Authors: Robert Muchamore
James grinned as he pulled his clean shirt over his head and began rolling a deodorant stick under his pits. ‘Anything I can do to help, boss.’
‘Those are truly words of an angel,’ Elliot said, giving James a pat on the head that made him feel like a dog.
Emily’s room was fifty metres down a corridor. They found her sitting out on the patio with her son. There was a jug of milk and vodka and a couple of half eaten fish-and-chip lunches on the table between them.
‘Ronnie Wildman,’ the son said, introducing himself as he shook Elliot’s hand. He was a short fellow, but well built, with half a head of hair.
James shook his hand too. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Ronnie nodded. ‘My mother’s taken a shine to you, young fella.’
‘So,’ Elliot said, as he and James took up chairs around the table, ‘I understand you wanted to speak with me.’
‘Oh, I
did
,’ Ronnie said ominously, his eyes lighting up as he slid a folded document out of a leather organiser. ‘This is a copy of my mother’s new will. Miraculously, she seems to have revised the terms so that instead of leaving everything to me, ninety per cent of her money goes to something called the Survivors Development Foundation.’
Emily interrupted, ‘It’s my money, son. You’ve already squandered your share. I sold off the house to cover your last disastrous scheme.’
Ronnie snatched an angry look at his mother. ‘Well, I don’t think that’s what Dad would have wanted. But if you want to donate a few bucks to charity, let’s talk about Oxfam or the Red Cross, not these Survivor lunatics.’
Elliot smiled and spoke smoothly. ‘Mr Wildman, the Survivors’ religious activities and our fundraising efforts for the world’s poor are totally separate operations. We work in conjunction with all of the other major development agencies around the world. Last year we opened up more than four hundred hospital beds in some of—’
James jolted with fright as Ronnie cut Elliot off by smashing his fist against the table. ‘Cut the bullshit, you smooth-talking son of a—’
‘Ronnie,’ Emily snapped. ‘I told you to keep the leash on that temper of yours. Elliot, would you like something to drink?’
Elliot nodded. ‘A strong black coffee would be nice.’
Emily smiled at James. ‘Would you be a dear? Take whatever you want for yourself, there’s Coke in the fridge.’
James was relieved to step out from the tense atmosphere around the table. He filled the kettle up to boil and opened a can of Sprite for himself.
The conversation outside on the patio got louder as he sprinkled Survivor brand coffee granules into a cup. By the time the water boiled, Elliot and Ronnie were standing up, facing each other off across the table.
‘I’ll make you sorry you did this,’ Ronnie shouted.
‘Mr Wildman, if we can just talk this through in a civilised fashion. I’m sure we’ll be able to reach some sort of compromise.’
‘
Civilised!
The Survivors are the biggest bunch of money-grabbing freaks going. Joel Regan will only get his mitts on my money over my dead body.’
‘It’s not
your
money, Ronnie,’ his mother reminded him.
As far as James was concerned the two men could kill each other, but Emily looked stressed out and he felt really sorry for her. He didn’t want to carry out the boiling hot coffee when it looked like World War Three was about to erupt, so he stood inside the doorway holding the steaming cup and saucer.
‘It’s all mind games with you people,’ Ronnie growled, tapping his finger against his temple. ‘You’ve messed up her head. She’s in no fit state to make decisions like these any more.’
‘From what your mother tells me, you’ve squandered plenty already,’ Elliot snarled back, losing his slippery cool for the first time James could remember.
‘I bet you’ve got all your big-shot lawyers backing you up as well,’ Ronnie said.
Elliot smiled. ‘If you chose to call the legality of your mother’s will into question, I’m confident that—’
Ronnie’s posture tightened. He snatched a fish knife off the table and screamed as he lunged at Elliot, ‘Don’t you grin at me like that.’
Elliot tried to back away, but got his foot tangled around the leg of his chair. Ronnie plunged the knife into Elliot’s stomach. Emily howled out as Elliot crashed backwards into the glass patio doors.
