by Ed James
‘It’s just me, man.’
‘Names. Now.’
Keith stared back up at the ceiling. ‘Seriously, it’s just me. I don’t trust many people.’ He looked back down at Cullen. ‘You got a bit of paper for me to sign, or what?’
The observation suite was like a sauna, hot and sweaty. And it stank like stale running shoes.
DCI Colin “Crystal” Methven sat in front of the giant stack of monitors, arms folded, expression unreadable. He stood up and paced around the room like he was running another triathlon, though his wild eyebrows looked like they were competing in some other sport, one where lots of wide, tall players pack into a small space on the pitch. Rugby, maybe. He settled on the edge of the desk and refolded his arms. And beamed like the proud dad whose kid had just got into Oxford. Or something. ‘Excellent work, you two.’
Cullen struggled to make eye contact with him. In a lot of ways he’d much rather face a punch in the balls than a compliment. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I mean it. The way you destroyed his logic in there.’ Methven settled his gaze on Lauren. ‘I know this is a bit of a baptism of fire for you, Sergeant, but you’re learning from one of the best here.’
She nodded at him. ‘I’m enjoying working with Scott, sir.’
Methven scowled at her. ‘I didn’t mean him.’
‘Oh.’
Methven grinned. ‘Of course I meant him.’ He leaned over to pat Cullen’s arm. ‘One of the very best.’
Cullen was glad he was still wearing the protective facemask. ‘So, we’ll just cha—’
‘No, Scott. The 5G taskforce are on their way here to process Mr Ross and his friend.’ Methven frowned. ‘I didn’t realise people were called Archie these days. But anyway, excellent work from the both of you.’
‘And Charlie Kidd, sir.’
‘Well, indeed. A veritable masterstroke. Will he get much out of the batch of devices, do you think?’
‘There’s nothing inside them, and that one was clean of prints, so I wouldn’t hold out much hope.’
‘Well.’ Methven walked over to Lauren, standing right in her personal space. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve been asked to second you to that operation.’
Lauren glared at him like she was going to punch his lights out. But instead she just stood there, shivering. ‘I’ve only just got here, sir.’
‘Well, Inspector Buchan was adamant he needed you.’
Lauren slumped into a seat, shaking her head.
Cullen had no idea what had been going on between them, but it looked serious. ‘Sir, can we have a chat?’ He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, then waited for the door to shut. ‘Is there anything I can—’
‘Sorry, Scott, but that’s the deal. Straight from the top.’
‘You know that with DS Bain going off the reservation to New York, I haven’t got a sergeant, right?’
‘New York.’ Methven shook his head. ‘I saw the news. Stupid sod shouldn’t be there. Have you—’
‘I’m the last person he’ll call. He’s still bouncing mine too.’
‘There are sodding idiots out there burning phone masts while the world dies. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly inundated with murder inquiries. I appreciate you want to be out there working on sexy murders, but sometimes we have to do the numpty patrol. We can’t just keep people here because of our egos. In times of crisis, we need to help out other departments.’
Cullen knew he was right, but it didn’t make it feel any less like he was being kicked in the teeth. ‘How about I get an Acting DS?’
‘Well, neither Craig Hunter nor—’
‘Not Craig. Besides, I think he’ll be off the board for a while.’
‘Is Simon Buxton back?’
‘He’s still off sick, sir. Those teeth aren’t exactly growing back.’
Methven’s eyes gleamed. ‘Paula?’
‘Not sure she’s ready, sir. I was thinking of DC Caldwell.’
Methven frowned for a second. Then his phone blasted out in his pocket. He glanced at his smartwatch. ‘Better take this.’ He tapped the watch and spoke into it like he was Dick Tracy.
‘Colin, I’ve got a case for you.’ Cullen recognised the voice coming out of the watch. DCS Carolyn Soutar, her snooty tone like someone was scraping a blackboard with a smashed bottle. ‘There was an incident involving a prison van transporting prisoners from HMP Edinburgh to ERI’s specialist Covid-19 ward. Two have escaped. One of the guards has been stabbed.’
