by Ford, P. F.
‘Nothing,’ said Norman, innocently. ‘I was just saying it would be good if we did win the lottery.’
Slater knew bullshit when he heard it and glowered at him.
They walked over to the doors and pushed their way into the reception area. The seat behind the desk was empty, but they could see a formidable-looking lady talking on the telephone in the office behind it. Slater peeled off towards the small shop across the hallway. The formidable lady impatiently acknowledged Norman with a gesture that suggested he would have to wait until she was free to deal with him. He thought maybe he would be able to sneak a look at the register, but she didn’t take her eyes off him for one second, and he stood feeling, as he often had done as a small boy, as though he was waiting to be dealt with by the headmistress.
A couple of minutes later, Slater reappeared, carrying one of the smallest bouquets Norman had ever seen. He couldn’t help but notice Slater’s ashen face, but then he would have been pretty shocked himself if he had just had to lay out twenty pounds for a handful of limp flowers wrapped in cheap tissue paper.
As he caught Norman’s eye, Slater indicated the flowers and mouthed his disapproval. ‘Twenty bloody quid for this crap!’
Before Norman could respond, a strident voice echoed through the reception area. ‘Now then, how can I help you?’
To Slater’s surprise, Norman, still the schoolboy in his head, recoiled in terror, actually flinching at the sound of her voice, so he stepped forward, holding his bouquet by way of explanation.
‘I’m from the florists,’ he said, boldly. ‘I’ve got to deliver this bouquet to Terry Coulter. If you’ll just show me the way, I’ll take them to his room.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said the lady, drawing herself up, ready for battle. ‘No self-respecting florist would send out flowers in that state. You’ve just bought those from our shop. And anyway, this gentleman was here before you.’ She indicated Norman with a wave of her hand, and now he had regained his composure, he was ready to play his part with theatrical gusto.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking down his nose at Slater. ‘There’s a queue here, you know. Who do you think you are, barging in like that?’
Slater couldn’t quite believe his ears and was sorely tempted to tell Norman exactly who he thought he was, but with a huge effort, he managed to keep control and continue to play his own part.
He looked apprehensively at the lady again. The name on the badge pinned to her formidable left breast said Meryl Battle, and she was clearly more than willing to live up to her name.
‘No, I’m delivering them,’ argued Slater, half-heartedly, for he already knew this was one Battle he wasn’t going to get the better of, no matter what he did.
‘Right,’ she snapped. ‘If you’re going to continue with this cock-and-bull story, there’s an easy way to prove I’m right. How about we go over to the shop?’ She indicated the limp flowers in Slater’s hand. ‘We’ll soon see where you got those pathetic things from.’
She marched out from behind her desk, breasts proudly to the fore, cleaving their way towards the shop like the prow of a battleship parting the waves, almost daring anyone to try and stop her. As she passed Slater, she pointed a finger at him. ‘Come along,’ she snapped. ‘They’re not exactly rushed off their feet, so I’m sure they will be able to remember both customers they’ve served this morning.’
Slater stood his ground, looking helplessly at Norman, until Meryl swung around and glared at him.
‘Well, come along. Don’t just stand there.’
Reluctantly, he followed in her wake, now feeling every inch the same terrified schoolboy that Norman had felt just a few short minutes before.
For his part, Norman had been deeply impressed as he watched Slater keep his cool and resist the temptation to tell him where he could get off, especially after he himself had sided with Meryl. That impression moved up a further notch as he then watched Slater follow meekly along behind the awesome Ms Battle into a situation that could only end in a humiliating defeat. And to think he’d had to fork out twenty quid for the privilege! This was really taking one for the team. He must make sure to remember to tell his partner what a great guy he was.
In the meantime, he leaned across the reception desk and peered at the register. It was a simple handwritten affair, where the visitors just filled in their name, who they were going to visit, which room number, time in and time out. He was pleased it was so simple – it made it so much easier to have a quick scan through. He was looking for the name “Coulter” and he found it just one page back. Obviously Stan had been here yesterday afternoon to see Terry in room 36. Perfect.
He looked over his shoulder at the shop. He could see through the door that Slater was continuing to play his part in creating a diversion to perfection and was currently being given a severe bollocking by the now triumphant Meryl Battle. He could see from Slater’s body language that she certainly seemed to know how to humiliate someone who had dared to try and pull the wool over her eyes, and as Norman watched, he quietly congratulated himself on his decision to volunteer his partner to carry out that part of the plan.
The two shop assistants had their attention glued to Meryl and her victim, and there wasn’t another soul anywhere in sight, so he replaced the register where he’d found it, sauntered quietly away from the desk, and headed along the corridor, following the signs that indicated room 36 would be found deeper inside the building.
What had happened was nothing like he had expected but, to be fair, as plans went it had been worse than flimsy, so any result that hadn’t got them both thrown out had to be regarded as a good one. In Norman’s eyes, it was definitely a case of so far so good, although he had a feeling Slater’s opinion might not exactly concur with his own.
