Authors: Michael Kerr
MARION
sipped her tea and averted her eyes from Gary’s crotch. She had wanted him for months and found it difficult to keep up the facade of detached professionalism. Most of her patients were, to say the least, odd. Many of them were pathetic and confused individuals, barely able to function if not dosed up with medication. Gary was different. He wasn’t a problem patient. He accepted his condition, understood it, and complied readily with all requirements of his care plan. The sporadic self-mutilation was the only ongoing problem, which she attributed to be a physical manifestation of frustration; a symbolic cry for love and affection, which he found difficult to express.
Jesus! He crossed his ankles and shifted forward on the seat. His ‘lunch box’ appeared even more pronounced. She could see the shape of everything he’d got under the tight denim, and it made her damp and tingly. A part of her wanted to take advantage of being alone with the enigmatic, single young man. Her sex life consisted of manual stimulation once or twice a week, as she conjured up images of Russell Crowe, George Clooney or Brad Pitt naked, their bodies glistening with baby oil. She was almost squirming; could feel the sweat running down the middle of her back and feeding into the deep crack between her buttocks.
Marion Peterson was thirty-one, unmarried, and at least five stone overweight at a conservative estimate. She had given up weighing herself. It was a depressing, humiliating procedure, standing bare-arsed on the bathroom scales, only able to see the glowing red readout if she leaned forward to peer down over pendulous breasts that rested on her swollen belly. She was a blimp, and knew it. Inside was a Kate Moss trying to get out; a slim attractive, sexy-looking chick. By contrast, she was a plump caterpillar, waiting to pupate and burst free from a chrysalis, to be transformed into a beautiful butterfly. It wasn’t her fault she was so fat. It was glandular, or in her genes. She didn’t eat too much; hardly ever pigged out these days, or raided the fridge in the middle of the night. Her mother, Glenda, had been obese, and dropped dead at the ripe old age of fifty-four, just two years ago. It had been a massive stroke, and Marion knew that she might go the same way, and was already borderline diabetic. If anything, the worry over it made her eat more. It was always tomorrow that she was going to turn herself round and radically change her lifestyle. Her face was fine. She had the look of Gillian Anderson, the actress who’d played Dana Scully in the
X-Files.
Maybe if she had her hair dyed auburn and styled, and could just lose a few pounds, it would give her the kick-start she needed to get with a programme. Her self esteem needed a boost. A makeover would be a start. And she would have to exercise. Sat in front of the TV – sometimes with a comforting box of chocolates within easy reach – was never going to be the answer.
It was over three years since Marion had felt the fullness of a man inside her. The memory of the incident was at once exciting and abhorrent. It had been at the Christmas office party. One of the psychiatrists, Barry Levin, had plied her with vodka and tonic until she was three sheets to the wind, and her already wafer-thin inhibitions were overcome by an alcoholic haze. There was a vague memory of him leading her into an interview room, pushing her over the table, lifting her skirt up and pulling her tights and panties down below her knees. It had lasted all of thirty seconds. Just wham, bang, and not even a ‘thank you, ma’am’. As she had wiped herself with a Kleenex and rearranged her clothing, he had left without a word. The only lasting impressions were bruises on her breasts, caused by his fingers digging into them. Neither of them ever mentioned the one-off encounter. He had needed somewhere wet and warm to off load, and she had served the purpose. Damn the fucking man! Being a shrink, he had recognised her need, and treated her as easy pickings.
Her rule of thumb, now, was that all men were bastards, whose brains were, for the most part located in their pants. But that didn’t stop her from wanting sex.
“You seem a little, er, distracted, Marion. Are you sure you’re all right?” Gary asked, noticing the preoccupied look in her eyes. She was staring off into the middle distance and chewing the inside of her cheek.
Looked like a fucking hamster.
“Uh! Sorry. I was away with the fairies for a minute, Gary. Tell me about your week. Any voices?”
“Hardly a murmur. The new medication is brilliant, with a couple of small reservations.”
“Being?”
“I don’t sleep too well, and...and, just one other thing, but it’s not important.”
Marion tutted. “We don’t have secrets, Gary, do we? I thought we could talk about anything and everything.”
“It’s a little embarrassing, Marion.”
“There’s no one else to hear. Don’t forget, a trouble shared is a trouble halved.”