‘On it.’ Methven grabbed his coat and got up. ‘Well, Scott. There’s your sexy murder.’
6
Bain
‘Help him!’ I’m on my feet now, storming across the hotel room, firing into action. And clattering my knee into the table. ‘Fuckin’ hell!’ Bastard thing digs right into my thigh but – Christ – that boy’s dying here and he needs a hand.
Of course, my medicine bag is right at the fuckin’ bottom of my case, isn’t it? And there we go, the wee bottle of aspirins. I try to pop one out, but my hand’s shaking like a bastard.
Take it slow!
And there we go, a wee white pill right in my paw. So I walk back over to the boy.
But he’s looking fucked. Barely breathing, holding his chest tight.
And Elvis doesn’t look that much better. Just staring at him, like that’ll help anybody.
‘Paul! Call 911!’
‘Right, right.’ For once, the stupid wankspanner doesn’t know how to hold his phone the right way up. ‘Right.’
I hold the aspirin out to Art. ‘Right pal, chew on this.’
Elvis has his moby against his ear. ‘Shite, there’s a queue.’
‘For 911?’
‘Right.’ Elvis shakes his head. ‘This is…’
‘Elvis, we have to help this boy.’ I pour out some water from my night bottle and help Art swallow the pill down, but he’s struggling with it. Water spills down his front. ‘We’ve got to take him to hospital! Call them!’
‘What do you think I’m doing here?’
Fuck sake. No use arguing, so I get out my phone and tap in 911, then hit dial.
‘9-1-1, what is the location of your emergency?’
Elvis gets a glare and a half. Useless prick. ‘Hi, a boy’s having a heart attack and—’
‘Sir, I’m having trouble understanding your accent.’
Fuckin’ hell.
Take a deep breath, put on your best police officer voice. ‘Sorry, ma’am, is this any—’
‘Still struggling to hear you, sir. Are you Irish?’
Irish?
Don’t give me that shite.
Only one option here. An old trick that worked on a sojourn down there a few years back, where I had to give them a blast of rubadub Cockney. And not even good Cockney, either, the kind of Hollywood Mary Poppins bollocks that’d get you lynched in Lambeth or Bow, but I tell you. Had them creasing themselves. Not that this is a laughing matter.
So she gets the finest John Wayne off of us. ‘Yeah, sure, ma’am, so this fella’s having a heart attack.’
‘Okay, that’s a lot better. You’re in the old Note Hotel in Hell’s Kitchen?’
Wonder of wonders how they can figure that out. ‘Sure am, ma’am.’
‘Sir, I’m afraid all emergency responders are presently occupied.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Sir, we’re the epicentre of a global pandemic. In normal circumstances, it could be normal to wait half an hour. On a day like this, I can’t offer anything.’
Absolutely fucked here. ‘Look, how about we get him to you? Where’s your nearest hospital?’
‘Uh, that’ll be Mount Sinai West, eight blocks from you.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ And I hang up. Fuck sake. I look up the place on my phone and I didn’t think that’s how you spelled Sinai, but there you go.
Elvis is rubbing a hand down the boy’s back, but it doesn’t look like it’s doing much to help
his plight. ‘He’s not going to be able to walk there, Bri.’
‘No, but his motor’s downstairs.’
Feels like I’m in a fuckin’ crime scene here and I’ve seen so many of them over the years. But this cheapo mask is far too tight and the swimming goggles aren’t exactly cutting it.
And there’s something really fuckin’ weird about being in a lift while wearing all this shite. It’s like you can hear yourself thinking. And you’re not thinking anything good.
And the half of the shower curtain Elvis has wrapped around himself makes him look like a right daft bastard. Suspect I look as bad.
Keep checking my bum bag is still there. Aye.
The lift pings open.
‘Back in a sec.’ Elvis scoots out and fuck knows where he’s gone.
Leaving me with Art Oscar and he’s really struggling. Thing they don’t tell you about some heart attacks is they just fuckin’ go on and on. That third aspirin he’s chomping won’t save his life, but might prevent him getting too bad.
‘You okay, buddy?’ Hope he can hear me through the mask.
