Denied to all but Ghosts

by Pete Heathmoor

  “I’d like you to take a look in the freezer, Paul and tell me what you think.” Slingsby tried to control his racing thoughts at what might be in the chest freezer, the only thing he could do was comply with Brad’s instructions. Slingsby walked slowly over to the freezer and trod on a sharp object lying on the floor. He howled a cry of pain that was disproportionate to the injury inflicted by the unseen screw but which was wholly consistent with the physical fear his body and mind were experiencing. He paused before opening the lid. “Come on, we don’t have all day, Dr Spelman is upstairs alone and is waiting for you.”

  Reluctantly he raised the lid towards the wall. He felt a juddering sense of relief when he realised that the freezer was empty save for a robust lining material of some description.

  That was the last conscious thought that Paul Slingsby took as he was struck on the back of his head by a heavy object. He saw the phenomenon of a brilliant white light followed by stars before his eyes as his legs began to buckle; his mind momentarily became a stew of expressionless introspection. As he began to crumple to the floor, he felt himself lifted and pushed into the freezer. Brad looked gleefully down at Slingsby semi-conscious body. “You know, Paul, I thought I’d find this difficult, but Jack Shit, it’s easy.” Brad had secured a silencer to the gun and pointed it at Slingsby’s slumped body before firing five shots.

  Life had technically fled Slingsby’s body by the time the third shot struck home, but Brad really did like to make full use of the reinforced lining in the freezer. He unscrewed the silencer from the gun and closed the lid on the regretful life and career of Paul Slingsby. Brad turned slowly around to face the staircase. Whilst firing the first shot he had become aware of an engulfing shadow created by someone descending into the cellar. He looked up and saw the silhouetted figure of a naked woman standing half way down the steps. He lapsed into a conspiratorial grin of satisfaction.

  CHAPTER 24. SWORDS AND THE DOORS OF PRESCRIPTION.

  Monday morning slowly came into focus and Beckett’s eyes were drawn towards the white door at the end of his room, lit by the subtle light that filtered through his hotel room curtains. He had an instant, vague notion that not all was well with the world. At first, he thought he had been involved in a blazing row with his wife. He then realised that he did not feel well. His headache increased in intensity with his growing consciousness and the more he struggled to wake, the more wretched he felt.

  “How are you feeling, Mr Beckett?” asked a half-moon bespectacled man. Beckett’s torpid mind was not his to control and his eyes rebelliously focused on the bizarre sight of the tufts of hair on either side of the man’s balding head and the forest of hairs that emanated from his ears.

  “I’m Dr Hanratty. How are you feeling now?” Beckett made no response as he tried to gather his thoughts but found only vagueness and pain in his tortured mind.

  “Thomas, it’s Marchel, can you hear me?” Beckett turned his head towards the source of the familiar voice whose identity remained elusive. He smiled weakly in recognition that someone was attempting to communicate yet lacked the faculty to respond coherently.

  “Thomas,” continued Cavendish, “you have been drugged; Dr Hanratty has been taking care of you. He assures me that you should make a full recovery.” Beckett failed to make any acknowledgement; already his mind had given up the struggle to function effectively and deemed it prudent to return to a state of unconsciousness.

  Cavendish took the Doctor’s arm and steered the portly physician in the direction of the bathroom away from Beckett’s bed.

  “Is he going to be alright, Doctor?” he quietly asked Hanratty.

  “He should be. I have tended to him and all he needs to do now is rest. How much drug was he given?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor, I was not here, I suggest you ask the woman who did it.”

  “Oh, how most unusual, but a lot of strange things happen in this town during the Spring Festival. You really wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen.” The doctor silently contemplated his memories of the previous evening with a shake of the head before continuing. “Rohypnol and the likes are often associated with being a date rape drug. I assumed he had been involved in some sort of, um, how do we say, ‘boy on boy action’?” Cavendish smiled at the thought of Beckett being involved in such a situation.

  “No, Thomas is not that way inclined. He was working with me on firm business. Be sure to address your bill to the appropriate party.”

