Bedlam (18 page)

“Gut the fucker, Weed.” An angry voice in his ear; hot, stale, cider breath on his cheek; cannabis smoke at his nostrils; and white-hot searing pain at his abdomen. He couldn’t move. He didn’t even try.

“Run. We’ve killed a copper. Run!”

And then they were gone and all McNeil could hear was a jumble of sounds: the roar of the fire as it twisted, fed with human flesh; the distant wail of the siren; and Dennis screaming desperately from the phone still clutched tightly in his hand. All he could smell was piss, and this time he was sure it was his own.

“I’m … sorry …,” he sobbed, in his head or out loud he wasn’t sure. He no longer cared. His eyes drifted shut. The last rational thought in his head as his blood pooled around him was Kit, beautiful Kit, with her whispered smile and golden hair. And the fact that he had failed her, again.

The little boy reached out his hand across the void and waited. McNeil stared back in confusion and the child’s face dimpled into a gap-toothed smile. The boy’s fingers were covered in mud; his own were slick with blood. They slid together effortlessly and he was helped to his feet and led away.

His palm tingled. His chest hurt. His legs were numb, heavy and leaden. Nevertheless, he followed the child toward the light, squeezing through the gap in the hedge, scrambling over the dilapidated wall, sharp stones grazing his knees, and then on through the orchard, heart pounding, excitement bubbling, running, chasing. The sound of children playing - giggling, high-pitched, happy voices - distracted him and he slowed to a stop. Beneath the cherry blossom tree two little girls skipped round and around the trunk,
ropes turning, feet jumping. Petals showered them from above, and as he neared, they paused, dropped the skipping ropes and joined hands, beckoning for him and the boy to do likewise. And then all four circled the tree, around and around.

Ring a ring a rosy …

A warm sensation spread throughout his body. His palm ceased tingling. His chest no longer hurt, and he felt like he could run forever on legs that were sturdy and strong.

Suddenly a shadow cast upon them all, and the game sped up until dizziness and nausea swamped him. He lost sight of the girls. The boy’s small hand slipped from his. He tried to call out but water flooded his open mouth. A sea-fret of loss clung to every fibre, seeping into his skin. A hand clamped over his
mouth and nose, and he hadn’t the strength or will to remove it. He felt searing pain jolt repeatedly through his chest, and then nothing but ice-cold, terrifying blackness.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Noooooo …
I howl inside, bereft.

He cannot die.

Not now when we are so close.

My heart is torn asunder. I feel it bleed my sorrow as his blood seeps from his broken form. Hope deserts me in dry flakes that mingle with the fallen snow. He is cold. He hovers in that liminal space I know so well.

Wet lashes on grey cheeks.

Forgotten kisses on blue lips.

He is battered, broken beyond repair, and I rage inside at the unfairness, at the madness, at the waste.

This is my fault - all my fault. Swayed by Jacob, I allowed need to skew the game. I fear his wrath, but even more than that, I fear eternal damnation, and it surely awaits me if I lose Joe.

All around the flames of hell consume. Burning rafters plummet and crash to the ground, showering sparks like a demon welder’s torch. Masonry, now depleted of its timber skeleton, groans and warps beneath the intense heat. The smell of burning flesh coats my nostrils and my stomach reacts at the abomination. Bedlam leaches its evil through my pores, and I raise my head and barter all I am for all he will be.

Regardless of the cost, I must make amends.

I place my lips to his and offer my life, for that is all I have. I breathe for him, into him, and his chest rises, but it is a futile gesture while his blood flows freely and life ebbs. Frantically I attempt to stem the flow but it slips between my fingers, hot and slick.

“Hear me!” I cry desperately into the fiery maw. “You have won. Is that not enough?”

And as if in response to my plea, the sky exhales its icy breath and the snow intensifies around us and upon us, until Joe and I are cocooned in a soft white crystalline blanket, a fragile gossamer protection from the flames.

Hope renews.