He’s maybe not gurning as badly. Just clenching his jaw. ‘I ain’t got health insurance.’
Fuck is wrong with this country? ‘If you—’
‘Buddy, I’ll be bankrupt if you—’ Another chomp and he screws his eyes tight.
‘If we don’t take you, you’ll be dead.’ I wrap his arm over my shoulder and step out into the foyer.
Christ, the place is empty. Not exactly a fancy hotel, but it was supposed to have someone working.
At least the front door’s still working, sliding open to the empty street outside, then back shut again. Nobody there, so must be a plastic bag or something triggering it.
So. That’s our goal. Baby steps.
‘My old boy had a heart attack about fifteen years back. Managed to save his life. I’m not letting you die. Okay?’
But Art’s beyond chat right now. Just taking each tiny wee step as it comes. Pretty soon we’re at the door and it swooshes Star Trek-style. The cold air hits my face and it’s like being home. That perfect temperature. Don’t realise how much I’ve missed the old country. ‘Almost there, chief.’
I help him outside and where the fuck is everybody? The way that boy was talking on the telly, I was expecting rioting and scenes from a zombie film, but it’s just dead, no undead. The sky’s bright blue, not a single cloud. Actually, perfect day to film a zombie film. Nobody around.
Where’s Elvis?
What’s going on? Where is he? Why am I here and not at the airport and trying to get out of this country and—
Shhhh, that’s the panic talking. Feeling enclosed by the mask and the goggles as much as anything.
Just breathe. Slow.
Focus on what you can see.
A homeless boy pushing a shopping cart along. Looks like that Happy Jack lad back in Edinburgh, different sides of the same coin. Or the same side of different coins.
A car rushes past, motorway speed in a quiet street.
And still no fuckin’ sign of Elvis. Cheeky fucker’s just left me with this clown, hasn’t he?
But hold on a fuckin’ minute. What if this isn’t a heart attack? I mean, the boy’s over twenty stone or I’m a fuckin’ Dutchman, so I just assumed it was a heart attack. All the signs of one.
But that cough.
And this fuckin’ country.
Mind of someone saying America’s fucked because you need health insurance and you get that through your job and if you’re not working, you’re not covered, so people are working with this bug and what if it’s not just a bad flu? What if it’s a fucking killer like they say?
What if this boy has the bug?
I’m covered head to toe in what the old lady calls PPE. Personal Protective Equipment. I mean, what’s wrong with calling it safety gear? Half a shower curtain, swimming goggles, rubber gloves we swiped off the housekeeper’s trolley and some sex masks Elvis thought I didn’t see him buying in New Orleans.
What if that’s not enough?
What if his germs are already everywhere and I’m infected too?
Fuck sake, I’m forty-five and a wee bit overweight. Drink like a fuckin’ fish too. Am I going to fuckin’ die?
‘Christ, who’s the ill one?’ Elvis joins us out on the street, pushing a luggage cart. ‘Saw this bad boy when we checked in.’
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
He eases Art down into it and it’s not a pretty sight, I tell you, he just collapses into it. ‘You don’t look good, Bri.’
‘I’m fine.’ But I have to adjust my mask to try and get rid of all this condensation. Sweating like a pig here.
‘No, you’re panicking. It’s okay.’
‘Think he’s got the bug?’
‘Maybe. Either way, we’re getting him to the hospital.’ Elvis starts rummaging in Art’s trouser pockets like a filthy pervert, then produces a pair of keys for one of those cheapo Chinese motors. Didn’t even know they had them over here. Decent enough cars, way I hear it. He grabs the handles on the wheelchair and pushes Art along the street, and I follow them.
Takes a lot of heat from the powers that be, does old Elvis, but he’s resourceful as fuck.
Aside from that wind, the thing that hits you about New York is the fuckin’ size of everything. Keep forgetting Manhattan’s an island, and they’ve crammed so fuckin’ much in here.
This place looks the same in all directions, old buildings a couple of storeys tall and big fuckin’ towers. Have to say, I expected Hell’s Kitchen to be a bit more iconic, but it’s just like fuckin’ London. And nowhere should be like fuckin’ London.
