Bad Medicine- A Life for a Life; Bed of Nails; Going Viral

by Puckett, Andrew

  And so here we were, not saying anything, not looking at each other, just waiting as the adrenalin twisted my innards into knots…

  Ten to eight.

  Five to. Jones shifted uneasily in his chair. An itch on my back had to be scratched; as I reached for it, the bells jangled discordantly.

  Together, we lifted the receivers.

  ‘Yes?’ said Jones neutrally into the handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, hello there,’ said a cheery voice, ‘is this some sort of competition? If so, I’m interested.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Please get off the line.’

  He replaced his headpiece and motioned me to do the same.

  Another ring.

  ‘Come on, what is it?’ The same voice. ‘I’m interested, what’s going on?’

  Jones closed his eyes. He said: ‘It’s a woman. I’m waiting for a call from a woman. Please don’t screw it up for me. All right?’ He pressed the button without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Cretin,’ he said between his teeth.

  ‘Could it have been him, trying us out?’

  ‘No, not twice.’

  We waited. Two minutes past eight. Three.

  I think we both jumped as it rang.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m phoning for information regarding JSD.’

  I nearly dropped the receiver. It was a metal voice, the voice of a robot, the sort of voice a computer would use.

  Jones was urgently signalling me to be quiet.

  ‘We have that information,’ he said, his own voice pitched low so that I could hardly recognize it.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Myself and a colleague.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘From the computer in the National Microbiology Laboratory.’

  ‘How did you know the password?’

  ‘It’s our job to find passwords.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘People who wish to do business.’

  ‘The work is for sale, then?’

  ‘For the right price, yes.’

  ‘Why was the line engaged at eight when I first tried?’

  ‘A time-waster. I got rid of him.’

  ‘What is the right price?’

  ‘Ten thousand. No arguments.’

  A pause.

  ‘I would need to examine the computer printout before agreeing to that price.’

  ‘That would be reasonable. I suggest we meet.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I suggest we meet at — ’

  ‘No.’ The voice cut him off. ‘We will meet at a time and place of my choosing. Or there will be no meeting.’

  I could see Jones thinking furiously.

  ‘When and where do you suggest?’

  ‘Tonight. Ten o’clock. There is a small industrial site at the end of Bridge Street in Osney Town. Do you know it?’

  He looked quickly at me and I nodded. Sally had shown me Osney Town.

  ‘Yes. We’ll be there at ten. How will we know you?’

  ‘There will be only one of you.’

  ‘No,’ said Jones emphatically. ‘I think you will agree on reflection that…we have more to lose.’

  Brilliant!

  There was a longer pause. Then:

  ‘Very well. You will know me when I wish you to know me.’ The line clicked dead.

  Jones gently replaced his receiver and turned to me. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What the hell was that voice?’

  ‘A voice synthesizer. Used by people who’ve had their larynx removed. You hold it against your throat and whisper, and…well, you heard the noise it makes.’

  ‘Who would be able to get one of those?’ ‘Oh, any of the people we suspect. Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know, you’re the expert.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘It could be a trap. Or a try-out. We don’t have a lot of choice. Come on, we’ll take your car, he might recognize mine.’

  ‘Already? It’s only — ’

  ‘He’ll be there an hour early, maybe more. I want to get there first.’

  He took down his case, opened a compartment built into the side and took out a small but evil-looking automatic.

  ‘Bloody hell — ’

  ‘I was a Boy Scout,’ he said as he checked. ‘You know: be prepared.’ He stuffed it into his pocket.

  When we got to the Viva, he held out his hand. ‘I’ll drive, if you don’t mind.’

  I didn’t really mind, it was just that his peremptory manner could grate sometimes. I handed the keys over.

  ‘Which way?’ he said when we were belted in.

  Osney Town consists of three parallel streets of artisans’ cottages, rather like Jericho, to the west of the city. I don’t know why it’s called ‘town’, it’s really an island, bounded by the Thames on one side and a backwater on the others. Cars can only gain across via a bridge on one side.

  As we crossed it Jones said, ‘Where now?’

  ‘Straight down here.’ I indicated the middle of the three streets. To our left lay the river, with pleasure boats moored along the bank beside a brightly lit pub. We drove slowly down Bridge Street, past the line of cars parked outside the freshly painted terraces.

  Jones glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty-five past. I hope we’re ahead of him.’

  A crossroads. To our left, the river again, lined with trees. About fifty yards ahead were a pair of corrugated iron gates, open. We drove on.

  The terraces gave way to a chainlink fence overgrown with weeds.

  Through the gates. Sheds on the right with a row of vehicles outside, a truck, a Range-Rover, a Ford Transit with ‘Thames Water Authority’ painted on the side. The glint of the river lay ahead. Over to the right there was a wharf with three or four barges drawn together beside a crane.

  He drove slowly forward to an open tarmac space. Ahead of us was a weir-pool and beyond it, a lock-keeper’s hut, unmanned at this time of the evening. A boat floated high in the lock beside it and someone was winding the handle to open the gates.

  We stopped for a moment.

  ‘Can’t see anyone,’ said Jones, looking around. ‘Perhaps we’ve done it.’

