Not Dead Yet

by Peter Menadue

CHAPTER 10

  Gary dreamt that a tall, bald man in a white coat was leaning over him and kept saying: "Lucky boy - very lucky boy."

  He slowly floated up towards consciousness and his vision shifted into focus. Though he couldn't move his head, he could swivel his eyes. He lay in a small white hospital room. Alive, at least.

  His brain throbbed and ears ached. A drum machine was pounding in his head. Strobe lights flashed behind his eyes. Every breath made his chest hurt.

  He glanced down and did an inventory. IV tubes sprouted from arms covered in bandages. A sheet covered the rest of his body. There were two large bumps where his feet should be. He tried to wiggle them. They moved. Great. But his sore groin made him pray he still had his meat and two veg.

  What happened to him? Memories flickered and faded. He vaguely recalled being stretchered to an ambulance. But how did he get injured? Next to his bed was a green button marked "Attention". He hit it on his third attempt.

  Twenty seconds later a female nurse, built to throw drunks out of pubs, strutted into the room. "You're awake? How do you feel?"

  Stiff jaw. "Lark hull."

  "I'm not surprised," she said brusquely. "You have some broken ribs and lots of cuts and bruises."

  "Anyfin' else?"

  "No."

  Thank God. His jaw loosened. "What happen to me?"

  She looked surprised. "You don't remember?"

  "No."

  "There was an explosion in your apartment. You're lucky to be alive."

  Explosion? Jesus, of course. He remembered standing in his kitchen, opening the microwave, a blast of hot air, everything disintegrating.

  Robyn was in the living room! Oh God, surely she didn't survive. His chest compacted. "The woman I was with - is she alive?"

  A furrowed brow. "What woman?"

  "The woman in my apartment."

  She looked annoyed. "So far as I know, you're the only person they brought in. But I've just started my shift. I could be wrong."

  "Will you find out, please?"

  She frowned. "There's a policeman outside. I'll get him."

  The nurse left.

  Soon afterwards, a semi-obese uniformed constable in his early twenties entered and looked at Gary as if he might bite. "Hello, I'm Constable Hawkins. I've been assigned to guard you."

  "The woman I was with - what happened to her?"

  His vacant smile made the pistol on his hip particularly menacing. "What woman?"

  "Robyn Parsons. She was in my apartment."

  He shook his head. "I haven't heard anything about a woman. I'll call the detectives."

  "Please do."

  The constable left.

  While worrying about Robyn, Gary tried to work out what caused the explosion. A gas leak? All of the apartments in his building were connected to gas. Maybe a rupture.

  "I've been assigned to guard you."

  Shit. The cop wouldn't be guarding him if a gas leak caused the blast. Someone must have planted a bomb. Who the hell would do that, and why? His thoughts grew fuzzy. Motes danced in front of his eyes and then dissolved into darkness.

  He awoke looking up at three blobs that slowly turned into faces. One was the nurse. Next to her was a tall man in his forties with reddish hair and freckles. Opposite him was a woman in her early thirties, with a strong face and blonde hair pulled back.

  Ginger-nut said: "Mr Maddox."

  "Yah, whatya want?"

  "We want to talk to you."

  "Who're ya?"

  "I'm Detective Inspector Marks; this is Detective Constable Phillips. We're from the Homicide Squad."

  Gary remembered the explosion. Robyn. Oh, God, what happened to her? Was she dead? Must be if the Homicide Squad was involved. Hell.

  Fear cleansed his brain. "What happened to Robyn?"

  Marks said: "You mean, the woman who was in your apartment?"

  "Yes," he croaked.

  Marks frowned. "I'm afraid I've got bad news: she's dead - died in the blast."

  Gary felt numb and stared blankly at the ceiling. Poor Robyn. He closed his eyes and tried to carve out a private space in which to grieve.

  Detective Constable Phillips intruded. "Could you give us her surname?"

  They obviously couldn't identify Robyn because she was now a bag of body parts. "Parsons," he croaked, "Robyn Parsons - lived in the apartment underneath."

  Phillips noted that on a pad. "Knew her well?"

  "Quite well. We were friends."

  "Just friends?"

  "Yes, she often came upstairs for a chat."

  "Where was she when the bomb exploded?"

  "In the living room, about to turn on the TV."

  Detective Inspector Marks nodded. "That makes sense. We think the bomb was attached to the TV. When she turned it on, boom. It was very powerful. Lucky you were in the kitchen. I'm afraid your apartment - maybe even the building - is a write-off."

  "What about my neighbours? Any hurt?"

  "No, but we've moved them out while the engineers check for structural damage. That'll probably take several days. Got any idea who did this?"