Those glassy buildings above us are brand new, same as the ones on the street behind us. And up ahead. So, all around us, though at least ahead you can see the water. The Hudson or the East River, fuck knows, but you know where you are with water, right?
And the other thing you normally notice about this hellhole of a city is how fuckin’ busy it is. Should be a gazillion arseholes walking around like they’re important, but it’s empty.
Fuck, I’ve made a really big mistake here. Telling Elvis it was going to be fine, kidding myself it was, running away from all that shite back home, when the truth is the world’s ending and we’re stuck thousands of miles from home. With this fat bastard who’s either dying of a heart attack, or dying of this bug and infecting us both.
This is completely fucked.
Elvis is holding his hand up like he’s at the fuckin’ opera and signalling to the orchestra that they’re nearing the end of a movement in a Puccini. ‘This way.’ He sets off diagonally across the junction, pushing the wheelchair and the fat boy, heading towards a single-storey row of shops. A bank and a deli and that Chinese restaurant we dined in last night.
Almost have to jog to keep up. ‘Where we going?’
But I see it before he can answer. One of those electric Toyotas parked in front of the bank, the only car on the block pretty much, and its lights flash.
‘Got this.’ I snatch the keys out of his hands and jog over to the car. Open the back door and—
FUCK.
It hits me.
This boy’s sick as fuck and he’s been driving around in this thing for fuckin’ days, coughing and coughing and coughing. If he’s got the bug, all this rudimentary gear isn’t going to do shite against it.
‘Elvis, we can’t go in this thing. We’ll fuckin’ catch the bug.’
He looks around, but his sigh puffs his mask up. Purple with pink frilly edges, and chalk-yellow writing: “Bedside Manner”. And mine is even fuckin’ worse, but I’m not saying what’s on it. ‘He’s going to die, though, Bri.’
‘Not on my fuckin’ watch.’ I check down the street. ‘It’s six blocks that way, aye?’
‘Something like that. But these are long blocks, Bri. Looooong blocks.’
‘Fuck.’
A car pulls up behind us and this boy gets out, wearing glove
s and a mask and all that shite, much better than our sex-shop shenanigans. Another hipster type, his facemask barely covering his thick beard. I mean, I’ve dabbled with the old facial hair over the years, but what is it with these boys and following fashion like that? Wankers. But this shitehawk’s peering into Art’s wagon.
I step over to the prick. ‘Ho, what’s up?’
He looks at us like I’ve just wiped my arse with his facemask and snapped it back on. ‘Step back, dude.’ He lifts his arms up and he’s lugging two massive bags, filled with beer cans by the looks of it.
‘Are you Art’s mate?’
‘I know Art, sure. Supposed to drop off some beer.’
I nod over at the boy. ‘Listen, he’s not doing too well. Any chance you could drop us at the hospital?’
Boy’s doing that thing where you’re like looking in two directions at the same time but not looking at either. ‘Look, I’m on the clock here. I gotta work.’
‘Travis, right?’
The hipster boy is stuffing his beer into the boot and he looks round at me. ‘Sure.’
‘So if we give you twenty-five bucks, you’ll drive us there?’
‘Sure thing. Call me Mo.’
And I suppose I can maybe see some Middle Eastern ancestry in the boy. Fuckin’ weird how the big beards and stupid long fringes make everyone look the same, no matter where they’re from originally. One big melting pot and all that. The future is hipster.
Have to help Elvis get Art in the back. Christ, we need a forklift here. I take his right arm and right leg. ‘On three. One, two—’
‘Are we lifting on three or is it three and lift?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Well, it’s one or the other, Bri.’
‘Just fuckin’ lift! Now!’
‘Fine!’
I heave the big bastard up and he weighs a fuckin’ ton and CHRIST I almost tip over and Art’s bum cheeks press against my mask. Sweaty, greasy arse against my fuckin’ skin. Another push and he’s in the back.
‘Fuck sake!’ I open Mo’s passenger door and there’s a fuckin’ steering fuckin’ wheel there.