  “Oh, indeed I will, Herr Cavendish; I thought I was doing you a personal favour. Now the cost the consultation has increased considerably!”

  The doctor gathered his traditional black leather case and made for the bedroom door. Cavendish looked thoughtfully at Beckett, who lay still on the bed as he drifted off back to sleep. He wondered if he should be more assertive in correcting the doctor’s initial interpretation of the scenario he had been summoned to.

  “Did you think that I’d drugged him, Doctor?”

  “Well, Herr Cavendish, it did cross my mind, if you don’t mind me saying so. When a visiting Untersucher of your reputation invites one to a bedroom where his ‘partner’ has been so obviously drugged, one does tend to leap to the obvious conclusion. I hope I have not offended you in anyway?”

  “No you haven’t, Doctor, thank you for coming, is there anything I should do?”

  “He’ll feel groggy all day but should feel a lot better tomorrow after a restful day in bed. I don’t know how much drug he was given, he may suffer amnesia so whatever happened he may not remember.”

  “Was he assaulted?” asked an inquisitive Cavendish.

  “You say you found him in bed, well I assume that he got in by himself or someone helped him. As for rape, well there are no physical signs of assault, as for him abusing anyone; I’d say he was hardly in a fit state to do anything. Keep an eye on him, he will wake periodically and then doze off again. Keep him well watered when he does awake.”

  The Doctor started to open the bedroom door when Cavendish spoke.

  “By the way, Doctor.”

  “Yes?” Hanratty asked, peering over the top of his glasses.

  “I’m not German,” announced Cavendish. Hanratty continued to observe Cavendish for a few seconds whilst standing in the half-open doorway.

  “Your prerogative, I suppose, but I’d seek a second opinion. Good day to you.”

  Cavendish took off his coat, folded it neatly and put it on top of Beckett's suitcase, which still held most of the clothes his wife had packed for him for the weekend trip. He sank deliberately and slowly in the room’s solitary armchair, adjusted his shoulder holster and extended his legs so that they rested on the heels of his shoes. He consciously stretched the muscles of his legs and tensed his whole body to fight off the effects of fatigue. The previous day had been long and without respite.

  Cavendish conceded that he had many faults but acknowledged that his performing skills were very good. Throughout the doctor’s consultation with Beckett, he had remained focused and apparently unmoved by the doctor’s findings. The truth was he felt anything but that.

  He closed his eyes and clasped his hands together on his lap as Beckett began to snore, an oddly reassuring sound for the German. He backtracked through the events that culminated in his being here in this dingy bedroom with a poisoned man and how the evening had reached its inevitable conclusion.

  Initially, Beckett had seemed so eager to please that he often defied logic, yet he recalled the photographer’s actions were no different during the investigation a year earlier. Beckett simply displayed a tenacious loyalty that was so alien to his own way of thinking. Following his gun waving antics in front of Simeon Goldstein, he looked upon Beckett with a profound sense of wonderment. Would any rational man have remained with him after such a ludicrous display?

  Then there was Horst Steinbeck’s insistence on the use of the Didier ruse to expose the heresy. What a preposterous idea that was, everyone in the firm knew that the strat
agem always ended in failure, there were too many things to go wrong, so many ways for people not to cooperate. How convenient that at every step the bait was taken. For a time, he believed that Emily must have been aware of the ruse; such was her obliging compliance at each step of the way. The Untersucher recalled dealing the last hand of the ruse by so blatantly asking Beckett to ring Emily so soon after he had insulted her. Her acceptance to dine with Beckett defied rational behaviour. His gut reaction led him to believe that Dr Spelman and Steinbeck must be involved in some sort of conspiracy.

  Yet as Sunday evening unravelled, he was well aware that collusion was far from the name of the game. He observed the interaction of his partner with Emily and comprehended the intimacy of their assignation. At that moment, he appreciated that the Didier ruse was doomed to failure.