  He moved forward again, turned right near the edge of the pool, then reversed behind some bushes until he found a point through which he could see to the gates. He switched off the engine and all we could hear was the roar of the water surging through the hatches from the river behind us into the weir-pool.

  ‘Now we wait,’ he said softly.

  ‘Why don’t we have a look around?’ ‘Because if he is already here, he’ll be watching us and he’ll be well hidden. It would just make it easier for him to pick us off if he wanted. By staying here, in the car, we can watch the gates, we can make a quick getaway if we have to, and if he is already here, we force him to make the first move.’

  ‘What if we do see him?’

  ‘Nothing. The most important thing is to identify him; after that, play it by ear.’

  We settled back and waited. Jones lit a cheroot. A cat stalked regally past the front of the car. The curtain of noise from the weir was occasionally punctuated with an explosion of quacks from some argumentative ducks. We didn’t say much.

  As it grew darker the bats awoke and flitted around us. Laughter rang from another late boat as it rose in the lock.

  The tension, which had eased in me, tightened again as ten approached. It was nearly dark, the moon a mere nail-clipping in the sky, but my eyes, accustomed, could see nearly everything. The dark bulk of the sheds. The crane against the sky. The pale form of the Transit. A shimmer on the water.

  Ten o’clock.

  Nothing. I stuck to my seat.

  Five past. A moorhen cried out, disturbed by a couple crossing the footbridge over the weir.

  Ten past. Nothing, just the roar of the water. An ache in the small of my back was growing worse and I shifted to ease it.

  A quarter past. I said softly, ‘D’you think he’s comin
g?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. We’ll give him another fifteen minutes.’

  I looked down at my hands as a sense of anti-climax, then defeat, overcame me. Stupid to think he’d walk into so obvious a trap.

  At half past, Jones said quietly, ‘He’s not coming. We’d better get back to the hotel and think about what to do next.’ He started the engine. ‘Keep a lookout just in case.’

  He wound up his window, switched on the lights and edged forward. The beam caught the barges and crane —

  A roar, light flooded the car and galloped towards us from the right… Jones tried to accelerate, too late — the light smashed into us, carried us sideways with its momentum to the edge of the pool. As I looked down at the rushing water, the front nearside wheel slipped over the side.

  Jones found reverse and frantically gunned the motor, the back wheels screeched as they spun on the tarmac…the light roared again, pushed, heaved…we shifted and the other front wheel went over…

  I shouted, screamed as the light filled the car, still roaring…

  We hung, paralysed, the water below foamed in our lamps, then the concrete edge of the pool scraped at the bottom of the Viva as we toppled over.

  CHAPTER 17

  The water came at me. I was hurled against the seat-belt as everything went dark green.

  I thought the car would turn over, but incredibly, it righted and we surfaced, water dashing against the sides. The walls moved past as we turned like a wheel in the pool.

  Water was flooding in through the floor… I shouted as it reached my knees, scrabbled for the door handle —

  Then I was jerked round.

  ‘Shut up! Listen to me!’ Jones’s face, close to mine. His grip tightened. ‘Do nothing! Do you understand?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Now, undo your seat-belt.’

  His eyes on me, I reached down beneath the water, fumbled, found the button and the belt slid free.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, still holding me, ‘if you try to get out now, we’ll be trapped. We must let the car sink. Do you understand?’

  Terrified, I nodded. The water crept over my belly.

  ‘Can you swim?’

  ‘Yes, but — ’

  ‘We let the car go under, then you open the door slowly, slide through and float up.’ The water touched my chest, blotting out the windscreen. ‘Find the door catch now… OK? Take a deep breath just before we go under and don’t do anything till I push your arm.’ The water reached his chin. ‘Don’t cock it up, because I’ve got to come out your side too, mine’s smashed — ’

  I breathed in as his voice cut off, my ears filled and the water closed over my head.

  A faraway sound of bubbles and swirling. I opened my eyes and the beam of the headlamps seemed to surround us as we hung suspended in the green water.

  My lungs were aching already, why hadn’t I breathed deeper, why doesn’t Jones —

  A deep boom and the car shuddered as we struck something. The hand on my arm gripped and pushed, my fingers closed round the catch and I leaned against the door.

  It opened slowly, then stuck. I pushed harder, there was a grinding noise as the car shifted and the door opened a few more inches.

  I thrust an arm through the gap and my fingers touched masonry. We were wedged against the wall of the pool.

  I twisted round in my seat so that my back was against the door, then felt up through the gap until my fingers found the ridge at the roof’s edge… I pulled…and by turning my head sideways, squeezed it through, then tried to get my feet on the seat…but one of them caught in the handbrake…it wouldn’t come loose… I felt Jones pulling it, freeing it, and then I was pushing on the foam of the seat…the car shifted, trapping my chest, air bubbled from my mouth, then the car shifted again. I went on pushing and my belly, then my pelvis, came through and I was free…

  Still holding the roof, I turned in the water, found Jones’s head, he didn’t seem to be moving… I got my knees on the roof and felt it give as I hauled at his shoulders, then I could see his arms, his body in the green light —

  I couldn’t wait any longer, kicked against the car, the current took me and the light faded…

  I broke surface, breathed and heaved air into my lungs as though I’d never stop, then realized I was still holding Jones’s jacket.