“I think the drug has made me...you know, impotent. I haven’t had an...been the same since shortly after starting this course.”
“And are you active, Gary? Is it causing relationship problems?”
“Well, no. I haven’t done, er, been with anyone for a long time. It’s just making me a little anxious. I feel as though I’ve been, well, chemically castrated, like how they sometimes treat sex offenders.”
He let his head drop, clamped his face in his hands, and even forced a few tears from his eyes.
Kevin Spacey, eat your heart out. This is an Oscar-winning performance.
Marion put her cup down, heaved herself up and went to sit next to him on the settee, draping her arm around his shoulder and actually hugging him. “I’ll talk to the doctor, Gary. I’m sure we’ll be able to prescribe an alternative. Maybe risperdone or olanzapine. Don’t worry about it, or you’ll make it worse.”
He put his hand on her thigh, casually, and felt deeply buried muscle quiver beneath the soft, pliant flesh. It was time to push the envelope. He continued to sob, half-turned towards her and buried his face into her massive bosom.
She stroked his short, thinning hair, and actually rocked him as though he were a child. This cannot happen, she thought, as their cheeks somehow met, and her lips greedily sought his.
He tongued her mouth. Held her close and let his fingers trace a line down her cheek, around the rim of her ear. She gasped and began to shake.
“You’re beautiful, Marion,” he lied, as they began to frantically undress each other.
Once both of them were completely stripped off, he led her to his bed.
Forbidden fruit. I’m risking my career, everything, and I don’t give a fuck, Marion thought, spreading her tree-trunk-thick thighs and unconsciously raising herself up, eager to receive his far from drug-wilted member. His problem had miraculously evaporated, or in this case, expanded, which instilled her with renewed self worth. Her sexuality had caused him to rise to what she knew was going to be a great occasion. And he had said that she was beautiful.
Ignoring the hippo’s body odour, he applied himself to the task, if not wholeheartedly. Christ! she was almost killing him. Her legs were locked around his waist with such force that he could hardly breathe. He thought she might spring a rib or two as she screamed, bucked, and raked his back with her fingernails. To his surprise, he actually found himself beginning to enjoy it. She was now his to control and dominate. The newly transferred seat of power, and the sex, turned him on.
Sated, Marion sagged down next to him. Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer, her lungs ached, and the post-orgasmic sensations in her nether regions made muscles she had not known existed twitch and jump, causing her to moan. It had been the single most wondrous experience of her life, to date. It had been pure lust, and she had every intention of repeating the act at every given opportunity.
“That was mind-blowing, Marion. Would you like a nice cup of tea, now?” Gary said, getting up and smiling down at his conquest.
Marion nodded as she licked beads of sweat from her top lip and appraised his smooth, tanned body.
They drank the tea, made love again, then showered and finally dressed.
He kissed her tenderly on the mouth at the flat door. Said he could hardly wait for her next visit. And when she had gone, he went through to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out with Listerine, then returned to the kitchen and made black coffee.
This was a new dynamic. After Marion’s next visit, with everything they would do together taped for posterity, she would be his to manipulate and shape like so much Plasticine in the palm of his hand.
Turning on the portable TV that perched – hardly ever watched – on a countertop, Gary caught the tail-end of a news bulletin. One of the fucking cops was still alive. He thought it through. Loose ends bothered him. What would the cop have seen, a split second of the dead guy’s baseball cap and fleece, and a gun pointing at him? No big deal. There was no way he could be identified. Whichever of the pigs had survived would never be able to pick him out of a crowd. And yet, should he take the slightest chance? His paranoia swelled inside his brain like an overfilled balloon. He would play it by ear. If necessary he would find out the cop’s identity and negate the problem. Time would tell.
Marion drove back to the clinic on cloud nine. She felt mixed emotions. She had never before formed any personal relationship with a patient. Doing things by the book had been her rule of thumb. How had it happened? They were mutually attracted to each other, it was as simple as that. Gary had probably been infatuated with her for a long time, and today it had just come together. She giggled. They had
come
together in every sense of the word. It would just have to be their secret. If anyone found out, they wouldn’t understand, and she would be looking for a new post. Maybe it was time to move on. If she wasn’t a part of the team that oversaw Gary’s mental health, then their relationship would be nobody else’s business. She certainly wasn’t going to let anything or anyone come between them. She had found somebody who appreciated her for who she was and how she looked. Before next week, she would visit Big Girls Boutique in Tottenham and splash out on some sexy bras, panties, and a suspender belt and stockings. Something black or ruby red, and in silk. And she would visit a department store perfume counter. Treat herself to some exotic scent. It was high time she started to enjoy life.