‘Spend it now,’ Ronnie shouted, as he pulled out the knife.
‘
Ronnie
,’ Emily screamed desperately.
‘Spend it,’ Ronnie repeated, as he lunged again. ‘Spend it.’
As James saw the second stab, he put down the coffee mug and backed into Emily’s room. Ronnie had a big knife and a murderous rage; this wasn’t a time for half measures. He grabbed Emily’s plastic kettle jug, which was still half-full of boiling water. He unplugged the cord and ripped off the lid.
The second stab had been aimed at Elliot’s chest, but he’d turned away and the only damage was to the shoulder pad of his jacket. As Ronnie lunged a third time, James scrambled on to the patio and threw the boiling water at his head.
It hit from close range, making the stocky man howl as he stumbled backwards, clutching his face. But anger can overcome a great deal of pain and James knew he’d only have an instant while his opponent was stunned to take him down easily. As Ronnie staggered, James clenched the handle of the plastic jug and battered him in the face with it. The plastic splintered in a dozen shards, and Ronnie was unconscious even before his head hit the patio with a hollow thunk.
James snatched the bloody knife from Ronnie’s limp hand, before turning and studying the growing red stain on Elliot’s shirt. Emily had hauled herself out of her chair and was making her way inside.
Elliot waved his hand, indicating that he wanted James to move close so he could say something. ‘Call Judith,’ he gasped. ‘Keep the cops out of this.’
James nodded uncertainly as he reached into Elliot’s jacket and pocketed his mobile phone. He tore open the bloody shirt, making buttons fly in all directions. The wound was too messy to see the extent of the cut, but James knew the number one priority was to stop the blood loss. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, folded it into a square and pressed it against Elliot’s stomach.
‘Listen,’ James said as he placed Elliot’s hand on the cloth. ‘Hold it in place as tight as you can.’
‘It was an accident,’ Elliot repeated. ‘Call Judith. Don’t speak to the police.’
‘All
right
,’ James said angrily. ‘Maybe I should try and stop you bleeding to death first, eh?’
Emily had hit the emergency alarm beside her bed. James stepped back from Elliot, greatly relieved as a male and female nurse scrambled on to the patio and took control.
‘Sweet
Jesus
,’ the male nurse said, when he saw Elliot. He looked up at James holding the mobile. ‘Call an ambulance. We can’t deal with this here.’
The female nurse crouched over Ronnie and inspected the blistered skin on his face, while James dialled for an ambulance. As the call rang in his ear, he noticed Emily collapse to the floor beside her bed.
James feared a heart attack, but Emily had only collapsed from shock. He rode in the back of her squalling ambulance, holding her hand while another vehicle dealt with Elliot and Ronnie. Ronnie remained unconscious. Elliot’s blood loss looked dramatic, but the ambulance crew said the wound was unlikely to be fatal.
When they arrived at a modern casualty unit, all three patients got wheeled away. James found himself abandoned in a busy waiting room, with a bare chest and Elliot’s dried-out blood staining his fingers. He felt OK, but he was shaken up and the skin on his arms stung in a couple of spots where the boiling water had splashed him.
He called Judith, who arrived within ten minutes, accompanied by Ween. While Judith dashed off to find Elliot, Ween stayed with James and started an interrogation. He’d not previously realised that the grey-haired woman was one of the Survivors’ lawyers. After telling Ween the whole truth, she immediately began reinventing it.
‘Did anyone call the police?’ Ween asked.
James shook his head. ‘Elliot said not to. I told the emergency operator there’d been an accident.’
‘Excellent stuff,’ Ween nodded. ‘If the cops do get involved, you say you were in the bathroom and that you saw
nothing
. We run that nursing home. I’ll make sure none of the staff speak out of turn. Elliot will say it was a bizarre accident. He was carrying out the kettle and slipped into Ronnie, who was holding the knife. Ronnie’s unlikely to complain about us covering things up when the truth would put him on trial for attempted murder – and the old girl won’t want to see her son locked away.’
