a word, sir.’
Lee nodded, dismissing the sergeant before addressing the hotel proprietor. ‘Mr Hughes, I’m afraid my men will be some time.’ He raised a hand as the owner’s mouth curled in preparation for another outburst. Lee continued, silk suit smooth, ‘You see, I’m afraid one of your rich American tourists appears to have swallowed his own penis.’
Gaslighting (DP, DIC03) Page 37