After daydreaming for a while, Marion wrote a glowing report on Gary, and then left the clinic and drove home to the terrace house in Hornsey where she had been born and which now – since her mother’s death – belonged to her. Gary would have to visit. Maybe even stay over. The future was looking decidedly brighter. Her empty life was suddenly full to overflowing. How she had survived her whole life without someone special in it, she found almost impossible to fathom. But the loneliness was now behind her. It was time to spread her wings and live life to the full. Gary had opened a door, unleashing emotions that she had kept wholly subdued. Emotions that she now knew there was no way she could ignore or contain.
DURING
the next forty-eight hours, and having been aided by one or other of the four regular cops who took turns to guard him night and day, Matt had been spared the indignity of the dreaded bedpan. He felt like a geriatric, being helped out of bed, supported, and walked from the bed to the room’s en suite bathroom. Having his leg plastered up to his crotch didn’t help matters.
On the seventh day, Dr. Lawson gave him the all clear to go home, and also an appointment card for him to attend as an outpatient for check-ups and physio.
“You’re going to be sore for awhile yet,” Sam Lawson said. “Maybe breaking your leg was a blessing in disguise. It’ll slow you down a bit and make you take it easy.”
With Tom there to drive him home, Matt was wheel chaired to the main doors of the hospital. If he was going to have another mishap, then they obviously wanted it to happen off the premises.
“What’s with you and Linda?” Tom asked after he had driven almost halfway to Harrow. “Why did you need me as a taxi driver?”
Tom always cut to the chase without preamble. Matt was the same, and knew that his boss wouldn’t be offended if he told him to mind his own business. Though he didn’t.
“She moved out yesterday, Tom. Couldn’t hack it any longer. She would have stayed on to look after me for a week or two, but I figured if it was over, then it was over.”
“Sorry, Matt. I thought you two were tight.”
“So did I. She apparently needed more than I was giving. She looked down the road a few years and saw a lot more of the same on the horizon. My getting shot just moved things along. I can’t say I blame her. She deserves better than a bloke who passes through like a lodger. She loves me, maybe too much to hang in for the duration. We talked a lot this last week, while I’ve been a captive audience. Came to the decision that there wasn’t enough common ground to build anything permanent on.”
“You’ll need a nurse for a while. You’re in no fit state to look after yourself properly, yet.”
“I’ve seen enough nurses to last me a lifetime. I’ll sleep downstairs. The sofa converts.”
“Whatever. If you need help, there’ll be a car outside.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“I do. The papers have made you a duck in a shooting gallery. They ran the story of how you were the only survivor of a mini massacre, and slapped your ugly mug all over the front pages.”
“It was a hit, for Christ’s sake. He isn’t going to worry about one cop. I wasn’t the mark.”
“The subject isn’t open for debate, Matt. If he thinks you could ID him, he might decide to try and whack you.”
“If he does, then remember what happened to Tony and Keith outside the safe house. It’s too risky having a cop out there. Get me my piece and I’ll watch my own back.”
“They’ll be very low profile. And you’re on sick leave. I can’t authorise for you to be armed off duty.”
“Get round it, Tom. Put me down as being
on
duty. If you think I’m at risk, do the paperwork and bring me a gun. Because if you’re right and I wind up shot like a rat in a barrel, you’ll have made it easy for him.”
Tom pulled into the kerb outside the nondescript maisonette that was fronted by a postage stamp open-plan lawn. He hadn’t answered Matt, and didn’t need to. They both knew he’d pull strings and make sure that Matt had the resources to defend himself with, should the perp make a play for him.
Tom let Matt hobble on the hospital-issue aluminium crutches, but stayed as close to him as a mother hen, just in case he lost his balance.
In the kitchen, they settled to smoke, drink coffee and run through what little they had. One bonus of Linda not being there was that Matt could now light-up in the house, and not have to go outside or into the garage to feed his habit.
“Any ideas yet on who might have given us up to Santini?” Matt asked, wanting to talk and keep his mind off Linda being gone.
“No. I looked at everyone who knew where Little was stashed, and came up blank.”