  I pulled him up. He was quite limp. I looked round. The current had taken us down to the barges. I reached out and touched a rusty side, felt my way round to the bow.

  Steps, leading out of the water. I kicked feebly towards them, dragging Jones with me. The steps were slippery with weed. I scrambled up, keeping hold of him, and once I was on the concrete, twisted round, and hauled him up.

  He didn’t move. I turned him on his back. His face stared at the sky, white, his mouth hanging open. I pinched his nose and breathed in, held his chin and clamped my mouth over his.

  His chest moved, bubbled. Again. And again. Was I doing it properly?

  On and on. No sign of life, I should have gone for help, should have —

  He twitched. I carried on. Then he coughed, struggled on to his side and retched violently, bringing up a quart of river water.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah — ’ A fit of coughing took him, then he lay still for a while, breathing his only movement. Then his head turned to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  *

  It was nearly a mile back to the hotel and we were both shivering uncontrollably by the time we’d walked back.

  I’d already thought about explaining our appearance. We went straight up to reception, ignoring the looks that came our way, and demanded our keys. As the girl handed them to us, I snarled, ‘If pushing people off punts is what all your students find funny, God help the rest of the country when they get out…’

  I just caught the tail-end of a grin as I turned away.

  ‘Well done,’ said Jones when were back in his room.

  ‘Oh, once you understand the mentality of this city, it’s easy. Anything, but anything, the students do is to be regarded as fun. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bloody awful. I’m going to have a hot bath before anything else and I suggest you do the same. Got enough spare clothes?’

  I nodded.

  ‘See you in a minute, then.’

  The bath warmed me but left me torpid and strangely unconcerned about what had happened. All I wanted to do was to go to bed, but since Jones was expecting me, I went reluctantly along to his room.

  He was lying propped up against his pillows, his face flushed, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘Help yourself,’ he said, waving his other hand at the bottle.

  As I did, he said in disgust, ‘A right pair of nurds we are. He had us sussed from the start, didn’t he?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Just at that moment, I didn’t care. The spirit left a warm track deep inside me and I helped myself to more.

  ‘So who was it?’ he demanded.

  ‘No idea.’

  He reached for pen and paper. ‘Well, we’ll just have to go through the bloody lot of them again until we work it out.’

  I groaned. ‘Not now, please. Can’t we leave it till tomorrow?’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ he snapped. ‘Now’s the time to think about it while it’s still fresh in our heads. And the best time to go for him, while he’s least expecting it.’

  With a sudden movement, he raised himself and sat on the side of the bed. ‘Give me some more of that Scotch, it might kill some of the germs I swallowed with the river.’

  He poured some, tried it, then picked up his pack of cheroots and extracted one. ‘Well, the first thing is, he knew all along it was a trap.’ He flung the empty packet viciously against the wall. ‘Obviously, he ’phoned us from nearby, then went straight there and waited for us.’ He lit the cheroot. ‘Did you get a look at what he was driving?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘God, I feel sick. We thought we were being so clever,
while all the time he was leading us like a pig with a ring in its nose. The question is, does he know who we are?’

  I assumed this was rhetorical and didn’t answer.

  ‘If he does,’ Jones continued, ‘will he tell the police? No, I don’t think so, he meant it just now, he was trying to kill us. So who the hell is he?’

  He seized the pen and paper again, and for a quarter of an hour made me go through the familiar list of names with him. It got us nowhere, although perhaps I wasn’t really trying.

  He hunted for another cheroot, then remembered he’d just smoked the last.

  ‘I’ll go down and get some. Can’t think without them.’

  When he’d gone, I picked up the list and stared at it.

  Ron. Phil. Carey. Charles. Ian.

  They were just names, hieroglyphics, they meant nothing. They were not concerned with killing, or traps and countertraps.

  Jones came back, cheroot in mouth. ‘We’ve been looking at it from the wrong angle,’ he announced. ‘You are what we should be concentrating on.’

  ‘Me?’ I said stupidly.

  ‘You’ve been the closest to our friend and survived, when he belted you after you found Sally. I’ll bet there’s something locked away in your subconscious that could help — ’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s worth a try. Let’s go through it detail by detail — ’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In case there’s something — ’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Listen.’ He sat beside me. ‘It might do you some good. Talking about it, I mean.’

  ‘Stuff your amateur psychiatry!’ I tried to get up but he caught my arm.

  ‘In this instance, the psychiatrists are right.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I sneered.

  ‘Because I’ve been through it myself.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘It’s true.’ He regarded me steadily. ‘I used to be scared of blood. Fainted when I saw it. Because of my brother.’ He drew heavily on his cheroot. ‘And the more I pretended there was no problem, the worse it got. But I was forced to come to terms with it, and now I’m…well, better than I was.’

  He met my gaze and shrugged, and I believed him.

  ‘So tell me what happened,’ he said, almost spoiling it by not waiting for me.