I tear off Kit’s jacket, ball the fleece into a tight wad and force it beneath his blood-soaked shirt. She will assist. Together we will save him, she and I. Kit must hold back the flow while I cradle his heart, gently, carefully.

I press my lips against his and breathe into him once more.

Help must come. I pray that it does, but it must be swift, before Jacob comes to claim his prize.

Chapter Thirty

The boy sat cross-legged at the end of the bed. Water dripped from his hair, wet clothes clung to his frame. Mud from his shoes stained the white sheets. Blood trickled from his nose and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Crying had long since ceased. Sobs had given way to an occasional hic which caused a shudder to ripple through his thin frame. He held out his hand, fingers outstretched. McNeil tried to reciprocate but his limbs would not respond.

Light flooded the room, and the boy turned away, his hand taken by another who helped him to the floor and led him away. His reluctance was passive, a dragging step, over his shoulder a regretful glance, and then a final sad smile and a child’s wave, fingers flexing tentatively. Solemn grey eyes held his briefly before shifting to a shadow in the corner.

As the door closed behind the boy, he glimpsed a second child pressed back against the wall. She sat amidst a growing pool of water, grazed knees drawn up, skinny arms wrapped tightly around them. A tiny bud starved of sun and rain, her outer layer was shrivelled and dry. She raised her head. Uncombed hair, twig-tangled and dusty, fell aside to reveal an unnaturally pale face. A broken daisy chain hung from her neck. She regarded him with striking violet eyes.

JoJo
…

He heard the whispered caress, felt the soft kiss brush against his cheek, but it did little to assuage the overwhelming pain of loss and regret as it swept through him. He shuddered, physical pain intruded, and a firm hand at his shoulder anchored him.

“It’s about bloody time.” Dennis’ brusque voice pulled him back.

Harsh white light greeted him as he dragged sticky lashes apart. He squinted. “Dennis?” His throat was sore. He swallowed in an attempt to lubricate it.

“Where …?”

“What …?”

They spoke in unison and Dennis conceded with a grimace.

“Where am I?”

“Hospital. And pardon me, but this is getting to be a habit.”

“Huh?”

“You, waking up in a hospital bed with a vacant expression on your face and umpteen stitches in your head. How do you feel?” asked Dennis.

“Fucked,” replied McNeil.

“So you bloody should. I told you to wait for backup. Why do you never do as you’re told?”

McNeil raised a hand to massage his brow. His head was thick. A dull ache fogged his ability to think straight, to speak in full sentences. An IV line restricted his progress. Oxygen tubes
irritated his nasal passages. Adjacent technology bleeped and buzzed reassuringly. He was still alive. That was something.

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days. You’ve been out of it for most of that. You had us worried for a time.”

Two days. That was far too long. He felt a familiar apprehension stir in his gut but hadn’t the wherewithal to process its origin.

“How long have you been here?”

Dennis snorted gruffly. “Not long. I haven’t had time to sit and hold your hand. I’ve been out feeling collars, practising some good old police brutality.” He laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles.

“Of course you have.” McNeil smiled weakly. Sudden memories flashed in his mind - noise, laughter, pain and fear. The fear settled deep inside. The smile slid from his face. “Did you get them all?”

“Four so far.
Caught the buggers as they fled the scene. The rest will come in the next day or so. We’re busy rattling cages, upending beds and prying the little tossers from their mothers’ ample bosoms. Bloody toe-rags come home covered in blood and stinking of God knows what, and the sad old cows still think their little Johnny wouldn’t hurt a fly. Little gits are busy blaming each other and dropping names like hot shite.”

“Did you get Weed?”

“Oh, we got more than weed. What wasn’t already up their nose or in their veins, they tried to dump as they ran, but the dogs saw to that.”

“No, I mean Weed, the kid with the green hair.”