As he walked, red-faced, away from the shop, back out through the doors and towards the car park, Slater was quietly raging to himself as he realised he had not only been lectured like a naughty schoolboy, but he had just wasted twenty pounds. In his haste to get away, he’d left the bouquet on the counter in the shop, so he didn’t even have the crappy bloody flowers as some sort of compensation for his humiliation. This was a pity – not because he wanted the flowers for any aesthetic purpose, but because all the while he had endured listening to Meryl Battle lecturing him, he had been planning exactly what he was going to do with them when he got hold of Norman . . .
The sky had filled with dark, heavy clouds since they had arrived and now, as he emerged into the open, there was a blinding flash followed by an ominous rumbling from the sky, and it began to rain – great big drops that hit the ground with a series of resounding splats.
‘Oh, terrific!’ Slater broke into a trot. ‘This just gets better and better.’
He made it back to the car, grabbed the passenger door handle, and yanked it open. Or at least, he tried to yank it open, but it was locked. He looked up at the black sky in despair.
‘Even the bloody weather’s on her side,’ he muttered. ‘I bet she wears a pointy hat and rides to work on a bloody broomstick!’
As if to prove his point and further mock his plight, the rain now changed up a gear from “cats and dogs” to “stair-rods” and was further embellished by the addition of some of the largest hailstones Slater had ever seen. He didn’t often use expletives, but as the rain began to penetrate through to his skin, he thought this was probably one of those occasions where their use was fully justified.
Blissfully unaware of his partner’s problems out in the pouring rain, Norman was getting close to his quarry. Having discovered visiting was allowed any time after 10 a.m., he had planned on bluffing his way past any staff who challenged him on the pretext he was visiting his cousin Terry Coulter in room 36. But he needn’t have worried. He had already seen several members of staff as he walked down the thickly carpeted corridors, but as yet he had received nothing but warm, friendly smiles from every one of them.
The rooms were spaced along either side of the wide main
corridor that seemed to run the length of the building with an occasional turn to the left or right. He was in the thirties now, odd numbers on the left and even numbers on the right. Number 36 must be just around the next corner. He looked up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching and then stopped before peering cautiously around the corner, but the corridor was deserted. He could see the door that must open into Terry Coulter’s room just a short way ahead on the right.
He strode confidently around the corner and up to the door, stopping just long enough to make sure it bore the number 36. He was momentarily unsure if he should knock or just walk straight in, but settled on a combination of the two, pushing the door open as he knocked quietly. Cautiously, he poked his head around the door and took in the quiet hum and beep of machinery. Terry Coulter lay sleeping under the covers of the bed, an array of tubes and wires attached to him in various places. He looked pale and emaciated, almost ghost-like, and Norman quickly realised he was looking at a young man who probably wasn’t going to be around for many more days. As Norman approached the bed, it also became clear there was unlikely to be any chance of having a conversation with the poor kid, and he stood there awkwardly, not quite sure what he should do next.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him, and he swung round to see who was there.
‘Oh! Sorry.’ It was a young nurse. ‘I didn’t realise he was due a visitor this morning.’
Norman gave her a disarming smile. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I’m his second cousin, Norman. To be honest, we’re not exactly close, but I was in the area and, well, calling in to see him seemed the right thing to do.’
He gave the patient what he thought was a warm, familial look.
‘Yes, it’s a pity he’s not awake,’ said the nurse, following Norman’s gaze. ‘But I’m afraid he’s like this most of the time now.’
‘If you have something to do, and I’m in the way I can come back,’ suggested Norman, hoping she wouldn’t accept his offer.
‘No, you’re alright. I’m not here for any special reason. I look in whenever I’m passing, just to make sure he’s okay.’
‘I haven’t seen him in years,’ said Norman. ‘He certainly didn’t look this bad last time I saw him.’
‘No. He’s gone downhill quite quickly, I’m afraid.’
‘What exactly is wrong with him? His parents told us some long fancy medical term, but quite honestly I didn’t understand. I can’t even remember what it was now. What is it in layman’s terms?’
‘What, end-stage kidney disease?’ she asked. ‘I would have thought it was pretty self-explanatory. Basically, it means his kidneys have stopped working.’
‘I thought they could use a machine to cope with that,’ said Norman.
‘You mean dialysis? That works for some, but in his case he’s beyond that, and just to make matters worse he’s now developed cancer. The only thing that will save him is a kidney transplant, and there’s no certainty that would work.’
‘Is that why he’s here?’ asked Norman.
The nurse looked suspiciously at him. ‘No, we don’t do that sort of stuff here. He’s here because the last one failed and there’s no hope for another.’
‘He’s already had one?’ asked Norman.
‘He was taken to a hospital up in London somewhere because they thought they had a donor. They had him all prepared and ready to go and then at the last minute it turned out the donor wasn’t a close enough tissue match to be worth the risk.’
‘So he’s come here to die?’
The nurse was beginning to look concerned with Norman’s questions. ‘Are you sure you’re family? Only you don’t seem to know much about his situation. Perhaps I’d better call security.’
At the mention of the word security, Norman began to edge slowly towards the door.