  Gary had already decided not to co-operate, because he wanted to find the bomber and dole out his own justice. The cops could only put the bastard behind bars. He would put him in a box. There was something dark and bitter in his chest that only pain and violence could dislodge.

  Still, he answered honestly: "No."

  Marks stared hard. "You sure about that?"

  "Yes."

  "Has anybody threatened you recently? Have you trodden on anyone's toes?"

  "Don't think so."

  The detective rubbed his brow, obviously annoyed. "You used to be on the Narcotics Strikeforce?"

  "Yes, mostly undercover."

  "I bet you made plenty of enemies back then."

  "Of course."

  "Maybe one of them planted the bomb?"

  "Possible, but nobody springs to mind."

  The detective cleared his throat and leaned close. "Still got any contacts in the drug trade?"

  He obviously suspected Gary was dirty and the bombing was part of an underworld feud.

  "You want to know if I've been buying and selling shit?"

  Golden freckles gleamed. "Yes."

  Gary was too sick and tired to look insulted. "No, I don't deal in drugs."

  Marks look unconvinced. "I understand you're a private investigator?"

  "Yes."

  "Licensed?"

  "Of course."

  "What sort of work do you do?"

  "Nothing exciting: workers' comp surveillance, preventing employee theft, finding missing persons - stuff like that."

  "What are you working on at the moment?"

  Gary wondered if the bombing was related to his search for Trixie Powell. Maybe someone didn't want him to find her. So he decided not to mention it. "Nothing. I'm between jobs. But nobody would try to kill me because of my work. It's penny-ante shit."

  Looking unhappy, Marks straightened up and sighed. "Alright, we'll let you get some rest. But we'll be back tomorrow. Think hard about who might have planted the bomb."

  "I will."

  The detectives turned to leave.

  Gary said: "Haven't you forgotten something?"

  "What?"

  "My protection. Someone's trying to kill me and I'm laying here waiting for a bullet."

  "Don't worry. There'll be at least two officers outside this room at all times. I don't want anyone coming in or going out."

  The guards would be too unfit for patrol and too stupid for a desk job. "Tell them not to fall asleep."

  "Don't worry. You'll be safe, because I want to talk to you again."

  The detectives left and Gary realised the painkillers were wearing off. He looked at the nurse. "Can you give me something for the pain?"

  "I'll get the doctor."

  She left the room and soon returned with a doctor in tow. He was a tall, bald man in a white coat. His name-tag said "Dr Hamilto
n". Gary had seen him before, in a dream.

  The doctor said: "How do you feel?"

  "Like shit."

  Dr Hamilton smiled. "I'm not surprised. You're a lucky boy."

  "Lucky boy - very lucky boy."

  "What's the damage?"

  "Three broken ribs and numerous superficial wounds."

  "How long will I be here?"

  "I'll probably let you go in three or four days. But it'll take a lot longer for your ribs to heal. You'll have to take it easy."

  Gary shook his head. "Sorry Doc, I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "That would be unwise."

  "Listen. I'm sure this is a fine hospital. But someone's trying to kill me. Hanging around here is bad for my health."

  "There are guards outside."

  "Jesus, the one I saw couldn't guard an empty building."

  The doctor shrugged. "Not my area of expertise. I can only advise you not to leave; I can't stop you."

  "Good. My clothes - what happened to them?"

  "They were rags - we had to throw them out. But we kept your shoes. And your wallet and keys are in a plastic bag in the bedside cabinet. Anything else you want?"

  "Yes, some painkillers."

  "The nurse will attend to that."

  The doctor and nurse left together. A few minutes later, the nurse returned with a couple of pills, which he swallowed and washed down. As the pain subsided, he stared at the ceiling, wondering who tried to kill him. He'd made lots of dangerous enemies during his life. It was hard to sort through them all.

  He also recalled that someone broke into Trixie Powell's apartment. Maybe the intruder was looking for her and tried to stop Gary joining the hunt.

  Robyn said a man visited his apartment a few hours before the explosion. About fifty. Grey haired. Tough looking. Wore a suit. Carried a suitcase. Her description was fairly vague, but might be important.

  He thought about Robyn. She could be annoying and had her share of problems. But she was very nice and he kept seeing more and more that he liked. She certainly didn't deserve to be blown to bits in his apartment.

  Guilt flooded through him. She made plenty of mistakes where men were concerned, going out with some real pigs. But her biggest one was befriending him. The other guys hurt her feelings. He got her killed.

  Tiredness crept over him. He didn't want to sleep, because he didn't trust the guards. But darkness spread its arms.