  He felt an uncharacteristic sense of relief that he wasn’t betraying Beckett’s trust and almost intervened when Slingsby assaulted Emily in the park. Yet something deep in his soul held him back. Perhaps his recurring self-serving, duplicitous streak overcame his concern for Emily’s welfare. He quickly grasped the implication of Slingsby’s confrontation with Emily and held himself in check as he read the change in Emily’s body language after she had picked herself up from the wet grass and understood that the dynamic of the evening had irreparably changed.

  He again stood impassively by as he watched the tearful Emily add the two pills to Beckett’s drink, which he realised were no aphrodisiac. He drew the barman’s attention to the unfolding last act of the successful completion of the Didier ruse, not witnessed since the dying days of World War Two.

  He had followed the trio upstairs and sat in the chair in his room waiting for matters to resolve themselves in Beckett's room. It took far longer than he imagined. One o’clock had come and gone by the time he heard footsteps in the corridor. He listened intently as he heard someone creep down the stairs. He waited before following Emily, paused to ensure the lobby was empty before proceeding, and caught a glimpse of Emily as she left the hotel carrying the sword case.

  Cavendish returned to Beckett's room as a group of partygoers made their noisy way home outside the hotel. The passkey he had obtained earlier was not required as the door remained unlocked. He found Beckett lying neatly on his side in bed, the sheet pulled up carefully to cover his exposed, naked shoulder. The room stank of vomit, Cavendish checked the floor but it seemed to be clear of contamination. Emily had obviously managed to manhandle Beckett into the bathroom where he assumed she had induced his vomiting.

  The Untersucher knew Beckett to have the constitution of an ox when it came to intoxicating liquids. He had checked Beckett's breathing. It was slow but regular, and he decided then that a doctor could wait until the morning.

  The toughest part of the assignment was over for he had completed the ruse successfully. Whether he was led to the third man was now irrelevant in his eyes for he was confident that he could extort the required information from Emily or Slingsby, as had been his original intention.

  Yet the euphoria of his success was sadly short lived. He believed he would have no qualms about using Beckett as bait but his satisfaction of a successful evening's work was being sapped by a strange emotion a more rounded individual would have recognised as suppressed guilt.

  Now, following the doctor’s visit, the emotionally retarded Cavendish rested in the chair in Beckett’s room and could feel his eyelids becoming heavier and heavier. The stillness of the room and the background noise of Chesterfield returning to a normal market town lulled him into a fitful sleep.

  He was aware of the familiar dampness against his bottom, as he shifted his weight he could feel his pyjama bottoms clinging to his body and the sodden bed sheet slide against the plastic sheet that covered the firm mattress. He pulled back the top covers of the bed to look down to his waist, hoping that the sensation he felt was only a dream.

  “Frau Schmidt!” a voice shouted, “Frau Schmidt!” He reached for his glasses on the bedside cabinet and raised himself to support his weight on his elbows. He was in his room, which he shared with three other boys. One lad was already awake and was responsible for the shouts directed through the open door, summoning the matron. The other two boys were sound asleep. He looked at the clock, it was five thirty and the early morning spring daybreak was sufficient to fill the room with a grey half-light.

  Frau Schmidt entered the dormitory; she was a stocky woman in her forties who worked a permanent night shift at the Academy. She looked down at him, her countenance displayed no anger but there was a look of disappointment and frustration that she could not hide as the end of her long shift was in sight.

  “Do be quiet Sepp, you’ll wake the others,” she said to the boy who had been shouting. “Oh, Marchel, what are we going to do with you? Out of bed with you!” He reluctantly rolled out of bed. “Off with those wet things,” she commanded, not unkindly, but with firm insistence. He removed his top and drew down the saturated pyjama bottoms, which he hopped out of and stood naked and exposed in the centre of the room. The boy who had been shouting watched him, grinning with amusement at his naked predicament, derisively waggling his little finger with penile contempt.