“Aka, Robert Jessop? Yes. He is
known
, as we say in the trade. A sheet an arm long, mainly juvenile stuff - robbery, possession, public disorder. He’s going up in the world. Little Weed has just had a birthday, so he’ll be paying for his crimes just like the big boys. Forensics linked him to the blade used on you. He used the same one on Popeye and Jaimsey.”

McNeil twisted painfully as unwelcome images unfurled in his mind. “Just as well my Hep-B jabs are up-to-date, then.”

Dennis studied him closely. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Enough.”

“Good, then perhaps you can tell me why you were there, Joey, in the middle of the night in the toilet bowl of Bedlam, the last place anyone with any sense would choose voluntarily. Because, I can tell you, I’m having a hard job working it out. I left you ready to crash out. What made you turn your back on your bed and go back out into the night?”

“Kit.” The word whispered from his lips. The soft sound alone brought him comfort as if she’d placed her hand gently on his brow.

Dennis twisted his face like he’d just bitten down on a lemon. “Joey … Joey … when is this going to end?” He shook his head wearily.

“When I find her.”

“Yeah, well, in the meantime, and when you’re up to it, son, I’ll need a full statement,” muttered Dennis.

When he was up to it?
He needed to put all the pieces in the right order first. “What about Nell?”

Dennis took his time replying, as if he was making some effort to choose his words carefully. “
What about Nell?
That’s a good question. I asked if you knew where she was. You lied to me, Joey. Why did you do that?”

“Because I needed her.
I still need her.”

“For what?”

“I … I’m not sure.”

“She saved your life, Joey, just like you saved hers. You’re both even now. Forget about her.”

He remembered her lips, her breath within him, her tears as they fell on his cheeks. He felt her pain as well as his own. He couldn’t forget about her. She wouldn’t allow it.
He
wouldn’t allow it.

“Where is she?”

“Back where she belongs.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s crazy, Joey, barking bloody mad. When the paramedics got there she was covered in blood, your blood.”

“I had a knife in my belly. I expect there was a lot of it.”

“True, and most of it was on her. They had to wrestle her away, jabbering on and on about how you belonged to her and nobody else could have you. Bunny boiler - take my word for it.”

“Where is she?” sighed McNeil. He was exhausted. He didn’t have the energy for insistence or demand. He forced his eyelids to stay open and focused on Dennis.

“Back at the crazy house, safe in a padded cell. You don’t need to worry about her anymore. Like I said, you’re even. You don’t owe her anything.”

“Which crazy house?”

“Joey, just forget about her. I don’t recall the name of the place. You don’t need to know it. Some doctor picked her up, said she’d been missing for days, off her meds, not safe to be out on her own. She saved your life but she could just as easily have taken it.” He tapped at his head. “Like I said, crazy. You were lucky this time. Live and learn, Joey. Live and learn.”

McNeil wriggled painfully to a sitting position, pulled the oxygen tube from his nose with a grunt and leaned in. “I have to speak to her. She knows about Kit.”

Dennis shook his head. “No, she doesn’t. She was stringing you along. Apparently it’s what she does, fixes on someone, burrows under their skin and into their head.”

“She knows things.”

“Like what? Joey, I’m sorry, I know how you want it to be true, but let’s face it, you bang on about Kit to anyone who’ll listen. Why, even the night before we found Nell, you were making your mouth go at Minkey’s. Your thoughts on Kit were plastered all over the front page of the ‘Herald’. Nell doesn’t know anything that she didn’t pick up from elsewhere.”

“I believed her.” McNeil closed his eyes.
Did he? Did he really?
He still wasn’t sure, but he was sure that he needed to see her again. Nell had told him they were the same, and now they were - once dead and now alive.

“Joey, come on, you’d believe Elvis was still alive if it meant Kit was too. I’m sorry if she messed with your head and raised your hopes, it was a sick trick, and you were … are … vulnerable, but try not to blame her. According to the doctor, she’s barmy, always has been.”

McNeil snapped to attention.
“What?”