“We have to nail him, Tom. If he’s in Santini’s pocket, then every move we make will be compromised. Get me a list of everybody who knew about the operation. Something might click. Or at least we can eliminate some of them and see what we’re left with.”
Tom reached into a pocket and pulled out a couple of folded sheets of A4 copy paper. “I’m ahead of you,” he said.
Matt gave him a quizzical look. “You said I was out of it. Why the change of heart?”
“Because you’d go after it like a dog with a fucking bone. I don’t need a loose cannon, and anyway, being a victim makes you the only cop on the case I can really trust.”
“That could be a false premise, Tom. It could have been me, or Donny, Bernie, Keith or Tony. The hitter wouldn’t have known or cared if he took Santini’s man out.”
“You really think
¯”
“No, Tom. I don’t believe for a second it was one of the team. But I don’t know for a fact that it wasn’t. What about the cop on the inside? Hasn’t he heard anything?”
Nick Marino was an undercover cop; a DC who had worked his way into Santini’s organisation. He was still on the bottom rung, little more than an errand boy and driver. It took time to build up trust and get anywhere near Santini, his son, and the inner circle that ran the show.
“Not a whisper,” Tom said. “But there was a big party at Santini’s club on the night following the hit. It was common knowledge what they were celebrating. My man is all eyes and ears, but they don’t stay one foot ahead of us by running off at the mouth. It’s like a fucking Mafia family. They don’t trust their own shadows. They expect us to try and get close. Remember Joey?”
Matt had met Joey Demaris a couple of times. He’d worked undercover, supposedly got close to one of Santini’s lieutenants, but had been sussed, and vanished. That had been over a year ago. Joey had been murdered, of that they were certain. But without a body there was nowhere to go. Joey was no doubt at the bottom of the Thames estuary wrapped in chicken wire and weighted with breeze blocks, or maybe in the foundations of a new high-rise office block. The possibilities were endless.
“What’s the latest on the Page woman?” Matt asked.
Penny Page had made good progress, physically, but had blanked out the incident; her mind closing down to escape the horror of what had happened.
Tom scowled. “She’s in the Twilight Zone. The doctor says it’s disassociative amnesia. She doesn’t remember a thing. She’s a blank page, no pun intended.”
“Do they expect her to get her memory back?”
“You know how anal the medical profession can be. They let me in to see her, but it was like trying to interview a retard. The light was on, but nobody was at home. I feel sorry for her, but that doesn’t help us. A psychiatrist gave me a lot of psychobabble over how her mind had escaped from a situation that was untenable. She may not remember what went down for days, weeks or months, if ever.”
“What about the baby? Maybe if he’s taken to her, she’d snap out of it.”
“I put that to the doc. He said they don’t want to shock her out of whatever state she’s in; that it would be better if she came out of it naturally, when her brain is good and ready to deal with the situation.”
“Is she under wraps?”
“Yeah. We’ve kept it from the media so far, but it’ll leak, it always does.”
“The hitter will kill her if he gets wind of where she is.”
“I know. We plan on moving her to a private clinic. The bastard must have spoken to her. Whatever’s locked inside her skull could be priceless.”
“Maybe. Though even a description wouldn’t necessarily help us find the shooter, or tie Santini to it. He could have flown him in from across the pond.”
“That would be a good scenario for you and Penny Page, Matt. If he’s back in Chicago or somewhere, chugging Budweiser and watching baseball on TV, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Matt had been looking through the names on the list as they talked. “The priority is digging out whoever served us up to the wop on a plate,” he said.
“I’ve got Kenny Ruskin over in Computer Crime Section running a check. If anyone on that list is living above his means or looks dirty, Kenny will red flag him, or her.”
Matt nodded. He suddenly wanted Tom to go. He felt sick and tired. His leg and side hurt, and the need for a Scotch or two, then bed, were becoming more attractive by the second.
“I think I need to get some kip, Tom. I feel shot.”
“You were shot, remember?”
“Is that a poor attempt at humour?”
Tom smiled. “I’ll make up the sofa bed, and then piss off.”
“Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later, Tom was gone. Matt was sipping Black Label on the rocks. He put the glass down on the coffee table, drew the lounge curtains together, and then lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. He missed Linda like hell. Without looking, he knew that her drawers and wardrobe would be empty. The bookshelves in the lounge were almost bare. She had taken all the material, personal items that had made the house a home. He didn’t collect anything. It made him a little sad to realise that he had made no time to read, rarely watched TV, and had no pastimes. Christ, he wasn’t even into sport. He’d played golf, badly, a decade earlier; his clubs were out in the garage, cobwebbed and rusting. It grieved him that he had driven Linda away. Their time together should have been more fulfilling. She had wanted...deserved more than a workaholic cop. It hit him surprisingly hard. He hadn’t got a life. The job was what fuelled and drove his engine. Now, shot-up and feeling totally pissed-off, he wished he’d nurtured their relationship. Nothing grows without sustenance. Love can wither and die like a plant starved of water. And a part of his mind admitted that his being a cop wasn’t making any real difference. The shit he dealt with every day didn’t go away. He had become like a hamster on a fucking wheel, and life was passing him by as he ran on the spot, getting nowhere fast. It struck him that Linda had been a trimming, to kid himself he was a regular guy. If he had really loved her, he would be hurting more, not just feeling sorry for himself. Oh, yes, he missed her, but not enough, or for the right reasons. On one level he knew she had done the best thing by moving on.
He got up with difficulty. His side and back were sore and his leg ached. After pouring another Scotch he went through to the kitchen. Stared at the wall-mounted phone for over a minute before finally removing it from the cradle and dialling.
After ten rings a weary voice answered. “Yeah.”
“Hi, Dad. It’s Matt.”
“You at home, yet?”
“Yeah. They kicked me out this morning.”
“So take a medical and walk. You don’t need to go back to it.”
“And do what, Dad? You know what it’s like. You were a cop.”
“I should’ve been something else. Maybe a plumber or a cabbie. You’re still young enough to get some sense and follow the money. You don’t get paid enough to be a target in a shooting gallery.”
“How’re you feeling, Dad?” Matt asked, changing the subject.
“How should I feel? I’ve not had a good night’s sleep since your mother died, God bless her,” His voice hitched. “I couldn’t get up to visit you in hospital, son. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yeah. You phoned. I appreciated that. How’s the ticker?”
“Still ticking, but it’ll get me sooner or later. Damn thing’s on bobbins.”
“You should quit smoking and get out more. Walking and fresh air would help.”
“You a cop, or a bloody quack?”
“You’re right. We all have to do it our own way. It’ll be a few weeks before the cast comes off my leg. When it does, I’ll drive down and let you buy me a pint.”
“Okay, son. How’s Linda? She making sure you rest up and give yourself a chance to heal properly?”
Now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “She’s fine. I’ll give her your love.”
“You do that. She’s too good for you.”
“I know. I’ll call you in a day or two. Bye, Dad.”
After racking the phone, Matt made coffee. The chat with his dad had not helped. He felt even more dejected than before. Arthur Barnes was a little remote, and always had been. He’d made sergeant, and then manned the front desk at Greenwich for the last fifteen years of his service, before retiring to a poxy flat in Hove that was set well back from the front on a narrow side street. The odd seagull sitting on a chimney pot or shitting down the window was the only visible clue to his being near the sea. And just twelve months into what should have been their ‘Golden Years’, Nancy Barnes had developed lung cancer and faded away within six weeks of being diagnosed. It was ironical. She had never smoked a fucking cigarette in her life.
Arthur hadn’t dealt with it well. And within six months of Nancy passing, he had suffered a massive heart attack and undergone quadruple bypass surgery. Now, he was just waiting for the end, impatiently, as though death was little more than an overdue bus. He’d told Matt that if you had nothing to look forward to, and there was no more you wanted from life, then you were just like an empty Scotch bottle; a complete waste of fucking space.
Back on the sofa bed, Matt fell asleep as he contemplated life and all its incongruous twists and turns. It was a rollercoaster, and he decided that all you could do was hang on tight and go with it. There was no getting off until it came to a stop.
“MAATTT!” Bernie’s voice, as once again Matt was in the bungalow, feeling secure and in control of the situation. The slim figure appeared, and he froze his dream to study the face below the peak of the I ♥ NY baseball cap. Saw the first explosive flash from the silenced muzzle. The scenario that followed was a fabrication. He reached for his gun, and like Dirty Harry, cut the figure down in a hail of lead. But dreams were like movies; any comparison to reality was purely coincidental.