‘Like I said, I’m a distant relation and we haven’t really seen each other for years. Our parents fell out, that’s why we haven’t been in contact. Anyway, it doesn’t look as if I’m going to be able to share old experiences with him, does it?’
He was close enough to the door now to feel the handle pressing in his back. He reached behind and pulled the door open. ‘Maybe I should just leave you to it,’ he said stepping through the door. ‘I’m sure you have plenty to do.’
He turned and walked away as fast as he could, trying, but failing, to look as if he was in no great hurry. He realised he was heading away from the front desk and deeper into the building, but he figured there had to be at least one exit at the rear of the building, and anyway, the prospect of having to negotiate the fearsome Meryl Battle was more than enough to convince him he didn’t want to head for the front door.
As Norman stealthily emerged from a fire exit he had stumbled upon, he was surprised by several things. First of all, he could see his car across the car park, which was quite unexpected as he had twice had to dodge along corridors unexpectedly to avoid oncoming staff. As a result of this he had completely lost his bearings, so coming out less than sixty yards from his car was definitely a bonus.
The second surprise was that it appeared to have been raining while he was inside, and judging from the size of the puddles and the amount of water just lying on the ground, it must have been some downpour, yet now the sky was almost devoid of clouds and the sun was doing its best to warm the ground and dry it out. So he’d missed getting wet. Now that was another bonus.
The third surprise was more of dawning realisation that he hadn’t actually seen any sign of a security guard. He knew he had been on camera, and would have been quite easy to track, so why weren’t they out here waiting for him, or surrounding his car? He supposed this could be viewed as a further bonus, but something told him otherwise.
He had his final surprise when he got to his car and found Slater wasn’t sitting inside waiting for him. As he unlocked the car and swung the driver’s door open, he wondered where his partner had got to. He should be here waiting so they could get away, especially now their cover had been blown. Had Slater made his way out on his own? Would he be waiting out on the road?
Norman started the engine as he contemplated what he should do. Then something caught his eye. There was a small shelter at the far end of the car park, near a staff entrance. It was there for the benefit of those smokers who just couldn’t resist. A small figure seemed to be waving at him. He peered at it. Was it his partner? It could be, but there was something different about him. The figure emerged from the shelter and moved out into the open. Now Norman could see properly. It was Slater.
He gunned the throttle and shot across the car park, screeching to a halt by the figure that had been gesturing to him, fully expecting him to jump inside so they could speed off and make good their escape. But instead of running, Slater waddled awkwardly, and uncomfortably, around to the passenger side of the door, and as he did, Norman realised what was different about him. He was soaking wet.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Norman as Slater lowered himself gingerly into the passenger seat.
Slater didn’t say anything, but the way he turned and glowered at Norman should have been more than enough warning. However, elated by his success, and stoked up with adrenaline, Norman completely missed the signs.
‘Hey,’ he said, in alarm, ‘you’re not going to make my seat all wet, are you? Only the upholstery doesn’t take too kindly to it, and it’s a bugger to dry out.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Slater, menacingly. ‘Well, it just so happens I don’t take too kindly to being all wet either.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Norman, refusing to be intimidated by the icy atmosphere that suddenly seemed to have filled the inside of the car. ‘I thought you’d be waiting in the car.’
‘Yeah, well, I would have been if some moron hadn’t locked the bloody thing.’
‘Of course I locked it. Would you leave your car unlocked in a public car park?’
‘But how was I supposed to get
in it and wait if it was locked?’
‘Did I know you were going to be taking an early bath?’ asked Norman, quite reasonably. ‘You need to get used to the fact you’re no longer in the police force. You might walk off and leave a police car unlocked, but you don’t do that with a private car. If you do, there’s a damned good chance it’ll be gone by the time you get back.’
Slater realised Norman had a point, but even so . . .
‘I got bloody soaked,’ he said. ‘That old witch in there arranged for a sudden downpour just as I got out to the car park. And when I got the car, she made hailstones. Big as sodding golf-balls they were.’
‘She was pretty scary, wasn’t she?’ agreed Norman.
‘I bet she has a black cat and cooks on a cauldron.’
‘You’ve got to admit, she’s pretty good on that desk, though,’ said Norman, putting the car into gear and pulling away. ‘She frightened the crap out of me, so I hate to think how you felt.’
‘Humiliated, mostly,’ said Slater, his bad mood seemingly fading as he began to warm up. ‘The thing is, I knew she was right, so I couldn’t even answer back.’
‘She probably woulda given you a backhander if you had,’ said Norman, with a rueful grin. ‘She reminded me of an old headmistress. You only had to step even slightly out of line and you’d get a slap around the head, and you wouldn’t see it coming either. It was a wonder some of the kids at my school still had heads.’
He shot a quick glance at Slater as he drove. He was smiling, so it looked as if the storm that had been brewing inside him had been averted, at least for the time being.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home and into some dry clothes before you catch pneumonia. I’ll tell you what I found out on the way.’
‘Best idea you’ve had so far today,’ said Slater. ‘About locking the car – d’you seriously think someone would want to steal this old heap?’
‘Hey, you can mock,’ said Norman. ‘But I don’t hear you protesting when it’s my fuel we’re using.’