“Forget it, Joey. Just concentrate on getting well. I’m a man down, as usual. I can’t have you lolling about in here getting waited on hand and foot. Mather is saying nice things about you for a change. The press is saying nice things about you, too. Clarissa
What’s-her-face has been camped on the doorstep waiting for an interview. You’re the poster boy of Bedlam. Make the most of it. Not satisfied with bringing bodies back to life, you’re now being hailed as the copper who solved a triple murder. You’ll be star guest on the ‘One Show’ before you can say ‘Welcome to Bedlam’.”

“It won’t last, Dennis.”

“Huh?”

“It won’t last, because this isn’t over.”

“Joey, for pity’s sake … we have the youths, most of them, anyway. We have the kid who knifed you. They’ll be going down for Popeye, Jaimsey and Bales, and maybe a few more once we start digging. We’ve got forensic evidence. We have your evidence. What more do you want?”

“Motive?”

“Huh? They were kids, crazy feral kids. You said it yourself back in Mather’s office. They did it for kicks.”

“What about Curtis?”

“Curtis?”

“Archie Pollock’s cousin.
A latter-day Fagan. He’s running drugs and kids from Minchem Road.”

“And?”

“And he was there.”

“If he was, the kids are protecting him. His name hasn’t come up and those kids are squealing like piglets at a hog-roast.”

“He was there.”

“There’s no evidence, Joey.”

“You have his voice on the phone. He was controlling the kids. He’s behind this. He was there, Dennis. I saw him.”

“Did you? The only voices on the phone are yours, the kids’ and Nell’s.”

McNeil looked away. He tried to replay the scene but it was corrupted by hindsight, blame and regret. Had Curtis really been there or had the voice been in his head, along with all the others, another figment of his warped imagination. He tried to separate his confused realities.

“Curtis knew Bales. They were both at
Minkey’s the night before we found Nell. Curtis threw the last punch, Bales helped to throw me out. Bales knew something about Kit.”

“Joey, Curtis wasn’t at the warehouse.”

“Bales was.”

“You’re reading too much into this, trying to make connections that just aren’t there. All roads do not lead to Kit.”

“Okay, forget Curtis,” grunted McNeil. “What about Dr. Richardson? I was there in his office, talking to him just like I’m talking to you. Did you check him out?”

Dennis exhaled loudly and settled back in his seat. “I went down there myself, Joey. The place was boarded up.
Padlocks on the front gates. Shutters on the windows. Maybe you dreamt it. Stranger things have happened.”

“I was
fuckin’ there, I’m telling you.” McNeil yanked at the electrodes on his chest angrily. The machines buzzed their response. “Did you check the CCTV at the hospital? I spoke to the guy. He spoke to me.”

“Joey, I had the tape checked. Not personally, because I’ve been a little busy with a murder enquiry, as you know, but I had it checked and, yeah, you’re on it, pushing and shoving your way through a lobby full of football supporters. There was nothing to see other than that. No weirdo doctors.
Nothing.”

“That’s not right,” murmured McNeil. “I know what happened.”

“Look, you’d just had a ruddy turn or whatever you want to call it. You had concussion and enough stitches to start your own quilting club, so maybe, just maybe, you weren’t thinking right. It’s not a criticism, merely an observation.”

McNeil shook his head slowly. Dennis was making perfect sense but he knew that wasn’t the case. “What about the orderly and the blood on the knife I handed in for evidence?”

Dennis shrugged. “Well, that’s a bloody riddle if ever there was one. And, I can tell you, it’s got me stumped. It turns out the personnel department had no record of the name he gave. The orderly didn’t exist, Joey. He didn’t work at the hospital.”

“Maybe he was an illegal, an Eastern European who came into the country on the underside of a lorry?”

“Well, whatever. The guy had a miraculous recovery. One minute at deaths door …”

“Sounds familiar.”

“… next he’s up, disappeared into thin air and SOCOs have lost the knife. It’s a bloody procedural nightmare. Mather’s having a private coronary but it’s not your problem, don’t sweat about it. We might never know what that was about.”