James was confused. ‘Why are we doing this?’
‘
Why?
’ Ween smiled. ‘Can you imagine what the press would do if they got hold of a story like this? Survivors make an eighty-seven-year-old woman change her will. Jealous son turns up and stabs commune director. It could turn into a national scandal and cost us millions in lost revenue.’
‘But …’ James gasped, totally aghast.
Ween cut him dead and spoke strictly. ‘Understand this, James: if the devils get their hooks into our organisation they’ll rip us to shreds. This is an attack on the Survivors, straight from the lowest depths of hell.’
James remembered he was on a mission and tried to think what an angel should say under the circumstances. ‘Maybe I should pray.’
Ween nodded. ‘That’s a good idea. What’s Emily’s room number?’
‘Eighty-six.’
Ween ripped out her mobile, phoned the commune and began barking orders. ‘I want two people over to the North Park Elder Care Community, room eighty-six. I want the whole room scrubbed with bleach and hot water, including the garden furniture and the patio. Make sure you find the kettle and collect all the pieces of plastic – No Lyle, not in half an hour,
do it now
. I’m heading back with James. If you hear a sniff of anything from the police or the media you know nothing, understood?’
*
The commune always crawled with gossip. Lauren heard that something had happened to Elliot during dinner, then she bumped into Dana who’d heard that James was involved. By the time she’d got upstairs to her first-floor dorm for homework hour, everyone was talking about it, but apparently the only solid fact was that Elliot had been taken to hospital.
Lauren was taking an outdoor shortcut to the gym when she spotted Paul and cornered him in a sunlit alleyway.
‘Where’s my brother?’ Lauren asked. ‘Why didn’t he come back from the care home with you?’
Paul shook his head and made a gesture, like he was zipping up his mouth. ‘Sorry, Lauren. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’
Paul moved to walk off, but Lauren blocked his path. ‘Is my brother OK, Paul? I have to know.’
‘He’s not hurt, I can tell you that much.’
Lauren still wanted the whole story. ‘But what actually happened over there?’
‘I can’t tell you, Ween swore me to silence. They’ll probably make an official announcement later.’
Paul stepped forwards, but Lauren blocked his path again.
‘Quit doing that,’ Paul said sharply.
Lauren was desperate to know what was going on. She took a quick glance around to make sure nobody was about, then grabbed Paul’s wrist. She twisted his arm up behind his back and shoved him against the wall. Paul had a couple of years on Lauren, but couldn’t break the expertly held arm lock. Paul seemed like a nice kid and she didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to know if James was in any danger.
‘I’ve sworn an oath,’ Paul gasped. ‘You can hurt me all you like; the Devil will do a billion times worse to me if I break my oath.’
Lauren tightened the hold, making Paul gasp in pain. She was worried that he might be so strongly under the Survivors’ influence that he’d rather suffer a broken arm than break an oath.
‘Please,’ Paul begged, almost crying. ‘Please don’t make me break my oath.’
Lauren didn’t have the stomach, either to break Paul’s arm or for the trouble it would cause. She let him go and backed off.
‘What’s your problem?’ Paul screamed, humiliated and trying not to sob. ‘I told you he’s not hurt. What more do you want?’
‘Everything,’ Lauren said, with a sense of desperation that was exaggerated, but not entirely false. ‘You’ve got a brother. Wouldn’t you want to know if something happened to Rick?’
The emotional tug had more of an effect on Paul than the arm lock, making Lauren wish she’d used this tactic first.
‘OK …’ Paul said, thinking hard. ‘Ween made me swear not to say anything about what happened, but I guess I can tell you where James is. Then you can find out for yourself. But you’ve
got
to swear not to say it was me that told you.’
Lauren nodded. ‘I swear as an angel on pain of eternity in a fiery hell.’
Paul seemed reassured by this oath, which was as strong as they come in Survivor speak.