  He clenched his fists and crossed his arms across his chest as he shivered in the early morning chill. As the matron stripped off his bed, a faint smell of urine pervaded the room, allowing the grinning spectator of his humiliation to screw up his nose in disgust. Matron collected clean sheets and wiped the plastic sheet dry before remaking the bed but with only a single sheet on top.

  “I haven’t a spare duvet at the moment, Marchel, back into bed with you, now. You’ve another hour or so yet before you get up.” Frau Schmidt helped him back into bed and ran a hand through his unkempt, blonde hair before removing his glasses. “You’re nearly fourteen, Marchel. It’s time you stopped doing this, eh?” He turned over onto his side to try to seek warmth from the solitary sheet, which quickly became damp again, this time with tears. He cried for his Mother and he cried with shame.

  Cavendish awoke with a start, it took awhile for him to realise where he was. Beckett was snoring loudly, lying on his back. The fretful Untersucher glanced at his watch, it was a quarter to nine and he could just make breakfast if he went down now. He took a last look at Beckett before returning to his room.

  “I have seriously mistreated you,” he said to the sleeping man as he stood beside the bed. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m afraid I let my obligations get the better of me. I’ll do my best to make it up to you and an Untersucher always keeps his promise.” He knew he could not have said the intimate words had Beckett been awake yet even so, he shielded himself by speaking in German.

  Marchel Cavendish deposited his coat in his room and descended to the restaurant for breakfast. It was time for the play-acting to stop and for the Untersucher medius to act according to his remit.

  CHAPTER 25. A SURFEIT OF SOUR-KRAUT.

  “Don’t look so glum, Thomas, your virtue is still intact. She only drugged you to get the sword, not to take advantage of you.” Cavendish spoke whilst slowly buttering a bread roll at the Holmcourt hotel breakfast table.

  “You’re a complete bastard, Cavendish,” said Beckett spitefully as he aggressively carved his breakfast sausage.

  “Don’t be so harsh on me, Thomas. I said I was surprised by what she did.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better, is it?” Beckett refused to make eye contact with Cavendish.

  “Of course it should.” Cavendish was aware of the tension festering within Beckett; he had looked unsettled ever since he took his seat in the restaurant.

  “And the fact that you suspected she might drug me to nick the sword, well, that’s okay is it?”

  “Thomas, I didn’t say I thought she would, I said I wasn’t surprised that she did. If I told you about all my suspicions, then we would be here all day.” Beckett considered Cavendish’s words, the more he deliberated the angrier he became.

 
; “You really are a complete bastard!” shouted Beckett. A family on the next table looked at Beckett following his last vehement utterance. The mother gave him a distasteful look.

  “Thomas, get a grip on yourself,” demanded Cavendish sternly but sotto voce.

  It was Tuesday morning and Beckett had spent the previous day in bed recovering from the effects of the drug. His body felt as if it had been on a weekend binge, his mind unfortunately had no joyous anecdotes upon which to quell its physical protestations.

  “What do you remember of Sunday evening?” Cavendish asked with a little more sympathy.

  Beckett's mind had relived the evening many times and come to many, varied conclusions. What hurt him most of all was not the physical pain but the disappointment, and dare he say heartache, that Emily had caused him. Why had she done it to him? He knew he had not imagined the chemistry they shared that evening and appreciated that he had been bewitched by the charms of the Good Doctor. He was unused to the confusing delicious emotions that had flourished within him, for many years had elapsed since Beckett had enjoyed the companionship of a woman. Yet he decided that there was nothing wrong with the way he had thought about her, and he was convinced they had shared a blissful moment, despite what she had done to him. That was why he was still hurting.

  “Nothing, it’s a complete blur,” lied Beckett.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas.”

  “Sorry for what? Sorry that you lost the sword? Sorry that Emily is miles away with a day’s head start? Sorry that you’ll get a bollocking from the Grand Wizard of your unholy order?”

  “Sorry that you got hurt.”

  “Bollocks, you don’t care one tit. In fact, I really don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here!” The family on the other table had endured enough of Beckett’s profanities and abandoned their table, the mother planning punitive action.